Two years. Seven hundred and thirty days, each like the one before. The morning begins not with an alarm clock, but with a quiet moan from the bedroom.
My day is scheduled down to the minute. Wash, feed, change clothes, give medicine, turn him over to prevent bedsores. I am Anna Andreeva, and for the last two years, my profession has been a wife-caretaker.
I used to be a marketer; I had projects, deadlines, ambitions. Now my main project is my husband Dima, confined to bed after a terrible accident. Today was an especially difficult day.
Dima’s blood pressure was fluctuating, he was being moody, refusing to eat, and then complaining of hunger. By evening, I felt completely drained. I sat in the armchair by his bed, staring blankly at the wall while he watched some series on his laptop.
— Ann, I’m thirsty, — his voice was weak and demanding at the same time.
I silently got up and shuffled to the kitchen. My legs were aching, my back was sore. While pouring water into a glass, I heard a quiet thud from the room. He must have dropped something again. When I returned, I saw his phone lying on the floor right by the leg of the bed. Far away. Even I would have struggled to reach it by bending over.
— Dima, you dropped your phone, I’ll get it.
— Don’t bother. I’m done with it, — he waved his hand. — Give me the water.
I handed him the glass with a straw and helped him drink. I placed the glass on the nightstand and went back to the kitchen to put away the carafe. It took no more than a minute. When I returned to the bedroom to collect the dirty dishes, I froze in the doorway.
The phone was lying on the nightstand, next to the glass. Neat and tidy. I slowly shifted my gaze from the phone to my husband. He was calmly watching his series as if nothing had happened.
— Dima… — I tried to keep my voice from trembling. — How did you pick up the phone?
He tore his eyes away from the screen, and a flash of irritation crossed his face.
— What?
— The phone. It was on the floor. I saw it myself. How did you get it?
Dima sighed heavily, feigning immense fatigue.
— God, Ann, you’re completely worn out. It didn’t fall on the floor, it fell on the blanket. I managed to grab it with my hand, I could barely reach. You’re starting to see things that aren’t there.
— But it was on the parquet floor, right by the leg. I wouldn’t have been able to reach it without getting out of bed.
— Then you must have imagined it! — he raised his voice. — You’re exhausted. You’re always imagining things. You should lie down for an hour. You look terrible. You’re going to make my blood pressure spike again…
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