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Snap’s sitting on the edge of his hospital bed complaining that I’ve brought him the wrong jacket. Apparently, I can’t tell the difference between corduroy and velour.
‘What’s it matter when you’re wearing PJs underneath?’ I ask.
‘Mmmatters ... tooo meee.’
Even though he’s slurring, his tone still has a snotty arrogance to it. It’s good to know the stroke hasn’t affected his attitude, but I’m sure he’d be saying a hell of a lot more than ‘mmmatters’ if he had a better grip on his facial muscles.
‘Freeeda’s gumming this aft ... nooon,’ he says.
‘Coming.’
‘Gumming.’
‘C ... C ... coming.’
‘C ... coming.’
He’s getting much easier to decipher, though it’s hard not to look away when his twisted mouth is trying to produce words. It’s as if he’s doing something awkward or embarrassing that should be done in private. And I’ve caught myself talking to him as if he’s a child – slowing my words or speaking louder than necessary. He doesn’t react, so I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or not. If it were me, I’d want to slap someone.
‘Freda is coming in this afternoon?’
Snap nods and points to my iPad on his bedside drawer. I’ve lent it to him because his doctor suggested some apps for cognitive improvement and speech building. I put it on the bed next to him, and he taps out a message with his right hand: Thanks. Legal stuff complicated.
‘You’re welcome, but let’s talk, not type. While I’m in here anyway.’
He looks as if he’s about to lose it at me. He knows. I know. He doesn’t need reminding. His therapist tells him every day: the more he practises his speech – and limb use – the quicker he’ll recover. The first months are crucial. I’m torn between giving tough love and being a shoulder to cry on. Snap thumps his chest and grunts.
‘Hey!’ I grab his arm and tough love wins. ‘Don’t do that. I know it sucks, but this is how it is. For now. Your body is doing the best it can. Show it some love.’
I give him a hug, but he’s still not happy. I don’t blame him. Apart from the speech thing, the prospect of having to rely on other people must suck. Especially for normal stuff you should be able to do yourself, like opening a bottle of water, or pulling up your undies. And people let you down. Even the ones who are supposed to care, like his grandmother.
I thought she might show up after our talk. Maybe she’s embarrassed at not having been there for him when he was growing up? Afraid he’ll reject her. She shouldn’t be. Snap’s not like that. He only blusters because he thinks she never cared. That she’s like his dad. How do I get Snap and Shirley to connect? They need each other.
I’m glad I decided not to tell him about visiting her though. Even if it’s kind of lying by omission – it’s for his own good – just like Harry lied to me. Actually, just like Snap went behind my back, contacting Harry in the beginning. Now that I think about it, we’re all as bad as each other. Still, it doesn’t feel good to keep secrets, and it may not end well, but I’m taking Freda’s advice and learning to trust my instincts.
Just to be sure I’m not misjudging the woman, I test the waters. ‘I don’t suppose any of your family has been in touch?’
Snap shakes his head.
‘No-one?’
‘Fug them.’
‘C, c, Fu ... ck them.’
He laughs. ‘C, c, couldn’t give a fug. Ffffffu ... ck.’
That answers that. What a loser his gran is. She has an amazing grandson here. Yeah. People. They let you down.
I bend to help him with some slippers I’ve picked up at Kmart – he’s never owned a pair in his life, he tells me – and we head off at old man’s pace towards the cafeteria. He leans on a cane with his right hand, his left arm dangling – though he does have some use of it: I’ve seen him exercise it in his daily therapy sessions. This morning’s session must have tired him out. I’ve been tempted to point out how lucky he is that it’s his left side affected, seeing as he’s right-handed, but I suspect ‘lucky’ isn’t in his vocabulary at the moment.
I help him sit, then head to the counter.
‘Va ... nilla sly,’ he calls.
I turn back. ‘Vanilla slice?’
He nods.
Soft. Okay – easy to chew with a wobbly mouth, I can understand that, but what’s with his sudden obsession with sweet stuff? Biscuits, chocolates, lollies just aren’t his style, yet he’s been hoeing into them like a hog searching for truffles. Depression? A side effect of his stroke? I guess some changes are inevitable. Whatever. If it gives him solace, it’s all good. I’ll join him.
I return with our order on a tray, and I haven’t even finished transferring the cups to the table when Snap picks up his slice and tries to bite it. It’s like watching a toddler trying to navigate his first meal. Custard squidges between his fingers, and he dribbles from the slack side of his mouth. Caught up in a moment of revulsion, I’m suddenly ashamed. I put the tray aside and reach for the sugar dispenser, adding too much to my cup.
‘Disgussing?’ he asks.
I glance at my own slice and consider shoving it at my face to make a messy show of solidarity. It might make us laugh. But then I wonder if he’d think I was sending the message he looks like a pig. I’d kill for a degree in psychology right now. ‘No. You look like you’re enjoying it.’ I point to my own face. ‘You’ve got some custard here on your left cheek.’
He wipes the opposite side to where I’m pointing, and I redirect him, wondering if his brain has reversed his perception or whether he can’t process what I’m showing him. No, I’ve done that myself before. ‘Your other left.’
‘Would you like me to cut it up for you?’ I ask. Is that going too far?
He drops the slice and looks at it for a moment, then nods. I ask the woman behind the café counter for a knife. She hands over a plastic one. I cut up my own slice while I’m at it. It’s the least I can do to help him feel normal.
‘So, another week or so, and they give you a Get Out of Jail Free card?’
Snap brightens. ‘Nnnot sooon nuff.’
‘The nurse said we can get council assistance. Someone to call in once a day, take you to rehab, help with cooking, cleaning, showering. All that stuff.’
The noise he makes is almost a growl. ‘Don’t need loook ... ing after,’ he says.
‘You want me to move back in? Maybe I should. Harry won’t mind. I can check on his apartment every other day.’
He shakes his head.
‘Don’t be a dick then. Accept the help. Hell, I’d kill for someone to cook and clean.’
He looks morose.
‘You know I’ll come by most days too, see if you need anything personal.’
‘Don’t neeed yooou either.’
God, I imagine this must be what it’s like planning an elderly relative’s move to a retirement centre. That thought makes me twinge, because of Mum. But here’s Snap, and going by his face, this is more like his last rites. He pushes his plate away.
‘Don’t be like that. I’m trying to help you.’ His eyes are shiny with tears, and it breaks my heart. ‘I’m sorry. But we have to talk about these things. It’s not forever – it’ll get better in time. Especially because you’re young. You’ve got your whole ...’ I stop before I get the platitude out.
He shrugs.
‘Can I organise some of your friends to visit? Keep you company?’
‘No.’
‘Alright then.’
I leave it for now. I’ll ask again when he’s in a better mood. At some point we’ll have to talk about signing some sort of documentation so I can do banking and stuff for him – for the ‘just in case’ he refuses to talk about. Maybe Freda can give us some guidance.
‘Any hot male nurses in your rehab sessions?’
At last, I get a smile.
