Cared For - Tumblr Posts

Finally! I am out of the hospital!

Hello dear readers!

It’s true!

I am free!

We spoke with a wound care specialist late yesterday and we tried new treatments for the wound and it took well overnight.

So now I can go 2-3 days without messing with the wound, giving me time to have home health nurse come and administer the new treatment.

My oldest child and disabled mother were both taught how to do the treatment in case the dressing needed changed before the nurse could come.

Both of them are very secure in believing that they can do the treatment without having any problems

The walking is exhausting and I have to use a walker because I get light headed after about 50-80 feet.

Also sitting in the car or on a chair hurts because of where the wound is.

I am not allowed home because it two story so I am staying elsewhere for now.

I physically do not feel like the same person that I was before all this.

I am weak and constantly tired.

I have NEVER been the weak one in my family.

I have NEVER been the one cared for in the family

Everyone came to me to take care of them and came to me for physical and emotional strength.

I am in totally unknown territory.

But on the plus side… no more hospital food, hospital beds, 3am vital checks, 5am blood draws, and incessant visitors barging in.

lol

💜💜💜

Oh this is so sweet! 🥲

Cared For

Title: Cared For

Pairing: None

Character: Old Javier Peña with a young nurse, nonsexual.

Words: 3400

Warnings: old man, sick, and in a nursing home. If you liked my Undertaker you'll like this.

A/N: I did the reverse tropes found HERE and my dear @brandyllyn requested Javi Peña with a white mustache -- the nursing home AU that none of you realized you needed.

AUTHOR Masterlist (with new tag list!)

JAVI P Masterlist

You had always been more drawn to old people than to kids. You loved butterscotch candies and the same pulpy shows. You didn’t mind repeating yourself in conversation or hearing the same story a dozen times. 

Old music was soothing to you.

You were out of place here, because the average age of the residents was seventy two and you just weren’t. 

Everyone always asked how you got here. 

For you, this all started when you were 8 years old and your neighbor passed away. You would only know him as Mr. Gerber and you didn't even know if that was really his name or just what a smaller version of you called him. He had been a pleasant man and he had beautiful flowers and a well-kept garden. He used one of those old rotary lawn mowers and refused to get a modern one and he had a dog named Frank. Frank was a mutt of some brand and the man claimed he had corgi in him. Frank looked like a very swollen hot dog but he was the wrong color, more orange brown splotches like a mashed up Peanut Butter Cup. 

By the time you had known Frank at all he was an ancient sort of animal. They claimed he was 12 or 13 and you thought that sounded very old even before you understood the concept of dog years. 

When Mr. Gerber passed away you remember Frank sitting outside chained to a tree whimpering and then going to his dog house all alone and he stayed that way for two days while your dad went over and gave him water and a bucket of kibble. Your parents explained that they would be selling Mr. Gerber's house and that his son who is coming down from Dallas was going to be letting the neighbors and friends take whatever mementos they wanted before the house was sold. 

You were confused. You didn't really want Mr. Gerber's things but your mother said it was a nice way to remember somebody because you could take care of those things like you took care of the memory of the person. So you took Mr. Gerber’s Daisy print watering can for the garden and you took a teacup that he always used that had a sunflower on it and an old straw hat that he used to keep the sun off of his head which was too big on you then but which you still had and now it fit you quite nicely. 

Then you asked what Frank got to keep and your parents uncomfortably explained that Frank was liable to be taken to the pound. 

You had no idea what a pound was and when they explained you said you hoped Frank would find a lovely family and your father sighed, “Mostly old dogs like Frank just waited out the rest of their lives there.”

“Wait for what?”

“To…um. Die. To die.”

“To die?!”

“Don’t get rattled, sweetheart– he would want to go back and see Mr. Gerber in the big ol’ next-door-house in the sky.” 

You didn't sleep that night and in the morning you told your parents very seriously that it wasn't fair to let Frank live out his days there with people who didn't know him and grass that didn't smell familiar. That even if he couldn't go back home he could look at it and you wanted to keep him here. Given that your mother was allergic and a little afraid of dogs it took a lot of convincing but you urged them to think about how lonely an old dog would be and how unfair that was because kindness was easy to give.

 A small version of you argued a harsh point: that it wouldn't be a very long stint of kindness but it would be very meaningful. 

That seemed to be the most compelling of the arguments for your parents at the time and Frank lived about two and a half more years with you and your family before comfortably nodding off one night on his blanket and not coming back.

Frank was the start of this whole situation in your life where you would go to the garden center and pick up the wilted flowers that everyone else passed over. It didn't shock your parents at all when you offered to buy a positively dilapidated house and then slowly learned to fix it up with the help of your dad and a couple of cousins and neighbors. You were a fixer by nature and you liked old things that other people were going to discard. Nearly all of your clothes were taken from garage sales or donations or hand me downs. 

So really, if anyone had paid attention, despite your relative youth there shouldn’t have been a question that you would choose to work with the lonely brand of people who had no one else in the world to look after them.

“You still sucking on those butterscotties?”

“I’ve never heard someone call them that, Mr. Peña.” You said fondly, tucking his collar down for him and adjusting his pillow behind his back. 

“Call me Javi, for Chrissake. Mr. Peña still reminds me of my father.” The man in the chair was white haired and you knew it actually heartened him to be reminded of his father, who had passed away going on fifty years ago. 

This man had a white mustache and plenty of hair, though it was thinned out now, and he wore button up shirts every day. Today’s was a soft red flannel, buttoned up to the top because of “the damn breeze” that ran through the place. 

“Then you have to call me Scottie.” You teased, “Because it reminds me of the butterscotties.” 

“You’re a pip. Why doesn’t your husband take you somewhere nice so you don’t have to be here with old dogs like me?”

“Not married,” you reminded him.

“Now that’s a crime, and I took down Escobar.” This was Javier Peña. Retired DEA agent, terrible cheat at poker, and he was your new Frank.

You gave him an indulgent smile, “Was he a real, what was it? Harebrained prick?”

“No, the harebrained prick was my partner, Steve.” Javi laughed but it made him cough for a moment and you offered him water, “But I suppose Steve would say the same about me.” Javi ran a gnarled hand through his hair, “Escobar was a vicious sonofabitch but harebrained? Rarely. Only time I thought he was off his nut was the Christmas thing. Shit. Still think he had that one all messed up. Well, just goes to show you.”

“Goes to show you what?”

“Can’t get it right all the time.” Javi shrugged, “He was pretty good at not making mistakes, but when he made them he made them big. Ran for office. Another one that wasn’t smart.”

You leaned against the windowsill, “Doesn’t get your vote then?”

“I mean…I did vote for Reagan, so I guess I haven’t made much better choices.” He gave a self deprecating snort and rubbed at his nose, his chin, his mustache, “What’s lunch today?”

“Macaroni and cheese.” 

“Eh,” He waved a hand, “I want a burger. Or barbeque.”

His eyes positively lit up when he said it. You knew Javi and his barbeque – he talked for an hour once about his mother’s braised goat, his dad’s ribs, and then described the smoking technique the Peña family used all while teasing that there were secrets about it he would have to take to the grave.

The grave.

You’d gotten his chart– you knew the recent news about his lungs was bad. 

You also knew that they’d called family but nobody had come. He had one brother but they were pretty distant. He had a couple of nieces but nobody was local and nobody came. Christmas cards came, but in the two years he’d been here you hadn’t seen a visitor. 

The barbeque was a beloved subject: safe and reliable, but it did end in him begging you for something from the outside when he was on a special diet. 

“Your doctor barely approves of the cheese – I have a salad side for you already.” You hedged.

Repeated ulcers, scarring, diabetic concerns, and to top it all off a bad reaction to the medication they had him on for his lungs. He had refused chemo – “All I got is my looks!” – but the other meds were a nightmare on the digestive tract. 

“What does he kno—” Another cough came and it really stole the words from him. You offered him a hankie and a glass of water again. You eyed how much he drank, eyed the clock, went and got his pills before he finished his cup and handed him his prescriptions. 

“He’s the best heart guy around.” You assured him, “He knows how to keep your heart tickin’.”

The heart they could talk about. Typical, run of the mill genetic heart problems. A lifetime of bad eating and cholesterol that was gunning for his arteries. 

That was normal compared to the lungs. 

A lifetime of smoking and drinking and eating fried shit. He knew. He already knew. 

He gave her a playful smile, “Only need you around to do that, Scottie.”

“Careful Javi. You’ll convince me to run away with you.” You took his empty pill container and went to refresh his water, coming back with a call of, “Do you want to try the puzzle again?”

“No, I hate those damn things.” He said, “Piece is always missing.” 

They weren’t, you made sure, but his eyes were going and he wouldn’t wear the glasses so he’d bent half the pieces to hell.

“Alright then…want to do art? There’s a painting class? They’re doing landscapes.”

“I wanna get some barbeque.” He insisted, “Is Mike’s still open?”

“It is.” You said evenly, “But Dr. Carter said—”

“He’s a kid what the hell does he know?”

“Best heart guy in the stat–”

“But does he know about Mike’s? Mike’s is the exception. No way this guy denies me Mike’s. You should call him and ask.”

You held up a painting kit, “What about a landscape?”

“I can’t draw to save my life.”

“But can you count? It’s paint by number!”

He sighed, “You aren’t going to take no for an answer, are you?”

“No.”

“Alright Scottie…anything you want.”

________________________________________________________________________

You asked him once why there was no Mrs. 

He gave you that wide smile the residents got when you chose a subject they loved talking about, “There were a lot of candidates. Problem is they’d have all found out about one another, so I was forced to break a lot of hearts.”

You’d seen the photos of him from those days, “I bet you did.”

“Oh, God– enjoy your youth. Really, though. I don’t regret a damn thing,” He laughed, “My buddy Steve, you know?”

Oh did you ever. Steve was one of Javi’s favorite topics.

“I remember Steve.” You promised.

“Steve was married, I’ve mentioned Connie.”

Almost daily.

“I think so.” You nodded.

“Well they were always trying to get me to go on some dates with women Connie wanted to hook me up with. I think she thought I was a stray cat and if she found me the right partner I’d settle in. I don’t suppose it was the worst idea but I spent a lot of time making poor Connie run around looking for single women and divorcees.” 

“And it never worked?”

“Worked for a bit,” Javi shrugged in that way that meant I can’t tell you that.

You knew he had other things besides a bad heart from his family and wrecked lungs and guts from his work. You knew he’d been treated for a few STDs and had managed to get chlamydia just six months ago.

Something was in that about old dogs and new tricks. Javi liked that you were young and pretended to flirt with him but he knew very well that you were getting something different from him than other women. He never made a serious pass at you, everything was playful, light. 

You wanted him to be happy, to have a good time, because…

Well, the numbers weren’t good.

Sometimes that meant nothing – Mrs. Nedermeyer had lived to 106 with shit numbers since she was 98. You’d never seen anything like that old warbird, just living to be a menace to everyone, and you knew that Javi, even with numbers like he had, could well be here years.

It’s just that the cat had taken to him.

It was silly. Superstitious. Surely you were a certified fool for remotely considering this but nonetheless…

There was a therapy cat that lived here. Her name was Angel and she was a big, fat grayish ghost of a cat with green eyes. None of the staff would ever ever breathe a word of it, but Angel was a strange cat. There were some people she always loved on– she like Dr. Becker even though she was allergic to cats, she loved on Shirley at the front desk because Shirley kept a bag of cat treats in the desk and shared them liberally, she loved Ol’ Dan the Janitor for reasons unknown but they hosted conversations in the night as he cleaned and she patrolled. She liked you. She would lace in and out of your ankles and let you pet her, purring as you did. In circle time or therapy sessions she was gentle to every lap she was placed in. 

But when she started getting up from Shirley’s desk or the sunny windowsill or the bookshelf where she napped and randomly loved on patients?

She was uncanny about predicting a problem.

It wasn’t always death. She had more or less predicted strokes or heart attacks. She could be there just to be there. She could just enjoy Javi.

But he hated cats and kept trying to shoo her and she kept coming back.

You had called his doctors, try to call his next of kin, to see if they minded an idea you had and you didn’t know if the consent was a good thing or a corroboration. 

So you put on a dress and did your hair, tried to aim for something resembling the 80s, and sent an orderly to get Mr. Peña for you and make sure he had on his favorite blue sport coat. 

He came out confused, looking around, and when he saw you he cocked his head.

“Wanna blow this popsicle stand?” You wiggled your eyebrows at him.

“Aren’t I about 40 years too old for you?” He chuckled until he coughed and discreetly wiped his mouth, hiding the handkerchief before anyone could see it. 

“I thought you wanted to get barbeque? They said you needed an escort.”

He mumbled something to himself about escorts and used his cane to make his way to your car.

“You are a terrible driver!” He scolded.

“Oh I’m barely going the speed limit!” You laughed.

“I ever tell you about the time I had to run across rooftops in Columbia?”

He had. 

“No, I don’t think so.” You welcomed him to pass the time with you. 

He told you a dozen stories you’d already heard by the time you pulled up to Mike’s. Normally it opened at 5, and it was 4pm but you’d made a call.

“That a red carpet?”

“Well don’t say I never did anything nice for you.” You teased and parked, though Javi pointed at you firmly.

“You don’t have to get my door, I’ll feel like a real sad sack if you do.” 

You waited for him to get out, let his legs gain their strength, and hobble over to you and open your door. He was shaking a little but you didn’t mind. 

The maitre d’ was waiting at the front, “Mr. Peña!”

The kid was close to your age, but he was all smiles and shaking Javier’s hand speaking in rapid Spanish and gesturing wildly. You had no idea what was going on but it was making Javier glow. 

You let them talk. 

After a minute they remembered you and the kid beckoned you inside, “Chef has prepared a sample for y’all. Bit of everything. How do you want your sauce? I recommend the medium but the heat is neat.”

Javi nodded, “I’ll take the heat and a mild, just in case.”

“Same.” You sat and said, “And a beer.”

“Same.” Javier nodded, “If the doctor isn’t going to be on my ass?”

“I promise if we are here you are in a free zone.” 

There was a pause as drinks were brought and you saw the maitre d enthusiastically smiling at Javi, checking on him in Spanish, and then going to the kitchen.

“That kid lights up for you.” You said in a mildly probing way.

“Funny that…you know I been coming to Mike’s since I was a kid. Been around, you know. It’s outside Laredo but we’d drive it once in a while. Had my bachelor party dinner here.”

“Thought you weren’t ever married!” You teased.

“Got a couple close calls under my belt.” Javi gave a funny sidelong smile, almost a sigh, as if the memories were being aired out, “But I mean, it’s just a good place. You know…that kid. His grandmother…”

You cocked your head, sipped your beer, waited for him to find the lines, and he did, “Back in Columbia, the Escobar days, it was a very different time. Y’all have a whole different way of being and living. I don’t know if you would judge me poorly.”

You sighed, “It’s not my place. People lived and I think most of them lived the best they knew how and I don’t think I know how it was.”

Which was true and a comfort to Javi, enough that he kept talking, “Well…there were women doing some…work.”

Hookers, you guessed.

“And they got pretty close to the narcos, so I got pretty close to them.”

You nodded, “Friendly?”

“You could say,” he smirked, “And if they gave us good information I would do what I could to get them out of Columbia. American passports were worth their weight, but these women were doing dangerous things. Information that was worth a ticket was dangerous. It didn’t always work out.” His eyes darkened, “Sometimes it barely worked out. There was one…it was a barely. She got out but it was bad. Real bad. But we got her out.”

He sipped his beer with his eyes closed, as close to nirvana as he’d been to in a good long while, “I never saw most of them again once they got out. It wasn’t the deal. If they didn’t get trotted out for court, it was good-bye.” 

He sipped again but sadder this time, in the silence of regret and wonder, “I hoped they made out ok. You never knew. But that kid? His grandmother was one…I didn’t think I’d ever hear that name again. She made it out. She made it out with her son and I don’t know what else but that kid? Her family. Real sweet of him to be so accommodating. This is nice. No crowd.”

“Really?” You looked around at the room and saw the kid and smiled at him, waved. 

“That’s what he said.”

The food was trotted out like a parade – more food than you and a skinny old man could eat. 

“We should bring the doc back some, he might lose the stick he’s got up his ass.” Javier said cheerfully as he bit into more ribs, some corn. Another beer. He was patting his belly as it filled and you worried, but kept it silent.

It would hurt but was it worth the trade?

You two ate a marvelous dinner.

“I should treat you.” He offered, “You’re a real sweet kid, giving an ol’ timer like me a nice time.”

“It was a pleasure.” You meant it, “But I brought you so manners say I pay.”

“Next time I’ll get you.” He promised.

You felt in your heart there may not be a next time, “Sure, Javi. That sounds lovely.”

But right now? 

You’d cared for the old dog, and it was worth everything. 

________________________________________________________-

A/N: I was in a weird place with this but I like it a lot

Not Beta Read

NEW tags (if you don't see yourself and you'd like to please go to the new taglist on the author masterlist)

@itsrubberbisquit

@spadesjadesfiction

@harriedandharassed @amneris21 @Iceclaw101 @thelion-sroar

@ferns-fics @tintinn16 @avidreader73 @vabeachazn @brandyllyn