I’m Married to an Emergency Room Doctor in New York City

“Okay, I’m ready,” Alex says. My husband is wearing his green scrubs under a hospital-issued jacket with his name embroidered on the upper left side, over his heart: Dr. Alexander Fortenko, Emergency Medicine. My eyes catch on the red pressure ulcer that’s been slowly growing on the bridge of his nose.

He looks at me expectantly. He’s waiting for me to recite the incantation I do before each shift. “I love you,” I say. “Be safe. Stay away from sick people.” It’s our talisman — an impossible ask that I hope, against all rationality, will keep him safe. It worries me that he’s come to rely on it.

“I promise I will.” He blows me a kiss and is gone.