Christa devotes her free time to wine, yoga, outdoor sports, and classic literature. She's also mother to an epileptic Rottweiler, a mutt with a phobia of boots, and a Red-lored Amazon parrot who hates her.
When Christa's not on the road, you'll find her clad in dog hair covered yoga pants, writing from her home at the foot of Volcan Baru in Boquete, Panama. There, she either sips coffee or Cabernet and tries to figure out the meaning of life through the mysterious process of writing.
Christa Wojo is the author of The Wrong David and has just released SICK: A Novella. She's now working on a series of novels that explore abuse, addiction, art, and existentialism. She also runs My Sweet Delirium, a blog about creativity and assorted weirdness, and offers a menu of internet marketing services for authors.
A woman sacrifices everything to care for her husband whose chronic illness can’t be diagnosed.
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About the Book
A woman sacrifices everything to care for her husband whose chronic illness can’t be diagnosed.
John Branch is bred from a long line of old New England wealth. He is also the victim of debilitating chronic illness. His wife, Susan, uses all her resources and energy to take care of him and makes sure he is as comfortable as he can possibly be.
After a frightening episode of acute organ failure, John makes an amazing recovery. Susan is hopeful for a lasting cure and a normal life, but his insidious illness is more persistent and horrific than she could ever have imagined.
I began to cry soundlessly. My tears dripped onto his pale skin, suctioning my ear to his chest. I heard his voice from inside, deep and low. “Did you get the Demerol?” he asked again. “Please, tell me you got it. There wasn’t much left, and now we’re all out.”
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Excerpt from SICK
I began to cry soundlessly. My tears dripped onto his pale skin, suctioning my ear to his chest. I heard his voice from inside, deep and low. “Did you get the Demerol?” he asked again. “Please, tell me you got it. There wasn’t much left, and now we’re all out.”
I became aware of the hard glass bottle in my bra. I didn’t want him to know I had it. I didn’t ever want him to ask me to help him commit suicide. “I couldn’t get it,” I said.
“I’m sorry I took the vial,” he said. “I was a bad boy. I promise I won’t do it again.”
I was still getting my head around his idea. Even if he wanted me to help him die, no matter how he suffered, I was not strong enough to be the one to do it. Was I?
He paused and held his breath for a second. “You’re crying.”
“Why did you do it?” I asked. “The rest of the vial? Tell me the truth.”
“I was in a lot of pain. That’s all.” He continued to pet my head. “I just wanted to feel good.”
“I’m scared,” I said. “You did way too much.”
“Oh, please. I’ve been taking these drugs for decades. They hardly affect me anymore, sadly enough. I feel all the pain through them, they just help me not to pay so much attention to it.”
I traced his appendectomy scar with my fingertip. Then the one from his emergency intestinal enteritis operation.
He patted me a few more times. “There’s no need to be frightened.”
He waited. He knew I had the drugs. I never could pass a lie off on him. I reached under my top and flipped the vial out of my bra. It was warm from my body heat. I handed it to John.
He read the label and held it up to the light. “You are an angel, Suze. My dream come true.” He placed it back in my palm and closed my fingers over it. “Now hide it well.”
“Promise? You won’t go looking for it?”
“I promise,” he said. “I will listen to you, Nurse Suzie.”
“Then you don’t want to die. Right?”
“No, not yet,” he said.
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