“Is it going to hurt?” It’s a ridiculous question, in retrospect. Of course, it was going to hurt. This might explain why I can’t force myself to look away. As the nurse readies the instruments, my wife lays motionless on the exam table. I stand beside her and watch. When I look down at Melanie, she isn’t watching. Her eyes are closed. I study the rise and fall of her chest. Her rate of breathing has increased. I can’t blame her for being nervous. She doesn’t want this, as much as she knows it has to happen. I think that’s why she refuses to look at me.
“It smells funny in here,” I mention casually. It’s supposed to smell clean and sterile. Like antiseptic. Instead it smells like someone heated up their lunch—an Indian dish—and that’s a real problem for me. I quite like Indian food.
This
