A Helping Hand from Mom

Randy had adapted extraordinarily well to his disability. At 16, he was active in track and field sports, excelled at school, was class president of his ninth grade class, and was planning to become an Eagle Scout. If anything, the tragic loss of his left arm in a farming accident at the tender age of nine had given Randy more motivation to excel than most boys his age.

So it was doubly heartbreaking for him when, during a cross-country meet in the spring of his freshman year, Randy slipped on wet grass and fell, breaking his good right arm above the elbow. The pain was bearable; he was a tough young man. But the now useless right arm became a cruel mirror of his left arm stump. He was now helpless, and it was a feeling he did not like at all.

Randy’s father, a stoic, hardworking farmer named Ed, gave his teenage son a series of unhelpful pep talks as Randy’s arm was x-rayed, set and put into a plaster cast. Donna, his mother, was more sympathetic, recognizing her son’s frustration. The drive home from the hospital was agonizingly long, both in terms of distance and the palpable tension in the car.

It was late April, and there was a lot of work to be done on the farm. Ed normally counted on Randy to help, but now had to do it on his own. For his part, Randy was pushing the limits of his own abilities, trying to keep his independence in the smallest of life tasks. But when he realized he couldn’t even wipe himself after using the toilet, he sheepishly called to his mother to help.

Donna came and helped him, being very deliberate to not make her son feel powerless. Still, as she cleaned him, he sobbed violently. He sat there on the toilet, leaning against her, bawling into her shoulder. Donna comforted him, cooing soothing words into his ear.

“Shh, honey, it’ll be okay. We’ll just have to work together until your arm heals. You are my child, Randy. I’ve seen you naked a million times, and I’ve wiped your butt more times than I could count when you were in diapers. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to be your hands for a few weeks until your arm is better.”

Randy cried a little longer, but hearing his dad’s tractor in the field, he regained his composure, and let his mother finish wiping him. She pulled up his jeans and washed her hands.

“Thanks, Mom. I just can’t wait until this damn cast comes off.”

Donna gave him a wan smile.

“Until then, you might want to wear sweatpants so I don’t have to work so hard to get your pants on and off.”

She spun around and left the bathroom. Randy looked at himself in the mirror, his left arm a stump and his right a huge white plaster L shape. He shook his head and went upstairs to his room.

Farm work kept Ed out of the house nearly all day, every day. He was out in the fields before dawn, and didn’t usually come to bed until ten or eleven at night. Donna looked over at him as he slumbered. His face was etched with myriad lines from sun and wind and a lifetime of hard work. A few days of stubble were starting to show a little gray. This is the life of a farmer, Donna mused to herself as she watched her husband get a few hours of precious rest. He was happiest tilling the earth. He had no patience or skill for feelings, clever concepts, complicated relationships or even much conversation. Ed was a man made for working the land. Donna often felt alone, the only woman in the family, always at home, never able to express her feelings or vent her fears or frustrations. Randy was just like his dad. Or would be, eventually. But for now, he was still her boy, and now he needed her more than ever. She warmed at the thought, feeling good that she had an indispensable purpose. Then she considered Randy’s humiliating helplessness that first day on the toilet, and chided herself. She rolled over and closed her eyes. Sleep came quickly, and Ed had long ago risen to work by the time she reawakened.

Randy avoided showering for a few days, knowing it would be difficult, awkward, unsatisfying and would require his mother’s help. But he didn’t want to embarrass himself by returning to school smelling badly, and by the third full day, he quietly asked his mom to help him bathe.

“Just like when you were a baby,” Donna mumbled absentmindedly.

Randy fumed, “I am not a baby, Mom!”

“That’s not what I meant, honey,” Donna apologized. “It just brings back memories, that’s all.”

Randy stood in the bathtub, while Donna sprayed his naked body down with the hand-held shower head with one hand, and soaped him up with the other. Randy stood with his back to her, trying to maintain some dignity by hiding his crotch.

“I need to wash your butt and your privates, honey,” Donna finally said. She’d waited to do them last so his embarrassment might be put off to the end.

Reluctantly, Randy widened his stance, and Donna quickly rubbed her soapy hand through his butt crack, being as clinical and efficient as she could. She hosed him down and soaped him again, then rinsed again.

“Okay, turn around, Randy.”

Randy rotated, his eyes fixed on the light fixture above, as Donna rubbed the soap all over his penis, scrotum and thick pubic hair. She also did this quickly for Randy’s sake. She couldn’t help but notice how much he had developed in the past few years, as the incidental glimpses of her son’s anatomy had become less frequent with his adolescent need for privacy. Still, she avoided staring at his genitals, and finished washing and rinsing her son.

“Finally!” Randy sighed with exasperation. “You’ll have to towel me off too, I’m afraid.”

Donna nodded quietly, rinsed off her hands and grabbed a towel from the hook. She set about drying him off, his back and shoulders, his chest and stomach, his head and neck, his thighs and calves. She stopped, and Randy started to step from the tub.

“I’m not done,” Donna insisted, and thrust her toweled hand into Randy’s crotch.

She gently rubbed him dry, working the towel into the various corners and folds of his genitals.