Hobson's Choice

Six: Toughing it Out

Oh Jeez... I don't know. This stress causes me almost more pain than I can manage. Hiding my fears has become my focus, especially like now, sitting alongside Jake's bed as he sleeps... and dreams. Ohh yep... more like nightmares by the look of the tossing and turning of your head. Poor little bugger!

I try to imagine how much worse his restless 'rest' is than mine. I try to feel ashamed of my deepest reaction; fear engulfs me, threatens to overwhelm me. Un-ease? Dis-ease? Whatever its name, the cold feeling slides over me each day, relentless as a slow-rising flood.

"Proud of yourself, Dan?" Ellen asked one time. Her harsh and impatient words revealed the weight on her shoulders, as they knifed through my conscience. Oh no... NOT tinily proud of myself. No way! Just when my boy needs me the most, here I am fighting my own demons. Do you sense that, I wonder? In one of his lucid moments the other day, he looked at me... well... searchingly, I guess is the word. As though he suspected. As though he understood the failures born of my fears? Oh God... no. I hope not. I try, but can't seem to get 'the big picture', as they say. Memories cloud out logic, I know... and part of me understands that one, only too well. So suck it up and get over it, you great oaf, I tell myself. Ahh, but I would if I could. If only...

I try to make some sort of uhrr, what do they call it? Thought transference? Mental telepathy? See? I'm not stupid... just afraid... hopelessly, helplessly afraid. I stretch out my hand and softly touch Jake's soft hair, wet now from the perspiration of his fever, of his nightmare. I love him SO much... but the words won't come out loud. I want him to know all that came before - SO long before - when I was small. I need him to know it's not him and this... horror, that's keeping us apart when we need to be closest.
If only...

If only, baloney! Call 'a spade, a spade' and spit out what's really going on, why don't you? I'm more tough on myself in my thoughts than anyone imagines. Would I have been different if I hadn't seen that amputee come to grief, when I was just a lad? Poor devil - he'd fallen from his wheelchair at a broken kerb... leaving him helpless and completely vulnerable; dependent on someone, anyone helping him. And I was too small, and deep inside I raged about that. The bad dreams started then. Started, and then continued for a l-o-n-g time. Terrible dreams where it was me whose legs were gone... amputated; me falling and down on the ground - helpless and in the fiercest pain. Me looking up at a crowd of faces... and in my dream, the great ugly mugs laughed. I'd wake in a terrible sweat, shaking badly, tears running down my face. How many years did that go on for? Too bloody many, I answer myself.

And then suddenly it was gone - that phobia. Never had any more amputees in my life, except for seeing one now and then, usually far away from me. That was OK, and I thought my fears were all over. Until Jake... and that shocker of a day just a few weeks ago when our world turned upside down. I turn my head and force myself to look at where I know his leg ends. There's a cage over it to keep the sheets and blankets from putting any pressure on the stump. Can't help a shudder. Stump... my stomach abruptly feels like a tumble dryer, turning over and over; a hot metallic taste fills my mouth as sweat bursts out down the length of my spine.

Never cared for hospitals, but thankfully, never had too much to do with them... except when Jake was born. Wasn't there for that; too busy trying to deal with one of those 'helluva' machinery breakdown moments on the farm instead (and that birthing stuff is not my kind of thing, anyway... woman's work, I say). It's one thing out in the paddocks when a ewe drops her bundle - seen a million of them. But in a hospital? Hmm... in a word, 'NO'. Nah, bloody places where you wait so long you wonder if you'll live long enough to meet the doctor - more likely meet your Maker first! Not called 'patients' for nothing! My lip curls as I remember that chirpy little nurse's voice, "Shouldn't be long now, Mr. Pearson. Doctor will be with you soon."

Jeez... what about those hours in emergency that first night? A man wonders how he survives stuff like that. Just as well Ellen was there to translate all that medical mumbo jumbo. I couldn't 'get' the half of it! I tried, but it's like some kind of foreigner babbling away at you; that's what you wait and wait for, your heart pounding ninety to the dozen. It's like they're on some kind of wild power trip, those specialist blokes. Jake's fate (and ours) all hanging in the balance, waiting on their high and mighty word. "... just need to run a few more tests," they say. "... know how hard this is on you," they say. (You reckon? Ohh yair... right!) "If you can please stay patient a little longer," they say. (Like we have a choice?)

Had to leave the room the other day when the nurses were changing the bed. Tried to keep my eyes away from the flat space below his knee level. Even with the sheet covering it, I just couldn't handle it. Bloody great coward! What do you reckon it's like for my poor little fellow? And all you can do is feel sorry for yourself. I must have told myself the same thing in every different way possible lately - blamed myself, hated my cowardice - hidden it from Jake and almost everyone else, but not Ellen. She's seen through the act, though she doesn't understand why; never told her about that early episode and the nightmares. To have it all come back like this - now - seems weak, somehow. Not the thing a real bloke would suffer.

I see the disappointment in Ellen's anguished eyes. Ahh get real! More like despair that I'm missing when she needs me most. Can either of us really step into the other's shoes... walk their walk? I wish. God knows how I wish. I don't believe Ellen can see past the here and now... see all the stuff we're going to have to deal with when he comes home. Even though she'll look after the indoors and all he needs there. She always has. She always will.

But outdoors... the farm. Oh God... those stinking tears threaten again. I know the prosthetics today are fantastic - we'll be learning about them next week. But surely they're talking about indoors... maybe outside on the verandahs and the paths through the gardens, as well. Hmm... but I'm thinking paddocks, aren't I? And rocky outcrops and the way different grasses 'rough' up the most reasonable walking. And I think of the machinery - great bloody new tractor - and the harvester. How the hell could he climb those deep rungs up the side... ever again? My heart feels like it's cracking wide apart as I try to imagine any of our regular chores. Bagging up grain; hooking up the machinery to the tractor, or any other vehicle; lifting and tipping out those chemical containers - they're only plastic, but they're bloody heavy when they're full. And fencing - always plenty of that to be done; and carting the posts and wire and all the tools. Ohh shit... so many plans... gone. Just bloody gone.

I brush more tears away as I study his face again. The sleeping stuff and massive pain-killers have finally kicked in. He's in his deepest place now, gone somewhere far away. Can't get enough of seeing you peaceful - don't get too much of that when you're awake. Ohh Jake, my darlin' boy. SO thankful you can't see the pain I hide so well most of the time. But can I keep it up? It's getting tougher and tougher, if that could be possible. Thought 'time was meant to heal all wounds'? Yair well... a wound would be a different matter altogether, wouldn't it?

Ohh my little mate. I don't know how long I can do this. I'm digging deep, but seem to be finding a bottomless well when I need some firm ground to 'get a grip'. God help us all.