Chapter 8 - The Glass Wall
The weeks following the transplant were the most terrifying waiting game of my life. Elena's white blood cell count was absolute zero. A common cold could kill her in hours.
She was kept in a highly sterilized glass room. I was no longer allowed inside. For three weeks, I sat on a chair in the hallway, pressing my hand against the thick glass, while she pressed her hand against the other side.
We talked on cell phones, looking at each other through the window.
With the physical barriers between us, the emotional barriers completely dissolved. We talked about everything we had been too scared to say during our marriage. We talked about the babies we lost. We talked about my workaholism, her silence, our shared failures.
"I thought I wasn't enough for you," she admitted one afternoon over the phone, her voice sounding stronger than it had in months.
"You were the only real thing in my life," I replied, tracing the outline of her face through the glass. "I was just too stupid to realize that building a career didn't mean anything if I didn't have you to come home to."
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Day by day, the numbers on her charts began to tick upward. First slowly, then with incredible speed. The donor cells had engrafted. Her new bone marrow was working. The leukemia was gone.
On Day 24, the doctor finally opened the glass door and told me I didn't need to wear a mask anymore. I walked in, pulled Elena out of her hospital bed, and kissed her. It was the best kiss of my entire life.
