Pets

Some people don’t like the idea of food sticking to their ribs.

 Doug was one of those people. He hated oatmeal because his Mom told him that oatmeal stuck to your ribs, and he thought that was gross, which it is. Just take a moment to imagine a painting, or image in a textbook of strange anatomical problems, of oatmeal, or any other food, stuck to your ribs, and maybe you can share a moment of synchronicity with Doug.

 I shared a lot of moments with Doug. I took over a botched renovation in his basement, and committed to finishing it up into a second mortgage helper suite that he wanted to help with the bills. Doug had a tough time working on account of breaking his neck on his 23rd birthday, and spending the next 40 years in a powered wheelchair. He liked his independence though, such as it was, so he stayed in his own home, with a caretaker living in another suite downstairs. This gentle caretaker, however, after 10 years of noble service, probably without a break, had recently survived a stroke, and needed to spend the next several months in rehabilitation, possibly never to return to the job. He was devastated, but you need a very able body and resolute sense of purpose to be able to spend all of your time caring for a person who can only move one arm a little bit.

 So it’s a good thing Jesse was there.

 Jesse actually loved hanging out with Doug. I could hear them laughing together from downstairs. They would come down to visit several times a day, bringing Charlie in tow. Charlie was an obese Pug that never seemed to figure out that Doug couldn’t pet him, and not that he wouldn’t pet him, and so was quite needy and struggled with depression. At that point in my life, I related very well to Charlie.

 I also related very well to Jesse, but for different reasons. I had spent the past three years working in the public works department of a medium sized town, as well as serving as a volunteer firefighter in the same town. The job was stable, and I felt like the fire department was what I was made for, but there was an ongoing problem; my ex-wife, and my ex-girlfriend kept showing up at work and fire functions with people that I thought were my friends, people that I had to work with every day, and I couldn’t get over it.

 I was toughing it out at the fire hall because I loved it so much, and I felt that it was all that was holding me together, but I quit my job rather than suffer the indignity of a psyche eval, or sit one more break across the table from my best friend who also stole my girlfriend. It was a mess, all of it, and me the worst mess of all.

 I was trying hard, I was trying so hard, to keep it all together, but I was failing. I couldn’t seem to do the right thing except when I was training, or responding to an emergency. I loved being a fireman; when on call, nothing else mattered. I worked in dangerous, high stress situations with people that I felt had betrayed me, and didn’t fear, for an instant, that I was unsafe in their hands, or them in mine. I had never felt that kind of unity before, and I was faced with having to let it go. I had no idea what I was going to do next. I felt friendless, and so terribly alone.

 Jesse listened to all of this, and more. He was one of those guys with whom you could feel immediately comfortable. Friendly, patient, and compassionate, he listened to a severely distraught stranger until he became his friend.

Then he told me his story. He was so happy to be working with Doug. He had been a roofer for years, and it was destroying him. Struggling to make ends meet while the brutal demands of his occupation sapped the life from him. He hated it. He hated that he never had any energy to play music when he got home, or that he always felt broken and broke. He loved his family so much, and that’s what was worst about this job with Doug, that he had to live with Doug, and didn’t get to be with his family as much as he wanted, but the money was great, and he didn’t feel like he was working himself to death anymore, so when he spent time with his wife and 8 year old daughter, he was able to be present.

 This was a temporary position, anyway. Either the previous caregiver would recover and return to look after Doug, or Jesse would leave after a year or two of making awesome money, and pursue a more sustainable occupation.

 They’d visit sometimes, his family. His wife was really nice, and his daughter adored him. Once in a while he’d come down and tell me that Doug was down for his afternoon nap, then ask if I’d mind just checking in on him every 15 minutes so that he could go spend an hour at the beach with his family. Of course I would. Every few weeks he’d have a stand in caregiver come and spell him off for the weekend, and when he’d come back he’d be all smiles, telling me how his daughter sat beside him on the bench, and played piano with him. He had a dreamy quality about him when he talked about her that I understood, because I am a Father too. We had an understanding; this wasn’t the brotherhood of work that forms a team to get jobs done, this wasn’t twenty first responders discarding everything that got in the way of staying alive while saving lives and property; this was even more. It was two guys feeling safe, and achieving a few brief moments of peace. I was so happy and relieved to have found a friend.

 Then he died.

 I found him sprawled at the foot of Doug’s bed, with Doug’s catheter draining all over him, and Charlie licking his face, so I became a fireman again; I made the call, checked on the living, the room, moved the dog, and started doing compressions on my dead friend. And he was dead, I knew that. His lips were blue, and he was cold, eyes open, and non-responsive to pain. Jesse was dead, but I really needed him to be alive, so I called him, over and over, I pleaded with him, I fucking swore at him, and I gave him compressions. I gave him everything I had.

Doug kept asking me if he was dead, and I kept telling him I was doing my best, and that help was coming. Charlie kept getting up on the body to get at my hands, seeking pets, urine was soaking into my pants, and all I wanted was a nod from another man that told me that he understood that life was hard, and everybody makes mistakes, and things can get better, and you’ve tried and failed, but you can try again, and you are not alone, that it’s ok, brother.

 But it wasn’t ok. I was not fucking ok.

 Compressions are hard, which is why first responders usually spell each other off after 1 or 2 two-minute cycles. I was exhausted by the time the rest of the firefighters and paramedics showed up and spelled me off. I got up and went outside, Charlie following. I was different, everything was different, but I’m still not sure in what way. I didn’t feel guilt or anything like that. I knew that it was over when I started, and I’m not a fool, dead is dead, and hope is for children, but there was something else on my mind, the next crisis. My next diversion.

 Who was going to look after Doug? The question came up a few times, and I made the somewhat crass observation that you don’t just find caretakers lying around, unless you’re here. It felt kind of funny; it got a scandalised laugh because first responders need to laugh at terrible things, and I laughed too, but the smile never touched my eyes, not for along time.

 I got the nod. I felt like I had been burning to the ground in front of all these people for a year, and if they hadn’t been feeding the fire, they hadn’t helped put it out either, just watched, but the nods helped anyway, and besides, you never know what’s going on inside a dumpster fire, the objective is to stay back, not get hurt, and protect what you can. It’ll burn out eventually. Every firefighter knows that.

 I wasn’t allowed to drive home on account of trauma that I didn’t feel, so my truck and I were driven home, and I, enjoying one of the perks of self-employment, took the rest of the day off. I immediately drove to the liquor store, then went home and got drunk enough to sleep.

 I went back to work the next day. Doug was Doug, Charlie was needy, and Jesse was gone.

Doug’s brother was there, and he was quite concerned about Doug’s ongoing care, as Doug adamantly refused to leave his house and go to a care facility.

 So I volunteered.

 I asked for one day to get my affairs in order, then I moved into Jesse’s room, with Jesse’s stuff, and started doing Jesse’s old job, which was 24/7 care for a quadriplegic senior. I don’t like touching people that aren’t my girlfriend, and I’d never done anything like this type of work before, and I still had to finish the renovation downstairs where the other other caregiver had nearly died, and I was pretty deep into a bad run, but I had known from the moment that I saw Jesse down, that I was next in line.

I reeked of pathos.

I made it three months.

I got pretty good at making pancakes, though, blueberry pancakes, though never quite as good as Jesse’s.

At least it wasn’t oatmeal.

Doug fucking hated oatmeal.

Stuck to his ribs.