5:20 a.m., ICU Sean fills the basin with hot water and places it nearby. He’s still bleary with sleep and questioning my sanity, my need to do this—now. He brings the comb he picked up on his way in one night and the conditioner we use at home, and that’s what it smells like. Home. Slowly, painstakingly, he wets each tendril of hair and lathers it with conditioner. I feel flattered and helpless. Inch by inch, ends to scalp, I comb the tangles. It hurts. And it takes a long time. When I’m done, he combs it all back and watches me maneuver a ponytail despite the tubes in my arm. I think the...