Helpless for the Summer – Chapter 1

Helpless for the Summer – Chapter 1
By
Caliboy1991

Kelly

The doctor’s eyes stared at the back-lit x-ray image of my wrists and said, “Would you like the good news or bad news first?”

Leaning back against the uncomfortable reclining chair in the sterile exam room, I rested my head on my mom’s shoulder, tears streaking down my face. My wrists were in such pain I forgot I was twelve-year-old and that big boys don’t let their moms see them cry.  

I glanced up at my mom. She brushed a lock of brown hair from her face, clearly worried about me. She said, “How about the good news.”

The doctor pointed at the bones on the screen, “We’re not going to have to reset any broken bones. And that means that Kelly won’t have to spend the entire summer in a plaster cast.”

My effort to smile through the tears brought even more as the sharp pain shot through me from both wrists. My smile looked like a grimace. “W-, what about the bad?”

Doctor Peters had been my pediatrician my entire life. In the past, he’d always had a great sense of humor, and I hoped against hope the bad wouldn’t really be very bad.

He pointed at the image of one of my wrists. There was a line across the bone. “This is a hairline fracture. You’ll notice it on both wrists. When you fell off your bike and used your hands to brace your fall, as you can see, you broke both wrists. Luckily, your bones remained aligned. That means we don’t have to reset the bone or use a plaster cast.”

He opened a drawer and retrieved a couple of black wrist braces. “To give the bones time to heal, they still need to be immobilized. That’s why you’ll need to wear these braces for the next six weeks. But after that, you’ll be back to riding your bike and enjoying the rest of your summer. So, the bad news isn’t really all that bad.”

Despite the doctor’s soft and delicate touch, it still hurt when he put the braces on my wrists. He velcroed the brace over my right wrist and I tried wiggling my fingers. But if they moved, I couldn’t sense any movement through the incredible pain.

“Take it easy, Kelly. There’s a lot of bruising. That’ll keep your fingers from moving much for a while. But give it a week or so, and the swelling should be down enough for you to get a little bit of motion back in your fingers. Find a good book to read because your Gameboy is going to be next to impossible to play for a few weeks.”

Then he patted me on the head and turned to my mom, “Miss Jackson, a word, please.”

It irritated me Dr. Peters had patted me on my head. After all, I’d be thirteen around the time the braces could come off. Those thoughts flew from my mind when he and my mom stepped over to the door and lowered their voices. I had to strain to hear them.

“You still work over at Austin Elementary, Karen? You off for the summer?”

“Yeah.”

“Kelly’s going to be out of commission for a while. It’s good you’ll be able to take care of him while he’s recovering. Those splints need to stay on all the time, at least through the Fourth of July. Even when he’s sleeping.”

“All the time?” My mom’s voice was sharp, like she was surprised.

Dr. Peters glanced toward the x-ray, “I guess it’ll be okay if they come off when you give him a bath, but yeah, otherwise, all the time.”

Mom’s voice was low, but I still heard every word, “I haven’t given Kel a bath since he started grade school.”

Dr. Peters gave an apologetic smile, “I bet you haven’t spoon-fed him since he was a toddler either. But Kelly cannot dress or feed himself for a while. He’ll also need your help to go to the bathroom and with bathing too.”

Mom glanced at me and gave me a pensive smile. Then Dr. Peters lowered the boom, “You ought to swing by Walmart on the way home. You’ll need to pick up to pull-ups. Kelly’s going to need them.”

He picked up a clipboard and scribbled something on a sheet of paper, “Take this by the pharmacy. This’ll help with his pain.”

After propping the door open, he smiled at me apologetically. “Sorry about your summer, Kelly. We’ll see you in about six weeks.”

My summer was ruined.

***

I was in too much pain to think about everything Mom and Dr. Peters had talked about. By the time we dropped off the script at the pharmacy and were walking the aisles at Walmart, it came back to me why we were looking at diapers. I was about to turn around when I saw Mom’s face getting longer and longer.

“Mom, what’s wrong?”

Morosely, she shook her head, “It’s been so long since I’ve needed to buy diapers, I’d forgotten how expensive they are.”

I looked at where she pointed her finger. The sticker on the shelf announced the price on the diapers was almost ten dollars. And that’s before tax. It was only for a package of a dozen. Even I knew that was expensive. The thing was, things have always been tight financially, as far back as I can remember. Mom was a teacher’s aide, and that didn’t pay much. Even though Mom tried to hide it, I knew why she made all those trips to the public assistance office. I’d never complained, after all, she got all the same holidays I did and that meant she has always been there for me.

For a moment, I forgot about the mortification of wearing diapers, “Ten bucks? That’s a lot of money. What’d you do when I was a baby?”

Mom picked up the box and looked at the back. “I used cloth diapers, kiddo. And did lots of laundry. As a matter of fact, I think I still have some of your things from when you were little. I’ll look into that when we get home.”

I wanted to crawl into a hole and pull it in on me. Big boy pull-ups and cloth diapers? I only thought my summer was ruined before. Now, it surely was. But seeing the look on Mom’s face, I blinked back the tears threatening to spill onto my cheeks, “Maybe we won’t need any of these things, Mom. Why can’t I try to keep things normal?”

She gave me one of those ‘we’ll see’ looks as she said, “I don’t know, Kel. Just to be on the safe side, we’ll get one package of these. But we’ll try it your way first. How does that sound?”

I returned the skeptical look. “I dunno, Mom. It’s a lot of money.”

Mom stuff the bag of pull-ups under her arm, “I think we can swing a package of twelve. If you decide to go to Timmy’s birthday next week, you might want some pullups. That way you can go without anyone needing to help.”

***

By the time Mom stopped at Sonic to order some ice cream, I had pushed aside any thoughts about how difficult my life was about to become. That was until Mom had to put the soft-serve on a spoon and feed it to me. What could I do? My hands were worse than useless. Until they’re gone, you don’t realize how much you do with your hands. Or, as was my case, out of action until the middle of the summer.

If mom had to help me every meal, that would be a lot of meals. My mind did the math; three times seven. That’s twenty-one meals per week. Times five if I get them off by the Fourth of July. That’s over a hundred meals Mom would have to spoon-feed me.

My mood turned even darker as we drove home. I realized Mom was going to have to get me dressed at least thirty-five times until the braces could come off. This was going to royally suck. Then I thought about how many times a day I had to go pee. That was four or five times a day. Holy crap, that’s like a hundred-twenty times! God, no wonder Mom wanted to get some diapers.

I was nearly in tears by the time we got home. Even if I only got a bath twice a week, that would be at least ten times she would have to undress and bathe me. I don’t know who felt worse when we got home. Me or Mom. It had to be a close thing.

By the time I walked in our front door, the medicine Dr. Peters had prescribed kicked in and my wrists weren’t hurting as much.

Our home wasn’t much to look at. We’d rented it when Mom started working for the school. It was an old farmhouse, at least a hundred years old. It was the last house on an old gravel road with a couple of other weathered houses and some cornfields. Still, it was home. After all, it was all I knew. In the spring or fall, I loved sitting next to my mom on the old swing hanging from the roof of the covered porch.

The living room was a mess. I had scattered my action figures across the floor. I felt awful about it when I saw them. Mom had told me before I went bike riding to clean my stuff up. Now, I couldn’t. Instead, I just followed Mom through the living room and through a formal dining room we seldom used and into the kitchen at the back of the house.

Mom glanced at me, “You want any more ice cream?”

I fought back an enormous yawn and wondered what was in the meds we had picked up from the pharmacy. I was dead on my feet, “No. I’m gonna lay down for a bit.”

My room was at the front of the house, just off the living room. But you could get to it by going through my mom’s bedroom and down a narrow hallway, off of which was our bathroom. It wasn’t much. I was too embarrassed to let my friends see it. But back when it was built in the first part of the twentieth century, I’m sure it was an enormous improvement over log houses and outhouses, or hauling water from a well.

I fell into my bed fully clothed and was out of it before Mom turned on the A/C window unit.

***

I was warm, floating on a bed of air when something reached from the sky, striking my shoulder. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected. Then it happened again.

My eyes fluttered open, realization flooding into me. I had been dreaming. Mom tapped my shoulder, “Hey baby, let’s wake up. Dinner’s ready.”

Two things assaulted my senses. The first was the incredible pain in my wrists. They felt as though they were on fire. Wave after wave of pain washed over me. Whatever meds Mom had given me had worn off, and reflexively I curled into a fetal position.

That’s when the second thing assaulted my senses. My lap was wet. Just as quickly as I had curled into a ball, I scampered out of bed and looked down. There was a dark spot slowly spreading from the zipper. I had felt nothing in my sleep, but now I was awake and my bladder wasted no time in letting me know it was full and overflowing.

As if my day could get any worse, Mom saw it too. She said, “Ah, let’s get you into the bathroom, quick.”

She ran her arm around my back and guided me toward our shared bathroom as tears overwhelmed me. I had pissed myself and felt utterly humiliated. She took me over to the toilet and turned me around, facing her as she knelt before me. With quick fingers, she unbuttoned and unzipped me. As tears flowed down my cheeks, she tugged my shorts down, revealing the yellow stain spreading across the front of my tighty-whities.

She glanced at my face, “I’m sorry, baby.”

Then she pulled my underwear down. I had leaked a little, having stopped when I awoke, otherwise, Mom might have gotten a bit of a shower. I don’t think I could have handled that shame. Still, my shame was almost overwhelming. Despite being taller than average for my age, part of me hadn’t caught up with the rest of me. My penis, cold from the urine soaking the front of my underwear, hug soft between my legs. It hadn’t caught up with the rest of me. I was a good three inches taller than Mom’s five feet, but down below, I still looked like a little kid, without even a hint of pubic hair. And now my mom had seen me in all my pathetic shame.

She didn’t waste any time, gently pushing me onto the toilet, “Oh, jeez, Kel. I’m so sorry. Go ahead and finish and we’ll get you changed.”

With Mom standing in front of me, my shy bladder refused to finish what it had started. After a moment of deep concern, she turned and said, “I’ll be back in a moment, sweetheart. We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Alone in the bathroom, my bladder opened up, and I felt relief wash over me, despite the torrent of tears. By the time I glimpsed Mom by the door, I was finished. Whether it was from the hellish pain radiating from my wrists or from the complete shame I felt, I sobbed when I saw the pullup in Mom’s hand. “N-, no! N-, not that!”

She returned and knelt before me, “Hey baby, It’s okay. The meds probably made you too groggy to realize you needed to go. Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Then, to make the situation worse, she grabbed a washcloth and ran it under the sink until it was soaked in warm water. She said, “Stand up, baby. We’ll have you cleaned in no time.”

Once I was on my feet, Mom rubbed the warm, wet washrag over my junk, wiping the piss away. I’ve never felt anything like that before. Sure, I was almost thirteen and have been jacking off since before I was twelve. But the electrical shock of her hand, even through the wet rag on my flaccid penis, ran through my body. It also had an unfortunate side effect. No sooner had Mom taken the washrag away than my penis stirred. In a few heartbeats, my two flaccid inches stretched and grew until I was four and a half inches.

My wrists, enclosed in their black braces, flew to my crotch, too late for Mom to not see what I’m certain she didn’t want to see. How could it possibly get any worse? One thing I’d learned over the past few months in PE is that I was lagging behind the other boys in the seventh grade. Of course, with a July birthday, I was one of the youngest boys in my class and I guess that’s to be expected. But I was the only kid to not have even a little bit of hair downstairs. I’d even caught a couple of guys jacking off in the shower a few times. Those boys had easily sported five inches below a bush of pubes. I didn’t look much like those older boys aside from the fact we were all circumcised. I was shorter and lacked even a hint of pubic hair.

Mom had seen my penis. Worse yet, she had touched it with a washcloth and I had gotten hard. I was terribly embarrassed. Nothing was going to make this experience good. But at that moment, I wished I was more like those other boys in my PE class. I wished I was bigger, longer and had hair. At least then Mom would know I wasn’t still a little kid.

But Mom ignored my boner. She just held the pullup at my feet, “Come on. Step into it and we’ll be finished in a jiffy.”

I didn’t want to wear the diaper. They were for babies and I was almost thirteen. I sure didn’t want Mom seeing my little dick. God, what would she think of me? I must have dawdled. There was a note of exasperation in her voice, “Come on, Kel. Step into the diaper and let’s get you dressed.”

Wishing I could disappear, I put one foot, then the other, into the pullup’s legs. Mom tugged the pullups up my legs. I had no choice but to yank my wrist-brace encased hands away as she pulled my pullups to my waist, trapping my erection against the waistband. “Ouch!”

Mom’s cheeks turned a bright red, “Ah, shoot.”

She eyed the pullups, which did nothing for my erection. After too long a moment, with one hand she grabbed the elastic band and pulled it away from my waist. With the other, she gently pushed my stiffy down, trapping it inside the big-boy pullups.

She pursed her lips, “Sorry, baby. You hungry? I’ve got dinner ready.”

After dinner, she gave me another pill. That helped with the pain and I was able to join her in the living room where she put some kids’ show on the TV while she picked up my toys. Even as the pain abated, I felt terrible she was cleaning up something she had asked me to take care of before I got hurt.

After a while, I was nodding off and Mom eventually said, “Alright, kiddo, it’s bed time.”

She followed me into my room where she helped me take off my shirt and shorts. Then she said, “You dry?”

I nodded, “Yeah. I’d rather sleep in my underwear. These aren’t very comfortable.”

The truth of it was, they really weren’t uncomfortable either. It was just humiliating to be in something babies wore. I think Mom saw through it. She shook her head, “Let’s see how you handle tonight. I’m concerned the medicine may cause you to lose control of your bladder in your sleep.”

Then she went over to my chest of drawers, “Pajamas?”

I sat on my bed in a huff and shook my head. I stopped wearing t-shirts or pajama tops to bed more than a year before. I’ve slept in just my underwear since the beginning of the seventh grade.

She returned to my bed and knelt beside me, “I’m sorry about your wrists, Kel. Truly. The next few weeks are going to be tough on the two of us. I know twelve-year-olds don’t want to wear diapers and they sure as heck don’t want their moms changing those diapers or giving them baths or wiping their butts. And moms don’t really want to do those things for their boys, either. But you know what, baby? I love you more than you can ever imagine and if I have to do those things, then I’m going to do them because I love you.”

Copyright 2021 – Caliboy1991
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