A Guide to Bathing Your Husband When He Is Too Ill to Bathe Himself

Kaylee Walton

Your husband has finally acquired a diagnosis. Idiopathic pulmonary hemosiderosis. When you look it up, Google tells you it’s rare. One in a million. This means your husband is very sick. The type of sick where he coughs up crimson blood. The type of sick where he can’t stand on his own for longer than a few seconds without gasping for air. The type of sick where the doctors at the teaching hospital take you aside and admit they don’t know what to do anymore. The type of sick where he needs you to help him bathe.
          Understand that he’s embarrassed. Prepare yourself for this. Reassure him that you would do this 1,000 times over. That you love him. That he’s strong. He looks at you with watery, apprehensive eyes and tells you he feels like he’s dying. That his body is too weak. That he’s only 19 and lives the life of a 90-year-old. Inside you feel like your knees are giving out. It finally hits you that he might be dying. Take a step out of the room.
          Find yourself in the hallway and begin to count how many days he’s been bedridden. Rub your knuckles against your eyes until you see stars and try to remember what you did together the last time he walked. What you did together the last time you weren’t bound by hospital walls. What you did together the last time he felt the sun on his skin. The memory doesn’t come. Remind yourself what you need to do now.
          Drive down Main Street to the apartment you two should be sharing. Roll your windows down and let the stagnant air seep into your car. Inhale the scent of rain-soaked concrete. Tap your fingers to a song that’s not playing. Pay attention to the old row homes adorned with Greek letters and Christmas lights left hanging from last winter. Notice the ivy crawling up the weathered brick. Lose your gaze in the fluorescence of a beckoning 7-Eleven sign. Go when the car behind you honks. Try to make an unfamiliar city familiar.
          Stumble in through the front door. Shut yourself in the bathroom. Take a moment. Grip the porcelain sink and clench your jaw so that you don’t erupt in a scream and wake your roommate. Find something to do with your hands. Gather what you came here for, stuff it all into a Target bag, wipe your tears, bite your tongue, and walk out the door.
          You’re dizzy as you enter his room. You’re dizzy from skipping every second step, four floors up to the respiratory intensive care unit. You’re dizzy from keeping your eyes pointed at your feet, counting every inhale and exhale as you walk across the speckled tile. You’re dizzy from the unforgiving glare of the overhead lights, buzzing louder than usual. You’re dizzy until you look at him.
          When he’s ready, press the call button. Two nurses, who look about your age and wear matching purple floral scrubs, float into the room. Watch as they disconnect him from the machines. He looks at you. The lines on the screen go straight. He looks away. Help him to the bathroom, his body limp in your arms. He apologizes. Shake your head. Say “No, no. Please. It’s okay.” Know it won’t matter what you tell him.
          The bathroom is large. Tiled. Sterile. A plastic gray chair with metal legs and little holes in the seat is waiting for him in the middle of the shower. You’ve only seen these in the nursing home you volunteered at when you were 14. Your stomach turns inside out.
          Position the chair just right so he can sit down with ease. He lowers himself into the seat, breathing heavily. Untie the hospital gown. He shimmies it off and hands it to you. Fold it as you did his white dress shirt the night before your wedding. Get undressed. Stand as he sits, both of you naked. Turn the water on.
          You must begin now.
          Double-check that the bathroom door is shut all the way but not locked. Just in case. Ask him if he’s ready. Wait for his head to slightly nod. Wait for the same nod he gave you two years ago, the first time you showered together. His laughter echoing against the black and white tile. The vinyl shower liner sticking to your legs. The water being too hot for him but just right for you. Vulnerability you never knew before.
          Gently rub a dime-sized circle of body wash onto his skin, beginning on the tops of his shoulders, across his freckled back, and down both arms. Take his hands. Hold them. Bring them to your lips. Kiss them. The soap runs down his neck. Down his chest. Down his stomach. Down his legs. Regret that you didn’t take a bath with him at your apartment the night he went to the hospital because you were too worried about the water bill.
          Put your nose right against his head. Take a deep inhale. It smells like home. Close your eyes and feel the rhythm of the water beating down on your back.
          Think back to the first time you saw him, in the small cinder block dorm room. The cranberry dahlia candle. A bed full of stuffed animals. The eagerness of being 18. Think back to him asking you about the moon, you trying and failing to remember the phases. His footprints in the sand. Bright tunnel lights. The humidity of the Virginia coast frizzing the tips of your hair. Think back to when he proposed, the chill of an early December night whipping against your cheeks. Frozen fingers gripped around cups filled halfway with lukewarm hot chocolate. Frozen fingers gripped around a petite rose gold ring. Frozen fingers gripped around one another. Think back to the courthouse, four months ago, your wedding day. Fake flowers provided by the officiant. A thrifted tie and a clearance dress. Rings in black and white boxes. Think back to nights spent at his parents’ house, your first time living together. A bedroom on the first floor. Fried eggs in the morning. Laundry running in the next room.
          Flutter your eyes open. When you look down, you see your hands pressed against his scalp. Your fingertips are beginning to prune. Shampoo and condition what’s left of his hair. His dad shaved his head last month. His hair would have fallen out anyway. The medicine.
          Look at his eyelashes. They’re wet and sticking together in little points lining his eyelid. Take his face in your hands. (My God, his face. His face. His face.) Kiss his forehead. Be still and allow time to move around you both. Feel your heart fall out of your chest.
          Make sure all the soap is rinsed away and turn off the water. Swallow hard when the towel smells of hospital instead of his mom’s detergent. Tie his gown in the back. Begin the journey to bed. Press the call button. Step back as the nurses reconnect him. Watch the straight lines start to stagger.
          He doesn’t feel normal. You know this. You also know that the future you’ve planned, the children you don’t have but already named, the dream of the dog and the cat and the two-story house, the bills you’ve yet to pay together, is beginning to fade.
          The time will come when you need to leave for something unimportant. He’s going to thank you for everything when you leave. You will wonder what he means when he says everything. You will wonder what he thinks about after you go.

Kaylee Walton lives in Richmond, Virginia, where she teaches elementary special education. Her writing navigates the tangled landscapes of grief and love, often returning to the memory of her late husband, Thomas. When she’s not writing, she finds solace in the quiet moments of everyday life, collaging and spending time with her cats. Connect with her on Instagram @penspastepaper.

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