Ronan and I celebrated the New Year quietly, alone, enjoying our favorite pastimes. After brisk morning walks, we settled down in the living room, where I worked on a warm pair of socks for him, and he buried his nose in a book, and we played music on the stereo. When we got hungry, we prepared simple meals and ate together in the kitchen, then returned immediately to our places in the living room. Eating, sleeping, relaxing, taking the air, and making love: all were such pleasant, peaceful ways to pass a long winter weekend.
My workplace had grudgingly allowed all employees to take Friday off, since it seemed pointless to have people out on Wednesday and Thursday and return to work for just one day. The Phelans were tending to some family obligations, and Jon and Emily, taking advantage of the extended holiday, had gone off to Colorado to ski. Much as we loved our friends, it was a relief to have them occupied elsewhere, since neither of us felt inclined to do much of anything but enjoy one another’s company.
“You’re sure you don’t mind that it’s not the most exciting way to spend New Year’s Eve?” I asked, after I announced my plan to cook a good roast of beef for our dinner, with herb-roasted potatoes and his favorite winter squash casserole, and Oreo ice cream for dessert.
Usually he liked simple things best, but his neutral response—“Yeah, all right,” muttered from behind his book—made me wonder.
“Ro, if you had your heart set on going out for dinner and exploring a few of the First Night events, it’s easy enough to arrange.”
He closed the book and put it down on the coffee table, and shook his head. “No, really, it’s all right, a mhuirnín. You don’t have to make certain I’m entertained every waking moment. Most of the time, especially in the winter, I’m perfectly content to be a—what was that amusing phrase you used to describe me earlier? Arm-chair turnip?”
I laughed. “Couch potato.”
“Och, aye. Couch potato.” His eyes twinkled mischievously. “If you’ll let me incubate long enough, I might sprout later this evening, in a way I’m sure would please you. Or maybe you really had your heart set on First Night?”
“I didn’t, Ro. Honest. I just thought you might want to go hear music or something.”
“No, not really. I think sometimes you forget, Sarah, that I’ve had more than enough of crowds and entertainment to last several lifetimes, and more hectic New Year’s Eves than I care to remember. The farther I get from all that, and the older I get, the happier I am to be still and watch the world go by. I don’t fancy getting mixed up in a partying crowd, and besides, the weather’s turned colder than I can bear.”
“I don’t mind the cold so much, myself, but I agree with you when it comes to the crowds.”
“The cold didn’t used to bother me, either, but—” he sighed. “Och, I don’t want to be carrying on about it again.”
Reflexively, he cupped his good hand under his injured arm and cradled it a bit closer to his chest.
“Time for more Ibuprofen?” I suggested.
“Aye, but don’t get up, a chuisle. I’ll go fetch it myself.”
He rose from the couch and left the room.
I tried not to worry about the quantities of Ibuprofen he consumed on a daily basis. He was always careful to take it with food or a glass of milk, but even at that I feared it would damage his stomach. With his arm paining him continually, he didn’t really have a choice. Ibuprofen was the only thing he could take, but it certainly wasn’t ideal. It gave him some small relief, but nothing short of an opiate could alleviate the constant, gnawing ache in his bones.
“It’s the metal,” he theorized one day. “It holds the cold and makes everything hurt worse.”
The orthopedist still wasn’t sure whether he would remove the hardware or not, once Ronan’s arm was strong enough to withstand yet another operation.
Ronan wasn’t sure of the best way to proceed, either, despite having done a great deal of research on the subject. There were too many conflicting opinions, and it was impossible to know which course of action might be the right one in his case. In the meantime, the bones were mending, at least, however slowly. No one could give him any definite answers as to whether the pain might diminish when the healing was complete, and whenever he asked if the metal could be exacerbating his pain, the only response he got was: “Every patient is different, Mr. O’Malley. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
It was hard to know what to believe.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, the damp cold of a Boston winter had aggravated Ronan’s old ankle injury. The joint was stiff and achey much of the time, and as a result he had developed a noticeable limp. I had never seen any evidence of that back in New Zealand: not even when we were in the Sound on his boat, and the weather had been very cold. I reminded him of that on Christmas night, after we were settled in bed, snuggled up close under the electric blanket.
“I think it’s because the cold here is different,” he explained. “I don’t know why, but in New Zealand, the cold doesn’t settle in my bones and stay there. Here it does. I was just as surprised as you were, to discover that I do have a limp after all.”
“It really could be the cold, then, that bothers your arm?”
“Maybe. It seems likely, but I don’t know. I mean, here I am in a nice warm bed, and it still hurts like hell.”
“Hasn’t the Ibuprofen helped at all?”
“It took the edge off a bit, but it didin’t help significantly. It never does.”
“When do you see the doctor again?”
“In two weeks. He said he’d take this plaster thing off and put my arm in a proper cast, if the swelling’s mostly gone by then.”
“That’s good, but have you discussed any of your pain issues with him?”
“Er—I might have mentioned it when I saw him last,” Ronan replied, hedging.
“If you forget to tell him, he can’t help you.”
“No, I did tell him, but as usual he had no solution for it. He said to try and back off on the Ibuprofen as much as I can stand to, and reminded me that anything else he might prescribe could prove addictive in the long term. Sometimes I find myself thinking what a blessed relief it would be, to have just one little hit of morphine.”
“But you hate taking morphine.”
“I do, but at this point I hate the pain more.”
“Did you tell the doctor how much Ibuprofen you’ve been taking?”
“Well—”
“Damn it, Ronan! If he knew you were taking thirty-two-hundred milligrams a day, he’d certainly have something to say about it!”
“Which is why I haven’t told him. And I’ve been experimenting, y’know: reducing my dose, skipping a dose entirely, going a day wthout it. Bottom line is, I can’t stand it. I’m really at my wits’ end.”
“Acupuncture might help.”
“Depends on where they’d have to stick the pins, doesn’t it? If it’s got to be done directly over the fracture sites, then it’s out of the question as long as I’ve got the cast on.”
“Ask the doctor what he thinks.”
“I already know. He’s not the most holistically-minded physician I’ve ever had. ‘Quackery’ was about the kindest word he used to describe alternative medicine when I asked.”
“Quackery, my ass! Ronan, I know people who’ve had acupuncture for various things, and it really helped. Why not consult with a practitioner and find out?”
“I’ve got to do something, that much is clear. The Ibuprofen is really beginning to wreak havoc on my stomach, and that can’t be a good thing. Damn it!”
“What?”
“I’m not going to sleep again tonight. You’re dozing off over there, but I’m wide awake. I hurt too much to sleep.”
“Didn’t you take your last dose?”
He sighed. “No.”
“Why not?"
“I don’t like that stuff. I told you, it’s upsetting my stomach.” He shifted restlessly and finally flung off the covers. “I think I’ll go muck about with the harp.”
“But it’s late, Ro!”
“I shan’t play loudly enough to disturb anyone. I just need a distraction before I go out of my mind.”
He left, and for a time I lay there alone, drifting in and out of sleep, the delicate notes weaving through my thoughts and dreams. I couldn’t believe how nice it sounded already, when he had barely been in possession of the instrument for twenty-four hours.
Since that night, he had been turning to the harp for solace, and while I loved to hear him play, I hated the pain that drove him to it in those dark hours. Yet there was no question the practicing was good for him, and with his inherent musical instincts, he became proficient quickly.
The weeks passed slowly, and in time he adjusted well enough to the pain to build up a tolerance. He took far less Ibuprofen, and generally felt better, until one night in February, when a loud thump and a torrent of vicious-sounding Irish words awakened me. I reached out for him and found him sitting up, rocking back and forth.
“Ronan, what is it?”
At first he only hissed in response, the air drawn in and expelled sharply between his teeth. Then he took a few deep breaths. Finally, he answered in a tense, clipped voice. “I banged my elbow on the fucking nightstand. Jaysus, God!”
I couldn’t begin to imagine what fresh agony that must have summoned, but his reaction told me all I needed to know.
“Do you need some Ibuprofen?”
“Fuck the Ibuprofen. Do I have any codeine left?”
“I don’t think so, but I’ll go check.”
I hurried into the bathroom and quickly scanned the medicine cabinet: no codeine, but there were two muscle relaxer tablets. They would do nothing for his pain, but they would put him to sleep again, if he would agree to take them. I brought the bottle into the bedroom.
He had settled back on his pillows, and was holding his arm close to his chest. “What have you got there, a chuisle?”
“There wasn’t anything left of the pain meds, Ro, but I did find a couple of muscle relaxers. If you take one, you’ll fall asleep again pretty quickly.”
“Will it help the pain?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t want it. Not yet, anyway.”
“All right. Anything else I can do?”
“Keep me company. Talk to me. Distract me. Och, Jaysus! I can’t believe how much this hurts!”
I had no idea what to say, but I drew him close and held him, and stroked his hair, and after awhile he grew quiet and relaxed in my arms.
“This is hell, Sarah,” he said softly. “It’s been two months since the surgery, and I really thought I’d be so much better by now, but the pain’s still unbearable, and I’ve forgotten what it feels like to actually use this arm. Do you realize I’ve had it in a cast nearly four months now?”
“Has it really been that long?”
“Yes, if you go back to the initial injury. I got a good look at it when they changed the cast yesterday. You wouldn’t believe how badly it’s atrophied! It’s hardly recognizable as my own arm. Rehab—providing I ever get to that stage—is going to be a nightmare.”
“It will be a lot of work,” I agreed, “but at least they’ve discovered the nerve damage is barely worth mentioning.”
“Thank God for that mercy!” he responded fervently. “But I’m thinking I want a second opinion. Long-term immobilization may not be the best way to heal this.”
“It certainly wouldn’t hurt to have someone else take a look. Ask around. Maybe Sean knows someone.”
“Actually, Sean’s the one who suggested it. He gave me the name of the man who treated his broken leg a few years back. I’ve already booked an appointment.”
“Good! I hope he’ll be able to help.”
“So do I. D’you know, years ago, when I broke my ankle—and I really did do it it in badly—I never had a cast on it until about a month after the injury. The doctor tried to convince me that I didn’t really need one, and that may have been true in the daytime, when Rangi and Pania were always within earshot. But at night I was alone, afraid of falling and hurting myself again, and I didn’t want to take any chances. The doctor agreed to let me have a walking cast, but only for three weeks, and only if I would promise to start bearing weight on that foot right away. It was easier said than done, but I kept my promise, and it was worth it in the end. Once the cast came off, I wore hiking boots with good ankle support, and only had to use a crutch for a couple of weeks afterwards. But the point is, that was an awfully serious injury, yet I was up on my feet and mobile after the first four weeks. It wouldn’t have happened that way if the doctor had been as conservative as the man I have now.”
“The arm situation’s a bit different.”
“I know, but I can’t help thinking all this immobilization is doing more harm than good. I wish I could let my sister have a look at it, but—” He sighed. “Well, I know that’s impossible. I can’t show my face on Inis Meáin, and she doesn’t like to fly.”
“She wouldn’t come if you needed her?”
“She has no idea I need her.”
“You mean, she doesn’t know what happened to you?”
“Of course not. She can’t do anything for me that you aren’t already doing, and she has enough worries of her own, especially at this time of year, with Brendan at sea so much of the time.”
“It’s not right for you to keep it from her.”
“It would be worse to trouble her with it. Anyway, she will know someday.”
“After the fact?”
“Aye. The next time I see her, this will all be in the distant past.”
“I still don’t think it’s right, but you’ll do what you want anyway, pig-headed as you are.”
“Pig-headed, is it? Perhaps I am, but I have to do what I feel is right. She’ll be upset when she does hear about the assault, but she’ll get over it quickly enough if I’m well when she sees me.”
“If you really think—”
“I do, and we’ll have no further disussion on the subject.”
I was too tired to argue anymore. “All right, Ro. Just wait and see what this other doctor says. Hopefully he can help.” I yawned and snuggled in closer, and pecked his cheek. “I’m sorry, hon, but I’m fading.”
He returned the kiss. “Sleep, then. I didn’t mean to keep you up.”
“If tomorrow was Saturday, it wouldn’t be a problem, but I have to work in the morning.”
“I know.” He drew me close. “Lay your head, a mhuirnín .”
So I rested my head on his breast and drifted off to sleep, listening to the soft, steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath my ear.
