Work Text:
“I always thought I’d have time,” I say quietly as I look down at my oldest and dearest friend.
“Time for what?”
“Hmm. To tell you the truth.”
I can feel the warmth of his gaze as his eyes flick to mine, which I’m not really ready to meet yet, so I keep my eyes on his chest.
“Which is?”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
I turn away from his bed and lift the washcloth from the basin, squeezing the excess warm water into the bowl before leaning over him. My body is pressing a little against the edge of his while I’m carefully washing his face.
I gently wipe his eyes clean, moving the washcloth outwards, towards the sides of his face, not wanting any crap to get stuck in the corners of his eyes, being careful of the amount of pressure I apply. Not wanting to gouge his eyes accidentally. Again.
I learned that lesson the hard way but, it had probably been harder for him in all honesty.
Some book or website or maybe the doctors had said early on that it is good for his relationship with his wife if he has a carer take care of the more practical aspects of his current disability. No one seems to know yet if it is a permanent situation or not.
His wife and I analyze every tiny thing, debating with each other, whenever we are alone, if this thing or that thing is a good sign or not. We are slowly learning to not do that. It is killing us both.
He has a professional carer later in the evening and weekends, who takes care of the more difficult aspects of his physical care and Christy isn’t completely hands off by any means of course.
But, I asked Christy very early on after he came home if I could get him ready each morning. And then take him into work with me for part of the day when he is up to it.
She knows I need this as much as it benefits him too. Our friendship has to find a way to be expressed still. He has been part of my daily routine for almost all of our lives. I don’t want that to have to stop with all the other things that have, and he deserves as normal a life as possible. Which means, for us at least, his being next to me every day during work hours, whenever he can be, at least. And fortunately for me, and maybe for Link, Christy has agreed to help us to stay close. Thinking it is important for all of us.
As a result, I am probably closer to her now than I have ever been in the past. All the old unspoken concerns and suspicions the least of our focus now. Needing to be a team for the greater good - the man we love.
We have had to fight his doctors for me to be allowed to do his personal cares because he is considered “high needs” for now, and I, of course, have zero medical training, but once he was stable enough, Christy just refused any help for him in the mornings or the day. Turning away the staff that arrived, refusing entry into her home, until they finally gave up. They know she will call and arrange someone on the odd occasion I can’t be there.
So now, instead of Link driving to my house each morning and picking me up, I drive over to their home, have a quick coffee with Christy in the kitchen and we talk quietly about how we think he is doing. Any significant concerns or achievements. We use this time to figure out the plan for the day as well.
It still feels a bit like talking behind his back, but I need to be able to get some support too in a way that’s not going to hurt him. Sometimes it is me that needs the hug, sometimes it is Christy. And sometimes, we just need a high five, feeling lucky and blessed for the amazing man we can still have in our lives.
Soon after, I go into his bedroom, wake him gently if he has nodded off again, and we go through the options and he lets me know how he wants to start his day.
Sometimes he wants only to be dressed, sometimes a shower, sometimes, like today a bed bath. Regardless of the starting point, I always get him dressed on his bed. A specialized adjustable double bed. The head of the bed able to be independently raised and reclined which is usually set to about 30 degrees on Link’s side. It helps me to move him if he is already partially upright, and he normally sleeps in this position to help stop him from choking overnight.
The first assessment of how he is doing I make when I see the angle of the incline. The only adjustment I usually make before starting is raising the entire bed up to around my waist height, making it much easier for me. He always smirks as I hold the button down on the control, the motor whirring as the whole bed slowly rises. He still has the same childlike glee at the little things. It breaks my heart a little every morning, but I always smile back at him as warmly as I can.
He and I are past the awkwardness. And I am much better at the practical aspects after the few teething problems the first couple of weeks.
He opens his eyes once I am finished washing both of them, and am moving the damp cloth across his forehead, pushing his dark hair back from his face with my free hand gently. Hoping the warmth is soothing, hoping that the cloth is wet enough so the residual damp won’t be scratchy feeling before I get around to drying him. His eyes search out mine as they always do.
I wash the rest of his face, keeping my gaze on his nose, or forehead, or lips when I’m feeling strong. His eyes always unhinge me when he is laying all but helpless like this.
“Hmm, you gonna need a shave soon. You want one today?” I say as I trail my fingers along his jawline. Stopping quickly once I realize what I’m doing, pulling my hand away as naturally as possible.
“Naahh.” he manages to push the sound past his lips, his whole upper body moving from the effort of forcing enough air past his vocal chords.
I have talked to Christy about it, and we think he’s getting better.
“I reckon we’ll wash your hair and do that shave tomorrow? Maybe a shower day if you’re up to it.”
I place the cloth back in the bowl and move the blankets down to his waist.
“Life’s funny isn’t it?” I continue trying a smile, but don’t look at him to see if he acknowledges it in any way. “We all know we don’t, but we always think that we have endless time. I did.”
I dry his face gently, knowing how irritating it feels for him if I don’t soon enough and it air dries too much.
“Time for what?”
“We should have.” I continue, sadness creeping into my voice before I squash it down quickly. “You should have had time.”
“Time for what?” I imagine him asking me, in his quiet gentle voice that I haven’t heard in months, imagining him emphasizing the h sound more, the more times he has to ask. That subtle sign of frustration that had always warmed my heart.
I concentrate on undoing the buttons along the front of his pajama top, my hands sliding against his warm skin beneath as I work my way down his body. I can feel his eyes on me as they almost always are.
I sit on the edge of the bed facing towards the headboard, and push the fabric aside, slipping one arm between it and his body and the bed beneath, across his back to his far shoulder, lifting his right arm to rest over my own, my hand gently on his elbow to help keep it in place before curling my arm towards myself and easily lifting his upper body to my chest as I sit upright, using my free hand to then lower his arm and remove his top from his right arm, swapping my supporting arm and sliding his pajama top down his back and off his left arm too, pulling it out of the way before putting both my arms around him, making sure his arms won’t be trapped behind him once I lay him back down.
“Mmmm.”
He can manage that sound. That low hmm, of pleasure or agreement, or whatever he is trying to tell me. There are a few other sounds he is quite good at, and small gestures. He’s improving as time goes on we think. Christy and I have talked about it.
But for the most part, I am carrying most of the conversation these days. So I imagine his part when I want to, and he never seems to mind.
He breathes against my neck, his head resting heavily on me, nearly causing me to shiver, as I hold him to me a little longer than strictly needed before lowering him back to the mattress, my hand automatically moving to support his head, not that he needs me to. His neck and shoulder strength is quite good. But, it is just a habit I’ve formed. Maybe some kind of remembered thing from getting my kids dressed when they were little.
Each morning I only barely manage to stop myself from kissing him before slipping my arm from beneath him and sitting up again.
“I guess I kinda never thought about it. That we were anything but invincible.” I add as I stand again and concentrate on getting the right amount of water on the washcloth for the next part.
“I am invincible.”
“Of course you are. You are perfect.” I say quietly. I glance at his face quickly, not quite at his eyes. His left eyebrow.
I use the washcloth to wet his chest and stomach some, having to moisten it multiple times before his skin is wet enough to lather properly and then take the bar of soap, slipping it around in my hands before setting it down in the plate.
He has lost some weight and muscle tone, but still looks a lot the same as before. Slim and compact muscles and prominent bones. Beautiful. I place my hands on his chest, fairly centrally to start. Slowly and methodically soaping his torso, as tenderly as I can without intentional innuendo. Getting more soap as needed. I hear his breathing catching and can feel his heart pounding against his chest.
“In all of this, this is what I regret the most.” I continue speaking quietly, not wanting my words to float past the walls of this room. “Thinking that I’d get the chance to tell you, and you would have a chance to tell me what you thought about it. And I never said a damn thing.”
My hands slide up his body, across his neck, feeling his pulse dancing along my fingers, and over his shoulders and down both arms to his hands. Dropping the left to concentrate only on the right for a time. Washing it thoroughly, almost massaging his palm and fingers and wrist, back up his forearm, making sure the soap gets beneath the layer of hair, across his shoulder and chest and down the other side to the other hand that is waiting, shaking a little on the bed.
Once finished with the left as well I turn to the little table I have set up with water, and soap and towels, gripping the sides a moment. Blinking slowly, before breathing deeply and turning back with the damp cloth, and patiently rinse the soap from his skin, careful to make sure no water escapes around his body to the sheet beneath.
“And now it’s too late. But maybe not, huh?”
Towel drying his neck and shoulders, chest and stomach, arms and hands before moving on.
He lies passively watching. Making no attempt to communicate his thoughts with me. I think he is enjoying my touch and the physical closeness we’re sharing today. It’s very different to how we approach the showering. All loofahs and high-pressure water. Less skin to skin contact. His thoughts are often closed to me on these mornings and I don’t mind. He is entitled to his privacy wherever he can find it.
I have never come this close to telling him how I feel about him. How I have always felt about him. What I had hoped for us. What I still dream for us, but now with a lot more guilt.
“Do you want to do this bit?” I ask as I start rocking his hips towards me, lowering his pants as much as I can, before rolling his other hip away from me and repeating the maneuver. I repeat this slowly a couple of times until the material is low enough to not be snagged by his pelvis area, and then a couple more times to get a towel beneath him.
“Mmm.”
His right forearm raising a little, trembling from the effort. I place the damp washcloth in his hand and support the weight of his arm by his elbow with my hand, moving with him, so he can wet down his groin. I hook my free hand under the knee closest to me and move his legs a little further apart. He’s a particular kinda guy.
He makes a low almost laughing sound in his throat. I glance quickly up at his face in alarm.
We have had a few choking episodes despite him being propped up some because he is unable to swallow well enough sometimes to avoid it. Especially if I forget and make him laugh too much. Which, with us, is kinda likely even now.
“Relax buddy, it’s just you and me,” I say knowing that his laugh is mostly from embarrassment right now. “Gimmie that back, you need more water on it.”
Rinsing the cloth and handing it back, monitoring without obviously looking at his private parts.
His body still responding in the usual way it does every morning I wash him like this, I guess from my touching his body and the sensations it brings. I think if I was having every part of my body touched by warm slippery hands I’d have a hard time not getting a hardon too. I don’t take the response personally, although sometimes it’s hard for me to not hope it is a little bit.
We normally ignore it and talk about other things and it eventually settles down.
I gently take the cloth from his hand, and soap my hands again, this time lathering his hand so he can wash himself. His eyes watching my face as my hands encircle his. Taking my breath away.
Again, I place my hand gently under his elbow supporting the weight he can’t manage to lift as he works clumsily.
“Be easier if ya didn’t have so much to deal with,” I say smiling.
Again he laughs a little, but with humor this time, his hand moving over himself jerkily, trying to wash.
“One of these days I should get someone in here to deal with that. Would you like that?” I ask for the first time.
“Naaah.” his voice low and gravelly from little use.
His eyes bore into mine and I pretend to not notice, instead dipping his hand in the water bowl to rid the soap from his hand and handing him a wet cloth to rinse the soap from himself. He could tell me in his own way if he wanted to let me know. I don’t know if he doesn’t want me to be the one “helping”, or if he is too scared to tell me he does. And I am not brave enough to attempt to guess what his insistent gaze is trying to tell me.
Once he has finished the best he can, I swiftly wipe him down with the damp cloth making sure as much of the soap is gone as possible and then hand him the towel. Letting him do what he can before gently taking over, pulling his pajama pants down and then off each leg, and washing the rest of his body, more quickly now. The moment of full nakedness should be minimized.
I lower the head of the bed so it is flat to help with moving him to his side. He is usually ok for a while on his side provided he’s not left alone without enough supports to keep him in place.
Pulling him onto his side by his shoulder and hip, supporting him in place so I can wash all that is missed while he is laying on his back. I try to be more clinical to give his arousal a chance to settle down a bit, and to try and redirect my own train of thoughts, covering the parts of his body I am not needing access to with a light blanket. But it is impossible for me to touch him without love and regard.
Once his back and the rest of his lower body is clean and dry, I roll him onto his back again gently and then prop him back up. I prepare all the things I need for the next part carefully, draping the blanket over his upper body, making sure it is well out of my way, but not wanting him to feel too exposed.
“I heard it’s gonna be the hottest summer on record for 50 years,” I say for the sake of something to say while I start this task, one I know he wishes I wouldn’t, but can’t be left to nature for any more hours.
For me, it’s the least intimate part of the whole routine, probably because it’s the most medical aspect to his care. But, I know he finds it humiliating on some levels, no matter how many times I have told him how I feel about doing it.
So, I first dry him thoroughly and then prepare and carefully insert the new catheter once his erection has subsided enough.
“It sure will be nice when this road gets four lanes,” I can almost hear him murmuring as his eyes watch me closely while I ensure that some urine is draining into the container I have for this purpose, which tells me it is in far enough. Once his bladder is empty, I inflate the small balloon that is at the end of the catheter inside his bladder with a syringe of air that holds the tube in place.
I don’t have to change it every day, but on those days I do, he always chooses to wash himself.
When it is in place it is too dangerous for him to even try. Although it is difficult to completely remove it by force, it is not impossible and a lot of damage can be done regardless.
I’m not sure what prompts his evening carer to decide to remove it completely some nights. If it is so he and his wife can make love, or if it is just because it is good for the elasticity of his bladder to allow it to collect sometimes rather than be constantly draining in case he does recover enough to not need it.
I don’t ask him, or his wife if they still make love. I really hope that they do. He needs to be loved. I need him to be loved.
It takes only a few moments, from start to finish, and then I am attaching and arranging the leg bag the catheter connects to, guiding the tubing along his left leg and attaching the bag itself with the elasticized velcro straps, to his lower leg. The safest place for it, to stop it being accidentally interfered with. I leave plenty of give in the tube, so his leg can move freely without pulling on the catheter, but not so much it is likely to get caught on anything either.
I remove the blanket from his upper body now I am at the point of having to move him around quite a lot to successfully dress him. It will only tangle and get in the way. I lower his head a little more again to assist with changing his position.
I forgo underwear and lift each foot into a pair of sweatpants, making sure the valve on the bag is firmly closed, lifting the material over it carefully and start to ease his pants up his legs. By far the easiest thing to dress a grown man in with little self-control of his limbs. We sometimes go for items with a high degree of difficulty, but today’s plans are best executed in loose clothing for him.
“Uhhh.”
I stop quickly and move to the side of the bed, “What’s up buddy?” concerned he might be in pain from the procedure, or I’ve lowered him too far.
His hand moves slowly across the bed towards mine. I shamefully think of moving mine away, knowing I could easily, but knowing too well the energy and concentration this takes him. I wonder if he knows the toll it takes on me when he reaches for me like this.
His hand slides over mine heavily. I can feel my heart breaking a little more. His fingers try to close around my hand, jerking uncoordinatedly until I close my other hand over his to help and in all honesty, so I don’t have to watch him trying so hard.
“Uh. Rrrr…”
Knowing what he is probably going to tell me and hoping he won’t I cut him off, “Sshhh, buddy roll. I got ya. I know you hate these pants, but the color makes your eyes pop. And they’ll go great with your handbag.” I say quickly, hoping the humor will get me past the heartache.
Again some sort of laugh. His whole body shaking with it this time. His gorgeous smile lights up his face and makes me weep inside.
“Naaa.” he drones, still smiling at my comment, his eyes sparkling “Taaa”
“Don’t thank me, man,” I say as I gently untangle my hand from his, patting his shoulder dismissively, uncomfortable with him feeling like he even needs to thank me, and reach for his pants, slowly and carefully working them up his legs. “Truth is man, I’m really kinda nervous about the new physio today.”
I’m not. I just have to talk to stop seeing his hand trying to close around mine and that beautiful smile of his.
His eyes remain steady on my face.
“I hope to God it helps. Not that He seems to listen these days.”
I finally manage to get his pants in place using the reverse of the process I used to remove the other ones. I prop him back up again, move the wash table out the way and bring his wheelchair closer to the bed, using the joystick with practiced ease, reversing it into position and shutting off the power to the control pad once I have the chair in place. We learned that the hard way too.
“Ok, buddy. You’ve slept in long enough.” I take hold of both of his ankles and swing his legs off the bed as much as I can. He concentrates on trying to stay still and not spasm out of position.
I step closer to the bed my legs either side of his, pressing his knees together, leaning down to wrap my arms under his back and bring him to a seated position,and one at a time, trying to guide his arms over each of my shoulders. It’s a balancing act to keep myself low enough so his arm doesn’t slip off before the other is in place for his hands to clasp each other loosely behind my neck, but upright enough so my back doesn’t lock up. Some mornings this takes a long time, but his warm and shirtless upper body in my arms makes me almost hope it will happen like that every morning.
Once his arms seem to be staying put, I count to three so he is ready and lift him off the bed to my chest, he almost always lets his head fall against me, although I know he can support it if he chooses to, while I pause before turning with him tightly against the length of my body, and finally lower him into the large wheelchair.
Once he feels securely placed, he usually murmurs or taps my shoulder, or just allows his hands to slide from me. I have told him time and again to not do the last option because he can bruise himself quite easily if he hits the sides of the wheelchair. But, well he alway has been a stubborn guy.
I step back after releasing him, keeping my hands close initially in case he starts tipping. I look at him with quick glances, trying to see where he is looking before I let myself look at his face properly.
His face is flushed and a small smile quivers on his lips as he looks towards my feet, not ready to look at my eyes. For which I am grateful. I am never ready straight away either.
The standing transfer cuts down on the amount of strain to my back, the weight being kept close, helping to reduce injury, and keeping Link’s weight central avoids any uneven weight distribution, much better than lifting him with his upper body in one arm, legs in the other, type scenario if doing it regularly.
Christy had found out about it after I had injured my back bad enough to have to stop getting him ready for a while, and told me over a debriefing session in their kitchen one morning as her husband slept on, showing me the diagrams, and we even practiced a couple times with me lifting her from their couch to the armchair once I felt my back was recovered enough to try again.
Some months ago, she had invested in a hoist, which could be used to safely transfer him to and from his wheelchair, without anyone needing to physically lift him at all, but I only used it once and hated it.
Although from a practical standpoint, it had proven to be a good idea, I can’t help but love having a reason to stand with him in my arms every morning, pressed to my body and I don’t feel guilty for it. Maybe I should. But, I don’t.
The hard part is letting go. And I think, from his demeanor after I’ve transferred him in this way, it brings some comfort to him as well. But I am not sure. I haven’t asked him if he minds how I do it.
I clear my throat as I kneel at his feet and put on his socks and shoes and then help arrange his feet on the foot plates. He tries to help with this as much as he can, tensing muscles that don’t want to work for him. I stand and dress him in his red spiderman t-shirt, putting it over his head, Putting my own hand the wrong way through the sleeve, grasping his hand and guiding his arm through as I move mine out, repeating on each side and then resting him against me while I pull down the back of the shirt. Needing to move him back and forth a few times before it is smoothly in place along his front and back.
Then I take care to align his arms along the armrests, checking the length of his fingernails with a quick passing glance purely out of routine and then make sure his hand is close to the joystick control. I keep the chair powered down for now though.
I step back, looking him over critically. He watches me, an eyebrow twitching. I’m not sure if he is trying to raise it in a question or if it is his old sign of awkward nervousness or just an uncontrolled twitch.
“Looking good, my man.” I step closer to him again, placing my feet either side of the footplate so I can get closer to him I tilt his head upwards and run my hands through his hair arranging it as he likes and then I place his glasses on his face. I rest my hand on his shoulder a moment looking down at him. He doesn’t meet my eyes, which is fairly rare, just looks steadily at my chest.
“Let’s go say hi to Christy huh? She’ll have your breakfast ready by now I reckon”
I let my hand slip off his shoulder as I step back further. I hit the power button alongside the control panel and feign enthusiasm I never feel as I walk to the bedroom door. These moments are the most intimate I ever share with anyone.
I realize once I get there, my hand closing around the handle, that I can’t hear the chair moving at all. I slowly turn back to him.
He sits staring at me and starts rolling his head against the headrest from side to side. No.
“What’s up, man?”
He stares back at me, blinking slowly, his eyes moving skyward briefly.
“You don’t want to?”
It is our version of an eye roll for public situations when he wants to let me know how he feels. Not a definite no, just a negative feeling about it, but ultimately willing to go along with what I decide. Sometimes he will use a glance left for no, and right for yes, if he wants to be discrete.
I am not sure if he uses this method with Christy when he needs or not, but I suspect not. He has used it quite a few times looking at me when she has been speaking about something and she has never responded to it. Best friends have to be able to look out for one another.
I wonder if he has a system with Christy that I haven’t figured out yet too. No matter. I guess spouses deserve their secrets too.
He nods, his whole upper body moving forward a little with the weight of his head, but he manages to recover and glances upward again confirming my guess. He doesn’t want to leave the room yet for some reason.
His core muscles still struggle to keep him upright on their own, but he hates having to be restrained in his wheelchair by a full harness for that purpose. He still has a lap belt for safety sake, but his newest wheelchair allows for him to adjust the angle as he wants with the touch of a button. Once he has been fed, he’ll tilt the chair back a little more to help keep himself from falling forward.
“Have I forgotten something?”
I head back towards him slowly, eyes moving over him quickly trying to see if there is anything obviously wrong. His shoes are on the right feet, pants aren’t tangled, t-shirt not bunched or askew, the clothing that which he and Christy picked out this morning. Hair parted the right way, glasses in place properly. His posture looking normal.
His eyes remain steady on me, as I run through my mental checks, his head unmoving on the headrest, choosing to not attempt to communicate his needs any further.
So I look back at him, trying to read his mind. He blinks slowly, but his gaze is gaining intensity, and I am not sure if it is because I am staring at him and am imagining it, or if he is doing it on purpose. He shuts his eyes, swallowing visibly then opens them again, and stares into my soul, naked need and nods again, just once.
I lick my lips, my heart racing. And take a step closer to him.
“Do you…?” For once I am almost clueless as to what he needs from me.
I watch his finger tap the power button, disabling the chair again and then his hand moving up from the control panel, bumping the joystick accidentally to no effect, reaching a little towards me. When I look back to his face there are tears building in his eyes, not yet dropping down his face, suspended, wavering on the edge of his lashes.
My heart breaks for the tenth time just this morning and my world is completely undone. A moan of pain coming from my lips unheeded. I don’t know what he needs, but I know what I do. So I take off his glasses and hold him to me as hard as I dare, crying into the warmth of his neck.
“I am so sorry, Link. I’m so sorry you’re going through this, man. I love you.” My voice trembles, breaking a little as I hold back my secret and continue holding him tight, watering down my declaration with “We all love you so much, Link. We’re gonna get you through this.”
I pull back and look searchingly at his face. Trying to see if I am doing the right thing or not. His smile is sad but pure and his eyes slide shut, pushing the tears out of his eyes and down his face in a sudden rush, his arms trying to reach for me, managing bare inches from the armrests before collapsing back in place.
I slip my arm under his knees and around his back and lift him from the chair again, caring nothing for the health of my back, resting his trembling body against my chest before sitting then lying back on his bed. keeping his upper body on top of me, keeping my arms around him, holding him to my body, cradling him like a baby. Wiping the tears from his face with my shaking hand, brushing mine away roughly with my upper arm.
I pull him closer to me, silently sobbing, one of his arms trapped between us, but I think it will be ok for a while, the other arm resting on my shoulder where I put it and I watch his eyes close, his head against my chest, the gentle smile trembling on his lips mesmerising me for a while, before I shut my own as well.
“Let’s just lay here a while, huh?” I ask, my voice breaking, as I fail at trying to sound ok.
I feel the vibration of the low warm sound coming from the man pressed against me, “Mmmm.” he says, and then his fingers tap against me, to make sure I will notice and pay attention. His hand starts caressing me in a small arch, jerky and uncoordinated, feather light pressure moving over me. Trying to comfort me. He continues murmuring "mmm’s" against my body over and over while I unintentionally shake him gently as I cry as quietly as I can, feeling his own tears soaking into my shirt.
“I love you so much, man,” I tell him again. “I miss… so much. But, you’re perfect. We’ll get through this. We’re gonna do even more great things together, Link. We are already doing them. We promised. I still promise you. Always.”