Rub A Dub Dub

I Listen While Other Women Give My Husband A Shower

The names have been changed to protect the innocent

My husband’s exposure to Agent Orange caused a rare tumor — one more prevalent in dogs — to develop in his brain. Because of this tumor, his right leg doesn’t always follow his brain’s commands.

Unlike those endearing four-legged pets, my husband only has two legs. And when one stops working properly, simple chores become a challenge.

Things he used to do such as cooking, taking out the trash and climbing on ladders to change light bulbs, fell upon me.

So, when the Veterans Administration determined he was eligible for a caregiver, who was I to argue with some household help?

Folding laundry, doing dishes, making beds. I gave up those tasks easily.

Helping my husband shower? Well, that was another story.

For years I’d been helping him in and out of our shower tub. Throughout the decades we’ve had fun in various spas, with and without each other. I didn’t mind our “shower hour” but it was beginning to feel more like an obligation than something spontaneous.

“Are you okay with this?” I asked him as Betty, the first in a series of caregivers, wheeled him down the hall toward the bathroom.

He shrugged. I took that to mean yes. Getting touched all over by a soft-spoken woman with gentle hands. Who wouldn’t like that?

During that first shower time, I sat in my office listening to them talking and laughing. I felt as if I was eavesdropping in my own home. It was like reading a secret text message. And like stumbling upon a clandestine event, I was glued to my chair, my fingers poised over my keyboard, not making a sound.

I wondered what part of my husband’s body Betty was caressing. What made him giggle like a teenage boy? Of course, my imagination kicked into overdrive. As I’ll let yours do.

Later that night, my husband explained the process to me. Betty started with his back, and slowly navigated to his underarms and chest and down to his feet. She only washed places he couldn’t reach. And as we know, all men can touch their private parts.

Betty loved to talk politics, while she washed him. I would hear her tell him to move a little to the left, while they discussed our previous right-wing administration.

After Betty came Elsie.

Elsie loved sports. They would talk about basketball, football, baseball. Anything involving a ball.

Our current caregiver, Alana, doesn’t speak English every well. She laughs and smiles. And I have no idea what they talk about during his showers. He always emerges clean shaven and smelling fresh, with a smile on his face.

Most days I don’t listen anymore. I take that time to go for a walk, thankful for these caring women who have enabled my husband and I to once again enjoy each other’s bodies without it being a household chore.

Thanks for reading!