Scars
It’s 7:00 in the morning on a warm July day in 2008. I’m nervous and excited about the prospect of Ben being able to live longer and feel stronger. A new invention, surgically implanted, is supposed to keep his diaphragm moving his lungs so he can breathe. His friend, and film collaborator, is with him in the next room, helping him bathe and dress. Ben is excited, having waited nearly one year for FDA approval. Steve has already gone downstairs to have a quiet breakfast. My heart races so fast, I think I might be having a heart attack. I take some deep breaths and imagine Ben a few days from now taking steady breaths. I step carefully into the bathtub and turn on the shower, wash my hair and let the hot water massage my back but the tightness in my throat remains. As I step out of the shower, I slip on the floor and collide with the edge of the toilet seat. In seconds, blood covers the toilet, the floor, my face. The gash is directly above my left eyebrow and may need a stitch