Page 33

Then something strange happens. A calm settles over me, not because I’m not afraid, but because he needs me.

I walk up to his bed and put everything down. I lift his head, grab a clean cloth and wipe his mouth, then carefully clean his tongue. I take his temperature and call the nurse.

The nurse arrives a few minutes later. She checks his chart and looks him over.

“This is hard to see,” she says gently. “But unfortunately, feeling this sick can be normal during treatment.”

Normal. I hate that word. Nothing about this feels normal.

“What can I do?” I ask, because there has to be something, some way to help.

The nurse looks at the tray of food beside his bed. “Food is important. If he can tolerate it, try to get something into him. Even a few bites.”

I glance at the tray. There’s soup, a sandwich and a banana, all untouched, and then I look at my husband and square my shoulders.

This is how we’re fighting this, Nora.

I sit on the edge of the bed and pick up the spoon.

“Dami.”

He groans but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Vita.”

His eyes finally find mine. “Nora.”

“You need to eat.”

“Not hungry.”

I narrow my eyes. “Nope, not the right answer.”

One eye opens. “Nora…”

I point the spoon at him. “You are going to eat and you are going to get better, and I am not accepting any complaints today.”

For the first time since starting chemo, the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Sì, Capitana.”

I smile. “That’s right. I’m the captain here. Now eat.”

His smile is weak, but it’s there, and somehow that feels like a victory.

He takes one bite, and I can see how much he doesn’t like it. Then another, and another.

Somehow our life has gone from celebrating promotions, birthdays and victories to celebrating bites of food, normal body temperatures, good bloodwork and nurses who know how to find a vein.

I start taking goofy selfies of us, Damiano in his hospital bed and me right next to him. I bring Halloween masks and make him take pictures with me, play stupid songs and dance in front of his bed, invent stories about every nurse we meet and do anything I can think of to make the hours inside that room feel a little less frightening.

My goal every day becomes hearing him laugh.

We watch Home Alone for the hundredth time with me snuggled up beside him in his hospital bed, and we even do a Godfather marathon because I know how much he loves it.

Those become our victories. A laugh, a good blood count, a normal temperature, half a banana.

And I’ll take every single one of them and celebrate.