The comforting, musical sloshing and tinkling of the water, the only sounds in the otherwise quiet house, served to calm the air. The battle was over; a compromise had been struck, and the bath had been undertaken, albeit tentatively. At first, she had thought that he was only being stubborn and rude in his refusal to take a shower. Didn't getting cleaned up always make a person feel better? Didn't he realize how offensive his odor was? She'd even offered to do all the work, telling him that all he had to do was sit on the little bath stool. Still he'd refused. He had accused her of being bitchy and control¬ling: didn't she understand how weak he had become, how devastated by disease and pain? Of course he smelled of death; he was dying.

The dog sensed it, too, and seemed confused by this living/dying impersonator of her former master. From sleeping at the side of the hospital bed in the front room, the dog had relocated to the foot of it, then across near the doorway, and now only kept a watchful eye from the next room.

After his harsh rebuke in response to her pleading, she had finally just asked him, "Why?" And he, perhaps finally seeing that she was only desperate to help him, answered, defeat in his voice, "I just can't."

Her eyes opened wide and filled with tears. My God, the man can't even sit in a bath.

He kept doing this to her. He was so damnably stoic, hiding the truth so that she was always days behind in grasping the extent of his misery. He was slipping away so fast. So fast. There seethed to be no time to adapt to one devastating piece of news before the next one hit.

She asked, "Would you like me to give you a sponge bath here in the bed?"

The connection had been made at last. His eyes were moist now, too.

"You would do that?"

"Of course."

And knowing that he hated for her to see him so emotional, that he loathed being seen as weak, she turned away and rose to make the preparations. The round table near the bed, so laden with medications and supplies, was cleared; a basin of warm water, soap, a towel, and washcloth brought. She chose the blue washcloth-blue was his favorite color. How sad that his life had narrowed to such a small sliver of experience that the color of a washcloth could take on such importance. Her efforts to do something anything-to please him had been forced to shrink down to fit into that sliver. He probably wouldn't notice the color of the washcloth, but if he did . . . well, it should be blue.

She swished the washcloth around in the warm water, then took it up and wrung it out, the water tinkling back into the basin. No words were spoken, because no words were necessary for some time. The physical contact, the warmth of the water, the soothing, repetitive strokes of the cloth were sufficient.

Not like her, this quiet. She would usually be making some conversation, staving off any embarrassment or discomfort with small talk.

But not now.

He did seem embarrassed and uncomfortable, but little by little, as the perspiration and soil from these past days were washed away, so, too, was his unease, and she noticed that he had closed his eyes and wore an expression of peace. Not like him, this peace.

The blue cloth was once more dipped, swished, and wrung out. She washed his neck, puffy and hard along the sides where the tumors had won. As the water trickled down her wrists, so, too, did the memories of the stories he had once told her rise to the surface of her mind. She recalled what an unhappy childhood he had had. That his father had died before he'd even known his wife was pregnant. That he had always felt he was a hardship for his only, reluctant, parent. A burden.

He had said, "I love watching you nurture your children. I never had that, you know; I don't recall ever having been rocked or held or sung to. On a good day, I was tolerated."

She remembered him telling of how, one time as a small boy, he had received a deep cut on his foot and there had been no show of concern or attempt to comfort him. Instead, his mother had acted as if it were an inconvenience to have to interrupt her rou¬tine to bandage him.

Again and again, the blue washcloth was rinsed in the basin and rung out. The pleasant sound of the dripping water filled the room as she held up his arm to wash it. New lumpy tumors filled the area between his armpit and breast. The cancer was winning-had won; there was no need to mention the discovery of the new tumors or to call the doctor. They had reached the end of the fight.

From top to bottom, she bathed him. His eyes were closed, but hers suddenly opened. Revelation flooded in, overwhelming her, causing her almost to swoon. She looked at him with profound understanding. Was overcome by a sense of reverence. She considered carefully, prayerfully.

"Oh, I see," she said simply, rinsing out the washcloth yet again.

"See what?" he asked, not opening his eyes.

"I see. God has shown me that His love is too awesome for words."

"Oh it is, is it?" The same reluctant tolerance for her spiritual references.

"Yes. He loves you so very much He has allowed you to have lung cancer."

"Lucky me." The old sarcasm had not diminished along with the wasting away of his body.

"No, really." She was bursting to help him share in the monumental revelation she had just experienced. "I think when it's your time, it's your time. You could have been hit by a truck or had a sudden heart attack. But God has put you in a position where you must receive what you need for your soul.

"Here you are, being stroked and petted for the first time in your life. You were never open to being cared for in this way before, because you had never experienced it as a child. Look at how relaxed you are now. Cancer has taken away those walls you've had up all this time."

His eyes were closed tight, but that could not keep the stream of tears from slipping silently down his cheeks.

"And he loves you so much, he gave me to you, " she continued, gently, assuredly. "I am a nurturer. That's what I do. I can't do anything about the dis-ease, but perhaps I can help heal your heart. And I want you to know that I don't mind this a bit. I am not embarrassed or resentful or offended or uncomfortable at all about doing this. You are my husband. You need a bath. It is that simple."

She dipped the blue washcloth and wrung it out and reached toward him again. This time, he intercepted her ministering hands. Clutched them with the old strength and drew her dripping fingers to his lips, where the bath water mingled with his tears. He kissed her hands and said only, softly, "Thank you."

Directing his gaze upward, he said it again-his first prayer.

END.

Written by Diane Meredith Vogal

Published in “Cup of Comfort”, edited by Colleen Sell