Cripple.

This is Part Two of what happened last week. The conclusion will appear soon.

The course of my steroid IV treatments lasted five days. Each day it was an hour drive to the hospital, an hour for the treatment, and an hour back. My mom drove me the first three days and I could tell that though she would continue making the trek in perpetuity, she was tired. I called upon a few friends to help, thus beginning my jaunt as a transient cripple. One evening, I stayed at the apartment of a couple, Angel and Bill, who are gracious, giving, kind human beings, close friends of mine who are not only lovely people but also the parents of a two-and-a-half year old girl who is one of my frequent playmates. Arriving at their home before they were done with work, I situated myself at the computer for some solitary writing time. Once my hosts arrived home, we played, danced, sang, devoured grilled cheese, and reviewed a scrapbook dedicated to the manliness and godliness that is Gavin Rossdale (it was from Angel’s teenage horndog phase). When I awoke in the morning, the toddler, K, jumped on me with a grinning smear of a kiss and a warm hug. She then went to the corner where my belongings were stashed, grabbed my cane and my helmet and brought them to me. Her manner was very determined and serious, as if to say to me, “Here. Now you can start your day.” I have never met a toddler more aware of others and so capably advanced of empathy. It astounded me.

Angel drove me the hospital for my morning treatment; I had my to-go cup of coffee, and K had her sippy cup. We raised our glasses and I said, “Cheers.” K crinkled her eyebrows, took the obligatory sip, and looked at me again. I raised my cup and she did hers, and I said, “Slàinte!” K smiled, bellowed, “Slàinte!” and took a hearty gulp. Her mom inquired, “Did my daughter just speak Irish?” I responded, “Yes, she did and quite well. Apparently, she prefers that particular drinking toast above others.” Angel deposited me at the hospital entrance and I was immediately transferred into the security of my aunt and uncle. They are both retired but definitely have some rocket fuel left in them. I went through another treatment and was transported to stay with Aunt and Uncle for the evening. It was a wonderful experience. They and I haven’t spent much time together since I was a child, but they are close with my mom. My Aunt had the coffee started, a can for cigarette butts outside, and a computer and c.d. player in the guest room. Perfect. We shared some very nice time together, having conversations that aren’t necessarily common among gentle gentile elders and middle-aged youngsters, but were enlightening and playful. Two other friends picked me up from my relatives’ house and returned me home. The transient cripple road trip full circle.

Not too long ago, I made the mistake of saying out loud, “Go ahead and take my mobility but leave me my madness.” It was me being witty and audaciously secure in front of a small audience. It was miscalculated balls-up idiocy. Can one tempt fate? Did I taunt fate? Huddled alone in darkness apart from the blue glow of a lava lamp, I ruminated and navel-gazed. Did the mere vocalization of that sentence substantiate its inevitability? Surely vox cannot hold such sway. Recumbent and alone, I played mind/body games. I clenched my eyes tightly and pretended I was floating above looking down at my motionless self, at the ready to sketch portions of my stillness. Envisioning how my hands and arms were resting, a make-believe pencil drawing in my head, I would check. How I conceived the position of my hands was correct. I stretched my hands, admiring their ease of function, and proceeded to play the same riddle with the legs. My imaginary rough drawing of my legs was upon a crisp stark white paper. Done, I thought. These are my legs in repose and anticipating solid shuteye, feet uncovered to prevent quirky lunar lunacy, this is how the lower portion of my body rests. I checked beneath the blankets. I was wrong. How I had envisioned my legs and feet was different than how they were. The partial paralysis was mocking me. The configuration of my lower limbs was impossible to guess because they felt detached from my being. I didn’t sleep well that night.

Too much to think about, particularly when crazily medicated. A god, spirituality, karma, religion, afterlife… I, I… I don’t know. To me, all of it swirls unnecessarily--- a motley mishmash with fate and astrology and personality charts and questions such as, “Why is the sky blue?” I’m not saying contemplation is pointless, but often it seems hurried, trifling, as if it is a substitution for the living of life, time spent snubbing aliveness.

The steroid IV’s did not achieve the results my neurologist had anticipated. More tests had to be done. Vials of blood, MRI’s, the possibility of chemotherapy as the next treatment. I inquired about my hair, what would happen to my hair. I said to my doctor, “I have great freakin’ hair. What’s the chemo going to do to my hair?” He responded, “It may thin a bit.” I looked at him not as if he had completed twelve years of intensive schooling and had over a decade of specialized practice, but as if he was a silly dum-dum. “We have to look at other options,” I stated. “We don’t mess with the hair. I have great freakin’ hair.” He nodded softly and spoke as one would to an imbecile, “You do have very nice hair.” We decided to reconvene after receiving and reviewing the results of the tests.