Scene One – Take 3
Ron sat quietly, staring out the large window that stretched across the rear wall of the living room and studied the hills over a mile off in the distance while Ben performed his ritual of lightly tugging and straightening and smoothing out Ron’s pant legs, stopping at times to pick off specks of lint or dust.
Ben kept glancing up, sneaking a look, trying to read Ron’s mostly blank expression. He knew from his previous experience with working with quadriplegics that depression was normal and suicidal thoughts almost inevitable. Ron was a different situation from the young veterans he had worked with. He was older, fifty-five, very well off and more intellectual, though, Ben didn’t know how this last attribute was supposed to make any difference.
Still, the depression worried Ben as all Ron seemed to want to talk about lately were creative ways that he could commit suicide without Ben getting into trouble. Ben could think of plenty of ways to accomplish the feat but he wasn’t about to share them with Ron. He knew two buddies from the army who had done themselves in and that was heartbreak enough; as much as someone might want a permanent exit strategy, Ben could not see himself being part of it as the guilt would have been too much to bear.
“Is that green coming in?”
Ben looked up and gazed out the window.
“Where?
“On those hills.”
“Yes. The trees are just starting to leaf.”
“That’s what I thought. I’m having a bit more trouble with colors than usual today.”
Ben looked back at Ron, studied his face that always seemed a bit pale with his deep chestnut brown irises providing the only true color. His thin greying hair only added to the ashen appearance. His nostrils flared ever so slightly with each breath. Ben took some comfort, some hope in Ron’s lips that, despite everything, always seemed to have a slight upward tilt at the edges as if suggesting inner peace. He looked a bit paler today and Ben wasn’t sure if this outing was a good idea or not.
“Did you tell Beth?” Ben asked.
“Tell her what?”
“Where we’re going?”
‘No.”
He kept lightly tugging at Ron’s cashmere sweater and pants, endlessly working him as an excuse to keep stealing looks of his face. Ben prided himself in his ability to connect, yet the past few days had been exceedingly frustrating.
“Do you know what kind they are?” Ron asked.
“What?”
“The trees that are turning green.”
Ben looked out the window and paused as if studying one of the newly budding leaflets on a tree that was a mile away.
“I don’t know. Maybe elms.”
He turned back, picking at a stubborn piece of lint.
“You don’t want to tell her?” Ben asked.
“No. I’d rather not.”
He finished with Ron’s pants then stepped around to the rear of the wheelchair and pulled out a large strap in the sack hanging down. He deftly slipped the band through Ron’s arms, across his chest and secured him to the chair.
Ron coughed slightly, his chest struggling to work the muscles to force a more strenuous expulsion.
“Too tight?”
“No.”
“You know, we don’t have to go today,” Ben said, checking the belt, making certain that the strap had not trapped a fold in the sweater and was pressing against his chest.
He kept an eye on Ron still struggling to get a good cough out as he picked up a fleece blanket from a nearby chair.
“This going to be enough?”
“I think so.”
“I think so.”
Waiting for the coughing spell to subside, he gave Ron’s hair a few strokes with his fingers. A touch of spittle emerged from the corner of Ron’s mouth which Ben took care of with a tissue from the table nearby.
“I don’t know, Ron.”
“Know what?”
“About going.”
“I’m fine.”
“Now you’re sweating.”
“Am I?”
“I’ll be right back.”
“All right.”
Ron moved his hand to get his fingers in a position to push against the joystick that would move his wheelchair forward. He kept pushing at the stick but the chair did not move. He pursed his lips, sighed and looked back out the window.
Ben returned with a damp washcloth and gently ran it across Ron’s forehead and then over his entire face. His stout hands matched Ben’s broad and muscular five-ten build; the hands’ dark, deep brown complexion contrasted sharply with Ron’s white skin.
“The chair’s not working.”
“What?”
“I tried moving and it wasn’t responding.”
“It’s off.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Were you trying to go somewhere?”
“Just closer to the window.”
Ben lightly pressed the back of his hand against Ron’s cheek.
“Do you feel hot?”
“No.”
“There’s not something pinching you, is there?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Let me check.”
It was something that he couldn’t stress enough to friends of Ron’s who would come over and sit with him while he took a break. People had a hard time understanding how just a slight fold in the clothing could cause Ron to go into shock. Autonomic dysreflexia. No one ever seemed to remember the name. It didn’t matter. What mattered is that they were aware of the signs and sweating for no apparent reason was one of them. The most likely culprit was the catheter that permanently ran from Ron’s bladder, exited through his abdomen and ran down one of his legs. If it got pinched, Ron’s bladder wouldn’t empty and the body reacts; Ron would have no idea that it was happening. Ben kept detailed instructions on the refrigerator of symptoms and possible causes but he wondered if anyone ever read them.
“Everything okay?”
“The tube is.”
He unsnapped the strap that he just placed around Ron, let it drape to the sides and then unhooked the chair’s upper belt that held Ron upright.
“What are you doing? Getting me totally undressed?”
“Twice a day is plenty.”
Ben pulled Ron forward, his forehead rested against his caregiver’s chest.
“You all right?”
“Just hurry up and finish.”
He worked his hands down the back of Ron’s shirt, extending further over to fell beneath his pants.
“A little wrinkled, but nothing that should be causing any problems.”
“Good.”
“Probably just a bit excited, huh?”
“Probably.”
Ben pushed Ron back up, secured the wheelchair belt, refastened the large strap and tucked the blanket around Ron.
“Okay.”
“Finally done messing with me?”
“I think so.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
“Yeah. Let’s do it,” Ben said, wiping Ron’s face with the washcloth one last time before they headed for the garage.
Copyright © 2012 Philip Zweig
Copyright © 2012 Philip Zweig
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