Dry_ A Memoir - Augusten Burroughs [96]
“I don’t understand.”
“I don’t either. Nobody does. My blood work is normal. T-cells are fine. But there are things that should be a lot higher given everything else.”
“What should be higher?”
“All the things you don’t pay attention to.” He doesn’t say this with anger. Just a little sadness. I realize what a difference it would have made to him if I had paid even a little more attention.
“When are you coming home?”
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t know. They tell me in a couple of days, so we’ll see.”
“They’re not telling you anything?”
“They’re concerned about the hiccups because they don’t know what’s causing them. They just don’t stop.”
“Aren’t they doing anything?” I ask. This makes no sense. None.
“Well, there’s a new class of drugs called integrase inhibitors. So my doctor, Barbara, says, ‘Let’s get him the drug.’ But once again, it’s not available yet and the current trials are only open to patients who are naive to all other drugs.”
“Naive?” I ask.
“People who’ve never taken anything.” Pighead has taken everything. “If I’m lucky, she said by October we should start to see compassionate-use availability. But that’s a long time away.”
“It’s not all that long,” I tell him. “Not at all.”
“Well, the amazing thing about these drugs is that they’re trying to develop them to be a once-daily pill. Imagine, just one pill.”
I picture his kitchen counter, littered with prescription medications. Which I had always found so odd because he’d never been sick or looked unhealthy. If anything, he was tired sometimes, or miserable with side effects from the medicine. But overall, he’s been fine. Besides, nobody gets really sick from AIDS anymore. They certainly don’t die from it.
“I told Barbara, ‘I want to get off of the heavy-duty antibiotics I’m taking to allegedly prevent MAC. To give my body a break for a while.’ ” He looks around for something.
“You want some water?”
He nods his head.
I take the urine-yellow plastic water pitcher on his nightstand and pour some water into the paper cup, hand it to him. “Why are your hands shaking?” I ask, trying to control the shaking in my own voice.
“Yet another new and fun thing.” Water splashes out of the cup, soaking the front of his hospital gown.
“Why did you have an ambulance take you here? Why didn’t you just call me at work and have me take you in a cab?”
Something in his eyes frightens me. “Because the hiccups wouldn’t stop long enough for me to talk. I was losing the ability to breathe.”
Jesus. “They’re not so bad now,” I say.
“Morphine calms them down for some reason.”
It dawns on me that the two people I most obsess over are seriously involved with narcotics. I put my head on his chest, listen to his heart. It’s beating so fast that I’m afraid just listening it to it will make mine beat along with it and I’ll have a heart attack. His heart sounds like a bird’s, not a man’s. He falls asleep instantly and for some reason, this makes me profoundly sad.
• • •
Will I ever stop smoking? Do I need more paper towels? I sprayed the TV screen with Windex, but maybe I should go back and clean in between the ventilation crevices in the rear. And this is all that’s on my mind, all I can think about even though Pighead is in a hospital room being very sick.
My thoughts seem thick, ketchup stuck in the bottle. Like trying to feel someone’s face while wearing goosedown mittens. I’ve played all my sad music; nothing works. Nothing makes me realize, understand that it is Pighead in that bed.
His hand shook as he held the tiny paper meds cup. It trembled under the weight of less than an ounce of tap water. He winced in pain as he swallowed and collapsed back on the bed, exhausted as if he’d just done bench presses.
I’m out of soap in the bathroom. And there was no mail today. Strange. There’s always something. Coupons at least.
The last thing he gave me before I left his hospital room last night: a yellow sticky note on which he’d scrawled PLEASE REMEMBER I LOVE YOU.
I should go back now and lie in bed next to him and hold him in my