a latex-sheathed pointer exploring my ass.
Mom brings me books, and the unread
pile continues to grow, along with a stack
of magazines. Sports Illustrated. People.
National Geographic. No Hustler, not that
it would do anything but remind me
what a worthless excuse for a man I’ve become.
No, my life will never be the same,
and worse, my future as a complete human
being was stolen by that low-life fucker, Chris.
Federico would tell me to shut the hell
up, cancel the pity party and get to work.
His idea of work? Learning to sit up.
Equilibrioception
That’s another word for balance,
and apparently I’ve got a problem
with that. First of all, I’ve been lying
here for weeks, rolled side to side
from time to time so I don’t get these
nasty things called pressure sores—
.
wounds caused by staying in one
position for so long your bones
poke through your hide. I’ve seen
pictures. Disgusting. The worst thing
is, since I can’t feel the wear and tear,
they could get infected before I even
realize my skin is rotting away.
But there’s more. To keep from falling
over, your eyes, ears, and proprioceptors
have to work together. Proprioceptors
are sensors that tell you where your limbs
are positioned in space. Like, your right
arm is over your head, or your left foot
is two inches off the ground. And since
my legs don’t have a clue where they are,
things get a little tricky. Federico insists
it gets easier with practice. Too bad
sitting up isn’t on my to-do list at all.
This Will Be the Day
That’s what he said, and I do
believe he meant it. Best of luck
with that, old buddy. He’s yanked
the sheets back, exposing most
of my uselessness, slack and pale
as the Cream of Wheat they tried
to make me eat for breakfast.
Okay now. The process is fairly
simple. Put your elbows flat
on the bed beside you and push
down, bending your head and
shoulders forward. He stands there,
waiting, but I don’t bother to try
and move. What’s the point?
“Don’t feel like it. Maybe tomorrow.”
His expression is priceless.
Look, Cody. Time keeps ticking
forward, and the rest of the world
isn’t on hold waiting for you to
get on board. You’re not going
to die, and the quality of your future
living is entirely up to you. I believe
you want to get up on your feet
again, and I also believe we can
absolutely make that happen.
Scratch that. You can make that
happen. People with worse injuries
than yours have made that happen.
But it takes heart and courage.
Out of breath with the effort of not
convincing me to budge an inch,
he lingers there, hands on hips,
with such genuine bewilderment
on his face I almost feel sorry
for him. But not anywhere near
as sorry as I feel for myself.
“Look, dude. I’m lying here with
a tube hanging out of my dick, leaking
piss into a plastic bag. That dick,
by the way, is totally useless for
anything worth getting excited about.
Yeah, yeah, Dr. Harrison told me
ninety percent of men with incomplete
injuries, T12 and lower, get it up, and some
higher than that, too. But that’s not the real
problem, is it? Not like I want to go
above and beyond, just to whack off.
How many girls go looking for cripples?”
Half-Sad
Half-annoyed, that’s how
he looks now, like he needs
to dig for words of wisdom
but the shovel needs sharpening.
It’s “disabled,” not “crippled,” and
so you know, there are millions
of couples living with disability.
Not only that, but there are plenty
of perfectly healthy partners who
don’t have sex regularly. He winks
conspiratorially. You could ask
my wife, but she’d probably lie.
That actually makes me smile,
and I almost consider rewarding
him with the behavior he’s seeking.
But then he has to go and ruin
the moment. So, do you have
a girlfriend? Someone special?
With a stunning burst of memory,
the face of an angel materializes
from the ether. “Not anymore.”
He’s gone too far, and backpedals
quickly. You don’t know that, do
you? Have you talked to her?
Are You Out of Your Mind?
That’s what I want to ask him,
quite loudly, but yelling is too
much effort. “Not since before . . .”
Look, at the very least, let’s work
on mobility. You don’t have to do
anything but roll onto your side.
I’ll handle the heavy lifting, and
while I do, why don’t you tell me
about your girl? What’s her name?
“Ronnie,” I answer without
even thinking. “Well, Veronica,
but everyone calls her Ronnie.”
Federico rolls me onto my left
side, begins manipulating my right
leg. This isn’t new, but I sense more
movement than before. Ronnie.
Is she pretty? Bet she is. Bend.
Lift. Backward. Forward. As
he continues the routine, I find
myself describing the girl who
still possesses my heart. “She’s not
pretty. She’s beautiful. Her hair
is the color of obsidian, and shiny
like it, too. And her body. Man,
it’s amazing. You’ve never seen . . .”
I skid to a halt before I mention
her glorious tits. “But there’s so
much more to her than that.
She’s—was—my rock.” My rock,
when my stepfather, Jack, got sick
and died. My rock when Cory melted
all the way down into a puddle
of booze-inspired anger. My rock.
And then I went and fucked it all
up with drugs and gambling and
financing those by offering myself
up for sale. Invincible, that’s what
I believed I was. Untouchable.
Such conceit! And now, look at me.
Hard to maintain an air of vanity
while being posed like a nude mannequin—
bend, lift, backward, forward, flip,
and repeat. Federico finishes each
side by massaging my legs and feet,
all for the sake of circulation. Too bad
I can’t feel it. Ronnie used to do that
for me, and boy, did I love . . .
Next thing I know, I’m sobbing.
Even Better
Suddenly, my right foot jerks. Ouch!
But, wait. Movement? “Hey, what
was that?” Does that mean more
brain conne
ction than we supposed?
The action was involuntary. Federico,
it seems, missed it. What was what?
“My foot just twitched. Hurt like
hell, too. That’s a good sign, right?
Like, maybe you’re all totally wrong
and my spine just had to heal more?”
But Federico shakes his head.
That’s called spasticity. We’ve been
wondering if it would affect you.
It usually doesn’t first occur until
several weeks post-injury. See,
your muscles have memories, and
even without an intact circuit board,
they try to repeat learned behaviors.
The bad news is, it can be painful,
or at the very least, annoying.
The good news is spasticity
can actually be helpful with bowel
and bladder behaviors, and many
SCI patients utilize it to help them
stand and even walk. One day
at a time. If it becomes a real
problem, there are drug therapies,
so be sure and let a team member
know if the pain is too much.
Team member: one of the nurses,
doctors, physical therapists,
psychologists, and social workers
assigned to my case, just a number
among many on their busy lists.
Federico waits to see if I’ll spasm
again, but when that doesn’t happen
right away, he spreads the sheet
back up over me. “So, if spasticity
is nothing but my foot remembering
how it used to move, and I’m still
paralyzed, why could I feel it? And
how could it possibly be painful?”
He shrugs. With incomplete
injuries, it’s always possible some
feeling will return. Besides,
the brain is an incredibly
complex machine. Sometimes
its will trumps common wisdom.
Go Right Ahead
Burst my fucking balloon.
The truth is a sharp pin,
and I tumble back down
to earth. “Hey. My brain
tells me I’m hurting. Can
you give me something
for that? You must’ve
worked me too hard. Or
maybe it’s just spastic me.”
He looks unconvinced,
but then he decides, Tell
you what, Cody. I’ll send
in a nurse, but only if you
give me your word that
tomorrow you’ll cooperate
and help me get you sitting
up. We’ve got a long way to go,
and it starts with you upright.
I’d say anything for the key to
oblivion, and besides, as my Kansas
kin might say, my word ain’t worth
a pile of manure, so it’s a no-brainer.
“I solemnly swear if you eradicate
my pain I’ll try to sit up tomorrow.”
Nurse Carolyn
Who remains my favorite filly
in a stable of Thoroughbred
caregivers, tries to rip me off
at first, offering acetaminophen,
but I’m not going for that.
Federico isn’t overseeing,
so I’ll use my latest, greatest
excuse. “Please, Carolyn.
Did Federico tell you? Spasticity
has reared its nasty head, and
I’m in a lot of pain right now.
I need something stronger
than Tylenol!” I wait for her
stern face to soften, and it does
almost immediately. Score.
Oh, all right, as long as
the on-duty physician concurs.
I’ll check and be right back.
She isn’t gone long, and
when she returns it’s with
a healthy (or not) dose of codeine.
Dr. Cabral gave the okay
this time around, but there are
better pain management methods.
I understand spasticity can
cause quite a bit of discomfort,
but so can opiate dependency.
As your rehab progresses,
I’m sure your doctor will
recommend alternatives.
Pill swallowed, agreement
is easy. “I understand. Thanks
for caring, Carolyn.” I reward
her with my very best smile—
the one that swears all will be
well, though that, of course, is a lie.
Okay, then, I’d better get back
to work. You aren’t the only
needy patient around here.
As she leaves, the codeine kicks
in and I find myself inexplicably
drawn to the pendulum of her narrow
hips, thoroughly disguised by baggy
powder-blue scrubs. “You’re an idiot.”
I scold myself for the transference,
which is also impotent transference.
Obviously, the will of my brain
is trumping its common sense.
Rocking
In the cradle of the poppy,
all the bad feelings slip away.
Why am I lying here again?
Where am I, anyway? White.
Everything’s white, and quiet,
like a winter-quilted mountain
meadow, except it’s warm. I like
it warm, and now I know this
can’t be snow, because the air
doesn’t sting my nose. Inhale.
No sting, but there is perfume.
Apples. That’s it. Baked apples,
rich with cinnamon and brown
sugar, and I realize I’m dreaming.
Weird, when you’re aware
you’re not treading time in the real
world, but rather wandering
another dimension. A drift of apples
fills my nose, and a satin caress
(surely not Federico’s!) slides
along the skin of my legs. Legs.
Why does that word bother me?
Not important. What is worthy
of my attention is the force field
rising up around me, a halo
of well-being that can only be love.
I search for the source. Nearby,
she must be nearby. My rock.
There, in the mist, a shadow,
approaching, and growing as
it nears, solidifying. “Ronnie?”
It’s no more than a whisper, and
escaping the fog, comes an answer.
I’m here, Cody. I waited for you,
but almost gave up hoping that
you’d come back to me. Wake up.
Her voice is smooth and rich
as frosting. But I still can’t see her.
Now she urges, Open your eyes.
I do and the dream dissolves.
Bedside, in the flesh, is, “Ronnie.”
I start to throw back the sheet,
remember where I am, how I am,
who I’ve become. “Go away. I
don’t want you to see me like this.”
Too damn bad. I have no clue
why you decided to throw “us” away,
Cody, but I won’t let it happen.
A Poem by Alex Rialto
The Dream Dissolves
Every dream does,
but hope saturated this one,
and a tiny piece
of me tries very
hard to
believe my cards
have been re-dealt.
The thought of nurturing
an innocent soul makes love
rise
in me like nothing else
ever has before, not even
lying next to Ginger, wrapped
in the warmth of her sighs.
I am lifted high
above
the landscape of my life.
But now I fall again, desert
scrubbed of sustenance,
without the promise of
my baby, who chooses
surrender
in favor of time with me.
Ginger
Time Drags
Here at House of Hope,
where everything is regimented,
little variation to any given day.
They say that sameness
is necessary to meeting
expectations, that it’s good training
for real-world situations like
keeping a job. Up at six thirty a.m.,
dress for the day, make our beds,
straighten up our rooms. Breakfast
at seven, finish by seven thirty.
Load the dishwasher, if it’s your day.
If not, lucky you, fifteen minutes
to read or stare into space before
chapel, where you’ll stare into
space even longer. House of Hope
is a Christian home, and morning
prayer meeting attendance is mandatory.
Saving souls. That’s what they believe,
and hey, if it works that way, more
power to the Power. The concept
of God is foreign to me. Not even
Gram subscribes to the notion,
at least, she’s never mentioned it
to me if she does. Personally,
I’m just happy House of Hope
has rescued my body from abuse.
If there’s anything resembling a soul
residing inside me, it probably
does need a little assistance, but
I’m pretty sure listening to Pastor
Martin yak at us won’t make
that happen. Doesn’t matter.
It’s easier than scrounging a living
taking my clothes off, and for the girls
who somehow still do believe,
his words seem to offer comfort,
don’t ask me why. He sits on
a stool in front of the group, as if
standing would be too much effort.
The amazing thing about our Lord,
Jesus Christ, is his bottomless
supply of love, and all you have
to do to receive it is ask.
That doesn’t sound so bad, but he
won’t stop there. He never does.
Because, although he would argue
this, Pastor Martin’s all about judgment.
And . . . His Engine Fires