One, two, ready and go. With a quick count and scoot, we swing Craigy’s legs and torso into position. The move is reminiscent of how we'd tuck mom into bed. Someone would support her back while another would gently cup her calves. In synchrony, we’d swivel her so that she was lying straight in bed. It’s strange to be doing the same with Craig. Not too long ago, he was trail running Stillwater’s cross-country track with us. He was able to move about on his own as late as July, but something in the course of the last few weeks has zapped him of his remaining energy. Walking is a struggle; talking is difficult; and scooting on a bed is almost impossible. D, E, and I now help Craig with virtually everything. We prepare his shower and help him with his clothes. We fetch his water and serve as a human chair for him to lean on when he takes his meds. We help him with his socks and shoes and grab his hand when he feels a bit wobbly. We turn his body to prevent bed sores, and place pads on his tail bone to help prevent skin breakdown. We help move his swollen legs and massage lotion on his feet to relieve his stretched skin.
Cancer doesn’t care about preconceived notions of personal boundaries or Victorian-like ideas of privacy. It doesn’t care about modesty or dignity or a person’s need for independence. It takes it all willingly, forcing its victim to expose the smallest of vulnerabilities, and to give up every sense of personal space. Most of all, it requires a person to ask for help – and for the smallest of things. For Mom, cancer took one of the most important aspects of privacy. By the end of her disease, Mom was unable to go to the bathroom without assistance. Because she could no longer walk without support, we helped her move to either the commode or handicap bathroom. Because she needed her hands to remain stable, we helped pull down her pants. Because she needed support on the toilet, we helped brace her shoulders. Though we tried to keep it lighthearted, the situation remained the same: she could no longer go to the bathroom without an audience. Sometimes, we weren’t fast enough. It was hard to hear her call attention to her accidents. Though she had to endure what some would consider humiliating situations, she seldom complained. She’d simply laugh at the situation, and draw attention to how the tables had turned. It was “payback” for the years she spent changing our dirty diapers. She seemed to take delight in particularly “challenging” situations which required all our gusto, and a few face masks. She’d punctuate each awkward moment with a belly roar laugh, which, for those who knew her, was her trademark. I can still hear that laugh.
For Mom, having her daughters help in certain “awkward” situations was tough, but expected. For Craig, there's nothing in the script about having his little sisters manhandle him. It simply takes too much energy to move as he once did, which is energy he needs to keep his organs functioning in the face of cancer, so his idea of order has been modified. Though helping him with daily duties comes naturally to us, I’m not sure it does for Craig. Yet, like mom, Craig seldom complains, and asks for help when he needs to, knowing that by doing so, he can conserve energy for other, more interesting activities. Craig’s hospice nurse said the greatest gift he could give us is the gift of helping him. And so he does, and we do our best to make light of the situation. I remember one time when C had to pack a towel around his nether region for comfort. I said to Emily, “I bet you didn’t think your boyfriend packed.” Another time, D and I helped safety pin his gaping hospital pants in order to offer him more privacy.
Our fussing over him could be a viewed as a dent to his armor, an affront to his manhood, an invasion of his bachelor pad. Perhaps if we hadn’t been a little pod of four before cancer, our presence would be more of a violation to all things private. Our being close has taken (though not completely) the awkwardness out of potentially awkward situations. Our reality is, in fact, more intimate. There are experiences we haven’t shared out of respect for Mom and C, and our relationships with them. Still, as a sister, it’s hard seeing his body change. It’s hard being healthy while he’s fighting for his life. He said the other day that he envies how we can get out of bed so easily. He envies how mobile we are. Not too long ago he was that mobile. In the course of five months, Craig’s done two sets of U-turns. One with Mom, the other with his own cancer. His life has changed to accommodate this cancer. It’s hard to know that the symptoms; the body changes; and the cancer will continue unabated. He’ll continue to need assistance. He’ll continue to feel uncomfortable. And there’s little we can do. When the going gets this tough, we have but one option: to help him be as comfortable as possible. We’re like a geodesic dome, conceptually filling each surface with smaller, better defined sets of shapes that project to the middle surface, always replenishing ourselves with recycled moisture. The moisture will last, and so will we. – J
Up to the moment-- I awoke this morning to Craig calling for help in the bathroom. Once I entered his bathroom, he said “don’t look, I’m indecent.” He somehow lost his boxers while going to the bathroom. I simply crouched down and helped feed his feet through the holes of his boxers. Another memory …
No comments:
Post a Comment