There is no more humbling an experience in this world than to be dependent on others for the most basic of needs. We all take for granted the simplest things. Tying our own shoes, bathing, even wiping our own asses. It’s all a luxury people. Not a given, a luxury.
I am fiercely independent. Not sure if I was born like this or if it was instilled in me at a very young age. I like to believe it’s a bit of both. Independence is a great quality to have, but I was (or am) such in a manner that to need or want help is considered a weakness. So you could imagine the degree to which I was mortified when I realized I had lost the ability, albeit temporary, to do for myself in the most basic of ways.
In the hospital I was hooked up to all kinds of funky wire contraptions so it took a small army of nurses to just get my gown changed. I had a catheter, a pick line in my right arm, oxygen canula in my nose, IV’s in both arms, and all kids of round sticky things where they could hook wires and shit up to me taped all over my chest, torso, neck, and head. And I’m sure a few other things I can’t really recall. I can remember, pretty clearly actually, one of my fantastic ICU nurses asking me what I wanted. It was about four days into my hospitalization and I was apparently crying and feeling exceptionally gross (one of many times I can assure you) so she asked what she could do. I can clearly remember saying, “I’ll give a blow job to every doctor in this place if someone would please wash my fucking hair”. I had really long hair at the time and it was sweaty, knotted, smelly, and just plain out gross. Not to mention I could feel it sticking to my neck, back, and shoulders. I had the creepy crawlies in places I couldn’t even feel. Of course my nurse, laughed hysterically and heartily replied. “That won’t be necessary hon. Let’s see what we can do.” I told her my husband had brought my shampoo and conditioner from home. She told me be she’d be right back and left my room, still shaking her head laughing. Imagine that.
A short bit later she returned with two of my favorite ICU nurses, Rachel and Cherise. They were both around my age and had a great deal of empathy for their patients along with a fabulous bedside manner. Just about all of my nurses were great, but I knew Rachel and Cherise cared about what was happening to me. On the few occasions Keane was not at my bedside, if they were on duty I felt like I was ok.
“SPA DAY!” Cherise yelled as they entered the room. As long as I live I will never forget how these three women washed and conditioned my hair, cut both my finger and toe nails, and even shaved under my arms for me so I felt somewhat human again. All in all they spent what felt like the entire afternoon with me, but I am sure it was probably only about an hour at best. They didn’t move as if they were rushed. Perhaps they enjoyed doing that for me as much as I appreciated them doing it. And goddamn if they did it all without getting a single drop of water on my wires or my bed. That was pretty amazing to me. I know that was and is not part of their job. As I sit typing this now my eyes are welling in tears, still moved by their kindness towards me. They could have half assed washed my hair or even waited for shift change, but they didn’t. They took great care in making me feel clean and comfortable in a state where comfort was a distant memory. It was amazing to feel so clean. Cherise later told me she wished they had a cooler gown to put me in. I was too mouthy to be wearing plain hospital flowers. Which was true.
The kindness of my ICU nurses can only be overshadowed by the will and kindness of my husband, Keane. The nurses had me in twelve-hour shifts, three to five days a week. When I came home, and I was not mobile when I came home, Keane had me 24/7 with no help. Just us.
I was stunned at every woman who said to me, “My husband would’ve just hired a nurse and went back to work”. Lucky for me I wasn’t married to their asshole husbands. I was married to Keane Aldrich.
Every day for weeks on end I needed something. It was exhausting for me to be so fucking needy. I can’t begin to imagine how hard it was for Keane. Now, after thirteen years together not too many things are sacred anymore. However, I don’t think either of us foresaw the type of intimacy that ensued during my recovery until we were well into our eighties. Its one thing to need someone to help you to the bathroom; its another to have them carry you to the bathroom, place you and hold you on the toilet, then wipe your ass afterwards and safely return you to bed. Keane did that. He did it because I refused to use a bedpan. Yes, I am a stubborn bitch.
He washed, combed and blow dried my hair, bathed me out of a basin until I was steady enough to be placed in the tub, changed my clothes (well pajamas), and dressed me when I needed to get out of bed to go to Physical or Occupational Therapy. All the while cooking, keeping the house clean, and taking care of our dogs. I would like to believe that I could take that kind of care of Keane and our life had the shoe been on the other foot. Deep down now, I know I would do my best, but it would fall way short of what Keane did for me.
The icing on the cake of the ridiculously grand myriad of things Keane did on a daily basis was his precise track and distribution of the massive amounts of medication I was taking each day. He followed the doctor’s instructions to the letter. If I was to take something every twelve hours, he would set his alarm to wake up in the middle of the fucking night, sometimes twice, to make sure my meds stayed on schedule. Looking back it was astounding. I don’t think I could have done it.
Luckily we had gracious friends and colleagues who brought us groceries and cooked occasional meals for us to give Keane a bit of reprieve. And in the rare occasion Keane had to run out for whatever, plenty of folks were willing to come baby sit my sorry, bedridden ass. Keane was laid off from work a month before the stroke. It was one of the best-timed things in our life. I know whole-heartedly that if he were working at the time, he would have taken a leave of absence to care for me. I am grateful that wasn’t the case. Things could have been much more difficult if that were so.
I always tell people that I had a stroke, but it happened to Keane. That is true. He had to do all the hard stuff. I just had to be stubborn and will myself well. We still struggle with the aftermath of this ordeal we experienced together. Our dynamics have changed, as have we as individuals. But I know this; I’ve never known safety, love, and absolute selflessness like I had those months during my recovery. And I probably never will again.
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