Moving Forward in Reverse (11 page)

It had been some night. A little taste of freedom and a big
reminder that my life wasn’t ruined for good, compliments of the amazing people
of my past.

~~~

‘Let’s go, Martin,’ commanded a deep voice from the doorway. I
flinched; inhaled a bit of egg. ‘Put down your fork and get your butt out of
bed,’ the six-foot-nine Director of Murray Hall ordered. ‘My taxi’s double
parked.’

I coughed and grinned up at Tom Peck, my good friend and colleague
from the university. A few days after my night of drunken debauchery and
display of my Fred Astaire dance moves, the staff at Sacred Heart decided I was
ready to be discharged. It was time to go home.

‘Really?’ I said, my gaze travelling pointedly from Tom to the
wheelchair he pushed before him. I hadn’t used a wheelchair since sauntering
down the hall in bunny slippers, and slightly resented the implication that I
needed one to see myself out of Rehab.

‘Hospital policy,’ he replied with a one-shouldered shrug. ‘Don’t
get mad at me.’ I narrowed my eyes but acquiesced to “hospital policy” and
allowed Tom to push me via wheelchair to the elevator. Once out of the nurses’
line of sight, though, Tom told me to get my butt out of the chair so he could
place the bag holding my things on the seat.

It had been five long months to the day since my initial visit to
the emergency room. Walking through the doors of Sacred Heart Hospital for the
first and last time, I felt as if a lifetime had passed in the blink of an eye,
and in a way, it had.

~~~

Tom drove me to Towers Hall and carried my things to my apartment.
Oddly enough, I felt almost as confident returning as I had when I’d left. I
had made it through rehab, how much harder could it get?

When we pushed open the door to a welcoming meow and head-butt
from my long-haired, black Persian, Bogart, who had been cared for by a
combination of hall directors and soccer players for the five months I was
gone, I was pretty sure things were only looking up. Tom helped me put my
things away and showed me the fridge he and his wife, Sue, had stocked for me.
(
What would I do without you guys?
)

I told Tom I was tired and asked him to leave me to the devoted
affection of Bogart. Once alone, with Pink Floyd’s
Dark Side of the Moon
playing, I settled into the familiar cushions of my sofa. I stared at the
ceiling and thought back , reflecting on what my family had endured, on what
both hospitals’ staffs had done for me, and on what I had overcome and
accomplished in the past five months.

I didn’t grieve; didn’t contemplate the ramifications the recent
past would have on my future nor take the time to fully accept all that had and
would change. And that was a mistake. One I would pay for slowly and
agonizingly, like trudging through eighteen floors of pain.

13

Later in the afternoon I walked over to the Soccer Office at the
McPhee Center one block away. It was Winter Break for the students so the halls
were deserted and quiet except for me and the slow scuffing sound of my walk. I
paused at the door to the office, taking a moment to run a finger across the
plaque that used to say my name before I had requested it be changed. It now
proclaimed the space within to be the Soccer Office, aptly named to convey that
this was not my personal office but a communal place for our players to feel
free to drop by between classes and talk about their studies or soccer.

I fumbled the key into the lock, disregarding the difficulty
caused by the myos as an issue for another day, and pushed open the door. At
the familiar sight of the blue sofa and two tall bookcases I’d scrounged from
the campus storage rooms the year before, I felt my legs go weak and my lungs
begin to cave.

It was all exactly as I had left it five months before. The blue
papasan chair; the trophies in the bookcases; the professional and national
team jerseys hung on the walls: All of it had sat untouched while I fought
death and limb-loss to return.

I stumbled my way over to my desk as the tears began to fall,
letting the door close behind me, and lowered myself into the chair. I thought
about the last time I had been in here: I had just completed the itinerary for
a soccer tour of Europe and set an appointment to meet a recruit and her
parents in their home in Apple Valley near the Twin Cities that Sunday. But
come Sunday I would be in the midst of massive organ failure. And Monday
morning, Lindy would call my mom to suggest she contact the rest of the family;
it didn’t look like I’d make it much longer.

They had gathered in the hall, sitting with knees drawn and backs
sagging against the plaster-covered walls; too many to fit in my one small
room. The church was called and the pastor came for prayers. ‘Now might be a
good time to grant your son his last rites
,’
he’d probably said, hushed,
regretful.

No parent should be put through that
, I thought.
Good people
shouldn’t have to feel that much pain
. Certainly not a woman that raised
six kids basically by herself.

My back rounded against the sobs that assaulted my body as I wept
for the suffering they had endured. And through it all I had slept. . ‘Shit!’ I
blurted out as
I beat the myos against my legs.

Once I stopped crying, I sniffed and swallowed the lump at the
back of my throat. Breathing ragged breaths into raw lungs, I turned my chair
to face the desk and reached into the Bankers Box on the floor. Unlike the
Soccer Office, the mail delivery had not been frozen in time while I was away
and I had a great deal of letters to work my way through.

~~~

The wood frame of the chair grated indignantly as I plunked onto
the green cushion atop it. I growled under my breath and fought the urge to
kick the office chair.

Three hours it had taken me to get here – and by here I mean the
building next door – from my apartment. Whatever optimisms I had felt upon
waking were long gone after the hours spent fighting through the arduous
process of getting ready for the day.

It began with the aggravating endeavor of showering with no hands
(a difficult task which started with a slam onto my ass when I slipped on the
wet tile, and ended with a mouthful of shampoo because – news flash! – teeth
are the only way to open a bottle with no hands), followed by an education in
prosthetic hands. I learned that reaching behind my back to tuck my shirt in
would invariably cause the myos to lose their suction on my arms and fall off –
no matter how many times I attempted it. Another thing that causes myoelectric
hands to fall off: sweat, such as the sweat which accumulates after trying for
nearly half an hour to pull socks over foot prosthetics. Currently, my
miniscule feet were adorned with socks, foot prosthetics which looked like
black leather ankle boots about as big as a pair of size seven shoes, more
socks, then topped off with adidas Sambas. Despite the effort I had gone
through to make the blasted things wearable, I could still feel my foot
pivoting uncomfortably inside the leather inserts when I walked, trying to
compensate for the lack of flexion in the toe region.
Should’ve just worn
the damn bunny slippers
.

Even after the issue of bathing and dressing myself, I had to come
to terms with the fact that shaving with a blade-type razor, combing my hair,
and brushing my teeth simply could not be done the same way without a wrist.
Not possible. Needless to say on top of the abundant shopping list I had
mentally tabulated for myself, I was already exhausted.

As I made my unceremonious entrance into the Housing Office,
Shelli, the assistant to the Assistant Director of Housing, glanced up from
behind her desk then looked back down only to have her eyes rocket back up as
she registered who I was.

‘Scott!’ she said – or maybe asked, it was hard to tell. I smiled
at her as best I could through gritted teeth; she didn’t deserve to be
collateral damage to my residual agitation. ‘Welcome back!’

‘Thanks.’

Hazel eyes narrowed in my direction. ‘What’s wrong?’

I liked Shelli. She dressed and carried herself professionally,
but I could always make her laugh. I gave a grand huff of a sigh and
proclaimed, ‘It took me three hours to get dressed this morning!’

‘Ah,’ she replied, sympathy drawing her expression together. ‘I
suppose you have a great deal of adjustment ahead of you.’

Before I could answer, a familiar, deep voice boomed, ‘Scott!
How’s it going?’

I turned my head and leaned back in the chair slightly to look up
at Tom. ‘Please let me know the next time you go shopping. I need to buy a few
things.’
Namely all new showering and grooming equipment because quadruple
amputees can’t do things the way normal people can.

‘Sure. Let’s go.’ This time I had to do a double take.
What,
now?

When I just stared in his general direction, he gestured towards
the door.
Okay, he means now
, I realized and got up to follow him out of
the building. I could check-in with Chuck, the Director of Housing, to let him
know I was back to work later. It had been the Chancellor who told the previous
Director of Housing to give me my position as Assistant Hall Director in an
effort to enhance my contract and there were rumors that Margaret, the
Assistant Director of Housing, wanted this practice to end. My feet hurt, but
perhaps I was walking on quicksand with my dual positions.

~~~

I suppose my mood may have been more palpably disgruntled than I’d
intended. After wandering through the nearby Target store with me, Tom stopped
in the middle of a large, empty parking lot on campus and got out of the car.

‘Let’s see what you can do,’ he beckoned from his open doorway. I
blinked, his words echoing back to me.
Drive? He wants me to drive?

I stared at his empty seat for a moment, letting the concept
settle in. I had hands and feet now. Why shouldn’t I drive?

With a shrug and a grin I unbuckled my seatbelt. ‘Why not?’

Chuckling softly, I slid across the dark navy bench seat and into
the driver’s side. As the saying goes, it was like riding a bike: I was
screwed.

Driving forward was easy, but trying to turn as most drivers would
turn the wheel was a disaster. Once I had gripped the wheel, I couldn’t open my
hands quickly enough to adjust their position and continue the turn. The result
was me helplessly twisted in a car that was quickly careening off its
designated course. This led to our discovering that I had also lost my touch on
the brake pedal when I stomped down far too hard to keep the car from running
into the cement base of a street light. Tom and I flopped in our seats like rag
dolls, looked at each other with wide, bulging eyes, and promptly burst into
raucous laughter.

‘Oops,’ I said sheepishly. ‘Sorry about that.’ While I made
attempt after unsuccessful attempt at turning the car, Tom continued to laugh
so hard that tears began pouring down his cheeks. As the only person in the car
capable of watching his head rattle back and forth like a bobble-head, I felt
minor concern of a concussion would be a more appropriate response.

‘Okay, Mario,’ he said after the umpteenth attempt. ‘We need to
smooth out your technique.’

‘What I need is a spinner knob like they have on ski boats to
allow the driver to turn more quickly. Only we replace the knob with a U-shaped
handle that has a padded grip on one side so I can grab that and use it to turn
the wheel without needing to let go.’

Zenon built me just such a device and had it ready the following
week. Tom and I rigged it to his steering wheel and continued to practice. Two
weeks later, Sue took me to be tested for my driver’s license.

Upon greeting me, the proctor’s only comment was, ‘I can’t say
that I’ve tested anyone with your type of handicap, Mr. Martin.’ I shrugged and
distracted him with the contraption on Tom’s steering wheel (Tom and Sue had
generously lent me the station wagon for the test).

He didn’t say a word for the entire duration of the test, only
taking his eyes off the road once to jot a few notes on his clipboard after I
successfully parallel parked on our return.

‘Well, Scott,’ he said, ‘I see no problem with having you behind
the wheel.’

Problem solved.

~~~

A week before I became ill, I took delivery of my new
black-on-black Pontiac Grand Am GT that I had special ordered. After waking
from the coma, the consensus was that I didn’t stand a chance driving a stick
shift, so the car was sold to a wholesaler. (Ugh!) My replacement vehicle now
that I was officially re-licensed for driving on the open road was a brown
Chevy Cavalier purchased off the lot. (Double ugh!)

Once I had regained the independence of a sixteen-year-old, things
began to slip back into a routine. No longer dependent on friends for shopping
runs and errands, our relationships regained some of their old distance. As was
customary before my illness, I continued to meet Tom, Sue, and their three boys
(Matt, Spencer, and Jeremiah) for dinner at the campus cafeteria. Being
employed by Housing, our meals at the dining hall were included as part of our
compensation – an aspect not always viewed as a benefit.

Riverview Café was located in the Hilltop Center building very
near Towers Hall. I had eaten in the all-you-can-eat dining facility with a
view overlooking the Chippewa River countless times during the past year, but
walking in for the first time after my illness was a whole new ballgame. The
further I drifted from the sanctity of the doors, the greater my growing
anxiety that people were watching me became.

As the boys scattered to their preferred dining options in the
cafeteria, I lagged behind them, hoping to blend in with their shadows. I was
fooling no one. There was no doubt Tom and Sue could sense my discomfort with
the situation.

‘Just do your best,’ they’d encourage me in slightly hushed tones.

‘You’re doing fine.’

‘Can I get you something else?’

I tried to smile and nod in appreciative understanding, but inside
apprehension battled irritation for the lead. I hated being in the open almost
as much as I despised my reliance on them for help. I never went back for
seconds on anything.

I learned a lot of valuable lessons through my efforts, though.
For instance, my habitual way of holding a tray was to pinch the lip between my
first two fingers and thumb. I discovered the hard way that this was not a
secure hold. The combination of no wrist, a slippery tray, and my inability to
flex with the hands while walking was a calamity waiting to happen. As I tried
to make my way between the salad bar and grill station, feeling infinitely like
I was playing the childhood game of racing with a ball held between two sticks,
my grip faltered. I glanced down in time to see my plate and two glasses of
milk go tumbling off my tray, clattering in a splatter of dairy at my feet.

Horrified, I stared dumbfounded at the shattered ceramic and
spreading puddle of milk. I could feel eyes on me as a stillness fell over the
cafeteria. Cold sweat spread across my face and back.

Someone in an apron approached cautiously, like a scout trying to
determine if the coast was clear. The aproned worker mumbled something along
the lines of, ‘It’s okay.’ and bent down to clean my mess. I tried to make
light of it, apologizing and making facetiously self-depreciating remarks –
anything to hide my horror and humiliation.

When all physical evidence of my spill was erased, the attendant
offered to get me something else. I tried not to cringe outwardly at the
feeling of being relegated to the status of the needy.

‘Uh, no, that’s – that’s all right,’ I stuttered as I began
backing towards the exit. ‘I’ve actually got to go. Thanks, though.’

I knew everyone was watching as I made my hasty retreat. No one
spoke and the quiet aggrandized me like the elephant in the room I was. It
would take a couple days before I could brave the public cafeteria again, but I
would never be able to shake the feeling of being watched, as if the whole
cafeteria was holding its breath waiting for me to fumble. I knew what the
servers thought each time I shuffled through the door:
Oh, no. It’s this guy
again. Get the mop ready.