Kevin
I could tell Nick was rattled by what the cardiologist had said to him. To be honest, hearing their conversation had rattled me, too. I felt totally blindsided by the doctor’s diagnosis because I hadn’t seen it coming. After she left, I lay in my hospital bed, watching Nick wipe away his tears and wondering how much he had hidden from me while he was living in my house. How often had he been binge-drinking and doing drugs behind my back? How long had he felt bad before he’d finally gotten worried enough to go to the hospital? How much longer would he have waited to seek help if that hadn’t happened?
There were so many questions I wanted to ask him and so many things I wanted to say, but it wasn’t the right time. Having just finished one hard conversation with his doctor, Nick was clearly still too overwhelmed to hear it from me, too. I knew he wouldn’t be receptive to anything that sounded remotely critical. What he needed right then wasn’t another interrogation or lecture, but my unconditional support and compassion.
“You okay, Nick?” I asked gently.
He jerked his shoulders in a listless sort of shrug. “I dunno. Not really… but hopefully I will be.”
I remembered being in a similar mindset five months earlier, reeling from Dr. Bone’s prognosis. While most of the week following my accident was a blur, my memories of that conversation were painfully clear. If I closed my eyes, I could go right back to the moment when she had delivered the news and hear her exact words. “You’re a quadriplegic, Kevin… permanently paralyzed from the chest down. You will probably never walk again.”
Ever since the accident, I had been so preoccupied with my own problems, consumed by grief and wrapped up in the rehabilitation process, that I had barely paid attention to what the people around me were going through. I had failed to notice that while I was busy trying to glue the shattered fragments of my own life back together, Nick was falling apart at the seams.
In hindsight, I realized he had been struggling even then. I remembered him arriving at the hospital much later than the others, looking like a wreck when he came into my room. He had apologized, acting ashamed as he showed me the paparazzi video of himself stumbling around the sidewalk outside some club the previous night, slurring his words as he naively announced to the world that I would walk again someday. But it had been easy for me to forgive him because I appreciated the blind faith he had in me.
“Remember the day I found out my injury was complete? That my paralysis was permanent?” I asked him now.
Nick nodded, a faint blush creeping up his face. He said nothing, but I knew he was also looking back on that day, probably with some embarrassment.
“You had faith in me that day. You told me that, even if I never took another step, I would get better… and I have. I’m a lot better than I was then.” I held up both arms, remembering when I couldn’t move them at all. As the IV in my right arm caught my eye, I added, “Being in the hospital again sucks, but I know this is just a temporary setback – for both me and you. Because I have the same faith in you, brother.”
When I looked back at him, I saw the fear and uncertainty in his familiar blue eyes. I hoped he could see the sincerity in mine.
“I know you’ll do what you need to do to get better,” I said firmly. “You have a long, hard road ahead of you, but I’m gonna be right behind you every step of the way, just like you were for me. And in the long run, the struggle will make you stronger. You’re gonna be just fine.”
Nick nodded again, a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Thanks, bro,” he croaked, taking another swipe at his eyes.
As a lump rose in my throat, I felt like crying, too. I had already followed my brothers on a similar path twice before – first Brian before his heart surgery, then AJ during his own battle with addiction. I didn’t want to go down that road again with Nick. I didn’t want to have to worry about what was waiting around the next bend or face the fear of losing my little brother to something I couldn’t fix or control. But I didn’t have a choice. Nick had been there for me when I needed him, and I would walk with him wherever this road led – metaphorically speaking, anyway.
Thankfully, my own doctor came in for his morning rounds before I lost control of my emotions. “How are you doing today, Kevin?” asked Dr. O’Shaughnessy as he swept into the room. He was the same urologist who had seen me when I was first hospitalized after the accident, one of the many different doctors who had helped me understand how my body had been affected by my spinal cord injury.
“Not too bad – a lot better than when I was admitted, anyway,” I replied, casting my worries about Nick aside so I could concentrate on what the doctor had to say. I was hoping he would discharge me from the hospital that day. The IV antibiotics and other drugs he’d been pumping me full of for the last three days had worked like a charm to bring down both my fever and my blood pressure. I hadn’t had any more bouts of AD since my last bowel program.
“Well, I’ve got good news for you,” Dr. O’Shaughnessy announced after examining me and checking the notes my night nurse had left on my chart. “Your urine culture came back this morning. It was positive for two different types of bacteria, which is a pretty common finding with urinary tract infections. Luckily, both types can be treated with oral antibiotics, so I’m going to send you home with a prescription for some pills to take.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “That’s what I was hoping you would say.”
He smiled at first, but then his face turned serious. “It’s important that you finish the full course of antibiotics to kill any remaining bacteria so they don’t become resistant to the drugs and continue to multiply,” he warned me. “Now that you’ve had one UTI, you’re at a higher risk for developing recurrent infections, which can worsen and spread to your bladder or kidneys. Unfortunately, people with indwelling catheters like yours tend to contract them more often than people who do intermittent catheterization.”
During rehab, I had learned that “intermittent catheterization” meant inserting a catheter every few hours to drain my bladder and then taking it out, as opposed to leaving one in all the time like I did. Some lower-level quadriplegics could do this by themselves, but I didn’t have enough hand function or dexterity for that yet, which meant I would need someone to help me with it multiple times a day. As much as I hated wearing a leg bag and having a tube hanging out of me all day and night, I didn’t want to make Nick, AJ, or anyone else deal with the alternative. They already did more than enough for me.
“Maybe I can switch to that method down the road if I’m able to do it independently,” I told Dr. O’Shaughnessy. “It’s something to keep working towards, anyway.”
He nodded. “That sounds like a great goal. I also wanted to discuss another option with you. Have you heard of a suprapubic catheter?”
“I don’t think so…” I had learned so much new medical terminology over the last five months, it was sometimes hard to keep track. “What’s that?”
“It’s a special type of indwelling catheter that’s inserted directly into your bladder through a small opening we create in your lower abdomen, just above your pubic bone.” He pulled a pamphlet out of the side pocket of his white coat and opened it, pointing to a drawing that showed a thin tube protruding from a hole about halfway between the man’s penis and navel. “It’s been shown to reduce the risk of infections, since it doesn’t go through the urethra.”
Staring at the picture in disgust, I shook my head. “Absolutely not.”
“I know it seems strange at first, but most of my patients prefer it to a Foley catheter. They say it’s more comfortable and easier to manage independently, even with impaired finger function.”
“It’s not like I can feel anything down there in the first place,” I replied, shrugging.
“Plus, it doesn’t get in the way when having intercourse,” the doctor added with a wink.
I snorted. “That won’t be an issue for me.” If Kristin were still alive, I might have been more open to what he was suggesting, but I couldn’t imagine having sex with another woman, especially with the way I was now. How would it even work?
“Very well. I won’t pressure you,” he said, smiling as he set the pamphlet down on my bed table. “I just wanted you to know there are other options out there to consider in case this becomes more of a chronic problem for you.”
“Thanks, but I’ll be fine.” I just wanted to stop discussing it. Since my injury, I’d had more uncomfortable conversations about my body than I could count. The ones about my “plumbing issues” were the worst. They had become less embarrassing over time, but it still made me feel awkward to know Nick was in the next bed, listening to every word.
“Dude…” said Nick in a low voice when Dr. O’Shaughnessy finally went away. “It really puts my problems into perspective to hear that guy talk about making you piss out your belly button. That’s pretty fucked up, bro.”
The way he put it made me laugh. “The more you know, right?” I replied, raising my limp hand in an arc over my head like a shooting star.
Nick smiled and shook his head. “I’m sorry you have to deal with all this shit.”
“I’m sorry you do, too. The literal shit – and piss – along with the figurative kind,” I said dryly. “If dealing with that is what drove you to drink, I apologize. I never meant to put you in such an awkward position.”
“You didn’t,” he argued. “I offered.”
“Yeah, but I don’t think you fully understood what you were signing up for, and that’s my fault. I should have been more forthcoming about everything, especially my bowel program.”
He shrugged. “I mean, yeah, that might have been helpful to know about beforehand, but I get why you didn’t wanna go into detail. Don’t worry about it, dawg. You didn’t drive me to drink. I did this to myself.” He glanced down at his hospital gown with an expression of disgust, flicking the bundle of wires that went to his heart monitor.
That was the first time I’d heard him take full ownership for his mistakes. It was a step in the right direction.
“Yeah, but now you get to undo it,” I said. “I hope you know what a gift it is to get a second chance, Nick. I would give anything to be able to reverse the damage that’s been done to my body. Don’t take that opportunity for granted.”
Nick nodded, raking his hand through his greasy hair. “I know. I won’t.”
***
After three days in the hospital, it felt good to finally get home. As I rolled up the ramp and into the house, holding a white paper bag from the pharmacy in my lap, I could still smell the sickly scent of the hospital clinging to my clothes and skin. It was a sharp contrast from the faint aroma of coffee, fabric softener, and Kristin’s vanilla scented candles that hung in the air – the smell of home.
I wished I could go straight upstairs and jump into the shower to wash off the stench, but it wasn’t that easy anymore. I would have to wait until morning, when Sam came over. I had called her in the van to tell her I was on my way home and would need her help again starting the next day. “I’m so happy to hear that!” she had said. “See you tomorrow.”
I still had to call the home healthcare agency and look into hiring a live-in nanny to take over for AJ and Nick when they went back on tour, but that could wait. As the wine rack in the kitchen caught my eye, I realized there were more important matters to take care of first.
After giving Nick some time to settle in, I called him into the kitchen. “What’s up?” he asked as he walked in, wearing a clean t-shirt and athletic shorts, his hair wet from the shower. He must have had the same idea as me: wash away every last trace of the hospital. He had cut off his hospital bracelet, too, leaving only the Band-Aid over the site where his IV had been.
“Will you cut mine off, too, please?” I asked, holding out my hand.
“Sure, dawg.” Nick rummaged around in my junk drawer for a pair of scissors and snipped the band off my wrist. “There you go.” He dropped the piece of plastic into the trash bin.
“Thanks.” After a pause, I cleared my throat and added what I really wanted to say to him. “We’re gonna have to make some changes around here, Nick,” I began, looking him in the eye. “Clearly, you can’t handle having alcohol in the house, so we’re gonna get rid of it.” I gestured to the wine rack. “I want you to pour every last bottle down the drain while I watch.”
Nick’s eyes widened. “What? Are you serious?”
I nodded. “Do it. Right now.”
Hesitantly, he reached for a bottle of red wine from the rack. Turning it around, he read the label and then looked back at me with raised brows. “Dude, are you sure about this? You’ve got some expensive stuff here!”
“I don’t care. Dump it,” I said firmly. Kristin had always been more of a wine drinker than I was. I preferred whiskey, but I would survive without it. Dr. O’Shaughnessy had said I should drink more water anyway to prevent future problems with my plumbing.
Nick dug through the drawer again until he found a corkscrew to open the bottle. “Here goes nothing,” he said, taking a deep breath before he tipped it over the sink. Watching a full bottle of fine wine go glugging down the drain felt wasteful, yet oddly satisfying.
“Good job. Now the next one,” I directed him.
Before long, the counter was lined with empty glass bottles. “The recycling guy’s gonna think we had some party this weekend,” Nick said with a snort as he finished rinsing out the latest casualty and set it down next to the rest. Then he reached for the last bottle in the rack. “What about this one?”
A lump rose in my throat as I looked at the custom label, seeing Kristin’s name scrawled in fancy calligraphy next to mine. It was a bottle of champagne from our wedding, the last of the eight unopened bottles that were left over after the reception. We had decided to keep them all and open one each year on our anniversary. “It’ll be just enough to get us past the seven-year itch,” Kristin had said, smiling at me. I’d laughed because we had already dated for eight years before getting married. Making it seven more sounded easy. Both of us thought we would be together a lot longer than that. But, as it turned out, seven more years were all we would get. Our eighth anniversary was eight days away, and I would be spending it without my wife.
Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed with panic at the thought of watching Nick pour that priceless bottle of champagne down the drain. “No… don’t,” I said hoarsely. “Maybe… maybe that one can stay.”
Nick nodded, offering me a sympathetic smile. “I promise I won’t drink it.”
Next, I had him get rid of all the beer in the fridge before we finally moved to the liquor cabinet. Nick had the hardest time with that. “What a waste,” he remarked, shaking his head as he watched rivers of top-shelf whiskey, vodka, rum, and tequila flow down the drain.
“It’ll be worth it if it helps you stay on the wagon,” I replied, regretting nothing. I didn’t enjoy drinking as much since my accident as I had before. Alcohol affected my body differently now. Besides creating the need for my catheter bag to be emptied more often, it interacted with my medication and intensified my neuropathic pain and spasms. That Kristin had been killed by a drunk driver only worsened the bitter taste it left in my mouth.
“I hope it does,” said Nick, but he sounded uncertain.
“How much do you still have stashed upstairs?” I asked him.
After emptying the liquor cabinet, we took the elevator up to the second floor of the house, where I watched Nick pull two handles of vodka out from under his bed. One of them was still full, the other half empty. I wondered how many more of them he had already finished, how many empty bottles he had hidden in the recycling bin before AJ and I got up in the morning.
“What about drugs?” I asked him.
He shook his head. “I don’t keep that kind of shit in the house. I told you, I only use once in a while when I go out.”
I wanted to believe him, but I wasn’t completely sure whether I could. I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. What else was I going to do – search his room myself? “Good thing my son didn’t crawl under your bed and get into this stuff,” I said, shaking my head as I watched him dump his vodka into the toilet.
“Don’t worry; I kept my door shut,” he replied, rolling his eyes. “I’m pretty sure he can’t open bottles yet anyway. I always put the lids on tight.”
Up until then, I had tried to be nonjudgmental, but my tolerance was wearing thin. “That’s not the point, Nick. You don’t leave liquor lying around where little kids can find it.” I couldn’t believe how careless he had been.
“Tell that to my parents,” he scoffed. “I took my first drink when I was, like, two because they left me unsupervised around the storage room of their bar. My dad came in and caught me drinking. He and my mom would always laugh when they told that story. So, yeah, sorry I didn’t grow up with such great role models when it comes to taking care of kids.”
My exasperation with him quickly faded. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him whenever he talked about his dysfunctional family. His childhood had been completely different from mine. While I was growing up in a log cabin on the grounds of a church camp in the woods, Nick was living in a crappy apartment above a bar. Considering the way he’d been brought up, it was a miracle he had turned out as well as he had. I gave myself and the other guys in the group some credit for that. Together, we had practically raised Nick from the time he was a teenager; his parents had even given Brian temporary guardianship over him while he went on tour without them. In spite of his personal demons, Nick had grown up to be a good man. He just needed some guidance now and then, an angel on his shoulder to help him make better choices.
“I’m sorry,” I said, touching his arm. “I didn’t mean to snap at you.”
He flushed the toilet, sending the rest of the vodka spiraling down the drain. “It’s okay. I’m sorry, too, bro. I should’ve been more responsible.”
“You have been responsible in a lot of other ways,” I reminded him. “Just not this one. But it’s all right. Learn from it and move forward.”
Nick nodded. “One step at a time, huh?” He flashed me a crooked smile before he walked out of the bathroom, holding one bottle in each hand.
“You said it, brother.” I reached up to turn off the lights as I rolled after him. At least we were finally heading in the right direction again.
***