Chapter 29: Winnie for the Win
Bucky didn't know exactly why he hadn't woken Steve that night. His explanation of not wanting to sound whiny was probably as close as he could get to articulating it in words. He'd considered it several times over the course of those agonizing hours, but every time he almost reached out to jostle Steve awake, he thought to himself, "How many times had Steve lain awake unable to breathe comfortably over the years?" Not once had he woken Bucky to bother him about it, even when it happened during sleepovers as kids. Bucky only learned that Steve had woken up at all when he overheard his dad the next morning asking him if he managed to fall back asleep. He'd grown up in awe of Steve's ability to grin and bear it no matter what he was staring down—even his own death.
Still, he was glad Steve awoke when he did, because he wasn't sure how much longer he could've withstood that pain. It had been gradually worsening since the final dose of his heavier post-op meds, but that night it just reached an unbearable zenith. Every time he took a full breath, or even half a breath for that matter, his ribcage expanded and stretched the skin and muscle of his chest enough that it sent his newly-rerouted nerves into fits of signal firing that his brain interpreted as his arm burning white hot. Breathing (or not so much breathing as attempting to breathe) from his gut was the preferable alternative, even though it left him feeling constantly starved for air.
It was better today, with stronger meds coursing through his system, but better compared to last night was…still indescribable. He couldn't focus on anything with it constantly buzzing through his brain, not even the television. Fortunately, it was Sunday, so Steve could stay home with him all day. Bucky already knew he was going to have a hard time convincing him to leave tomorrow, but he'd already missed all of last week, and if he stayed away any longer Bucky knew he'd start to freak out that he was letting the kids down. He loved this reminder that Steve cherished him above his patients, but he didn't want to come between them and the crucial work Steve did any more than he absolutely had to.
Bucky spent that day alternating between his right side and flat on his back and counting down the hours until his next dose. He prayed every second that he would fall asleep or at least drift, but the pain remained at such a level that his brain refused to shut down. Steve fretted, naturally, but the only practical thing Bucky could think of for him to do that actually helped was the gentle forearm petting he'd done a few times now. It was a distraction that drew enough of his mental processing away from the pain to make it bearable. And at this point, bearable was the best Bucky could hope for.
That night before bed, Steve stared him down and made Bucky promise to wake him if things got bad again. Bucky promised. Their earlier conversation had helped pull him out of that toxic loop of thinking his issues weren't worth worrying Steve. He hoped pure exhaustion combined with the boost of pain meds would help him fall asleep and stay there for at least three or four hours—that's the most he dared to hope for, given how the past week had gone—but he wasn't so lucky. Steve drifted off almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, but Bucky lay awake staring at the ceiling and waiting for the stabbing pins and needles to recede. He forced himself to take full breaths even though it aggravated his fragile nerves, not wanting a repeat of last night.
The entire night, he snatched maybe two hours of sleep in fragmented twenty-minute intervals. Changing position hurt, but he couldn't stand one more minute on his back like a beached whale. On his side, the edge of the ace wrap dug into his armpit enough for it to be irritatingly noticeable through the haze of pain. He still had another week before it came off, and no upcoming week had ever felt so despairingly long. Just making it through the night felt like a herculean task, but the hours ticked by and Bucky endured.
"Did you sleep?" Steve asked when he climbed out of bed and started his morning monitoring routine.
"Not much," Bucky admitted. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath before levering himself up to sit.
"You want me to stay home? I can call in; they'd understand."
"No, I'll be fine."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Steve didn't look happy, but he didn't continue to argue. Bucky watched jealously as he threw on his running clothes and got ready for his morning jog. They almost always ran together. It was one of Bucky's favorite parts of the day. After working so hard to get himself back to a solid fitness level after cancer treatment, Bucky was terrified of losing it again and did everything in his power to keep himself where he needed to be both for soccer and for his personal satisfaction. But even walking to the kitchen seemed like a monumental task at the moment. He knew that this whole surgery thing was ultimately for his own good, but it was getting harder and harder to remember that when the misery constantly lapped at his mind.
Steve double checked that Bucky was okay with him going once again after his run. Bucky nearly snapped at him. However, before he left, he dug out a spare pill case and dished out Bucky's meds for the next several days. The gesture was so thoughtful that it lifted his spirits enough to mask the phantom pain for a few blissful moments. Bucky had his tricks for working childproof caps with one hand, but he wouldn't put it past himself to fail and grow frustrated in his current state. It was almost funny to look at his own pills laid out in such a fashion, when he was so used to Steve's veritable pharmacy. He took his morning dose and accepted Steve's goodbye kiss before resigning himself to a miserable day.
With the pain meds fresh in his system, he could focus enough to watch TV. He only got through one rerun of some vet show on National Geographic before there came a knock at the door. Bucky heaved himself to his feet and trudged over to open it. He was still in his pajamas, but he honestly didn't care. Expecting a solicitor, he opened his mouth to say, "No thank you," before he'd even swung the door wide enough to see the porch. He froze when he met eyes with his mother.
"Oh Bucky, you look so tired," she said pityingly. Without a word from him, she bustled past him into the house.
"Hey Mom," he said, bewildered. She had given no indication she was coming to visit today. "What are you doing here?"
"Steve called me last night and asked if I'd come keep you company today since he knew he wouldn't be able to convince you to agree with him staying home from work."
Bucky shook his head. He should have known that Steve wouldn't back down that easily. Of course he had a backup plan. And of course that plan involved one of the fiercest members of the elite group of mother-hoverers they called a family.
"Have you eaten yet today?" she asked, already bustling around the kitchen.
"No."
She tutted disapprovingly. "You can't take meds on an empty stomach. You'll get nauseous."
Bucky wanted to point out that there was no amount of nausea that could possibly be worse than the sensation already assaulting his left side, but he knew better than to share that with his mother. Steve must have told her about the hospital visit when he asked her to come here today, and Bucky shuddered to imagine how those events might've triggered her PTSD. At least she hadn't been here to watch. That would've been an absolute nightmare of a situation.
She thrust a banana at him while she pulled out a pot and a container of oatmeal from the pantry. Bucky held it up before he realized she'd already snapped the stem. He couldn't help but smile. Starting it was the hardest part of peeling a banana for him, but he easily did the rest with his teeth. He sat down at the kitchen table and watched Mom cook, slowly working his way through the banana.
"Did Steve tell you what happened that night?" he asked cautiously. He was mostly certain that she knew, but he wanted to bring it up on his own terms so she didn't lecture him out of the blue.
"He did."
Bucky swallowed another bite of banana, with difficulty since his mouth had suddenly gone dry. He hadn't been this afraid of his mother's wrath since that time he snuck back into the house after sneaking out to a soccer party.
She turned away from the stove and pointed at him accusingly with a wooden spoon. "You, young man, could use a serious lecture about what is and is not acceptable to just power through."
He sighed, "I know."
"You gave Steve quite a fright. That man has been through enough without you bottling up your problems and insisting you can handle them on your own until they blow up in your face. He is your partner, and that means something."
"I know. I won't do it again."
"Good. I expect nothing less." The sternness evaporated, replaced by concern so potent he could feel it against his skin. She approached and placed a loving hand on the side of his head. "Buckaroo, did it really hurt that badly?"
He chuckled at her use of that absurd nickname and tilted his head ever so slightly into her embrace. "Yeah." There was no point in sugarcoating it.
"I'm so sorry. I wish there was more I could do."
"'S okay. Short term pain, long term gain," he said, remembering what his surgeon had told him.
"I certainly hope so. Now finish your fruit." She pressed the half-eaten banana back into his hand and returned to the simmering oatmeal. Bucky rolled his eyes and took another bite. As much as he cherished his independence, he had to admit it was nice to be cared for.
~0~
Steve received a text from Winnifred around nine thirty, letting him know that Bucky was fed and medicated, and far more receptive to her being there than she'd feared he might be. He smiled in relief. At first, he'd thought returning to work a week after Bucky's surgery would be no problem, but that was before he ended up in the ER in the wee hours of Sunday morning. If it weren't for Bucky's protests, Steve would have taken today off too. And probably tomorrow. But Bucky was right, he hated to be away from his patients any longer. He'd called Winnifred knowing that he wouldn't be able to focus at work if he knew Bucky was home alone. What if he decided to stop breathing again? Having someone else there was a necessary reassurance at this stage, and Steve was glad that Bucky accepted his mother's assistance.
Even with his knowledge that Bucky was safe and taken care of, Steve still worried. He checked his phone for messages every spare moment he had, and Winnifred was very good at sending him updates every few hours. Bucky was not having a great time, but he was coherent and breathing fully and that was the best Steve could hope for. Still, he wished he could take some of the pain away and bear it himself.
To complete this perfect storm of apprehension, his lung function was down. Steve had measured it twice a day, every day, for almost five years and, except for that one acute rejection episode, it had been remarkably consistent. The day of Bucky's surgery, it had been a bit lower than normal, but not enough to worry him. Steve put it off as nerves, but then every subsequent measurement had been the same, and with each one the fear in his gut churned ever more violently.
Mere months from now, he'd reach his five-year transplant anniversary. Steve had been eagerly awaiting that milestone because most conditions associated with chronic lung rejection set in before then. As it edged ever closer, he dared to believe that he would be among the fifty percent to make it that far with no signs of rejection. But if this dip was everything he feared it was, then the odds were not in his favor. He wouldn't know for sure until his next transplant clinic appointment, so he tried to ignore the incessant gnawing of his worst fears and let his worries about Bucky take their place. Steve hadn't said a word about it because the last thing Bucky needed when he was already knocked down was to hear bad news.
On most days, he drove to work, at Bucky's insistence, because the car was safer than his motorcycle, but since Bucky was staying at home, Steve wanted to leave him a mode of transportation that he could actually drive. Plus, he thoroughly enjoyed a good ride. However, it was much easier to call home on the way in a car than on a bike, so he pulled up outside the house that evening with little idea what to expect. Winnie's car was still in the driveway, and her last update had been nearly three hours ago.
Steve fished out his keys and let himself inside. Winnifred poked her head around the corner and held a finger up to her lips, so Steve closed the door slowly and quietly behind him. "I finally got him to sleep a few minutes ago," she whispered. The weight of the worry on Steve's shoulders lightened immediately. Bucky had gotten maybe a measly four hours of sleep in the past three days—and that was a generous estimate.
"That's great," Steve said. "How'd you manage that?"
She held up a bottle of essential oils and pointed with her thumb to the living room, where Bucky was fast asleep beneath Carol's American flag blanket. Several pillows had been arranged to prop him up halfway between lying on his right side and his back.
"You're a godsend," he told Winnie.
"This is what mothers are for," she tutted. "How was your day?"
"It was good to be back, and I got a lot done, but of course I was worried how things were going here. Thanks for the updates. Not sure I could have focused without them."
"No problem. I know I would've wanted the same if I was in your shoes."
"How were things here?"
"Okay, as you know. The new meds are definitely helping, but not as much as any of us would like. Phantom pain is rather stubborn."
"Unfortunately." Steve checked the time, knowing she had at least a two-hour drive back to Brooklyn. "You'd better be going if you want to get home at a reasonable hour."
"My suitcase is in the trunk," she said curtly.
"You're staying?"
"If you'll have me. The guest room is not otherwise occupied, I'm assuming?"
"No, it's open." When Steve invited her, he'd assumed it was just for today, so hearing that she wanted to stay the night caught him off guard. At the same time, he was glad she'd be here longer. Clearly, Bucky benefitted from having her around. Winnifred nodded and popped outside to get her luggage from the car, then took it to the second bedroom. Steve wandered back into the living room and sat down in the armchair, watching Bucky's chest rise and fall. He was still paranoid after the events of that night.
Winnifred came back and started bustling around the kitchen. "You don't have to make dinner, I got it," Steve told her.
"Nonsense. What's the point of having your mother-in-law over if she doesn't cook for you?"
He stood up to at least offer his assistance. "You've already done more than enough."
"Sit down, Steven," she said warningly. Bucky stirred and made a quiet snuffling sound, but he didn't wake.
"Okay, okay," Steve said quietly. "I'll just…sit here and do nothing."
"You'd better."
~0~
Bucky woke up to Steve gently jostling his hip. This being the first time he'd managed to really sleep in several days, he was not eager to be awoken. "What do you want?" he grumbled, refusing to open his eyes.
"Dinner's ready," Steve informed him. "And you're due for meds."
Reluctantly, Bucky tucked his right arm beneath him and pushed himself to sitting. He gritted his teeth against the surge of fire up his phantom arm and took a moment to breathe before standing up. Though he still didn't have much of an appetite, meds certainly sounded like a worthwhile reason to get up. Bucky saw his mom working on a big pot of something on the stove, and smelled beef stew. The scent of it awakened his stomach with an audible growl.
"Hungry?" Steve asked with a smirk.
"Yeah, I guess so. I haven't had Mom's stew in a long time."
"I thought you could use a comfort food," she said.
"Thank you."
"My pleasure. Now go take your pills and sit down."
The stew was everything he'd hoped it would be from the first whiff. Bucky could handle fork-and-knife foods pretty well, but foods that only required a single utensil put him on equal footing with everyone else at the table. She'd even cut the carrots into chunks instead of disks, just the way he liked it.
"How long are you staying?" he asked jokingly.
"I brought enough clothes for five days," she said.
"Wait, seriously? I thought you were just here for today."
"Nope. I'm staying tonight, and I'll stay as far into the week as you'll have me."
"That's news to me."
"Good news, I hope?"
Bucky took another luxurious spoonful of stew. "Heck yeah, it's good news."
After dinner, Bucky once again enjoyed one of the few perks of being newly post-surgery in that he didn't have to help with the dishes. They usually divvied up the work the same way; Bucky washed and Steve dried, but with Mom in the house she took over Bucky's role. He could tell Steve was glad not to be pulling double duty anymore. When they finished, he asked if Steve would help him wash his hair again. Bucky hadn't had the energy to bathe since he got back from the emergency hospital trip, but he wanted the lingering scent gone.
Steve flipped on the news after he finished helping Bucky. Throughout the week he switched which network he watched to ensure as unbiased a viewpoint as possible. Bucky didn't much care; he never paid much more than half his attention unless it was a sports or healthcare-related story, and now he didn't even have more than a slim percentage of attention to pay to anything but pain. His mom offered plenty of her commentary, though. She and Dad used to discuss the news some evenings, but she discovered that Steve was just as willing to hear her out and offer his own counterpoints. Bucky wondered if Steve was glad to have her there because she was more willing and knowledgeable about this sort of thing than Bucky.
At nine o'clock, Steve asked if he wanted to go to bed. Bucky wanted nothing more than to sleep, preferably for thirty-six hours straight, but he knew from the past week that there was little chance he'd actually rest in their bed. The most comfortable he'd been since the surgery—most comfortable being a very, very relative term—was here on the sofa with all the pillows where Mom put him.
"I think I might have better odds of sleeping if I stay here," he confessed. "That nap you woke me from is the most consecutive minutes I've gotten in almost a week."
"Okay. I'll leave you to it, then." Steve settled his hands on his knees and levered himself to standing.
"You don't have to leave until you're ready to go to bed. It's only nine."
"Yeah, but I'm pretty tired. First day back at work after a week off, and I can only imagine how exhausted you are."
"Do you want to try the essential oils again?" Mom asked.
"Sure." Bucky brushed his teeth and changed into a clean pair of sweatpants and a tee shirt to serve as pajamas, not that he'd put on anything else in the past week. When he returned to the living room, Mom had set up the diffuser. "When did you even get this thing? You didn't used to be an essential oils type of person," he commented.
"Liz from my Momcology group recommended it. I've found it really helps me fall back asleep after nightmares."
He didn't even know she still had those, but he was too mentally and physically exhausted to ask about it. Bucky fluffed up the pillows he'd been laying against and attempted to find the same position that had allowed him to fall asleep last time. Lying flat on his back made the incision feel stretched out, and lying on his right side made his phantom arm feel inexplicably weighed down or something, but this halfway point Mom had helped him find didn't exacerbate either of those two issues.
Mom placed the diffuser close enough that he could smell the lavender, but not so close that it overwhelmed his senses. Bucky sighed and closed his eyes. "Good night," she said quietly.
"Night," he said back. He did manage to fall asleep, but a glance at the clock when he awoke proved it only lasted about an hour. The house was silent. Bucky got up and took a lap, careful not to wake Steve or Mom, then resettled and tried to fall asleep again. That process repeated all night long.
