Pain Killers without the Pill

Just over four years ago my dad was in an accident that damaged his leg quite badly. Four years ago? It seems like just yesterday since I can hear the siren on the ambulance ringing clear as a bell, and the sight of the bale wagon mangled in the exact place where I know-because I saw it for 18 years-my dad kept his left leg: cocked back against the seat, the open door and so unfortunately close to that trigger bar that would later find its home in my dad's mid calf. Yes, I remember the car ride over to the hospital, the sight of my dad's shoe with the laces sliced off, and his bloodied pant leg cut up around his knee. I remember the walk I took with my brother, and when we stopped in the hospital cafeteria that smelled like PineSol and chocolate milk, and hugged hard and long as we both cried  far out of the public eyes that we thought would scorn our tears (that's how bad both of us hate crying). I remember the family that flocked to fill cars with gas, grab extra clothes and stuff money in hands and pockets to send with us to the Pocatello hospital. I remember looking at my dad's familiar hand with the dark brown, calloused skin and  crooked pinky holding my sister's petite, white one. I remember the waiting, the stress and the worry. I remember drugging my brother with Tylenol PM so he would sleep that night. We slept in the same bed, and neither one of minded; in fact, we were happy to have each other close by. One detail that I never paid much attention to until tonight was what my mother did. Of course she was stressed, worried, anxious and exhausted, but tonight I remembered exactly what she was doing. She held my dad's hand with one of her's and stroked his eyebrows with the other. She did this for hours after his emergency surgery. Actually, I'm willing to bet she stood by him and did it all night long, because the next morning she was doing the same thing: holding his hand and stroking his eyebrows. And the day after, and the next and the next. When my dad was able  to come home, my mom went straight to the store and bought tubes, bottles and jars of every kind of lotion, numbing lotion, smelly lotion, soothing lotion ect. Then for the next 6 months she rubbed my dad's feet every single day.

Sometimes that's all you can do: hold a hand and  rub feet. If you're not a doctor, then you can't really help, even if you sit there and get all anxious as you scope around for something to do. The minute you see a pillow that could stand to be fluffed, you fluff it. As soon as you see the water glass inching just out of comfortable reach, you scootch it closer. Sometimes, no matter how badly you want to help someone, make them feel better or take away their pain, there is nothing you can do but hold their hand and rub their feet--for the next 9 months.