Post Surgery

Eleven years, six surgeries, countless drugs and physical therapy sessions later, Ken and I had a sustained 60 minute conversation yesterday.
It also had nothing to do with bowel movements, pain levels, stomach upset, drowsiness, balance issues or drugs.
It was Saturday morning. We were at the dining room table. He was talking about the book he was reading on his Kindle. I was listening, cautioning him about my capacity for too much detail about the virtual past decades that these travelers to a new planet could access. We covered multiple topics. Ken was engaged, animated.
There was no fog. No eyelids that begin to droop 15 minutes into a conversation that over the last 11 years I've never learned to ignore. They're always a trigger that I've lost him. I jar him into engagement by accusing him of falling asleep. He rejects that accusation, maintaining that he's awake and alert and that the eyelid thing is merely his inability to maintain the focused eye contact I seem to require. We argue about that a little. But the debate is senseless. The conversation ends or he patiently, determinedly hangs in there and I carry on a monologue, which apparently I don't mind doing.
But not Saturday morning. There was no spat. Only tears.
Do you realize what's happening?
Yes. I'm here, he said.
For a person who processes most things by wrapping words around it and plopping it on the table for my spouse to sample, droopy eyelids have been difficult.
The drug veil was insidious. Mostly, I've been amazed that Ken has handled chronic pain with the grace, good humor and patience that he has. But I've resented losing even a sliver of his presence.
He can not stand for more than 10 minutes. Walking more than from the dining room to the bedroom is labored but he's fully engaged.
And although we have learned not to expect complete recovery during any of these surgeries, procedures, medications and therapies, Saturday morning sitting at the dining room table talking aimlessly for more than 60 minutes with my husband with nary a droopy lid was sweet.