Page 5 of Family First
I have suffered through many embarrassing things in my life.
There was the one time as a young man I fell out of a boat into an icy pond. Oh, how my friends laughed as I battled to get to shore wound up in fishing line and bobbers.
There was that night that I was playingPokéman Gowith Tennant and walked into a streetlight as I chased down a Shiny Spinda. Tennant nearly wet his pants he laughed so hard.
Then there was that time I tripped over my feet while performing/lip-syncing “My Way” sung by Elvis for all my guests at last year’s Elvis’ Birthday Jamboree party at my home. I fell on an inflatable hockey stick of Noah’s and the noise that erupted from the blow-up stick as it ruptured sounded just like a massive fart. Everyone in attendance roared as I sat there blushing with a flat stick between my legs.
None of the above came close to the humiliation of having to have my mother help me into the shower so I could wash my ass. I’d just had my stitches out and was in dire need of a scrubbing. You do not realize just how wondrous a thing a shower is until you cannot have one.
Mama had been a marvelous nurse while Erik was traveling, patient and kind, firm though, not allowing me to sit for longer than I should. Nudging me to walk as the doctors said I must even though it pained me terribly to get up out of the chair. Nothing hurt worse than exiting a car, though. For some reason when I had moved to lower my leg getting out at the surgeon’s office earlier it had hurt so bad I was close to crying. Although my physical therapy came a very close second to getting out of the car.
Now, here I was, a man of near forty, having his mother steady him as he stepped into the shower.
“Perhaps we both will need walk-in baths soon, Mama,” I ground out in Russian as she steadied me, my backside exposed to the world as my robe fell off my shoulders. Using my hand to steady myself, palms to the walls, so I didn’t slip and fall—I could not imagine the agony of having to go through all of this again because I’d tumbled to the floor and broken something in one of my new hips—I eased my left leg over the side and had to stop to catch my breath.
“Stan, you should have let me bring my shower chair into your bathroom,” she scolded gently as I grumbled and winced. Perhaps I should have but that was just… no. I’d use a walker, crutches, and a cane. I would use those pincher things to pick up something I’d dropped. I would even use an elevated toilet seat. But having a chair in my shower was just a step too far for my pride to bear. I had to cling to some shred of manliness. Panting after stepping into a tub was a slap in the face.
Me, a professional athlete, had to pause after taking one step. It was humiliating and depressing, and yes, infuriating. I could barely turn on the taps to start my shower without cussing at the pull on my hips. My ego was displeased with everyone waiting on me.
“Perhaps so. Easy now, Stanislav, do not overdo,” she warned, turning from me with her hand out. I eased my robe the rest of the way off, handed it to her, and then closed the shower curtain. “Stand still in there.” What did she think I was going to do? Dance the Lezginka? “I will wait out here until you are done.”
I grunted as I eased myself under the stream. Never had hot water felt so good. I stood there for the longest time just letting the jets pulse on my face, trying not to think too far ahead. Live in the moment as they say. Worrying over the rest of my therapy would only rob me of this tiny moment of accomplishment and joy. Silly to be proud of such a small thing but after surgery even the tiniest success—like being able to stand with the aid of a walker and use the bathroom instead of pissing into a portable urinal—was a major deal. A huge deal as my husband had beamed at me when I’d first peed by myself. How I wished Erik were here now, but he was off playing hockey. My team had moved onto the next round of the playoffs and were now down in Florida facing off against Tennant’s brother and his team. The Railers were in yet another game seven and here I sat, like a bumpy toad on a log, having my mother tend to me since I had refused home nursing.
It was bad enough to have my family see me tottering around like an old man. I would be double damned, as Jared would say, to allow a stranger to come in and see me like this. Yes, I knew that pride landed before destruction. My spouse had informed me of that Biblical quote when I had declined any help outside family. He had not been happy. His brow had furrowed, and his kissable lips had flattened. It was a good look for him, but I declined to mention that as he muttered under his breath about hard-headed men. I had asked if that meant he was a soft-hearted man as per the wonderful Elvis song. He had not been amused and had glowered at me as he packed his bags to leave for an away game.
And here I stood, my biggest feat of the day, taking a shower.
“Are you okay?” Mama called in our native tongue.
I sighed, licked the water off my lips, and let my eyes drift shut. Knowing she would open the curtain if she felt I was in any distress—Mama was a wonderful but worrisome nurse—I reached for the shampoo and began washing my gritty hair. It felt wonderful. Standing for so long was making my new hips ache but they always ached. Although, I must confess, the pain was different than what I’d been living with for so long so that was a good sign. Or so Lance, the sadist at PT, had told me.
“Da, Mama, I am good. I will linger for a bit.”
“Okay, I am running to check the stew.”
I heard the door close. I rinsed my hair then lathered up my soap, scrubbing merrily, each pass of that bar of soap lifting some of the funk.
“Dad?” Noah called.
Surely with four baths a man could find some peace to bathe, yes?
“Yes, Son, what is it?” I called as I lathered up the back scrubber once more. The smell of a Celtic forest refilled the shower, adding to my uplifted emotions. I was doing well today. Yes, they were small steps, but they were steps.
“Can I fill my water bottle up in here? Eva and Margo are using the other bathrooms, and Grandma has her pantyhose drying in hers and you know…”
I smiled to myself. The boy it wasn’t right for a boy his age to see bloomers and big brassieres his granny wore up close and personal. And yes, he used those terms. Our son was quite the character. And yes, he was right.
“Yes, Noah, I know.” I eased back a step and then two, taking care to ensure my big, doofy feet were on the mat. “Didn’t you just fill up that bottle before I came up the stairs?”
“Yeah, I get thirsty.”
“You don’t drink enough during practices,” I answered, got a half-hearted “Okay, Dad,” and then felt a chilly draft blowing around the shower curtain.
Noah had left the door open. Again. The corner of the shower curtain moved. A big black nose pushed it aside and King, the latest addition to our pack, shoved his massive brown head into the shower. The mutt—all of our dogs were rescues from the shelter Ben and Max ran—began licking the puddles on the wall. Another dog entered, then another, and then one of the two cats that had claimed us in the past year arrived and began batting at the curtain, claws out, to ruck it aside for a peek at my bare bottom.
“Can someone please to shut the door?” I yelled but only got a happy woof and a plaintive meow in reply. I blew out a breath, rinsed my backside, and began spritzing the dogs with water. They loved it. The cat? No so much.
Mama arrived then, got a face-full of water, and chided me for acting like one of the children while shooing the dogs out of the bathroom. I laughed, maybe for the first time since I had gone under the knife, and it felt good. Damn good.
