Don't Leave Me This Way: Or When I Get Back on My Feet You'll Be Sorry (12 page)

AS PART OF YOUR REHABILITATION,
the hospital suggests that while an inpatient, you go on outings to encounter what you will eventually have to deal with in the real world. Your friends Paul and Glenn announce that they are taking you, Jim, and Rory to the Museum of Science, which is a few blocks away.

Although the museum is quite close, you drive. Glenn becomes Rory’s playmate for the day while Jim and Paul push you in the wheelchair through all the exhibits. You really aren’t paying much attention to the museum, but more to the obstacles you have to contend with in your newly impaired body.

People are staring. You are the exhibit. This is what a handicapped person looks like. You can see people are trying to figure you out. Did you (a) have an auto accident? (b) fall out of a roller coaster? Or (c) escape from a psycho ward? Then you say, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Jim and Paul’s eyes widen in terror. No one thought about this before leaving the hospital.

There you are, in a wheelchair, with three men and a child. At the hospital, you always have a nurse to assist you—or perhaps Jim could get you to the toilet. But how can you ask him to coordinate things in the women’s room at the Museum of Science?

Paul wheels you over to the restroom entrances. He checks the men’s room and notices it’s empty.

“Why don’t you go into the men’s room and I’ll watch the door?”

Not your favorite idea. You want to feel normal. You picture the likely environment. A soaked, urine-spattered seat.

“It’s going to be disgusting,” you say.

“How do you know?” Paul asks.

“I know because I grew up with eight brothers.”

Jim and Paul decide to scope out the women’s room for you.

While Glenn’s playing with Rory on a space capsule (mercifully distracting him), you and your two companions are trapped by toilet etiquette. One woman enters—two exit. Three would enter, two would exit. Jim and Paul take it all in carefully, staring intently.

They look like perverts.

After ten minutes of watching and taking a head count, you have had enough with the whole hostage situation by the entrance to the Museum of Science women’s room. You grab your cane and stand up, with some effort, from the wheelchair, and say, “Fuck it, I’m going in.”

The guys are white and speechless.

You feel really wobbly, and it occurs to you that you must look wobbly too, like the Weebles that Fisher-Price used to make. You wobble—but you don’t fall down.

You step toward the door, not entirely sure how you’re going to pull this off. It has been a while since you peed by yourself. No one to hold you. No one to watch you. It’s something you’ve been longing for, but suddenly it’s the most frightening idea on earth. But you are determined not to let Jim and Paul see that you’re scared.

You say it again, loud enough for everyone in the surrounding area to hear.

“Fuck it.”

The people who have been staring at you all look like they’ve decided it’s definitely option (c): escapee from the psycho ward.

WEEBLES WOBBLE
but they don’t fall down.

You are upright, cane in hand, and purposefully pulling open the door and having to pee worse than you can remember at any time in your life and then a miracle takes place.

A stranger heading for the women’s room door says to the guys, “Do you want me to help her?” Paul and Jim bob their heads nervously in unison, saying, “Yes, that would be great!”

Your new assistant escorts you through the door you’ve been staring at longer than any other exhibit in the museum.

There is a two-woman line ahead of you. You are clutching your cane as though your life depended on it. And maybe it does: You have not been out of the wheelchair on your own for more than a moment or so since you left the hospital. You feel nervous and weak, and you really have to go to the bathroom.

Your new companion is a little uneasy. She is studying you—your bald head, the huge question-mark incision, and the hospital bracelet.

“Have you recently been released from the hospital?”

“Yeah,” you say. “This is my first outing from the hospital.”

You see her glance again at the scar, and you’re sure she’s conjuring up thoughts of you being the recipient of a lobotomy.

“This,” you continue, “is my first time out since my injury and I haven’t gone to the bathroom on my own since my stroke. I always have assistance. To make matters worse, I’m having my period, which, I should tell you, really complicates the whole bathroom experience.”

Her face is now the color of a cigarette ash. You feel you can read her mind; it’s as if she were screaming, “Oh my god, I am going to have to go in there and wipe her and probably change her tampon, too.”

In a halting hesitant voice, she says, “Do you need me to go in there with you?” She gestures to the handicapped stall.

Let her off the hook.

“No, I’ll go in by myself.”

Her body goes visibly limp with relief.

You really do need help, but you can’t bear to put this Good Samaritan through much more.

You have great difficultly in the stall for several reasons. You are shaking uncontrollably from muscle weakness; the handicapped bar was located on the left side of the toilet, which is your paralyzed side—and you feel you’re in danger of crashing headfirst into the floor because you’re so dizzy. You’re seeing stars, but you’re not even in the planetarium.

You decide you are not going to fall down.

You remember that Paul and Jim are standing outside the women’s room door, guarding it to make sure this poor woman doesn’t try to leave without you. You can hear them laughing with each other; they knew what this unsuspecting woman was about to face. Of course, they may also be laughing nervously because they’re afraid of hearing a big thud on the other side of the door.

You are not going to fall down.

The poor woman is trapped. She must think that if she tries to leave without you, they’ll attack her.

You finish your business there in the stall. Weebles may wobble, but they do not fall down, damn it.

She waits for you to get out of the stall and then helps you at the sink. She sees you out the door, and as you settle into the wheelchair with a plop you wonder if perhaps this is the last time she ever offers to help anyone, anywhere before getting a written affidavit outlining the specifics of the predicament she’s inheriting.

The three of you thank her profusely.

She leaves, no doubt thankful to God.

You think:
I did it
.

THERE IS AN EXCHANGE IN DUTY:
Paul relieves Glenn to take care of Rory, while Glenn assists Jim with you. The two groups agree to rendezvous in the lower level, where the truck and dinosaur exhibits are located.

After a few minutes, Jim and Glenn wheel you to the massive
Tyrannosaurus rex
dinosaur skeleton, a huge exhibit that looms over you—over two stories of bones and sharp teeth. Paul, on his way down with Rory, learns quickly that
T. rex
is frightening to a three-year-old who can’t distinguish what is real. Rory is instantly terrified of it and can’t even look in that direction without screaming.

Rory works through the meltdown with Paul and reconnects with you, and the four of you end your excursion at the gift shop. Continuing with the dinosaur theme, they buy Rory a dinosaur rubber puppet. He really likes it. The four of you manage to make it back into the car, which is no small undertaking.

The car is starting to pull away when Jim checks the rearview mirror and notices the lone tripod cane standing curbside. You back up to retrieve it. Just like the wheelchair, it has become part of your newly redesigned, not yet rebuilt anatomy.

Paul and Glenn are in the backseat with Rory between them, taking turns entertaining with the puppet. And then it happens. Rory breaks out into a blood-curdling scream. Apparently Glenn has made some kind of gnarling gesture with the puppet’s teeth, and it terrifies Rory. He is hysterical until you reach the hospital parking lot.

After Rory has calmed down, Glenn asks him, “Do you remember who I am?”

Rory says, “Paul.”

Without missing a beat, Glenn says, “That’s right.”

Thus it is that Rory blames Paul for scaring him with the dinosaur. You think to yourself that you will never look at a dinosaur in quite the same way again after this outing.

You had all planned to go out for pizza after the museum, but you’re exhausted, physically and emotionally, and everyone else is just as drained from the whole experience. You opt to bring pizza back to your room at the rehab hospital. Paul and Glenn head home to recover.

You, Jim, and Rory have a pizza party in the grim, but considerably more manageable, surroundings of the rehab hospital. It occurs to you that there are many equally frightening exhibits on display here.

YOUR FRIENDS NANCY AND STEPHEN
visit you nearly every day at the hospital. Jim feels comfortable because he knows that if there is ever a time that he will not be able to get there right away, they will be there with you.

This weekend, they are taking you on an outing to do some shopping. Rory’s first day of preschool is approaching and you want to feel involved—even though you are going to miss the actual event.

Every mother wants to be part of her child’s first day of school. So there you are at Copley Place, shopping at the Gap. You have bought Rory a few things that are several sizes too big. He most likely won’t be able to wear them until he is seven, but you feel satisfied that you’ve actually bought him some new clothes for his first day.

Sitting in a wheelchair changes the whole shopping experience. There’s no room for spontaneity; you have to go wherever you are led. After some meandering, Jim, you, and your friends decide to go for an early dinner. You agree to go to the Sail Loft in Cambridge, a nice spot overlooking the Charles River that’s not too far away from the hospital. The evening is pleasant; you are out on the veranda. The sun is setting. Your head feels calm. This is a familiar place; when you and Jim lived on Admiral’s Hill in Chelsea, you and he were regular diners here on Friday evenings. You used to cap off your week there to unwind and it was a nice segue into the weekend.

Someone at another table is staring at you. All day, you have been wearing a silly hat that your mom bought you. She recently picked up a bunch of different hats to cover your frightening head. You don’t know where she got these hats, but you have fixated for some reason on this black straw hat with white silk daisies glued on the front.

It is a comical hat and you find yourself wearing it often. It represents the way you feel these days: ridiculous. Maybe it’s better for people to stare at the hat rather than at your scarred, bald head. Maybe it’s easier for you to answer the question “Why is that person staring?” when you wear this hat.

You make a mental note to save the hat for future outings. Or maybe Halloween. You are probably drawing more attention to yourself tonight by wearing this weird hat, and you don’t care. You probably set some new trends while shopping at Copley.

What might they have said while you were shopping?

“Excuse me, what designer made your chapeau?”

“Oh, I bought it off the set of the
I Love Lucy
show.”

AS WELL AS
the hat and the wheelchair, you also have a sling on your left arm. The sling prevents your arm from flopping and keeps the arm in the shoulder joint. When you and Jim are with Nancy and Stephen, you always laugh a lot. You are apprehensive about laughing too hard with your vascular system on the mend—but then again, maybe laughing yourself to death is an acceptable way to go.

When the waiter arrives for your drink order, your friends order what they usually do. Alcohol is off limits for you. When your turn comes around, you want something other than ginger ale, which is pretty much all you drink at the hospital. You realize that you are having your first experience of socializing with your friends while they are imbibing and you are not. Nancy turns to face you directly to give you suggestions.

She sounds like she’s speaking in slow motion, and twice as loud as usual: “WOULD YOU LIKE SOME ICED TEA OR SOME LEMONADE?”

It’s as though she’s speaking to a small child.

You look at her quizzically and turn to Stephen and Jim and ask, “What is she doing?” They both shrug.

You look back at her and say, “Is it because I look brain-damaged that you’re talking to me like that?”

Somehow, this question snaps her out of her protective trance.

She starts laughing. Soon all of you are laughing.

The waiter is standing there patiently. It occurs to you that you will in fact have to order something. But you’re still laughing.

“Pardon the interruption,” you say, gasping. “I’m brain-delayed.”

The table erupts in laughter once again. The poor guy has to keep standing there. Eventually you order a Shirley Temple.

STILL AT THE SAIL LOFT.

It’s a big help for Jim to have Nancy there to take you to the women’s room. He has been dealing with all your needs on these kinds of outings, and at the same time staying involved with the medical care and being mother and father to Rory. No wonder he breathes this heavy sigh of relief when you announce you need to use the bathroom and Nancy jumps up to escort you. The two of you wobble off to the women’s room.

When you return, you stop for a moment before you get back in your wheelchair. You stand at the entrance to the veranda for a few minutes watching Jim and Stephen talking. You realize that it’s the first time that he has looked truly relaxed since this injury of yours took over your lives. Stephen has always had a way of getting Jim to let it all hang out.

YOU STAY AT THE SAIL LOFT
for hours. It is so nice to be on the outside. You keep pleading with them, “Please don’t take me back.” And every time you do, you all crack up.

But eventually it is time to go.

When you are heading back to the hospital, you feel like a teenager about to get in trouble for missing curfew. It’s as though you’re bringing back your corrupt friends to face a locked door with angry parents waiting behind it.

All four of you are completely giddy as you make your way back in, as if you’ve been on a secret mission, and the job now is to sneak you back to your room without being seen. Actually, there is a reason for the drunken subterfuge: When you left for your outing, Jim had to sign you out and give both a time of departure and a time of return. Arriving after eleven o’clock means you are showing up several hours later than the time he logged.

So technically, yes, you are in trouble.

But somehow it’s hard to feel that way for long.

Jim has to sign you in and get in touch with the nursing staff, because it’s time for them to administer your medication. You already feel you’ve received the best possible medicine this evening, laughter, the medication nobody tells you that you must somehow administer to yourself if you want to make it through intact.