She doesn't yet know about the transfer made between yourself and Michael. If she were to find out, naturally she'd be desperate for a share of the 25 years of Mikey's life you currently possess. She'd probably justify it as staving off death until the family could find a longer-term financial solution to this mess, perhaps a huge loan to buy her years back, but even with the full amount, but even with the full amount that would still only render her a 58 year old. That close to retirement, the family would never be able to secure a mortgage from the bureau.
Yet with yourself as a younger man, you have your whole career ahead of you again, and this time you're not starting from the bottom. With a second lifetime to climb further up the corporate ladder, plus the ingenuity of youth and the ambition of Michael's borrowed masculinity, there's no limit to what you might be earning in just a few years.
No, it's best that she not know about the wealth of time sitting in your account, at least for the time being. You hate the idea of leaving your wife trapped in a decrepit, incontinent old body, but she's made her (hospital) bed, she'll just have to lie in it until a solution can be found. A few years wasn't going to kill her. She was only 83 after all; she wasn't just going to suddenly drop dead and, with medical technology what it is these days, most people live until at least 90.
Now that your mind is made up, you take a moment to truly savour your body. This is going to have to be your home for the next few years at least. You'll have to use every ounce of this spunky, youthful energy; every sinew of the tight, rippling musculature; and all the charisma you can squeeze out of the chiseled jaw to improve your lot in life. Not for your sake, of course. For Winifred and Michael's.
"Georgie?" comes the tremulous voice down the voice.
"I'm fine," you reply. "Better than fine, I'm great. Everything is going to turn out great. Don't worry about it. Just try to get some rest. Do everything the doctors say, don't strain yourself, and don't worry yourself. That's the last thing you need to be doing, you don't want to trigger a stroke."
"Oh god, a stroke?!"
"Honey, what did I just say," you groan. "I'll talk to your doctor, see if there isn't something we can prescribe to keep you relaxed."
"How am I supposed to relax at a time like this?"
With firm authority, you state, "Winifred. You yourself said that it was the shock of the change that caused your mother's passing. Now you're twelve years older than she was when she died, so we need to do our best to minimise the shock to your system during this... transition period. I'm going to speak to your doctor, see if we can't keep you sedated for a little while-"
"I don't want to be sedated!"
"What you want and what is best for you might not be the same right now. I'm not talking about a medically induced coma, just some pills to take the edge of. We need to keep your heart rate down, before you blow a gasket. You're 84 years old now, for god's sake, you need to start acting like it!"
The pep talk does not appear to be working. She is getting more stressed, barely even to get a word out between rasping, struggling breaths. You hang up and dial the ward. It's the same number you'd used to check on your mother-in-law's condition. The nurse at the desk recognises you, passing you on to the Doctor who knows more about Winifred's condition. "Are you the son?" are his first words.
"Closer to grandson right now," you quip back grimly, comparing your 20 years to your wife's 83.
He goes in to detail about her condition. Though she is currently frail, her body struggling to adapt to the change, she has manifested no specific age-related diseases yet. There just hasn't been time for the processes in her body to catch up to their sudden decrease in function, but the doctor is concerned that, as time progresses, Winifred will begin to exhibit more disease traits expected of a woman her age. Already she is showing signs of cataract formation, failing hearing, and confusion. They have already prescribed a number of prophylactic treatments to try to head these conditions off at the pass.
You discuss sedation. The doctor assures you that they will do everything in their power to keep her comfortable and calm, and - failing that - they will be able to give her a series of increasingly powerful sedatives and mood-stabilisers to numb the experience, up to and including morphine, assuming her kidneys hold out. You agree with his assessment. Finally, the doctor broaches the issue of legal capacity. There is no guessing at what level of infirmity Mrs Brooks may stabilise at. Power of attorney may be needed in the event that she loses capacity to make her own judgments, but it would be easier to acquire that now, while she is still compos mentis, than later. The discussion stretches on, as the reality starts to sink in, that you're now the caretaker of a woman every bit as infirm and vulnerable as your departed mother-in-law.
"Dinner's ready," comes a call from the kitchen. "I, uh, I think..."
"I'm afraid I've got to go. I'll ring tomorrow to check in on her. Thank you, doctor."
You hang up and take your place at the head of the table while Michael - or should it be Michelle now? - finishes in the kitchen. As he emerges carrying a plate of steaming meat and veg and places it in front of you, you are surprised to realise that the sight of your son's mature female form trussed up in a light pink apron like a vision of a domestic housewife is somehow the biggest dose of 'normal' you've received today. Now almost the spitting image of his mother, breasts and all, it is like your wife never left.
"I did my best. If it's not cooked I can always reheat it," he says nervously, evidently still worried about you selling his lifespan in exchange for a package of domestic brain-training. He seats himself across the table. The portion on his plate is half the size of your own. There was a time when he could have eaten you under the table. That time was yesterday. It feels so long ago now.
As a matter of fact, you're impressed that he succeeding in preparing an adequate meal, or at least half-preparing where Winifred left off. He clearly tried his best. His thick, auburn hair is ruffled from rushing about the kitchen, a few curls sticking to the perspiration on his brow and cheeks produced by the hot kitchen. There is a dusting a self-raising flour on the bridge of his nose and across the swell of his bosom rising out of the top of the apron.
"Looks good enough to eat," you assure him. That elicits a relieved smile and a blush. His time on this earth is safe for now.
Tucking in to the meal, you grant yourself a minute of normality before you bite the bullet and say, "Michael, there's something I need to tell you."
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