About the third or fourth day, they take him off the respirator. His throat is raw and sore. “My stomach hurts, my head, every place in my body hurts," he complains to me. He still can’t remember what happened. “ The pain won’t stop, Walt!” Red liquid spasmodically squirts through the tube down his nose. However, the eye with the black stitches around it looks better. Steve does breathing therapy every two hours. By placing an oxygen mask, steaming with saltwater spray, over his face. Also, he forces a plastic sucking tube down his throat. Spitting and coughing, trying to suck out the phlegm. He has to clear his lungs! Because of the breathing therapy, Steve has been unable to sleep any longer than two hours at a time! flash, and life is exercised back into being. The task is completed, and repeated, every two hours. Garret playfully touches Steve on the leg, looks him in the eyes. “ Hang in there, bro!” he says as he leaves. Exhausted by the therapy, Steve lies back on the pillow. It’s an odd thing to say, but I think he looks beautiful in bed. I am falling in love with him. I mean, I always liked him. But now—his well-being has become really important to me. It’s the most important thing! Maybe because his need, right now, is so great. I respond to that. I tickle the bottoms of his feet and toes. They need stimulation and movement. I caress his hands, touch his hair. His green eyes are beautiful. The smell of the hospital— it turns me on. “The nurses shaved my pubic hair,” he mentions. His legs and chest are youthful and strong. Beneath the white cotton hospital gown, I notice his penis. The stitches on the abdomen. The plastic bag poked into his side drains reddish fluid like rubies. All of this is erotic and dangerous, in an odd sort of way. I don’t mean sexual'. Maybe because the stakes are so high? His well-being, his health, life itself. I want to give myself to him—my energy, my being, my touch—to make him live and fully recover. I believe I’m doing that, and he realizes it. I am helping him back to life. So is his own body, and the nurses and therapy, but I am part of the healing process too. He is recovering remarkably well and fast. Even becoming grouchy. And demanding. For Christmas I decide to buy him a transistor radio. So he can listen to music, jazz, the outside world. Friends are visiting him. I buy the present. And bring it on Christmas day. Sincerely and gratefully Steve thanks me. In a couple of days, he will be out of intensive care, moved into the regular ward. They take the heart monitor off. He’s entirely free of machinery. He drinks his first glass of water slowly, so he won’t vomit. The sore stomach is not used to anything. The next day the nurses bring broth and jello. They give him an enema, squirt fluid in and withdraw it. I find out the following day that, when he leaves intensive care, he will be off morphine. They will give him only Tylenol III. “Walt, there hasn’t been a day go by hat is the meaning of Christmas? A handsome young man, broken up, is barely alive. Wired to weird machinery in an intensive care unit. Holding on for dear life. Holding his damp hand, I counsel him, “ Be patient. Every day there seems to be improvement.” The look he gives me tells me that he needs to see me. “ I’ ll always be here,” I reassure him. Tears begin to leak out of his eyes, particularly running out of the stitched one. Am I upsetting him? I don’t want him to freak out, wired to the machinery and so fragile. What is the meaning of Christmas? A handsome young man, broken up, is barely alive. Wired to weird machinery in an intensive care unit, at Emmanuel Hospital. Holding on for dear life. What does it mean? I talk to Steve, “ I am praying for you. Mary has gone to California.” It doesn’t seem to matter. Is it the fourth day? or the fifth? He is sitting up in bed. The tube out of the nose. He's really glad about that. What an improvement! His lungs have cleared up, although last night one of them partially collapsed. They sedated him with a needle. Then placed him on a revolving upside down table, patted his chest and back—trying to make that portion of the lung pop out. It did! Now he’s sitting up, almost cheerful in bed, with rosy cheeks. He still feels great pain, and hasn’t even had a drink of water. Nothing has gone through his system yet. The thing he wants most is a glass of ice water! We joke about having a beer. “You are a special person,” I tell him. “Oh, I don’t think so,” he replies. I am afraid he will start crying again. But he doesn’t. Garret, the lung specialist, realizes Stephen is special too. Bumpy skin on the face, compassionate eyes—is the medic gay? His manner is efficient and encouraging. He makes Stephen work out hard on the lung machine, even though it causes great pain. He has to keep his lungs moving; they will be the first organs to deteriorate. The machine has a numbered gauge, and rainbow lights. Garret patiently encourages Steve to blow so many breaths, more and more forcefully into the machine. The lights 34 Clinton St. Quarterly—Winter, 1987
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