Chez Brancaforte-Marty...

Yesterday afternoon, we were able to settle back into our home with the aid of two amazing helpers. Our two friends transported Daniela in the comforts of a mini-van. Pillows, and blankets kept her company as she was lying in the back seat...this 21st Century sedan chair trotting back across the Potomac River into Arlington.

Before we could enjoy the familiar surroundings, I had flashbacks to my days in the military...decontamination exercises aimed at vanquishing biological agents. Our friends orchestrated a swift and well coordinated para-military assault on each and every item returning with us from the Hospital. Clorox disinfectant towelettes buzzed around me like a swarm of papier-mâché locusts. Our friends, co-Consuls in earnest, led the effort and declared a "cease wipe" after thirty minutes.

When the fog of Clorox lifted, I was able to focus more clearly on the myriad of flora, the cornucopia of books, magazines, letters, cards, and ribbons crowded around the house. Daniela and I were overwhelmed with emotion, yet traded the temptation to gaze at these gifts for a few hours of sleep. Before surrendering to narcotic-induced slumber, Daniela whispered, "You should only get this much attention if you have a quadruple mastectomy," always the self-conscious patient eager to deflect the attention focused on her.

We slept for a few hours, Daniela's biorhythms calibrated to Percocet Standard Time. So at 2:30 am last night, she awoke (not because of pain, but because she was) craving a pear. For Daniela, a pear is not just a fruit. It is a repository, a music box of memories. More specifically, memories shaped twelve years ago, memories of her father pealing her a pear as he nurtured her appetite after chemotherapy. The melody of her father's Italian phrase, audible in the empty kitchen, as I peeled the pear for her...Vuoi una pera? Ti la sbuccio, figlia bella. She gingerly consumed it all...the pear, and the memories released by the mending morsel.

Another Percocet...another period of rest. Five hours of sleep, a bounty of relaxation for both of us, and she was up and walking around this morning. She insists on challenging the limits of her own constitution in ways that would make the current Presidential administration jealous as they challenge the limits of another Constitution.

A bit past midday, she is sipping her tea. She continues to read Funny in Farsi: A Memoir of Growing Up Iranian in America by Firoozeh Dumas....the music of Squeeze playing in the background...the lyrics resonate with her recent experience...She goes for her medical | She's passed, it's a miracle | She's up over the moon | She whistles nonsense tunes | She wants drinks for everyone | She's found a chord that she can strum.... Our cat, delicately nestled beside her, purrs as she turns the page.