A summer afternoon vignette

H is taking a long nap. Outside our bedroom door, I can't hear him breathing or the C-PAP machine making its usual rhythmic hissing.

I push the door open to listen and step in. He doesn't seem to be breathing and it's quiet. I lean towards him and stare. His right eye opens.

"Oh, hi," I giggle in surprise. "I didn't hear any breathing in here and thought I should check."

"I'm OK." Hissing.

"Sorry to bother you."

While I was cooking dinner later, I said, "Sorry for waking you, but I didn't hear any breathing and thought I should check."

"Thank you," H says. "But if you ever find that I'm not breathing, don't feel bad for me."

"I'll cry," I said.

"But only for awhile," he says, looking for his daily tray of up to 30 pills so that he can take his pain meds.

"I'm so tired of taking these pills and every six hours, I have to take pain meds OR ELSE. Six hours. Six hours. Every six hours I have to take meds."

Now he's crying. I'm holding him.

"And the rest of the meds make me so sick. God, I'm so tired....I'm going to go lie down now."

"OK, honey. Have a good nap. I love you."