I see you, sitting across the subway car as I buckle the strap that secures me and my wheelchair in the space next to the door. I see you not-looking, not-staring at my feet in summer sandals, spectrally strange in the absence of all their little muscles, long since withered away. You busy yourself with not-staring as you think, He walked once upon a time, he doesn't have the oversized baby feet of a lifetime paraplegic. You look past me out the window at what?, not-staring as you take the measure of my ironic body, my ball cap covering my shaved head, clear ice-blue eyes not-staring at you as you don't-stare at me, not-staring from the face that looks a half-dozen years younger than the twenty-six that I am, my sleeveless tee showing arms that would do credit to a gymnast, the shirt covering massive shoulders tapering to hips that don't seem wide enough, to legs that don't seem long enough, pathologically skinny as you don't-stare up my cargo shorts and down at what sits before you in plain sight, my knobby knees and wasted calves and yes, once again the feet that El Greco might have dreamed up.
If ever we became friends you might ask, What happened to you? and I would say, I fell off a roof when I was eleven. But we won't become friends. To you I am just another sighting. Maybe you slipped a camera out of your pocket and snapped a quick one while I was busy buckling myself in, now you can share me with all your online friends. Maybe you spotted me as I changed trains at the central station, there were more people than I would have thought on a Saturday morning, a lot of tourists about. You could have slipped into that seat across from the wheelchair space before I got in the door and got myself settled. When I ride this train in rush hour every day there's no seeing across the car, far too crowded. Not a lot to see anyhow, I'm dressed for business then. There was this mainframe problem at work that had to wait until no one would be needing the workstations that are used 24/7 Monday morning through overnight Friday. I knew exactly what the problem was and wanted to explain it to the tech over the phone but no, he had to have me there. I arranged to meet him at nine and we had it fixed in ten minutes. Now Jill has finished packing the van, she and the kids will pick me up at my stop and we'll be off to the beach, finally.
My stop is next and you stand up as you see my hand move to the buckle of the restraining belt. I'm first out the door, minding the gap between the car and the platform with a tiny wheelie, don't want to repeat what happened when I was fourteen and both front wheels somehow slipped sideways into the gap, two guys had to pick up the chair to get me out while the little chime kept on and on and the announcement came again and again, The doors are closing, Stand away from the doors. I head right to the elevator and get out at street level and see you must have walked up the escalator, you've reached the top and are heading to the exit. When I reach the street you have crossed the drop-off lane and sat down in the bus-stop shelter that faces the disabled parking area, with a newspaper in front of you as if you were reading it. You must be one helluva practiced stalker. As it happens that's not where I'm going, Jill will be along shortly to pick me up here at the kiss-and-ride right in front of the station.
Finally you get up and start strolling back my way, not-staring. I would be tempted to think, maybe shout, Creep!, but no, I can't do that, not when I'm in this chair because of a choice I made a long time ago, out of drives I had as far back as I can remember. Falling off the roof was an accident, really, I was horsing around with my cousin. "What were you doing on the roof?" everyone asked, "What were you thinking of?" "I dunno," we said, shrugging our shoulders. We were eleven-year-old boys, what more reason could there have been? I landed on my feet and broke both bones in each shin through the growth plate just above the ankle. I don't remember the fall or the ER or both legs being put in full length casts complete with a ridge under the toes to immobilize them. What I do remember is the doc saying to my mom and uncle, "He's going to be casted for eight weeks minimum, in two weeks we'll take off the top part and just leave the part below the knee but no way, absolutely no way, is he to put any weight on his legs." The way they had my feet set, that could hardly be done anyhow. I remember asking, "Will I have to use a wheelchair?" Yes. I was to start middle school in three weeks. "Can I go to school?" We'll see how you're doing when we shorten your casts. If everything goes well you can go as far as I'm concerned, I'll write you a note, it will be up to the school. To my parents he said, "He's at a sensitive age, make sure you get him a decent wheelchair. I can recommend this shop to you," he said, handing them a card.
So that was how it started. From the hospital we went right to the shop. My father carried me in and explained the situation. They showed us a rigid-frame model like what the wheelchair kids at school used and said "This one's lightweight and will give him good stability and mobility. Bring him back when they've put him in the short casts and we'll fit a footplate." It was also fire engine red and had a seat belt, to me that communicated speed and power. Exceedingly cool. Dad set me in the chair and I tooled around the shop a few times, amazed and delighted at what I felt. I knew right then I would never walk again if I could help it. Practiced dev that you are, you've probably met people like me, people who most of the world thinks of as volunteer cripples, and crazy. Something in my mind has been convinced as long as I can remember that I shouldn't walk. When I saw my first wheelchair I knew, That's what I need. For a long time the word for us was "pretenders" but my deep feeling always has been that I'm not pretending anything, that I have this deep need not to use my legs for locomotion. Now they call what we've got BIID, body image identity disorder or something like that. I'm glad that at last they've got a name for it but I've never doubted its reality.
Those first two weeks were awkward and uncomfortable, with my legs sticking out in front of me and the casts pressing against the back of my thighs when I sat in the wheelchair. I did not use it much then. Once the doc declared that my swelling was down and the top half of the casts could come off things got a lot better. The shop fixed a bar to rest my casts on and at the ankle a nylon strap with a Velcro closure to keep them in place. We stopped by the school to talk with the principal who said, "Sure, we have several kids in wheelchairs, the whole building is accessible. No problem at all." "What about going to the bathroom?" I asked. "I'm not allowed to stand up at all." "We'll have you check in with the school nurse when school starts next week, she'll show you what to do." Up until then, every time I needed the bathroom even to pee, Dad or one of my older brothers just picked me up off the chair and plunked me down on the toilet. Now that I would be mostly among strangers, the prospect was different.
So, I became adept at living without the use of my legs. I overheard mom say to my grandmother over the phone, "I thought he'd be upset, but he makes it all look like the most natural thing in the world." Well, yes, to me it was. It was the way I was supposed to be. Now the challenge was to make it last. Kids at school would ask, "Why are you in a wheelchair?" and I'd say "I fell off a roof." "When will you be able to walk?" "Never." That was true enough, and my goal was to give the impression that it was true always. And, to let it be so always. It helped that my parents thought my time in the short casts would be eight weeks after the top parts were taken off, not eight weeks total. And, even though it had been ten weeks, the docs felt that the bones were still not entirely healed and decided to leave the casts on two more weeks after that. It was almost Thanksgiving when they finally came off. The docs taught me how to use crutches – move each leg with the opposite crutch, and said to use them around the house to start with, but I went home in the wheelchair and never did mess with the crutches. As far as I know they are still gathering dust in the closet of my old room. When my parents or brothers would ask, "Why aren't you using your crutches?" I'd say, "They're too slow." "But you'll never get back to walking if you don't start." "Well, maybe not" is all I would say. Some would ask, "Don't you want to walk?"and I might say, "Well, maybe not" – or, I might just wheel away.
Jill is here, the show's over. On to the beach!
