第三章 有一种幸福叫守候（8）（2/2）
《世界上最温情的故事》作者：吴文智 2017-04-14 12:57
gers and fries at a dinner. In her floral dress, with her straight blond hair and classic features, she stood out among the local kids.
Back at school, I was ready to apologize for the evening. But I felt her warm hand take mine, and then she quickly kissed my cheek. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she said softly. Before I comprehended what had happened, she disappeared into the dormitory.
How many times have there been moments like that, moments of such encompassing grace and love that I doubted their actuality? Moments like the day of our marriage, when on a crisp Sunday morning on the Pacific coast she entered the church on her father’s arm and I gazed down the aisle at my soon-to-be wife. Or the moments when our two children were born and her face became radiant as she emerged from the unreachable realm of labor into exultation.
But October 15, 1993, was Different. That day, we arose at 5 a. m., having a hard slept. How can you rest when a blade will soon sever flesh so dear? She kissed both of our children as they slept, but they never stirred or said “Good luck” or “I love you, Mommy.” In the hospital, after we signed the papers, I watched her change into a faded cotton gown and two pairs of socks, as if the worst injury that day would be the chill of the operating room.
She cried in my arms and said she didn’t want the surgery. I held her hand as an I. V. was inserted into her arm. In a few seconds her tears stopped and she closed those eyes that had always seemed so clever and clear, but now looked so fearful.
Feeling frantic and disconnected I kissed her, and then she was wheeled away through the unforgiving doors of the operating suite. I spent the day in the waiting room polishing a manuscript whose only significance was its power to distract.
When she returned to her room late that afternoon, on her chest was an expanse of billowing white bandage placed by a surgeon’s hands with a precision and delicacy she would have admired. I was reminded of the coverlet she had appliquéd for our children’s cradle when they were infants. The bandage looked gentle and protective—reassuring and not as harsh as I had expected.
Back at school, I was ready to apologize for the evening. But I felt her warm hand take mine, and then she quickly kissed my cheek. “Thank you for a wonderful evening,” she said softly. Before I comprehended what had happened, she disappeared into the dormitory.
How many times have there been moments like that, moments of such encompassing grace and love that I doubted their actuality? Moments like the day of our marriage, when on a crisp Sunday morning on the Pacific coast she entered the church on her father’s arm and I gazed down the aisle at my soon-to-be wife. Or the moments when our two children were born and her face became radiant as she emerged from the unreachable realm of labor into exultation.
But October 15, 1993, was Different. That day, we arose at 5 a. m., having a hard slept. How can you rest when a blade will soon sever flesh so dear? She kissed both of our children as they slept, but they never stirred or said “Good luck” or “I love you, Mommy.” In the hospital, after we signed the papers, I watched her change into a faded cotton gown and two pairs of socks, as if the worst injury that day would be the chill of the operating room.
She cried in my arms and said she didn’t want the surgery. I held her hand as an I. V. was inserted into her arm. In a few seconds her tears stopped and she closed those eyes that had always seemed so clever and clear, but now looked so fearful.
Feeling frantic and disconnected I kissed her, and then she was wheeled away through the unforgiving doors of the operating suite. I spent the day in the waiting room polishing a manuscript whose only significance was its power to distract.
When she returned to her room late that afternoon, on her chest was an expanse of billowing white bandage placed by a surgeon’s hands with a precision and delicacy she would have admired. I was reminded of the coverlet she had appliquéd for our children’s cradle when they were infants. The bandage looked gentle and protective—reassuring and not as harsh as I had expected.