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I knew that as long as I heard that constant noise, things were all right. I was sitting in a chair in the intensive-care unit next to the prostrate form of my husband, who was just an hour or so out of open-heart surgery. At that moment, my emotions were just about wrung out. I had cried, I had prayed, I had raged at my helplessness. I like to stay busy, which is why I still work as a teacher even though Ricky makes a very good living as a lawyer, and I like to be in control of my life. And I could do nothing but sit there in the quiet riot of the ICU, with midnight approaching, and wait for my husband to come out from under the anesthetics — the little death that allows surgeons to do the things they do — so we could begin the long process of recovery. The surgeon, the cardiologist and the attending nurses had all said the procedure was a success, that Ricky would make a full recovery, but I knew I’d have to see it to believe it. The crisis that had led us to that point had come. You hear a few small clicks and you realize that you are now handcuffed to the head board. My hand slowly move down your arm and across your chest, lingering long enough to tease your senses before traveling up your opposite arm, to your wrist and to restrain it in another set of handcuffs, now having no movement in your arms. I gently kneel beside your body, your hands close grip the head board and an unseen smile plays across my lips. As you lay there you can feel me moving on the bed, subtle movements, as if searching for something on the bedside table. The uncertainty only fuelling the inner fire that is starting to burn within, pushing you to a painfully pleasant place. The next sensation you feel is something light, soft and ticklish, yes, a feather, playfully crossing your flesh, making small patterns on your stomach. Then moving slowly down your hips, down your thighs to your knees, and then back up your thighs to your stomach. The feather now plays up your stomach, up.
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