It’s six
A.M., gray and still. Thelma Wright, a sparrow-sized woman of seventy-seven, sits
on the back step watching the sunrise. Overhead two purple finches circle.
Thelma is often up before the birds. Up at midnight to care for her husband,
Wilbur, she seldom drops back to sleep. Instead she scrubs the bathtub or dusts
a few shelves. In the ten years since Wilbur’s stroke she’s had little time for
chores in daylight. Indoors, there is a bit of sparrow in her movements, the
plucky hip-hop of arthritic joints. On the kitchen counter, the coffee machine
gurgles. Thelma peers at it through her thick-lensed glasses. By instinct more
than sight, she navigates the familiar kitchen spaces, cupboard to refrigerator
to drawer, mixing Wilbur’s strawberry drink, carrying his bran flakes and
white-scalloped bowl.
When Thelma enters the front bedroom, the clock on the mantle ticks
toward seven. Her husband’s breath puffs in – out, in – out,his eyes closed.
From an apparent sound sleep, Wilbur says, “I’m awake.” Thelma
smiles. “I’ll get your washcloth and eye drops.” One-handed, Wilbur
rubs the wet warmth over his face. Since 1961, when his left arm was severed in
an industrial accident, Wilbur has done everything one-handed. Then six months
ago, poor circulation reduced his right foot to pain so incessant the leg was
amputated. “There really isn’t much of me left, is there?” he said
one day. “Hey, buddy,” replied Thelma, patting his chest, “the
best part is right here.” Bathing done, Thelma says, “Ready to get
up?” Wilbur nods.
With a Hoyer lift, Thelma moves her husband from the bed. “One of
these days,” says Wilbur, “I’m going to get up and give you a ride in
this machine.” Wilbur’s eyes follow Thelma the way iron filings follow a
magnet. Thelma pumps the hydraulic lever on the hoist, her husband rises from
the bed, then is lowered into the wheelchair. Nowadays Wilbur and Thelma need
each other. She is his movement. He is her reason for moving. “You
okay?” “You haven’t dumped me yet.” “No, sir, after
thirty-three years I’m not about to dump you.” In the bathroom, Thelma
shaves and grooms her husband. Together they arrive at the kitchen table in a
swirl of scent – hot coffee and cool aftershave. Wilbur shoves the right wheel
lock into place. Thelma locks the left. Over bran flakes and milk, Thelma and
Wilbur link fingers and pray in unison, “Our Father, who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done…” Halfway
through, tears track down Wilbur’s cheeks. Two quiet cups of coffee later, he
says, “If you’d known all this – how bad it was going to be – maybe you
wouldn’t have said ‘I do.'” Thelma looks at him through double-ringed
lenses. “You know something? Just to see your smile and those blue eyes
looking at me, it’s worth it all. I wouldn’t change any of it – except maybe
one thing. If I could take six months of the year – divide it up with you – I’d
take your place and let you switch with me.
Barbara Seaman
