just_muse_me | 4.3.1
4.3.1. What do you mean, ‘it didn’t hurt’?
It was times like this that Pat thought he’d never get used to having Multiple Sclerosis. The stages of grief following his diagnosis had long since past; acceptance had come eventually, but acceptance didn’t mean you couldn’t get downright fucking pissed off by the disability at times.
He reached over to tug the tea-towel off the rail on his oven, making sure his other hand remained over the sink. Blood was seeping at a rapid pace from a large gash right across his palm and dripping in to the soapy dishwater making the bubbles turn pink. “Fuck,” he swore, screwing his face up in aggravation. He’d managed to get blood smeared all over the kitchen bench, too, and his brand new Dolce & Gabbana shirt was going to be stained from a smear right across the expensive label. The cut was going to need at least six or seven sutures to close it, not to mention they were probably going to want to jab him with a tetanus shot ‘just to be on the safe side’. He really should be glad it didn’t hurt. He couldn’t even feel a sting and all that did was bother him more because he knew it was going to be a one way ticket into hospital again for yet another week hooked up to a goddamn fucking IV line. The story of his life these days. He practically had his own fucking bed in the hospital.
He heaved a sharp, pissed off sigh as he tucked the towel around the wound to try and staunch some of the bleeding. How tempting it was to try and clean the cut himself, dress it and pretend it never happened. He was a nurse, it wasn't like he didn't know what he was doing. He wouldn’t need to go to the hospital and he could try to hope the MS attack would hold off. Tempting, but stupid. That would only lead him to another freaking disaster like last time, which ended with the lovely finale of him lying face-down unconscious on the floor of the shower for four hours. He hated the times where he felt like he was nothing but a sick person. He hated when his body betrayed him and he lost control over the simplest of bodily functions. Hated when he had to rely on people and when he had to ask for help. But the worst was the sense that he’d lost his chance at love. Who the fuck would possibly want to shoulder the burden of a partner with an illness that disabled him more often than not? It was hard enough finding love when you were a rather colourful and bubbly gay bloke (or ‘extremely gay bloke’ as his best mate would say); he was an acquired taste at the best of times. But an extremely colourful and bubbly gay bloke with MS who can’t even walk some days? Even now, numbness and pins and needles spreading right up his arm signalled another downward slope of the illness barely weeks after the last one. How was he going to manage not only looking for love, but hanging on to it? It just made him feel tired to think about. Tired, but no less lonely.
Pat frowned, shaking his head and made a reluctant grab for the phone on the wall. He hit number one on the speed dial and waited for an answer. “Lachie, it’s me. I’m going to need a speedy ride to the hospital, darling… again.”
drcampbell referred to with permission
Word Count | 578
It was times like this that Pat thought he’d never get used to having Multiple Sclerosis. The stages of grief following his diagnosis had long since past; acceptance had come eventually, but acceptance didn’t mean you couldn’t get downright fucking pissed off by the disability at times.
He reached over to tug the tea-towel off the rail on his oven, making sure his other hand remained over the sink. Blood was seeping at a rapid pace from a large gash right across his palm and dripping in to the soapy dishwater making the bubbles turn pink. “Fuck,” he swore, screwing his face up in aggravation. He’d managed to get blood smeared all over the kitchen bench, too, and his brand new Dolce & Gabbana shirt was going to be stained from a smear right across the expensive label. The cut was going to need at least six or seven sutures to close it, not to mention they were probably going to want to jab him with a tetanus shot ‘just to be on the safe side’. He really should be glad it didn’t hurt. He couldn’t even feel a sting and all that did was bother him more because he knew it was going to be a one way ticket into hospital again for yet another week hooked up to a goddamn fucking IV line. The story of his life these days. He practically had his own fucking bed in the hospital.
He heaved a sharp, pissed off sigh as he tucked the towel around the wound to try and staunch some of the bleeding. How tempting it was to try and clean the cut himself, dress it and pretend it never happened. He was a nurse, it wasn't like he didn't know what he was doing. He wouldn’t need to go to the hospital and he could try to hope the MS attack would hold off. Tempting, but stupid. That would only lead him to another freaking disaster like last time, which ended with the lovely finale of him lying face-down unconscious on the floor of the shower for four hours. He hated the times where he felt like he was nothing but a sick person. He hated when his body betrayed him and he lost control over the simplest of bodily functions. Hated when he had to rely on people and when he had to ask for help. But the worst was the sense that he’d lost his chance at love. Who the fuck would possibly want to shoulder the burden of a partner with an illness that disabled him more often than not? It was hard enough finding love when you were a rather colourful and bubbly gay bloke (or ‘extremely gay bloke’ as his best mate would say); he was an acquired taste at the best of times. But an extremely colourful and bubbly gay bloke with MS who can’t even walk some days? Even now, numbness and pins and needles spreading right up his arm signalled another downward slope of the illness barely weeks after the last one. How was he going to manage not only looking for love, but hanging on to it? It just made him feel tired to think about. Tired, but no less lonely.
Pat frowned, shaking his head and made a reluctant grab for the phone on the wall. He hit number one on the speed dial and waited for an answer. “Lachie, it’s me. I’m going to need a speedy ride to the hospital, darling… again.”
drcampbell referred to with permission
Word Count | 578