It is very frustrating that I can't remember any details of the accident that took my family. They say it's because when you're knocked unconscious the preceding dozen seconds or so are short-term memory ("scratch pad", they call it) and don't get consolidated into long-term memory before your brain shuts down. Like how you can never remember actually falling asleep. They also say sometimes you can't remember something because you really don't want to. Whatever the truth in my case, it is very frustrating to me. I can only go by what people tell me, and they weren't there.
I can remember the month or two in the hospital and all the surgery, though. Thank God that phase is over. Now I'm just an invalid, confined to my bed or a wheelchair while I complete my recovery. Other than that, my circumstances are pretty tolerable. As a successful architect working with a large firm, I'm entitled to a generous sick leave salary and good health benefits. I chose to stay in my apartment. I can do some work remotely to keep engaged. The insurance company even provides a part-time live-in nurse.
That's Maureen. She stays here during the day and five nights a week. She comes in for a few hours on weekend mornings and is on call when she's not here. I really lucked out with her. She's not only very professional and competent, but she's young and very pretty. That last part helps a lot with my recovery because I thoroughly enjoy watching her as she moves. It helps keep me engaged with life. Otherwise, I'm pretty sure I'd just sink down into a morass of self-pity and depression. Watching her long legs, her slim waist and her lovely trim ass as she bustles about, or covertly ogling her beautifully formed breasts as she leans over me keeps me well grounded in reality.
She's been with me a couple of weeks, now. She's great company, too. Much of the time I'm kind of groggy from the meds and she's on her own, but never seems to be bored. When I'm more awake we talk a lot. It turns out we have a lot of similar interests. One thing, though: she doesn't talk about her life outside of her profession. I've never been able to discern anything about her home life. I think she's married, but that's just a guess. Looking at her taut young body, I don't think she has any kids.
Her duties with me include making me eat, which I probably would neglect to do on my own. We mostly get Uber Eats to deliver stuff; I can't ask her to cook, too. She tends to my meds, and occasionally wheels me out to the balcony while she changes the bed. Of course, one of my favorites is her helping me bathe. The only trouble with that is that now that I'm getting better and taking fewer painkillers, I have a hell of a time keeping my mind off her body as she bathes me. I have to work hard to avoid getting a very embarrassing hard-on. I save the hard-ons for later, after she's gone, and pleasure myself while thinking of her. Then I feel guilty because my wife is dead and I'm here alive enjoying the pleasures of the flesh.
Lately, though, I've begun to notice something different about Maureen. Subtle signs. She's taken to wearing brighter lipstick than before. She's put on more eye makeup. Her hair is looser, too, not done up in a tight professional bun.
"Maureen," I said, "I really like what you've done with your hair. It looks very feminine."
