For the first time in weeks, I feel a sense of calm wash over me. I don’t understand it, but all the anxiety and stress that’s been coursing through me has disappeared, and all I feel now is wonder and belief that this is going to happen. It’s like I needed to see that needle going into my stomach to fully believe we were doing this. Up until this point, it’s just been a whole lot of planning and talking. Now we’re taking action and my brain has finally caught up to understanding what’s happening.
The rumble of Winter’s bike pulls me out of my thoughts and I head for the front door to meet him, relief flooding me that he’s okay. However, when I open the door, the first thing I see as he walks my way is blood. A lot of blood. His shirt is soaked in it. He’s got his hands pressed to his stomach, but that doesn’t seem to be helping stem the flow.
My heart beats faster and my chest tightens with fear. “Oh my God.” I rush towards him. “We need to get you to a doctor.” A million thoughts speed through my mind. Why is he here instead of at the hospital? What happened? Has he been shot? Where is all that blood coming from?
“No,” he clips. “Go inside.” His hard voice catches me by surprise, but it also causes me to do what he says.
Once we’re inside, he takes off down the hallway and into our bedroom. “Gonna need your help, angel,” he says as I trip over my feet trying to keep up with him.
Of course I’ll help him, but at this point, I’m not sure what he thinks I can do for him. I’m not a doctor or a nurse. “Okay.” I enter the bedroom behind him, my heart still pounding hard. “You want me to stitch you up?” It’s a joke, my way of dealing with stress. I never expect the answer he gives me.
Without stopping or looking at me, he enters our walk-in robe. “No, I’ll do the stitching, but I’ll need your help with it.”
My legs stop moving.
My heart beats faster if that’s even possible.
What?
Surely I misheard.
“You’re kidding, right?”
Still not looking at me, he says, “No.” Rummaging through his belongings, he locates what he’s looking for and then turns to face me. “Doc is away until tomorrow and I can’t go to the hospital for this.”
It’s like I don’t recognise my husband. I mean, I know he learned a heap of shit in the army that I have no clue of, but I never for one second imagined he’d ever say to me “hey, let’s sew me up so I don’t have to go to the hospital.”
“Umm, Winter, you’re losing a lot of blood. I know you’re capable of many things, but I’m not sure we can add doctor to that list. Not when there’s this much blood.”
Why are we even having this conversation?
Why are we not getting him to the hospital?
Oh, God, I’m going to lose my shit soon.
Leaving me, he heads for the en suite. “It’s not the first time I’ve done this, Birdie, and it probably won’t be the last.”
Wait. What?
I hurry after him, my mind scrambling to keep pace. “When have you done this?”
He dumps the small bag he took from the wardrobe on the bathroom counter and pulls his blood-soaked shirt off, throwing it in the bin. He then washes his hands and dries them before looking down to inspect the wound I can’t take my eyes off. A knife wound if I’m not mistaken. The scariest looking wound I’ve ever seen. Without answering my question, he says, “Wash your hands.”
Dragging my eyes from his stomach, I do as he says. “You had to sew yourself up in Afghanistan?” How did I not know this?
“Birdie,” he starts, his tone snappy, a mixture of impatience and irritability, “can we just get this done and then talk?”
I finish washing my hands. “Okay, what do you need me to do?” I sound a whole lot more confident than I feel. My tummy is already squeamish. But at least I’ve now seen the wound and know that although Winter’s shirt was soaked in blood, there’s actually not that much still coming from the gash.
He nods at the bag on the counter. “There are alcohol wipes in the kit. I need you to sterilise everything in there while I clean out the wound.”
I try to shift my focus from the fear swarming through me and instead focus on what I’m doing. The job Winter has given me is easy enough. My concern is he’s going to ask me to stick a needle through his flesh or something equally horrifying. However, I love this man with everything in me, and so I know that if the next words out of his mouth have anything to do with sewing his flesh together, that’s what I’ll be doing.
I finish sterilising the tools from the bag and watch as Winter cleans his wound. I’m surprised I can watch. I usually struggle with blood.
When he’s done cleaning it, he reaches for what looks like scissors to me, but they aren’t scissors because they don’t have blades. They kinda look like tiny little pliers. He also grabs what I’m guessing is the needle even though it looks more like a fishing hook. I only know it’s the needle because it has surgical thread attached to it. He takes the little plier things and uses them to hold the end of the needle before reaching for another tool in his kit, which looks like tweezers.
Using the tweezer-looking tool, he exposes one side of the wound and pushes the needle through his skin. I watch in fascination as he does this and then twists his hand so it starts coming up on the other side of the wound. Working with skill I never knew he had, he manoeuvres the tools to create his first stitch, bringing his skin together as he ties a knot in the thread.