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 which it is not going to get. I sop up the blood with every available towel and within a few minutes, the bathroom looks like someone was murdered. 

I wrap my head with a pillowcase while I search unsuccessfully for a band aid. Now I am in full panic mode, convinced we will be late getting to the hospital. I hear the maid in the hallway and burst through the door wearing only a towel. She immediately digs through her supplies and hands me several band aids. Grateful, I peel off the bloody fabric and plaster two of them on the cut. In minutes, I am dressed and downstairs and quickly find Steve in the restaurant. 

“What happened to you?” Steve has a confused look on his face. “We’re going to be late. Grab a cup of coffee and let’s go. Ben and Roko left already.” 

Now I am in full panic mode, annoyed with myself for being so clumsy. We find Ben and the doctor easily and have missed nothing. I collapse in a chair next to Ben’s bed. He signs the informed consent, reluctantly agreeing to a feeding tube he never wanted but that’s the condition the doctor has imposed before implanting the medical device Ben desperately wants. 

“You’re my worst nightmare.” Ben whispers to the doctor and laughs. 

The funny thing about Ben is that his arms hang useless by his side. His speech is frequently an unintelligible whisper but he has developed a communication system using his eyebrows. Ben looks at me, raises an eyebrow and clearly wants to know what happened to my head. Blood has oozed through the center of the bandage, but it’s basically a final drip. When I tell him about my accident, he looks concerned. Steve looks surprised. 

Ben died three days later from ALS, his body withered from a lack of nutrition, unable to sustain even minor surgery. Every morning when I wash my face, I feel the scar above my left eyebrow and remember what an amazing young man he was, how much I miss him and how grateful I am for the time we had together.