When my alarm went off the next morning, I awoke with a groan. “It can’t be five o’clock already, can it?” I croaked, keeping my eyelids firmly shut.
Light filtered through them as Natalie turned on the lamp next to my bed. “Unfortunately, it is,” she confirmed. “Time to get up, babe.” With a rustle of sheets, she rolled toward me. I felt her warm breath tickle my face as she leaned over and brushed her soft lips against mine. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
When I finally opened my eyes, I found myself gazing directly into hers. “Happy Valentine’s Day, baby,” I murmured back, smiling in spite of my grogginess. “God, I love you.”
“I love you, too.” She kissed me one more time before she sat up in bed. “We should get moving, so we can make Mason those strawberry waffles we talked about.”
I groaned again. Dawn always made Belgian waffles with strawberries and whipped cream for breakfast on Valentine’s Day. Since she wouldn’t be back from her folks’ house until the following afternoon, I had told Natalie that I wanted to keep the tradition alive for Mason and try fixing them myself – with her help, of course. “How hard can it be?” I’d said during our conversation the previous night. “The waffle iron does most of the work.”
Now, at five in the morning, I felt much less confident about my waffle-making abilities than I had the night before. But Natalie seemed determined to carry out our plan; she had already pushed back the covers and was in the process of putting on her boot. Pulling the Velcro straps tight across the top of her foot and around her sprained ankle, she lowered her right leg over the side of the bed and stood up.
“How does it feel today?” I asked as she took a few tentative steps forward. “Any better?”
“A little bit. It’s still pretty sore, but the boot helps,” she replied, hobbling over to my side of the bed to start my morning routine. I’m sure she was tired, too, but she didn’t complain as she dutifully folded back the covers to take off my catheter, displacing poor Colby Jack, who had taken to curling up on top of me during the night. I interpreted this as a sign that he was starting to trust me, although I suppose my warm, still body made a pretty good place to sleep. The cat yawned, stretched, and promptly curled himself back into a ball at the foot of the bed.
“You and me both, buddy,” I mumbled as Colby closed his green eyes. I could barely keep mine open. While Natalie carried my catheter bag into the bathroom to empty it, I fought the temptation to fall back to sleep. My eyelids drifted lower and lower, coming dangerously close to closing. Hearing the toilet flush, I forced them open again as Natalie returned to the bedroom.
“Ready to take your morning meds?” she asked, holding up my huge pill case.
I nodded, reaching for my bed remote. With the push of a button, I raised the head of my side of the bed. The humming sound it made as it moved must have scared the cat, who suddenly sprang off the bed and bolted from the room. “Whoops. Sorry, Colby,” I said as it pushed me into an upright position.
Once I was sitting up straight, I held out my hand, and Natalie carefully poured the colorful assortment of pills from the Thursday A.M. compartment into my palm. As I crammed them into my mouth, she picked up the water bottle I kept nearby and placed it in my hands. I sucked greedily from the straw, washing them all down in one swallow. “Thanks,” I said hoarsely as I handed the bottle back to her. Hearing the telltale rattle of phlegm in my throat, I took a deep breath and tried to clear it.
“You’re welcome,” Natalie replied, setting the bottle down on my bedside table. She must have heard the raspiness in my voice, too, because her next question was, “Do you need to cough?”
“Yeah… please,” I added, not wanting to seem unappreciative.
“No problem.” Opening the top drawer of my bedside table, she plucked a tissue from the box of Kleenex tucked inside it and handed it to me without another word. I held it over my face to cover my mouth and catch any crud that came up when she helped me cough. As she placed both palms below my rib cage, her fingers spread wide like the wings of a butterfly, I remembered how nervous she had been the first time I’d asked her to do this for me. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” she had said warily. But now, she did it without hesitation. “Ready? One… two… three.” Having sucked in a deep breath, I exhaled as hard as I could as she dug the heels of her hands into my diaphragm, providing the abdominal support I needed to expel the secretions that built up overnight. “Better?” she asked.
I took a few more deep breaths to make sure my airway was clear before I nodded. “Much. Thanks, baby.” Balling up the used tissue as best I could, I tried to toss it into the trash can in the corner – but, of course, I missed. “Damn it. Sorry,” I said as Natalie picked it up and put it in the wastebasket for me. “Basketball was never my sport, even when I was able-bodied.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She smiled as she removed the pillows from underneath my knees and ankles, stretching my legs out as straight as they would go. “That surprises me, though, with as tall as you are. I would’ve thought you’d be a natural.”
“Nah.” I leaned back against the head of the bed, bracing myself with both hands as my legs began to shake. “Brian was the one who loved basketball, not me. Too bad he wasn’t blessed with my height,” I added as I waited for the spasms to subside. “That came from my dad’s side of the family. Unfortunately for Brian, the Littrell side is short.”
She laughed. “Go figure. But then, you did tell me on our first date that you’ve always been more of a football guy.”
I smiled, marveling over how far our relationship had come in the ten months since we’d met on the way to London. I remembered her inviting me back to her hotel room after our dinner date and me declining, worried that she wasn’t ready to handle the harsh realities of my disabilities. And now, here she was, doing my full morning routine without help. I didn’t have to talk her through every step anymore; aside from a few reminders about what came next in my stretching regimen, she knew what she was doing now. Since Nashville, not even my bowel program seemed to faze her, although I still felt bad for subjecting her to the most unpleasant part of my routine on what was supposed to be the most romantic day of the year.
“Sorry, babe,” I sighed as she put on a pair of gloves. “I hate that you have to do this for me on Valentine’s Day, of all days.”
“Don’t apologize. It’s not your fault,” Natalie replied nonchalantly, reaching for the bottle of lube. “I do it because I love you.”
What choice did I have but to believe her? If that’s not love, then I don’t know what is. Nick’s words from the other night echoed through my head as I lay flat on my left side, waiting for Natalie to finish the first phase of my program. The rush of warmth that flooded my cheeks as my heart beat faster against my temples felt like love at first, but when my face began to sweat profusely and my fluttering pulse became a pounding headache, I realized it was really a hot flash triggered by the discomfort my body felt down below.
As soon as she was done, Natalie sat me up in bed. “You all right?” she asked, wiping the sweat from my brow with a fresh wet wipe. It felt amazingly cool and refreshing against my flushed forehead.
I nodded. “I’ll be fine in a few minutes,” I replied, hoping the change in position would help to bring down my blood pressure and ward off the impending episode of AD. “Hey, we’d better figure out how to use that Hoyer lift, so you can transfer me to the commode. The clock’s ticking now, if you know what I mean.”
Natalie’s eyes widened with an expression of panic. “You don’t know how to use it? I thought you said you’d used one before!”
“I’ve used one, but I’ve never operated one before. I’ve always just laid there and let the professionals do everything,” I explained with a shrug. “But it can’t be that hard. Hand me the manual.”
Thankfully, Natalie had left the user manual lying on the base of the lift the night before. She brought it over to my bed, and we both read through the instructions. As I’d suspected, they seemed pretty straightforward. The hardest part for her would be placing the fabric sling underneath me, which required a fair bit of rolling my body back and forth on the bed to get the positioning right. But that was the part I had the most experience with, so I was able to talk her through it. Before long, I was lying in the center of the sling, which Natalie had hooked up to the lift’s cradle with a series of straps.
“Are you sure about this, babe?” she asked, biting her lip as she looked down at me. “I don’t see how this thing could possibly hold four hundred pounds. It doesn’t even look sturdy enough to hold you, and you weigh less than half that!”
“It will,” I assured her. “The manual said it’s been weight-tested and everything.”
“But what if the straps break?”
“They won’t. The sling’s brand new. Now push the button.” I was trying to be patient with her, but I knew I needed the toilet sooner rather than later. The last thing I wanted was to make a mess in my brand new sling, a mess that Natalie would inevitably have to clean up for me.
Her shoulders rose and fell as she sucked in a deep breath and let it out with a sigh. “All right. Here goes nothing.” She took another breath and held it as she pushed the up arrow on the hand controls.
With a low hum, the Hoyer lift sprang to life, its arm moving steadily upwards. I heard the sling creak beneath me as its straps were pulled taut, the four corners coming closer together to cradle my body. I hummed the tune to Michael Jackson’s “Will You Be There?” to lighten the mood while we waited for it to finish hoisting me from the bed.
It worked; the corners of Natalie’s mouth twitched as her worried face cracked a smile. “What are you singing?” she wanted to know.
“The theme song from Free Willy,” I replied, flashing her a crooked grin in return. “I told you, I always felt like a friggin’ whale in one of these things.”
She laughed. “Well, your willy is free, all right,” she replied, raising her eyebrows as she looked down at me.
I felt my face redden again. “Don’t remind me. As if this wasn’t humiliating enough already…”
“Aww, babe, I was just teasing you!” Natalie’s tone turned apologetic as she ducked under the lift’s arm and leaned in to peck me on the lips. “I still say it looks like a sex swing,” she added in a whisper as she pulled away, waggling her eyebrows.
I laughed and shook my head, wishing I had more time to make out with her. It might have been fun for the two of us to experiment with the lift, but we would have to try that another time. We both knew I couldn’t wait much longer.
“Come on. Let’s move you to your commode.” Bending down to unlock the wheels, Natalie carefully rolled the lift backward until it cleared the bed.
“Hurry, please,” I begged her as I dangled helplessly in mid-air. It had been at least ten minutes since the suppository, which had almost certainly dissolved inside me by now. That meant it was only a matter of time before my bowels began to move as well.
Seeming to pick up on my sense of urgency, Natalie pulled my shower chair over to the bed and positioned it underneath me. Then she pushed the down button on the lift, guiding my legs as it gradually lowered me onto the seat. “There you go.” She let out a sigh of relief. “Now let’s get this thing out from under you.” Unhooking the sling from the cradle, she freed the fabric from under my legs first, then had me lean forward so she could carefully pull the rest out from behind my back. “Well, that wasn’t too bad,” she said, tossing the sling aside. “It took a lot longer than our usual transfers, but I’m sure it’ll go faster once we’ve done it a few times.” As she talked, she fixed my posture and fastened the seatbelt over my lap. “How was it for you?”
“Honestly, I still hate it, but it does make transferring less tiring for me,” I admitted as I wheeled myself into the bathroom. I had always tried to do as much as possible during transfers, which took a lot out of me but gave me a sense of independence. With the Hoyer lift, I didn’t have to expend any energy, but I felt like the helpless hospital patient I had been five years ago. I hated it for the same reason I preferred using a manual wheelchair over my power chair. My goal was to get stronger, not weaker. I wanted to keep moving forward and never go back.
“Me too.” Natalie watched from the doorway as I moved my commode into position over the toilet. “I’m sure my back will thank you someday,” she said. “So will Dawn’s.”
I nodded, knowing I’d made the best decision for both Dawn’s back and her heart. “Yeah… so I guess I’ll just have to get used to it, huh?”
Natalie offered me a sympathetic smile as she came into the bathroom. “I’m gonna go downstairs, feed Colby, and get out the ingredients for waffles while you’re doing your business,” she said, placing my phone in my hand. “Holler when you’re ready for me.”
“All right. Thanks, babe,” I replied dully, wishing with all my heart that I didn’t have to rely on her for help with that particular part of my morning routine. One more day, I told myself as I waited for the medication to take effect. Dawn will be home tomorrow.
***
An hour later, I was showered, dressed, and downstairs in the kitchen, helping Natalie prepare the batter for Belgian waffles.
“Next, we add one-half teaspoon of salt,” she said, consulting the recipe she’d pulled up on her phone. “Here – I’ll hold the measuring spoon, and you pour.” She pried open the spout on the salt container before placing it in my hands.
It was heavier than I had anticipated. Holding it tightly between my two hands, I tilted it toward the tiny spoon she held over the mixing bowl. Despite my best efforts to be careful, the salt came out too fast, forming a small mound in the measuring spoon before it spilled over the sides and into the bowl.
“Whoopsie!” With her free hand, Natalie helped me tip the salt container back to an upright position and pushed the spout closed. “Oh well… a little extra salt won’t hurt, will it? It’ll bring out the sweetness of the strawberries.”
“If you say so,” I replied doubtfully, worried I had just ruined the batter.
Natalie looked at her phone again. “Okay, now we need to mix the wet ingredients: two cups of milk, one-half cup of butter, and three eggs. I think I’d better pour the milk and crack the eggs. Can you melt the butter?”
“I think I can manage that.” While she busied herself with the other ingredients, I picked up the stick of butter she’d left sitting on the counter and used my teeth to peel off the wrapper. I took a Pyrex measuring cup out of one of the bottom cupboards and placed the butter in that. It had a curved handle that I could hook over my hand for extra stability as I picked it up to put in the microwave. I pushed the one-minute button and watched through the microwave door as the butter melted into a puddle at the bottom of the cup.
When the microwave dinged, I opened the door and reached in, using the base of my thumb to test the temperature of the glass before I took it out. I had burned my hands by touching hot surfaces without realizing it too many times before. But the Pyrex was still cool to the touch on the outside, so I carefully pulled it out and slid it across the counter to Natalie, who was cracking the last egg into the mixing bowl.
“Aren’t you supposed to mix the wet and dry ingredients separately?” I asked her. “Dawn usually does.”
“Why? That’d be a waste of bowls,” Natalie replied, pouring the melted butter on top. “It all gets mixed together anyway.” She picked up a wooden spoon and began stirring the batter with more force than necessary, flinging flour and milk everywhere.
I was pretty sure Dawn also separated the eggs when she made waffles, whipping the whites in their own bowl before she added them to the batter, but I decided not to mention that to Natalie. I didn’t want to make her any more defensive. “Did you preheat the waffle iron?” I asked her instead, noticing it sitting out on the counter, not plugged in.
“No.” She frowned. “Was I supposed to?”
“Well, you can’t pour the batter into a cold waffle iron. It won’t cook right,” I said, shooting her a grin. I was beginning to see why she had always claimed to be hopeless in the kitchen. “Can you plug in the cord for me? I can’t reach the outlet from my chair.”
“Sure.” She plugged in the waffle iron and turned it on, then went back to her mixing. When both the batter and the iron were ready, she carefully spooned some of the thick, beige mixture onto each square of the cast iron plate and closed the lid.
“Will you keep an eye on that while I go wake up Mason?” I asked her, knowing it would be difficult for me to remove the finished waffle from the iron without burning my fingers.
Natalie nodded. “Y’all better not take too long now,” she said as I rolled out of the kitchen. “The first waffle will be ready in a few minutes.”
Thankfully, Mason’s morning routine was much faster than mine. I’d already made him take a bath and lay out his school clothes the night before, so all he had to do was change out of his pajamas and put on the Valentine’s Day outfit I had picked out for him: a pair of red athletic pants and a black, long-sleeved t-shirt that had a picture of a T-Rex taking a bite out of a heart with the words “Love bites.” Dawn had bought the shirt for him a few weeks earlier. “I figured Mason would like it because of the dinosaur, but I liked it because of the Def Leppard song reference,” she’d told me the day she found it. Once Mason finished getting dressed, I took a picture of him wearing it and texted it to her.
Happy Valentine’s Day, Dawn! ❤️ We miss you and can’t wait to see you tomorrow. Hurry home!
I missed Dawn even more once I went back downstairs and tasted one of Natalie’s waffles. When Dawn made Belgian waffles, they always came out perfect: golden brown and crispy on the outside, light and fluffy on the inside. But, that day, the waffles were dense, chewy, and way too salty.
“This tastes weird,” Mason muttered, making a face as he chewed his first bite.
“Don’t talk with your mouth open,” I told him, frowning. “Why don’t you try some more whipped cream on top?”
He raised his eyebrows at me. “I can have more?” Dawn and I usually didn’t let him have a lot of syrup or other sugary toppings, but I was hoping the sweetness of the whipped cream would counteract the saltiness of the waffle.
“Sure. Have at it, son,” I said, pushing the can of Reddi-Wip across the table toward him. Mason proceeded to spray a mountain of whipped cream in the middle of his waffle, completely covering the strawberries – and, for once, I didn’t care. If that was what it took to keep him from complaining in front of Natalie, it was fine with me. Besides, I knew he wouldn’t finish his waffle anyway.
“So? How are they?” Natalie asked as she carried her plate over to the table to join us. Her waffle, hot off the iron, was still steaming.
“Not bad,” I lied before Mason could answer. I cut off a small piece of my waffle, paired it with a slice of strawberry, and stuffed it in my mouth, so I wouldn’t be forced to elaborate. The strawberry made it slightly more palatable, but the waffle itself was still terrible. I tried to keep my expression neutral as I washed it down with a swig of coffee.
“Did you get enough whipped cream there, Mason?” Natalie asked, her lips twitching as she looked at his plate.
“Uh-huh,” he answered seriously, licking Reddi-Wip off his fork.
Natalie caught my eye and winked. “I hope it doesn’t give him a tummy ache,” she whispered, leaning closer to me.
I shrugged. “If it does, I guess he’ll learn. Natural consequences, you know?” I muttered back. “I’m trying to loosen up a little. If cake for breakfast is okay on birthdays, why can’t he have whipped cream with a side of waffle on Valentine’s Day? And hey, there’s fruit hidden somewhere under there, so that makes it reasonably healthy, right?” I returned her wink.
Seeing the way her face reddened, I remembered how we had argued over her letting Mason have a slice of chocolate cake for breakfast on my birthday and hoped I hadn’t made a mistake by bringing it up again. I didn’t want to repeat any part of that disaster of a day.
But, thankfully, Natalie smiled good-naturedly and replied, “Of course! Just like carrot cake is healthy because it has vegetables!”
I chuckled, watching her pile strawberries onto her plate. She added a dollop of whipped cream in the middle of her waffle. I held my breath as she cut into one corner, waiting to see how she would react when she finally tasted it.
Raising her fork to her lips, Natalie took a bite and chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds before her nose wrinkled. “Oh no… this is not good,” she said, shaking her head. “I guess all that salt did ruin it.”
What about your failure to follow the recipe the way it was written? I wondered, feeling defensive as I thought about the corners she’d cut to avoid dirtying more dishes. It wasn’t just my fault. But I took the blame for it anyway, not wanting to fight with her on Valentine’s Day. “I’m sorry, baby,” I said. “Maybe we should just toss the rest and go out for breakfast. There’s a Waffle House not far from Mason’s school. We can drop him off afterward.”
Natalie let out a sigh. “You didn’t like it either, huh?” she asked, looking defeated.
“Not really,” I admitted. “Like you said, it’s too salty, and the texture’s a little off.”
“Well, why didn’t you just say so?” Without waiting for an answer, she set down her fork and pushed back her chair. “Give me a few minutes to get changed and put some mascara on, and then we can go.”
I wanted to point out that she would have been fine walking into Waffle House with a bare face and her pajamas on, but I knew better than to push her buttons when she was already flustered. I had no business telling her to hurry either, not when it had taken me a full two hours to get ready for the day.
But, once she was safely upstairs and out of earshot, I turned to Mason. “You see, son?” I said, tipping my head toward the table full of barely-touched waffles. “Like I told you last night… there’s no way Natalie could ever replace Dawn.”
Catching on to what I meant, Mason cracked a smile.
***