Every morning, they are sitting there--holding hands--on the garden bench, near the fragrant lilac bush. She is wrapped up in a thick brown sweater, despite the already warm, sun drenched air.
I wave and they wave back. He helps her up, guiding her up the steps on to the back porch as she awkwardly maneuvers her walker. I follow them inside and fill a basin with warm water then gently unwrap her bandaged hand while he hovers behind me.
"Is it looking better?" he asks anxiously peering at the wound on the back of her hand.
"Yes," I have to say this as loud as I can, for he has lost most of his hearing. "It is looking better. It is healing well. It is a beautiful wound."
He smiles, relieved, and goes back outside.
She looks at me and frowns. "It looks ugly," she says looking at the back of her hand.
"You know," I tell her, "It looked ugly when I first started seeing you." That was only 14 days ago. The wound had covered the entire back of her swollen and discolored hand and was filled with with yellow slough, and purulent gray drainage. Now it is beefy red and filled with healthy granulation tissue and is healing rapidly. Her fingers are no longer swollen and their color is normal. "Now it is a healthy wound. It is healing well. Nurses think the oddest things are beautiful--and to a nurse, a healthy healing wound is truly a thing of beauty."
She laughs every time I say that. I clean and dress the wound.
He comes back in, with fresh lilacs he has cut for the kitchen table and gently pats her freshly bandaged hand.
The tiny kitchen is filled with the scent of lilacs and of tender love.
They have been married for 57 years. She is standing on the brink of that immense chasm of dementia. He is losing his strength, and can barely hear. Yet, there is a breathtaking beauty in their togetherness.
In a few short days the wound will be healed, and I will be seeing a different patient at 9:00 in the morning. I am blessed that I have the privilege to have had a tiny part in their lives.
