I haven’t seen the Mister’s naughty bits since before Memorial Day 2005, the day he left home to join the medical circus. And frankly, sightings of certain parts of his anatomy were never exactly a daily occurrence. Take, for instance, the backside of his scrotum.

The bedridden are often plagued with bed sores. For wheelchair jockeys, it is more likely to be butt sores. Especially for men. Consider their structure: they are biggish on top then taper down to disproportionately boney little bottoms. I am not sure why they don’t just tip over whenever they try to sit. Also, women are all tucked up inside, but a man’s scrotum kind of gets in the way. So pressure sores occur in a very delicate area.

Before getting out of bed, the Mister has dressings changed when the sores are acting up. One lovely young bird is the nurse who usually does the job. While nurses are often too Rachet-y for my taste (“If Mr. McMurphy doesn’t want to take his medication orally, I’m sure we can arrange that he can have it some other way”) this one is a delight.

Hands-on treatment in the end zone is a sensitive balancing act for both nurse and patient. Using too much NuSkin spray is analogous to sticking a firecracker under his balls and lighting it. But handle the area too gently and, well, a guy might do what guys do. So the Mister and the Nurse keep up a running patter for distraction. Here are some snippets:

Monday

The Mister: Most women want to be paid a lot more to do that.

The Nurse: Considering where my hands are, you might not want to be a smart ass just now.

Tuesday

The Nurse: Men have these loose parts just hanging out there looking to get hurt.

The Mister: That’s not what they’re looking to get.

Wednesday

The Nurse (after T.M. referred to himself as a former person): If you don’t stop saying that, I swear I will hurt you.

The Mister: Maybe we should skip the scrotum exam this morning.

Between the washing and the dressing, there is a period when the medication must dry. The Nurse comes around to the other side of the bed, sits in the Mister’s wheelchair and talks to him face to face. They discuss fishing and bowling and her boyfriend and all manner of cabbages and kings. Then she finishes the chore, dressing the wounds for another day.

His banter makes her job easier; her banter makes his life easier. They are intimate partners in a way that he and I will never be.

When I hear the phrase, “What are friends for?” I think about this particular display of familiarity. It is surely true that friends see us through. But the day will come when we are all equally dependent on the kindness of strangers.