Page 43 of That's Not a Thing

“No,” he says, getting more animated, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I think it’s actually starting to make sense to me. It’ll be a big help to Wesley if he doesn’t have to commute, and my medical skills might be at least somewhat useful. It can delay his need to go into a facility, give him some quality of life, like you said. And then you’ll never have regrets. Besides, it’s not fair for me to be jealous when I know that the competition is temporary. Sorry,” he adds hastily. “But seriously, even if you were to fall for him all over again, it’s not like you’re going to run off with him, and I know you love me, too. I know you’ll remember that in the end, and who am I to say you shouldn’t have even more love in your life? I’ll talk to him, make it happen.”

I’m silent as I try to digest the way our roles have reversed during this conversation.

“Here’s a thought,” he adds as he picks up his wine-glass and takes a hefty sip. “Maybe when things get really bad for Wesley, it’ll inspire you to quit your job, take care of him full time until it becomes too complicated.”

“What is it with you and my job?” I snap. “This isn’t 1950, where your wife is supposed to stay home ironing all day.”

“I know that.” He laughs lightly. “I just want you to have a job you enjoy, a place you look forward to going, and Harrison, Whittaker is definitely not that.”

“So, instead of sitting through depositions and document review, I should nurse my dying ex from dawn to dusk?”

“Look, you’re the one who suggested we do this.” Aaron holds up his wide hands in surrender, like he’s retreating. “Now that you’ve convinced me, you can’t act like I’m all crazy for thinking through some of the logistics of it.”

That may be true, except now I think it was a terrible idea. And I don’t know how to tell him that we should put the kibosh on the whole thing, that I shouldn’t be allowed such unfettered access to Wesley because it will make me dismiss my feelings for Aaron. And then I wonder if I’m being selfish, making everything about me, yet again. Aaron is right. Even if I do fall for Wesley all over again, it’s not like we have a future together. And Wesley does need people. A place to stay. People to care whether he’s had a meal or fallen down.

“I just want to do what you want to do,” I relent. If Aaron is happy, I tell myself, then I will be happy, too.

“Okay, I’m calling him tomorrow, and we’ll make this happen. In the meantime, can you please come into the bathroom with me already and help me shower off the hospital?” He finishes the remainder of his wine in one big gulp and pulls me up from my seat before leading me toward the hot, relentless cleansing that I need.

Chapter Eighteen

June 2017

“That’s the last of them,” Aaron announces as he pushes Wesley’s suitcase against the wall with the others and closes the door behind himself.

Wesley wheels out of the spare bedroom in his manual wheelchair, the one that he finally started using after Aaron went to see him. I’m not sure what Aaron said to convince him about the wheelchair, or about moving in with us, but clearly Wesley finds Aaron more persuasive than he does me.

“The place is great,” Wesley tells us both, his eyes still roaming around the airy space, lingering on artwork, photographs. “Thank you so much for convincing me to come here.”

We’re lucky that Aaron has a loft-style apartment with wide doorways and generally open spaces. It won’t provide much by way of privacy for the duration of Wesley’s stay, but it will certainly make it easier for him to maneuver in his chair.

“I’ll bring your suitcases to your room,” I say, grabbing the handle of the black rolling duffel closest to me. I’m not sure why I didn’t process sooner how incredibly uncomfortable this situation would be for me.

“Let me give you the grand tour,” Aaron says, a little facetiously. Even though we have a big apartment by New York City standards, it’s still a relatively compact space.

“Sure thing,” Wesley says as he wheels behind Aaron, following him toward the kitchen. I begin to realize that the only one who feels flustered seems to be me.

I watch them for a second before taking the luggage toward the bedroom. Aaron looks like a walking advertisement for vitamin supplements or one of those horrible nutrient-dense smoothies. He’s wearing worn, dark jeans that hug his body and a simple gray T-shirt that showcases his broad back and wide biceps. His dark hair is rich and thick, the little bit of kink in it adding to its boyish charm. As he disappears around the wall to the kitchen, my eyes travel down to Wesley, who is moving slowly in the wheelchair, probably still adjusting to the bulk of it, minding the walls and any obstacles as he rolls. Though he is narrower than Aaron, he still looks too strong to be sitting in a wheelchair. His shoulders are straight, his own arm muscles still relatively toned. Not hulking like Aaron’s, and surely smaller than they once were, but he hardly looks a man who is progressing steadily toward death. I wonder for a moment if the weeks of using canes are what have kept his arm muscles robust for longer, and then I turn toward the room that will be Wesley’s quarters, rolling the duffel behind me.

After lifting the duffel onto the bed to make it easier for him to reach, I make two more trips for Wesley’s other bags. As I drop the last tote onto the thick gray duvet, I wonder if I ought to unpack for him. We really haven’t set any parameters on how this arrangement will work, and I don’t have a clue how self-sufficient, or how dependent, Wesley is at this point.

I hear the guys making their way toward the bedrooms, joking and laughing with each other like the best of friends. I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. Aaron has always had a way of connecting with people especially quickly.

“Hey, Wes,” I say as I emerge from the bedroom and meet them coming toward me in the hallway, “do you want me to unpack your stuff for you?”

“Nah, that’s okay. I can still handle moving some shirts around. I just use the lower drawers.” He offers a self-deprecating smile.

“Oh, okay; then I’ll leave you to it.” I head toward my laptop in the front room, happy to seek distraction on the Internet.

Aaron follows Wesley into his bedroom, and though I can no longer hear the words they are saying, the cadence of their voices through the walls tells me that they are continuing to chat at very friendly pace.

I don’t know what I was thinking, suggesting that Wesley move in with us. I shouldn’t be around him. It’s bad. I’m bad. Bad, bad, bad.

And now what? Are we going to all three eat dinner together every night? Until Wes is so sick that he has to be spoon-fed by an aide? Speaking of aides, I remember that I wanted to discuss the issue of professional assistance with Wesley, figure out what kind of help he needs, when we should hire someone. Lord knows I do not want to be the one wiping his ass after he uses the toilet.

I type a search into the computer:home health aides for ALS NYC.One ad after another pops up at the top of the screen for in-home health care. I scroll down until I find the first non-sponsored link. I discover a company called Bayada. Its website says that the company has worked with the ALS Association to develop the one and only certified training program for in-home healthcare aides working with ALS patients. I wonder how that can be, that only one organization has a reputable training program for this service. I continue poking around on the website. I click on the link that saysAssistive Care Services. My heart sinks while I read:Assistance with communication devices, such as symbol and picture boards, dressing and grooming assistance, safe bathing and toileting.The list goes on and on, but I can’t stomach thinking about all the ways in which Wesley is going to unravel. I hit theBACKbutton and start reading about the company’s other services. When my eyes hit on the wordhospiceat the bottom of the page, I freeze for a moment, trying to internalize that Wesley is actually, truly, imminently dying.

I hear Aaron making his way back toward the front room, and I quickly hit theXin the top right corner of the screen, returning to the tab with my emails on it.