Sonya Lea’s husband had an invasive surgery to treat his cancer, during which he lost his memory and forgot how to have sex:
His hand reaches out, enfolds my hip. It’s the first time he has moved toward me since the surgery. I do not cry, though I wish I could. In my mind, I add sex to the list of things forgotten. Things like the day we met, the day we married, the days our children were born. I think about the ways I have made myself a “we” — who we are, and what we like and what we don’t like, what we do and what we will never do — and I watch those things vanish, too. After a while, I watch him sleep. The man who taught me to explore has become as unknowing as a stranger in a strange land.
At first I think the teenage sex will dissipate, that the fast intercourse, few words and all-boy appetite will be replaced by the experienced sexuality the two of us shared before the cancer treatment. Three years after the brain injury, it still isn’t possible for him to ask for what he wants, or conduct a conversation, or remember the ways my body responds. And that’s not even important, because we’re in survival mode, trying to get our children through college, and help him relearn his career, and sell the house, and apply for disability. My husband suffers both long-term and short-term memory loss, making remembering arduous. Still, the brain changes have made his desire immense. He artlessly reaches for me, his man-hands grasp my breasts before an exchange of words, glances, clinches. Even though I’m angry at what’s happened to us, I cannot ignore his longing.
The Dish 