99.9%

No disinfectant advertises itself as killing 100% of all germs.  It’s always 99.9% because they can’t prove all viruses or bacteria died.  It’s not possible, so they use the near absolute “99.9%”.  

This is how my wife’s doctor explained the antibiotic to us.  It would kill 99.9% of the infection; my wife’s immune system would take care of the rest.  Essentially, if she had 250,000 bacterial cells, only 250 would live. 

I guess that’s all the infection needed to survive.  Although my wife appeared to recover at first, the disease came back stronger as if offended we had tried to kill it.  We had hoped the antibiotics would work again.  They didn’t.

Our friends stopped visiting us.  Our families no longer called.  Our doctor even cancelled our appointments. 

My wife’s been bedbound for a week now.  I haven’t been able to move her.  I had her propped against the headboard, and that’s where she’s stayed.  I had moved a recliner to the base of the bed so I could monitor her.  I’ve pretty much stayed here as well.

It hurts to see her this way.  She’s lost enough weight to look desiccated, her green veins bulging along her arms.  The disease has eaten away most of her fingers, leaving behind papery ribbons of flesh.  Her skin – once clammy – now glistens and sticks to her sheets and clothes.  Last time I caressed her cheek, it came away with my hand.  The slimy film on her body even glows at night.  I struggle to sleep now.

I know she’s awake sometimes, too.  Her left eye is gone, and pinkish tendrils now grow from the empty socket.  The other eye, however, is my wife’s.  She watches me at times.  I put on my warmest smile to let her know I’m still here.  I think she smiles back, but I have stopped looking at her mouth.  When her lips decayed and her teeth grew out like those of an angler fish, it was too much for me. 

I’ve called 911 four times today, but they never answered.  The fingers of my left hand fused to the phone after the last call, and I haven’t felt my right arm in days.  I’ve tried getting up, but my legs won’t answer me either.  I feel something slithering in my stomach.  I try to ignore it.

In my hours in the recliner, I wonder if this disease is our disinfectant. Will it share the same mercy we gave it?  If 99.9% of us are gone, that still leaves seven million alive.

It doesn’t matter much to me, I guess.  We’re not bouncing back from this, nor do I want us to at this point.  I just hope the bacteria kills us completely. 

If this disease only kills 99.9% of my wife, I grieve for the 0.1% of her that’s still aware.