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Fate on a Hospital Bed – “Young Lady, You Look After Him! I’m Too Scared to Even Feed Him with a Spoon,” She Snapped, Tossing Grocery Bags onto the Bed Where Her Sick Husband Lay. “Please Don’t Worry! Your Husband Will Recover. He Needs Careful Nursing Now. I’ll Help Dmitry Get Back on His Feet,” I, as the nurse, had to reassure the tuberculosis patient’s wife yet again. Dmitry arrived in critical condition, but his will to live gave him good odds. Sadly, his wife Alla didn’t believe in medicine. It seemed she’d given up on him already… Years later, the same fate befell their son Yura. Alla gave up on him too – but Yura survived. Despite his diagnosis, Dmitry joked and laughed, eager to leave the TB ward. His village lacked any specialist hospital, so Alla rarely visited. I felt sorry for him – so unkempt, so abandoned… “Dima, do you mind if I bring you some things? I see you don’t even have slippers,” I teased. “Violetta, I’d swallow poison from you if you said it was medicine. But no, just let me get well first…” My heart fluttered. Was I falling for a married man? I tried not to. But you can’t command the heart… I visited Dima more often. Our talks grew deep; we switched to first names. He had a five-year-old son. “My Yura takes after his beautiful mum… I loved Alla – but she only loves herself. It eats you up… now it’s you caring for me, a stranger,” he sighed. I tried to make excuses for Alla. He shook his head. “A wife can find time for her lovers a hundred miles away—but not for me.” After a fight, Alla vanished. A month passed. Dima told me quietly, “We’re divorcing.” When he was discharged, he asked shyly to stay with me, and I agreed—if he’d accept my child too. He did—and so began our life together. Years passed. We had two children together. His son Yura visits often. My own daughter lives far away; I never regretted being a single mother. As for Alla: she remarried many times, had another son who suffered from mental illness. She remained cold and distant, and when she died, her son was sent to a care home. Now Dima and I are old, but love each other more than ever, grateful for every day together.
FATE ON A HOSPITAL BED
Tuesday
Ill never get used to certain moments in the ward. Today, Mrs. Parker burst in and threw a carrier bag of groceries onto her husbands bed as though she couldnt leave quickly enough.
You take care of him! Im too frightened to go near, let alone put food in his mouth with a spoon! She shuddered and glanced away.
Please try not to worry so much, I reassured her with my nurses calm. Your husband will get better. What he needs now is careful attention. Ill help David regain his strength. It wasnt the first time Id soothed Mrs. Parkers nerves: she had little faith in what medicine could do. From the first day, it struck me that she had already given up on her husband.
David was admitted in a sorry state, but his will to live was strongthat counted for a lot. What a shame Mrs. Parker couldnt see that. Strangely enough, years later their son, Stephen, would be struck with the same diseasetuberculosis. Once again, Mrs. Parker would dismiss his chances. And once again, against her doubts, Stephen would recover.
David, even with such a grim diagnosis, held onto his wry humour. Hed joke, laugh, determined to get out of the chest hospital as soon as possible. The Parkers village was smallno local chest clinicso Mrs. Parker rarely visited, always with an excuse about the distance. The sight of David, young but neglected, clothes threadbare, moved me deeply.
David, would you mind if I brought you some odds and ends? I asked, trying to lift the mood with a gentle joke. Youre still shuffling about in broguesno slippers in sight. Will you accept a bit of help from me?
If its from you, Hannah, Id take poison thinking it was the cure, he grinned, squeezing my hand softly. But please, let me get well first. One thing at a time
His hand in minewarmth surged through me. I slipped away to gather myself outside. What was this flutter in my chest? Love? I could hardly admit that to myself. I wasnt going to break up a family. It felt wrong. But the heart doesnt obey anyonedoes it ever? Into the deep water, head first.
More and more I found reasons to linger in Davids room, our conversations growing longer and deeper during nightshift. We soon started calling each other by first names.
Hed often talk about his little boy. Stephens the image of his mother, beautiful lad. You know, Hannah, when I married Olivia, I thought the world of her. Did anything for her. Shes passionate, dazzlingelectric in every way. But she cares only for herself. That selfishness eats away, worse than any acid. And here you are, a stranger, looking after me. He sighed as though his pain had nothing to do with illness.
Olivia does live far. Cant blame someone for not making the trip every week, I tried gently.
Come off it, Hannah. Theres a saying: a loving wife would buy her husbands place in prison. She finds time for her lovers even if theyre halfway to Scotland, Ive heard enough… There was bitterness creeping into his words.
Goodnight, David. Try not to do anything drastic. Itll all work out for you. I clicked the lamp off and slipped out quietly.
No one deserves to feel that wretched. David, confined to a hospital bed, while his wife filled her days with someone else. Not a death sentence by any means, butan acorn for some, a hurricane for others.
A week later, I heard a commotion from his room and rushed in.
I never want to see you here again, you trollop! Get out! Davids voice was ragged with fury as Olivia cowered and darted from the ward.
What happened? I asked in shock.
He rolled away, shoulders shaking under the duvet. I had to give him a sedative to help him calm down.
Weeks went by. Olivia never returned.
David, maybe youd like me to ring your wife? I ventured one evening.
No need, Hannah, he replied, calm at last. Were divorcing.
Because youre ill? But youre getting so much better I protested.
Remember when I told Olivia to leave? Shed come just to break it to me that she wanted her lover to move into our home. Said, Since your days are uncertain and I need a man about the house, the roofs leaking his words trailed off.
Thats awful! I barely managed a response.
Things got stranger. Olivia returned for a final visit, not alone but with a strangera nervous-looking man waiting on the hospital bench, chain-smoking, his eyes darting towards the ward. Olivia joined him soon after, pecked his cheek, said something to make him laughthen together they paced away.
David, youre being discharged next week, I told him.
He hesitated, then, Hannah, could I askwell and faltered.
You can live with me, if thats what youre after. I guessed as much, you know, I blurted out, fighting nervousness.
Davids relief filled the room. Hannah, Ive nowhere now. Its finally over with Oliviashes remarrying. Id be grateful to stay with you.
Well, I have a daughter. If youre alright with her, I think we could manage a lovely little household.
A daughters never a problem. I already love her, David said, a warmth in his eyes that felt like spring after a long winter.
Years and years have gone since then. David and I now have two children together. We made a cozy home and Stephen visits with his own family. My firstborn daughter lives abroada complicated history as there was never really a marriage with her father. When I was young, I got swept uphe promised me the world, planned out our lives like a symphony, but the music never started. I regret nothing.
As for Olivia, she married several times, had a son by a travelling engineer. The boy suffered from mental illness his whole life; Olivia remained cold to him, leaving him to fend for himself. When she passed, he ended up in a care home.
Now, David and I are no longer young. But our love is deeper than everwalking through life arm in arm, cherishing every moment, every glance, every breath.
Is the Orchid Really to Blame? “Polly, take this orchid or I’m throwing it out,” Kate said, carelessly picking up the clear pot from the windowsill and handing it to me. “Thanks, Kate! But what’s wrong with this orchid?” I was surprised. After all, three more gorgeous, well-tended orchids stood in her window. “It was a wedding gift for my son. And you know how that all ended,” Kate sighed heavily. “I know your Denis got divorced before their first anniversary. I won’t ask why—I bet it was a serious reason. Denis adored Tanya,” I said gently, not wanting to reopen a fresh wound. “I’ll tell you the full story one day, Polly. For now, it’s just too much,” Kate said, getting a bit teary. I brought the “banished” and “rejected” orchid home. My husband looked sympathetically at the wilting plant. “Why do you want that poor thing? There’s no life in it. Even I can see that. Don’t waste your time,” he insisted. “I want to revive it. Give it some love and care. You’ll see—soon you’ll be impressed by this orchid!” I replied, determined to breathe life back into the drooping flower. He winked playfully: “Who ever turns down a bit of love?” A week later, Kate called: “Polly, can I come over? I can’t keep this bottled up anymore. I want to tell you everything about Denis’s failed marriage.” “Of course, Kate. I’m here whenever you need me,” I assured her—remembering how she’d supported me through two rocky marriages of my own… After all, we’d been friends for years. Kate arrived within the hour, settled in the kitchen, and for hours, over a glass of dry wine, a mug of coffee, and some dark chocolate, she shared the whole, tangled tale. “I never imagined my ex-daughter-in-law was capable of such things. Denis and Tanya were together for seven years. Denis left Annie—who I adored, by the way—for Tanya, who was just stunning. He was absolutely besotted, following her around like a lovesick puppy. Tanya looked like a model—men couldn’t help but stare. But for all those years, they never had a child. I figured Denis wanted everything by the book—get married, then have kids. Denis is private, and we never pried. Finally, Denis told us: ‘Mum, Dad, I’m marrying Tanya. We’ve booked the registry office. I’m throwing a huge wedding—no expense spared.’ He was thirty. We were thrilled that he’d finally settle down. But, Polly, the wedding date had to be postponed twice—once Denis got sick, then I was held up at work. It felt odd, but Denis was glowing with happiness—I didn’t say anything. Denis even wanted to have a church wedding with Father Christopher, but the priest was called back to his home parish. Nothing was going smoothly. It seemed like the world was warning us… The wedding was spectacular, noisy, extravagant. Here—look at the wedding photo. You see that orchid? Glorious, in full bloom. Its leaves stood tall like soldiers. And now? Just limp rags remain of it. …Denis and Tanya planned their honeymoon in Paris, but right at the airport, Tanya was barred from leaving the country—something about an unpaid fine. Denis swatted away these troubles like flies. …But then Denis got seriously ill. Ended up in hospital, things looked grim. Doctors were at a loss. Tanya visited for a week, then bluntly told him: ‘Sorry, but I can’t handle being married to an invalid. I’m filing for divorce.’ Polly, imagine my son—bedridden—hearing that. But he only said: ‘I understand, Tanya. I won’t fight you.’ So they divorced. But Denis got better—thanks to a wonderful doctor named Peter. And Peter had a lovely 20-year-old daughter, Mary. At first, Denis turned up his nose: ‘She’s just a slip of a girl—not even pretty.’ ‘Give her a chance, son. Looks aren’t everything. You’ve already had a model for a wife…Better to be happy drinking water together than sipping honey in sorrow.’ …Time passed. Mary totally fell for Denis—called all the time, trailed after him everywhere. So we tried nudging them together—day at the park, barbecue, campfire. Denis looked miserable, barely noticing Mary’s devotion. I told my husband: ‘It’s hopeless. Denis is still obsessed with Tanya. She’s a thorn in his heart.’ …Three or four months later—ding dong! It’s Denis, holding that infamous orchid. ‘Here you go, Mum—remnants of past happiness. Do as you like with it—I’m done with it.’ I took it reluctantly and basically ignored it, blaming the poor flower for my son’s heartbreak. One day, a neighbour says: ‘Kate, I saw Denis with that petite girl. His ex-wife was more glamorous, for sure.’ But then Denis announced, hand-in-hand with Mary: ‘Meet my wife—Mary. We got married quietly at the registry office, then Father Christopher married us in church. Mum, Dad, no big fuss this time! It’s forever now.’ I pulled him aside: ‘Denis, are you sure you love her? Is this for revenge against Tanya?’ ‘No, Mum. I’m over it. That woman is my past—I’m done even saying her name. Mary and I are right for each other.’ And that’s the tale, Polly. Kate finished her story, right down to the last detail. …Two years passed. Life swept us along. But the orchid? It flourished again—blooming beautifully after care and love. Flowers know how to say thank you. I met Kate at the hospital maternity ward: ‘Hi, mate! What brings you here?’ ‘Mary just had twins—being discharged today!’ Kate beamed. Denis and his dad hovered nearby, Denis clutching red roses. Out came exhausted but glowing Mary, with two sleeping bundles in tow. Then came my daughter, holding my own new granddaughter. Meanwhile, Tanya was begging Denis for forgiveness and a fresh start. …But glue a broken teacup, and no one really wants to drink from it…
IS THE ORCHID TO BLAME? Emily, take this orchid with you or Im throwing it in the bin, Kate said,...
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