In sickness and health - Ch2

The clatter of plates and voices has vanished, leaving only a strange kind of echo that feels heavier than silence. I watch Will in the kitchen, moving like he's trying to convince himself that this is normal, that life can still be ordinary, even though nothing about tonight is ordinary.

He's rinsing a plate, water dripping down the edge, little rainstorms in the sink. I remember the sound of dishes clanging when I used to do this myself, my hands working over the suds, thinking about nothing, thinking about everything. That life feels like someone else's dream. Now I just sit here, strapped into my chair. I exist, and that's all. I try not to think about how much I'm leaning on him to be the one who moves, who cleans, who makes things normal.

"You know," he says, drying his hands on a towel, "it feels like yesterday we had our housewarming here. Friends crammed into the living room, music blasting, you laughing like–"

I tilt my head. "Yesterday?" I whisper. My voice catches in my throat. "Feels like a lifetime ago."

He laughs softly, but there's a tension beneath it, the kind of laugh that knows it's fragile. "Yeah. It was just the two of us, and everyone we love... and now it's like everything's shifted. Like... we're in a new life."

I watch him. I want to reach for something to be useful, to prove I still exist beyond the wheelchair. But there's nothing. My arms won't lift, my hands won't grip. I feel like a ghost, hovering in the room while he moves through it like a human anchor.

"I'll just put the leftovers on the fridge," he says, stacking the last plate, "and help you with your bedtime routine."

I laugh, bitter and sharp, shaking my head. "Help? As if I could do anything."

He gives me that half-smile he always does when he's trying to hide his nerves. "Well... someone has to make sure you floss"

I cut him off with another laugh, this one hollow, because it's not really funny. Because I know that tomorrow night, and the night after, it will be him. Or the nurses, the professionals. Not me. And all the things I can't do myself.

I imagine the routine: him lifting my arms, untangling my hair, helping me into bed. I imagine him tucking the sheets around me, adjusting the pillow under my head, watching me sleep like he has to make sure I don't vanish. My stomach twists with guilt. I feel ridiculous. I'm twenty-eight, and this is my life now. I can't move. I can't feed myself. I can't even scratch an itch without him.

Will finishes in the kitchen, stacking the towels with meticulous care. He glances at me, breath even, voice calm but soft: "All done here."

I nod, forcing a faint smile. Because there's nothing else to do. I'm here, fully visible, fully dependent, and somehow that has to be enough. I watch him walk past, dish towel still in hand, humming that half-forgotten tune from the party, and I realize: he's carrying the weight of both of us tonight.

The bedroom is quiet now, or at least as quiet as a house that was just packed with people can be. The floral bedspread we got as wedding present is smoothed out perfectly, or at least it will be once Will finishes fussing. The lamp is on, the glow soft and forgiving. And yet, sitting here in my wheelchair, everything feels wrong. Too small, too bright, too... real.

Will kneels beside me, hands under my arms. "Ready?" he asks softly.

I nod. Ready? Sure. Totally ready. Because nothing about this is optional.

He shifts the wheelchair back slightly. I watch, carefully, like this is some sort of precarious experiment in physics. My legs rest entirely on the footrests, pale and perfectly useless. My arms drape at my sides. Chest strap snug across my ribs, holding me upright. I focus on the edges of the carpet, the corner of the bed, the little wrinkle in the sheets. If I concentrate hard enough, maybe I can convince myself that this is... fine.

"Here we go," he murmurs.

He unstraps me, bends his knees, keeps his back straight, and lifts me. My arms flop like abandoned sleeves, legs lying passive against the chair. My torso tilts slightly as he moves me toward the bed. He shifts me carefully, sliding me onto the mattress, adjusting my hips and shoulders. My legs lie flat, uncaring, and the arms, my useless floppy arms, remain at my sides. I tilt my head slightly to watch, but I don't flinch anymore. That would be embarrassing.

"Good," Will says. "How's that?"

"Fine," I reply, because there is literally nothing else to say.

He kneels beside me. "Shirt first," he says. And there's a pause, almost like he's asking permission from the universe. His hands slide under my arms, lifting gently, peeling the fabric over my shoulders. I can see my chest in the soft lamp light, the curve of my ribs subtle but present. Arms slack at my sides. The shirt folds and stretches as he pulls it up over my shoulders, over my back. I imagine myself doing this once, long ago, standing in front of the mirror in my carefully planned mornings, thinking about the day. And now... none of it matters.

"Almost there," he murmurs.

I tilt my head at him. "Really careful," I remark, sarcastic, because what else is there to say? My voice feels small in the space between us.

He smirks faintly. "I've been trained," he says.

I snort, a little bitter, a little amused. "Clearly. Not enough to prevent chaos, but... admirable effort."

Next, he slides my pants down. The diaper beneath comes into view. Soft, plastic, awkwardly folded at the sides. Legbag clipped to my calf. I inhale sharply, maybe instinct, maybe humiliation and watch as he detaches the tube to the bag.

"Time to switch to the night bag," he says, almost conversationally. "Then we'll call it a night."

I look at him, trying to keep some dignity. He unhooks the legbag from its clip, clips the night bag in place, and the clear tubing fills with liquid. Urine flows visibly, and I can't help but observe it like a scientist at a lab bench, taking notes on a body that no longer belongs to me.

"Clean," he says lightly, checking the diaper. "No accidents tonight."

"Of course," I murmur. Naturally. Perfectly functional.

He smooths the diaper edges, adjusts the fit. Then he takes my pajama top, slides it over my shoulders. My arms, slack, lie against the bed. He buttons carefully, smoothing the fabric. I watch the folds of the cotton, the way it sits against my chest, the tiny crinkle of the diaper beneath.

"Almost done," he murmurs, brushing a finger across the bedspread, checking the pillow, adjusting the folds. I tilt my head slightly, counting ceiling tiles, imagining my life before this, the mornings when I'd shower quickly, brush my hair with purpose, choose a crisp outfit, make breakfast, pack my bag, all on my own timeline. The sense of order I used to cling to feels like a distant memory, a story someone else told me.

"All set," he says finally. Pajama top on, diaper clean, night bag in place.

I look at him, and for a moment I almost feel like laughing at how absurd it all is. Me, twenty-eight, a supposed adult with plans and goals, lying here in a diaper while someone I love kneels beside me making sure everything is... correct.

"Thanks," I murmur, because anything else would be ungraceful.

He smiles softly. "Anytime," he says. And then, for a moment, he just watches me, like he's making sure I'm actually okay before he leaves the room.

I lie there, chest rising and falling. I notice the subtle discoloration on my skin from lack of use. The hollows of my arms where muscles used to work. I notice the way my hair spreads across the pillow and the faint outline of my shoulder blades.

Will comes back from the shower, damp hair curling slightly at the back of his neck, shirt clinging a little where it hasn't dried. He smells clean, soap and the faint musky warmth of him, and I notice it immediately. He's so... put together. So alive. Meanwhile, I'm lying here in pajamas, diaper on, arms and legs like dead branches, completely passive. It's absurd.

"You comfortable?" he asks, the usual soft, careful tone.

"Yes," I say.

"Do you want some water?" he asks, holding the glass like he expects me to reach for it.

"No, thanks," I answer, because I'm fine and also because I can't exactly drink without someone helping me.

"You sure?" he leans in slightly, brushing the blanket near my arm, checking the night bag.

"Yes. I'm sure." I force calm into my voice. Internally, I'm thinking about him. Damp hair, faint shine on his arms, the way he smells, but also about me. How ridiculous I look. There's no sexy in me right now, just... observation, embarrassment, awareness.

He smiles softly and moves closer to help me settle into the bed. He lifts me slightly, carefully, adjusting me so I'm lying fully against the pillows, the blankets pulled up. He slides in beside me, careful not to pull the catheter tube.

"You okay?" he murmurs again.

"Yes," I say quietly, letting the words hang. He's here, beside me, warm, wet from the shower, and I can't help noticing how comforting it is even though I feel awkward, exposed, absurd. He stretches an arm around me, careful and adjusts so we fit. I feel a little tension release, not that I can move, not that it matters, but there's comfort in his warmth.

"You sleep okay like this?" he asks softly.

"Yes," I say again, the words automatic, but the truth is, I might. The presence of him, the familiar weight of his arm, the hum of his breathing, the quiet in the room. We lie there. He murmurs occasionally, small words about tomorrow, about nothing important. I listen, noting the sound of his voice, the way his damp hair sticks to his neck, the faint warmth of his skin against my face. I think about how much of my life is now this: observation, dependency, noticing everything I cannot control. But also noticing him, noticing us, noticing that we sleep together like this, married, intimate, completely normal in the midst of everything that isn't.

I close my eyes.