Minor Changes

Chapter Seven

"Eddy." Brett discreetly pulled his friend away from the group when he found a lull in the conversation. While Brett had woken up feeling under the weather, they had just recorded a collaborative "blind dating musicians" video with some students, which had been more-or-less successful, despite the fact that Brett, the "eligible bachelor", had been visibly embarrassed the whole time. At any rate, they had the raw footage they needed and had gained some long-overdue social contact outside of their bubble.

"I've got to get back to the flat. I'm just so wiped out," he said, which was unusual for someone who, on any given day, could be defined as a social butterfly.

Eddy paused to look at his friend, whose already gaunt face had gone sheet-white. Eddy's mouth involuntarily twisted into a grimace.

"Take a car home—I'll wrap up and meet you there."

In the back of the car, Brett's head throbbed erratically, which mingled discordantly with the gradual slowing of his pulse.

By some unknown means, he made it up the stairs and fell into his bed. After a half-hour, he heard a light tapping on his door, and Eddy stepped in quietly.

"You're so pale," Eddy said. "Let's get you some water."

Brett looked up from his feverish state and saw more concern in Eddy's face than he imagined humanly possible, and certainly more than he cared to admit he was comfortable with.

"I think I might faint," he said.

He watched Eddy's expression go from worry, to panic, to resolve.

"We're going to hospital right now," Eddy stated, and Brett was too feeble to argue.

***

He felt a little better after resting with an IV, but results were inconclusive. The weeks that followed were a maze of doctors and medical tests and confusing symptoms, which Eddy navigated with the composure of a swan on water.

Brett was struck by how often Eddy used the words "we" and "us". Even when talking to doctors, he said things like, "Our schedule has been hectic" and "Yes, we'll be sure to keep track of that." And he marveled that, when he came to the space on medical forms that asked for an emergency contact, he could write the name of someone he knew would drop everything and show up for him.

Since Eddy never took any task lightly, he made a second job of caretaking.

"We need to focus on getting you better," was his refrain.

During the day, he worked from his laptop in waiting rooms. He washed dirty laundry and payed bills and made sure Brett kept out of work emails and caffeine. He went grocery shopping and cooked. He kept track of which foods his friend could eat and which were triggers. He stayed up late into the night, sipping tepid cups of oolong tea while researching medical diagnoses. 

He was so worried that he began dropping sympathy weight and grinding his teeth in his sleep.

As for Brett, a black hole of depression threatened to swallow him whole. He could barely move, let alone pick up his beautiful new Widenhouse violin, though his muscles twitched and ached for wanting to exercise their finely-honed skills. 

"Rest. You'll come back to it with new passion," Eddy encouraged, though the unsteadiness under his voice said that he wasn't sure he believed his own words.

He made attractive arrangements of bland foods and presented them to Brett, who could think of nothing more debasing than being made to sit in bed and be served like a child. He loathed being treated like an invalid; it made his blood boil beneath his skin. At the same time, he quickly learned that, in the same way swimming against a strong current is exhausting and futile, it was exhausting and futile to resist the force of Eddy's nurturance. He had to just accept it's pull and let it carry him.

Without any stimulating challenges or the ability to practice, he was sure he would either go insane or disintegrate into an inept puddle of mush. He made lengthy hypothetical comparisons, imagining himself either committed to a straightjacket or relegated to some meaningless paper-pusher job for the rest of his life.

The worst part was being subjected to the pity of friends and family. The volume of their incessant texts and calls drove him to switch his phone to "do not disturb" and lay staring blankly out the window.

To Brett's great humiliation, Eddy made a social media announcement that they would be taking a break from recording videos, which they hadn't done for more than a week in the last five years.

***

Finally, a well-timed scan led an astute physician to his probable diagnosis. Brett was referred to a specialist, whose care set him on the right path. He was still weak and bed-bound, but gradually started eating more diverse foods, and speaking above a whisper, and, to Eddy's delight, cracking a few smiles.

Eddy clung to the fleeting, sweet moments that surfaced whenever he slowed down enough to notice them.

For one, he had more time to practice his Sibelius violin concerto, and while Brett wasn't able to practice the orchestral accompaniment, he made an excellent resident audience member; sending 'applause' emojis from his phone whenever Eddy played a phrase authentically.

Secondly, because there was no real schedule to keep and the holidays were near, they could just be. They spent a quiet Christmas together, idly sitting side by side, playing games on their phones; sometimes speaking, other times not; sometimes eating plain toast, other times adding orange marmalade.

Iconic recordings were a constant companion, and sometimes, the two would dig in and analyze the performances, each noting what he observed in the soloist's phrasing and musicality. Other times, they just would just sit and let the music wash over them.

They hadn't slowed down like this in years—maybe ever—and Eddy relished the subdued warmth of caregiving. He didn't say it aloud, but he had never felt so fulfilled in his entire life.

***