The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving Read Online Free Page A

Gee, you really had to take a squirt, or Why does it dribble out so slow? or Try not to get any on the rim. I do not grimace when I wash the vessel, nor do I wrinkle my nose on those occasions when he’s evacuated his bowels and I must clean him with baby wipes, as he leans helplessly forward with his face buried in my inner thigh for support. Th is is my job. I’m a pro.
    From the bathroom we move on to the Weather Channel, where our host, a chubby blonde with a Rachel cut and big hooters, informs us that it’s not a good day to be wearing flannel in Charleston, that Portlanders might consider carrying an umbrella this afternoon, and to “think layers” if you live San Francisco. Meanwhile, out the window, the clouds are burning off, and I have no idea what the temperature is.
    â€œI’d hit that,” Trev observes, matter-of-factly.
    Trev is a hopeless chubby chaser, as I once was, before Janet broke the mold. Maybe it’s because he’s withering away to nothing—he was 103 pounds at his last checkup. Whatever the case, he likes his women generously proportioned.
    Trev flashes an evil-genius grin. “She’ll go crazy for my Big Mac cologne.”
    â€œYou’ll know it’s over when she starts singing.”
    And so the hours pass. When I first started working for Trev, he whiled away these same afternoon hours with his wheelchair two feet in front of the computer, gaming online at full volume. First-person shooters. I used to sit on the couch with the cat in my lap and watch stupidly, marveling at the bloodbath. Or try to read Edith Wharton in spite of the racket. Now and then, I’d sneak a little one-eyed nap. But then a couple months ago, Trev’s digital functions started deteriorating rapidly. Imagine somebody putting screws through your finger joints and tightening them one turn at a time until your fingers can no longer move. Gaming suddenly became an exercise in frustration for Trev. Th e more he played the game, the less proficient he became. Finally, he hung up his joystick (threw it away, in point of fact) and turned his attention to the weather. Lately, I’ve noticed that even the TV remote is giving him problems. To change channels, he has to contort in his wheelchair with his head lolling heavily to one side and his forearms dangling out in front of him like a tyrannosaurus. Th e remote looks as though it weighs ten pounds.
    Now more than ever, as his fingers turn to stone and his heart weakens, I want to push Trev to new places—if not to the American back road, then at least to Quiznos for a change of pace.
    â€œYou wanna go to Quiznos and get a sub?”
    â€œNot today.”
    â€œWhat about IHOP? Th ey’ve got waffles.”
    â€œNah.”
    â€œMitzel’s?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œMickey D’s?”
    He’s stony silent. My pushing annoys him. It makes him uncomfortable. I can tell by a slight flush in his face as he rears his big head back toward the Weather Channel, where he leaves it until it stops bobbling. He stares straight ahead as the color continues to suffuse his cheeks.
    I want to say KFC. God, I want to say KFC.
    But I don’t. As it stands now, he will exact his revenge in some trivial way by defying my will to push him into new places. Maybe he’ll send his message by shrinking our world still further. Maybe there will be no matinee next Th ursday, no food-court gazing, no fish-and-chips. Maybe next Th ursday we will sit right here in the living room and watch storm systems gather along the Gulf Coast while Trev eats waffles. Could it be because we both know he’s stuck with me, and that quality care is hard to find at nine bucks an hour, that I push him so? Do I make it my business to force Trev’s hand daily because I care about him deeply or because it vexes me that he refuses to live when Piper and Jodi no longer have the chance? I suspect it’s neither, but because I know