Page 49 of Our Long Days
He can’t hear.
Dex isn’t overly forthcoming about his condition, and I know little about Ménière's Disease. From what Pat says, he can experience violent attacks that cause severe dizziness and temporary hearing loss across both ears.
I bend over him, lips hovering next to his right ear. It’s been days since he wore his hearing aid. I’m not sure what level of hearing he has right now, and with his eyes shut, he can’t readmy lips. “Okay. We’re gonna move. Keep your eyes closed and squeeze my hand if you can hear anything.”
I almost sob when his fingers jerk in response, followed by words saturated in anguish. “Some. Fuzzy. Slower.”
He can hear some, not everything. I need to speak slower.
“Floor or bed?” I ask, keeping it simple and overly enunciating.
“Bed,” he grunts.
“Give me your other hand. Don’t rush.” I hook my arms through his and slowly raise him up to sit. It’s a challenge. He’s all muscle and dead weight, but we manage. I catch him when he collapses forward, and he sighs into my neck, his facial hair scratching my skin.
Two words threaten my resolve, forced through gritted teeth. “Little Sadler.”
Nothing about this man is weak. As distress and discomfort wrack his body, he’s still the epitome of strength. Not just physically, but mentally. A solid presence. A shoulder to lean on. Brave to his core.
Even now, as he struggles to keep himself upright, bravery radiates from him.
But he doesn’t need to be.
“I’m here.” My lips graze the shell of his ear. “C’mon, big guy.”
We’re both sweating by the time I get him to his feet.
“Left. One step. Good. Another. Not far.” His right arm loops over my shoulders as we shuffle toward the bed, and then he freezes, swaying.
“Toilet.” He gulps.
We make it just in time. He throws himself over the toilet and empties his stomach. I crouch behind him, rubbing his back.
After a minute of dry heaving, he croaks, “Go. Please.”
He can’t see me, but my face scrunches in outrage. “No.”
“Go,” he repeats, swatting the air with a limp arm. “Don’t. Need. To…see this.”
I roll my eyes and run my fingers through the short hairs on his head. “Make me.”
No response.
Argument over.
He wretches, body convulsing under my touch. I reach for a washcloth, dampen it, and lay it on his neck. His heaving lessens, and he eventually peels himself off the ceramic throne, breathing deeply.
We repeat the motions, and once he’s standing, he swigs some mouthwash and puts his weight on me as I guide him into the bedroom. He hasn’t opened his eyes once.
He’s still in yesterday’s clothes, so my eyes stay on his face as I reach for the hem of his T-shirt. “Arms up.”
He cracks an eyelid open.
Fed up with his bullheadedness, I fix him with a stern look. Amped up on adrenaline, my worry and frustration rushes out of me. “I don’t like to do this, but if you can’t take care of yourself, who will? You need to call someone, or we get you one of those watches that notifies an emergency contact if you fall or your heart rate drops. I’ll add it to my to-do list.” I raise my chin, voice pleading. “Please, quit being stubborn. I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to you. Being vulnerable will not shrink your dick, Dexter whatever-your-middle-name-is Moore. All you’ve done is care for me, time after time. Now it’s my turn, so put your pride aside and let me help.”
He blinks at me.
Three long seconds pass, and then he raises his arms.
