My home health nurse, Rachel Monroe, came three times a week.
She checked my incision, blood pressure, temperature, medications, hydration, and the small collection of things doctors worry about after major surgery.
That Tuesday evening, Rachel changed my dressing.
She examined the area carefully.
“No redness I don’t like,” she said. “No drainage. It looks good.”
She took a photograph on her agency-issued phone with my consent.
The home health company used time-stamped wound photographs to track healing between visits.
Rachel wrote the time in her notes.
6:18 p.m.
Daniel stood behind her smiling.
He had become very good at smiling around other people.
“You hear that?” he said. “You’re doing great.”
Rachel looked at me.
“Keep dinner light.”
“I’ll try.”
Daniel touched my shoulder.
“I’ll make sure she eats.”
Rachel packed her supplies.
“Call the office if anything changes.”
Then she left.
I heard the front door close.
