Page 25 of If All Else Sails
What I won’t do is panic and assume the worst.
After my brother’s actual brush with death, I had years of medical-related PTSD. Which is understandable given that Jacob almost died due to a simple mosquito bite.
The mosquito bite turned into something much worse when Jacob scratched the heck out of it and then spent hours in hockey gear. You don’t want to know what kind of bacteria can exist inside stinky hockey gear. And then, of course, Jacob was a preteen boy who didn’t think to mention the redness and swelling until he became septic.
In his defense, who thinks of mosquito bites as life-threatening?
Turns out, when it comes to bacteria and infection,almost anything can be. One of Jacob’s nurses told me she had a patient almost die from a zit, which got infected and created an abscess on the brain.
Obviously, Jacob didn’t die, though he did stop playing hockey after that and has a very mild limp most people wouldn’t notice.
Me? I ended up in therapy a few years later because a simple well-visit to the doctor made me hyperventilate and I was convinced even a paper cut might kill me.
Almost losing your big brother to something as simple as a mosquito bite will do that to a person.
Therapy workedsowell, I ended up interested in nursing. Though I never wanted to work inside a hospital. And I still sometimes, like right now, for example, have to battle invasive thoughts about the worst-case scenario in any given situation.
Wyatt doesn’t have sepsis, I tell myself.If the fever doesn’t go down with meds or if he gets worse, we’ll go in. Everything isfine.
What’s not going to be fine is my back if I can’t heft his bulk into bed and stop wearing him like a scarf.
“Come on,” I grunt, forcing a cheer I don’t feel. My legs are shaking.
“Tired,” he mumbles, not opening his eyes.
“Then let’s get you in bed.”
Instead of complying, he leans harder into me.
I’m grateful his bedroom is only about ten steps from where we stand in the hallway. Otherwise I couldn’t play the part of his half crutch, half wheelbarrow. I’m sweating profusely, clothes sweat-damp and stuck to my slick skin. And I’m still not nearly as hot as Wyatt with his fever. Holding him up is like snuggling a pizza oven.
I’ve always been a little awed and intimidated by Wyatt’s size.He’s tall and broad. Well muscled. Thighs thicker than a normal person’s torso.
But there’s a difference between acknowledging his size from a distance and wearing all that bulk like a very heavy, very hot scarf draped over my shoulders. This close he is practically bigfoot-ish compared to me. And he feels like he outweighs a hippo.
Surprisingly I don’t feel any of my normal discomfort from being so physically close to a man this size. Just the physical discomfort from hoisting his giant body.
With a groan he snuggle-slumps into me, and my arms tighten around his waist to keep him from tilting over. I definitely don’t think I could get him off the ground if he falls. Not unless I’m endowed with the kind of adrenaline that helps mothers lift cars off their infants.
Is that even a real thing?I wonder as Wyatt’s scruff bristles against my neck.
A little shiver moves through me at the gentle scratch on my sensitive skin. It’s been a long time since a man has been this close to me. Since I’vewanteda man this close to me.
Not that I want Wyatt nuzzled into my neck. I don’t. It’sWyatt. With his personality pricklier than his uncharacteristic stubble.
But there’s a surprising sense of emotional warmth—not to be confused with the feverishly warm physical sensation of Wyatt—spreading through my chest. Probably because I like taking care of people.
He is, if nothing else, a person.
A person who is starting to drift into feverish sleep, his breath hot like a desert wind on my throat.
Which is, apparently, the theme right now. Hot, hot, hot.
“Here we go, buddy. One, two, three!”
Using what feels like the last of my energy, I bend my knees and try to launch Wyatt up onto the queen-size bed. Thankfully, the frame is low, and I manage to get his torso firmly on the mattress. Which leaves my face pressed to his abs.
I jerk away. He moans, smacking his lips. I’d laugh if I were less exhausted. And if I didn’t still have to get his tree trunk thighs up into the bed.
