“Evan, I want to help.”
“You...can't.” He's panting, and his face is so pale, I wonder if he might pass out.
“What do you do to help the pain?”
He swallows, and there's a faint shake of his head, followed by an awful moan.
“How long does this last?”
He claws at his face, then starts to pull his hair again. “Day…or so.”
I almost fall over. A whole day. That…can’t be real.
“Can I do anything for you? Help you to the bed? Do you want me to rub your back? I do massage sometimes. On children who've been injured. I've helped with pain management before...” and one of the key components is to do a few different stimulating things at once.
“Will it hurt you if I touch you?”
“No...worse,” he pants. His eyes slide open just long enough to meet my own.
“I've got an idea,” I say.
Cross
I'M VAGUELY AWARE that I'm walking through a room and Merri is holding me around the waist. I'm shaking pretty bad and leaning heavily on her. We come into a bathroom and the black tile is cool on my feet. I'm leaning over, looking down my legs. My left hand burns like a billion needles from the gunshot wound. I spread my fingers wider because the pain of the gunshot is better than the agony coming from my neck.
Pretty soon I get a bolt of pain that makes my knees give out and I'm on the floor again, but she's urging me toward this big room. It's a shower. Big shower room. The tile is cold on my face. I think I like it. There's water. Don't like the water. Then her hands. Those hands on my neck. God, my back. Those hands know what the story is.
Cold water. Hot water.
“Jus' keep rubbing.”
Merri
I WORK HIS back and alternate cold and hot water from different jets in Jesus's mega-shower. I sometimes whack him on the butt with a back-scratcher and other times I scratch the bottom of his feet. I learned this from Sister Mary Carolina. When someone's in severe pain, you can sometimes distract their brain from processing the pain signals by sending other signals. Signals for things that are only uncomfortable, like water that's a little too hot or icy cold, or long nails scratching the soles of someone's feet. I rub his back hard, like I'm trying to punish him. Most people get a lot of pleasure out of a borderline painful rub, but in Evan's case, that's not the point. I'm just trying to distract his brain from whatever's going on with his nerves.
I remember from the time I caught a bullet near my knee, that when my bed was super comfy and someone was stroking my hair, that's when my wound would hurt the most. I'd notice it less when a lot of things were going on. I would beg Jesus to take me out in his car with him, just to escape the pain.
I don't want Evan to be comfortable enough to feel his pain. I want to throw a million things at him, at once.
I exhaust myself, changing his environment. Hot water, cold water, slapping him, kneading, scratching. At one point he moans, “Pull my hair,” so I go to work on that. The harder I pull, the happier he seems. “That's good,” he moans, and I think I understand why his mouth was bleeding.
I wonder why he won't take pills, and I ask him one more time before he rolls onto his side and says, “No more.”
Don't ask him again, because it's too tempting. That's what he means, I think. I wonder why he won’t take anything. Wonder if I should force something down his throat—but I decide to respect his wishes.
I'm straddling his bare back; I've taken to pulling on his hair with one hand and pressing on his upper back with the other. I haven't seen him be this still or quiet in what feels like hours.
Then I realize he's asleep.
No way in hell am I moving him. Lying on an uncomfortable surface is a great way to get through pain. I get a blanket, because he's soaked and I don't want him to get too cold. I get a pillow for myself, and I lie down beside him.
When he wakes an hour or two later, gripping my arm and weeping into the crook of his elbow, I start my no-pain show again. It goes all night. All day. I'm not even sure what time it is.
But nobody comes for us, and he gets through without quite as much moaning. No more screaming. A lot of the time while I work, he's just breathing.
20
Cross
I OPEN MY eyes to find myself inside a massive, onyx and gold shower. Not just a shower. This place is like a bathhouse. I can count nine shower heads without moving my head.