finger lovin

Be forewarned - this is a work story. And it ain't pretty.

I stood in the hallway. My hand was poised to knock, but I was frozen. Stuck quick to the spot by the smell. Like a thousand cigarettes smoked by a thousand hobos in one train car. I did some quick lamaze breathing to steel myself against the wall of Marlboro that would assault me once I walked through the door. I knocked. There were muffled shouts, then a long, slow dragging noise. I took one last deep breath and tried to breathe through my mouth the way my mother taught me whenever we used a public bathroom. The door creaked open.

Before I go further, I must point out that I really liked Mr. and Mrs. Santoro. Both were very polite and sweet. In their mid-60's, they were younger than many of my clients, but sicker than most. Mr. Santoro had a host of health problems related to diabetes, not the least of which was that he had lost a leg above the knee to an infection. His toes dropped off one at a time, and he collected them in a coffee cup (yup, that guy!). The infection then traveled up his leg until he lost most of the leg. Mrs. Santoro was morbidly obese. Her 5 foot 1 frame carried around 350 pounds. She was on continuous oxygen, (though this did not staunch her two-pack-a-day cigarette habit), and she had a foley catheter permanently in place for reasons that were never explained to me. (Quick note: a catheter is a tube that is inserted through the urethra directly into the bladder. Urine then flows through the catheter to a bag that the patient carries around and empties out as need be. Eww, and oww.) Nonetheless, Mr. and Mrs. Santoro were very much in love, and hated to be apart, even for a day. Mr. Santoro often told of how he had first seen his wife at a dance, and stole her away from her then-boyfriend to marry her a month later. Sweet, right?

The door opened, and Mrs. Santoro welcomed me inside. The apartment was dark and close. No windows were ever opened. No daylight ever penetrated the haze of cigarette smoked that hung like a curtain. Mrs. Santoro was clutching her walker. Her house dress fought against her belly and sagging breasts. She had her urostomy bag resting in a basket on her walker, half-full of orange urine. A cigarette was clamped between her lips. Her oxygen canula hung out of her nose, its base dragging behind her on wheels. Her face was red and bulging with fury. She and her husband had been having a fight, one of several they had daily. The fights were often due to the money Mrs. Santoro spent on the Home Shopping Network, the affection Mr. Santoro withheld from her, and as I was about to find out - sex.

"He wants to put it in my ass!" She spit this sentence, and the cigarette, out of her mouth. I plucked the still-lit cigarette off of the linoleum floor and stubbed it out. I needed time to compose myself. Behind Mrs. Santoro, her husband sat, face buried in his hands, on the ravaged couch where he spent every day and night. The bed could barely hold Mrs. Santoro's bulk; therefore, her husband was relegated to the couch. Mr. Santoro was a sad sack. In all of the years I visited him, I never once saw him smile. His skin was pasty and his teeth were nicotine-scarred. His fingernails were long and yellow. His greasy hair hung below his shoulders. Despite the fact that the couple each had a home health aide to assist with personal needs, waves of body odor floated about them.

I walked into the living room and solemnly sat on the couch next to Mr. Santoro, with his wife close on my heels. She was too large for any of the chairs in the dark and dank room, so she stood in the doorway leaning on her walker. I looked at them both with as much compassion as I could muster, and asked how I could help them, dreading the answer.

"Karen won't have sex with me!"

"I have a tube up my hole!"

"You could at least put your lips around it".

"That thing hasn't seen a bar of soap since Carter was president!"

I swallowed a vomit burp. The complaints continued ad nauseum. I called for a time out and asked them both to be quiet for a moment. In all of my years of schooling, I can honestly say that this topic never came up. How would I improve, let alone discuss, intimacy issues with a couple who were both physically restricted? More importantly, how would I broach this very sensitive subject with two clients whom I found physically revolting?

I stared at the couple until my vision blurred and I could no longer see them sharply. I practiced the open-mouthed breathing my mother had taught me. I pretended a professor was observing me, and I launched in head first.

"Well," I began, "I hear a lot of frustration coming from each of you." There was emphatic nodding and "You got that right" coming from the clients. "Let's see what's bothering each of you and see if we can't come to some sort of compromise". I hated myself for the psychobullshit that was spewing from my mouth, but in times of professional crisis I reverted back to a shrink from one of those educational videos. Oh the horror.

"Karen, let's start with you."

"Al only wants sex sex sex".

"What're you talkin about? It's been four goddamned years!"

I interrupted as Karen looked as though she would fling her full urostomy bag at her husband. I asked him to let Karen finish speaking.

"He never wants to hold me."

"So," I ventured, "you're feeling neglected and you wish you were closer to your husband".

"Exactly!" Karen waved the bag around excitedly.

"Bullshit!" Al slapped his knee and pointed a yellowed nail at his wife. "She won't let me near her. All I asked for was a blow job and she threatened to bite it off if I came near her".

"Oh sure, you get a blow job. What do I get out of it?"

I could go on, as this conversation did for an hour and a half. I'll cut to the final resolution, as the tone of the conversation has pretty much been set. It concluded as follows: we surmised that Karen wanted sexual attention as much as Al did, but she was afraid of the pain that might be involved. Thus, she rejected any and all of her husband's advances. Al, in turn, missed the intimacy of sleeping next to his wife. Since that was no longer possible, he felt the only way they could achieve any intimacy was through sex. We had finally come to some common ground, and it was now my turn to offer some possible solutions.

"Karen, what type of physical touching do you feel comfortable with?"

"Well, I guess I would like it if Al used his fingers on me. As long as he doesn't pull my tube out". (Shudder shudder).

"Okay, good. Al, what would make you feel more satisfied?"

"I really do miss a good blow job. Karen used to go down on me any...."

"I ain't touchin that thing unless you scrub it with a wash cloth. Good and hard".

"All right already. I said I'd wash!"

"Good. I think we've gotten a lot accomplished today. So, what I suggest is that the two of you practice what we've just talked about. Find your comfort levels, and most of all, talk to each other. Let me know how it goes".

I refocused my eyes and got up to leave. My head was swimming. I needed to take a shower and watch Bambi to erase the filthy images that were polluting my brain. Mr. and Mrs. Santoro thanked me and promised they'd start practicing right away. I couldn't get to the car fast enough.

For the next year, Mr. and Mrs. Santoro settled into a new intimacy. Unfortunately, they kept me abreast of all developments.

"I just thought I'd call and tell you that Al finally learned how to touch my button just right."

"Karen's not afraid to swallow anymore".

I was proud of the monsters I had created, but I encouraged them to keep some of the details private to maintain the intimacy.

Not long after this breakthrough, Mrs. Santoro was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and died in the hospital within a few weeks. Mr. Santoro, who hadn't been out of the apartment for years, was by her side, stroking her hand as she left. He never recovered, and followed after her three months later.