Six sentences for Sunday, September 21:
I let her give me her news—another stroke, still small but more severe than the last one. She says hemiparesis, and apraxia, and visual field loss. She says this is very serious, that we should prepare ourselves for the likelihood that he will have another stroke, and even another, though she doesn’t say who “we” is. While she’s telling me all this, I imagine her in one of those starched-stiff nurse’s caps, white with a red cross on it, like a Halloween costume. Her nurse’s station is scattered with obscure instruments—huge hypodermic needles, surgical pliers, lengths of black rubber tubing the use of which I can’t even invent. And nearby, a cart full of vials of snake oil and pill bottles of amber and green glass, which she dispenses to patients using a giant silver spoon.