I sit here writing, doing my best to keep my fingers quiet as he sleeps heavily beside me. I check my watch, counting the hours when I will need to wake him up to take another pill. My boyfriend had three of his wisdom teeth removed two days ago, one that was impacted. His face is still sore from the surgery, his body confused by the drugs. An hour ago, before he could fall asleep, I changed the gauze pads on his wounds, sitting on his chest and placing my hands in the far reaches of his tender mouth, replacing the blood-soaked bandages with fresh ones.
Science tells us that in the first eighteen months of a relationship, what we think is love or infatuation, is just an onslaught of adrenaline. He and I have been together close to a year now, and after the last 48 hours, I have to ask—really?
The night before his procedure, we bought his favorite six-pack of beer and took a walk to our favorite ice cream parlor down the street. On the way, we passed a small crowd on the corner who had gathered around to check out Saturn on a man made telescope. We took turns looking. I was stunned to see the actual ring around the planet; I thought it must be a hoax. He reassured me that it was real.
As we sat opposite each other in the booth, he got serious. “I’m afraid,” he admitted.
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid, because you’re going to see me in my uglies.”
“What?” I tried not to laugh.
“I’m serious. You’re going to see me bleeding. Out of it. Puffy. Maybe throwing up.” I contemplated this as I got to the end of my cone, catching with my tongue the remaining ice cream that had tried to snake its way down my arm.
As we walked back, I turned to him. “We need to practice.”
“What?”
“I’m the one who’s serious this time. We need to practice so I know how to support you.” I braced myself on the neighbor’s stairs and he put his arm around me and leaned into me, dropping his full weight on my frame. We walked this way for awhile, me supporting the fullness of him as he pretended to be woozy and near fainting. We got home and drank our beer, cuddling close and imagining the day ahead.
The following morning, I took a careful look at myself in the mirror before leaving for work. No heels, hair back, high endurance skirt—pretty, but high endurance. I wanted to play the part of the nurse effectively—brave, stern, and a little bit sexy.
When I entered the operating room, he was laying in the dentist chair with what looked like an ace bandage wrapped around his head that secured a bag of frozen peas on his face. “Hi, honey,” he managed. He had already charmed the doctors and nurses, cracking jokes before and after waking up from the anesthesia. He hummed a little ditty as they changed his gauze. One of the nurses gave me a list of instructions on how to take care of their favorite patient, and I tried not to panic, envisioning the potentially deadly side effects of mixing up the medications.
He waited with the doctor on the sidewalk while I brought the car around, and he was quite pleased with himself for being able to walk from the doctor’s arm to the car all by himself. Underneath the puffiness, I was pretty sure I saw a smile. But when we got home he collapsed immediately, tender, sore, and a little bit scared.
The next day, I took off from work to be with him. Neither one of us realized how fragile he would be, so though at first he tried to be brave about the whole thing, he didn’t resist when I insisted. I spent the day with my imaginary nurse hat on, proud of my efforts and leadership skills. I helped him walk, eat, and sip soup and Gatorade. I monitored his drugs. I made sure he was comfortable. I even talked to his parents in Pasadena several times to update them on his condition. That night he fell asleep in bed and I fell asleep beside him, lovingly overlooking both the snoring and the subtle yet pungent funky smell that had begun to waft over the apartment.
Then, without warning, everything shifted. I woke up in the middle of the night feeling like a hand was squeezing my heart. I couldn’t breathe. Dear God, was this a heart attack? I didn’t want to wake him, but the spasms came and went like clockwork for almost an hour. I roused him reluctantly. Immediately, he said, “We’re going to the hospital.”
Once there, hooked up to three machines, I looked over at him and realized what a funny-looking pair we must be, me clutching my chest and he with a face still completely swollen and black and blue on one side. The doctor, a woman, came into my room and opened my gown to adjust the various gadgets monitoring my heart. “Looks good,” she said while my gown was hanging open, and he couldn’t help but respond, “They do look great, don’t they?” The doctor didn’t get it, but he and I giggled after she left. I did a crossword puzzle while he solved his Rubik’s cube, tuning back in to admire each other’s work every now and then. A few hours later, after a chest x-ray and some more monitoring, I was told I had a sprained chest muscle. My boyfriend and I left the ER and trudged back to the car just as the sun was beginning to break through the horizon. We hobbled our way home and back into bed.
I took the morning off from work today to recuperate. I kept an eye on his medication, and he, mine. We continued to call and check up on each other throughout the afternoon. I returned to his apartment after work with flowers to brighten up the living room, and he surprised me with my favorite ice cream. We relaxed into each other, tender and grateful, back to the oasis of the living room couch.
Now, looking at him while he’s sleeping, I realize how I truly, tenderly, fully love this man. I expected to be the strong one, the one in control, and without warning had to be vulnerable as well. Tomorrow he’ll be back on his feet, and I’ll be back for a full day of work, but right now it’s just the two of us, cocooned, and safe. I feel as if we’ve gone a significant layer deeper in the relationship, where everything isn’t so poised and polished. I trust him and our connection now more than I ever have. I guess “the uglies” can be a pretty beautiful thing.