“Oh God, yes.”
“Me, too!” I laughed. “Just tell me when it will go away.”
“It will never go away.”
“What?”
“It won’t.”
“But you had your surgery eleven years ago! It must go away eventually.”
“But it won’t. It never will. And anyway, so what?”
I was miles, months, maybe years, away from “so what.”
I thanked her for her time and for sharing her story with me. After, I vowed—again—to never discuss my issues with anyone who appeared to have anything like what I had, and this time I meant it.
I looked at my feet. They were size-7 metaphors, never quite touching the ground, elevating me just slightly to a perfectly functional but wobbly place. I could learn to walk there, to balance there, to sit there, to live there forever if I had to. Time would have to take care of what I couldn’t. I needed a new area of focus, something to take my mind off my feet and my numb bum.
My sex life.
There are two mysterious events in my life that I have never been able to solve. The first occurred when I was moving out of the apartment I shared with my friend Fli to move in with my then boyfriend, Rich. While making a quick sweep under my bed to ensure I wasn’t leaving anything behind, I discovered a pair of bejeweled slippers with upturned toes. They looked like they belonged to a genie or an Indian princess, or a gay elf.
“Fli!” I called.
She ran up the narrow staircase to my room. “What’s the matter?”
I pointed to the twinkling shoes.
“What are those?” she asked.
“You didn’t put these under my bed?”
“Huh?”
Later that night, Rich came over and saw the slippers.
“Where did those come from?” Rich asked.
“No idea.”
The mystery remained unsolved.
I thought about those slippers when I opened my Kindle one night. I scrolled through all my e-books, which all looked familiar except one, a book called Taking Instructions. It came with a warning—something about “Extreme” and “BDSM.”
I had a bondage book on my Kindle.
I didn’t put it there. I asked Rich. He didn’t put it there. Joey and Henry—God help me—certainly hadn’t put it there, either. It appeared that the same fairy who had placed the jeweled slippers under my bed had returned for some more tomfoolery.
I started reading.
It was raunchy stuff with only the barest bones of a reality-based setup: a studly male teacher, a buxom, naughty female student, and . . . go! I was open to its potential sexual magic almost immediately. Although things down there still felt largely frozen, I refused to simply pack it in and live out the rest of my life orgasm-free. I was in possession of eight thousand sensory nerve endings; I would be happy if even half of them worked again.
(“I’d be happy with just two,” Rich said.)
Like any horny teen, I needed to discuss things with a girlfriend but didn’t want to be the one to start the conversation.
Luckily, my friend Beth and I met for breakfast one day. “How’s your sex life?” she asked.
“It’s good, it’s good,” I said. “I just can’t, you know . . .”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Not even with a vibrator?”
I put my coffee down. “No. But only because I’ve never used a vibrator.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Do you have one?”
“Do I have one?” She sighed. “We’re going to the drugstore.”
“The drugstore?”
She knew just what aisle to go to and didn’t care who was looking. She grabbed two off the shelf.
“So you can compare and contrast,” she explained.
They sat in my bedside table for weeks before I told Rich about them, before I even tried them. I’m not a prude, but somehow, using these (two) vibrators without Rich’s knowledge—even though I had been counseled by my friend to take them for a test drive on my own before bringing Rich on board—felt like a betrayal. I needed time to think. Since coming home, I had spent a fair bit of time in our hot tub. The water continued to be a source of soothing and healing. And then one day I remembered to turn the jets on.
A few hundred nerve endings were officially reactivated.
•
Henry and I went for a walk after dinner one night. Since scaling down to one stick from two, I had been advised to switch over and start using the walking stick in my left hand instead of my more dominant right hand to even out my gait. I hated it. Every part of me hated it, especially my left hand and my left leg. My right hand was bereft since its job had been downsized. In an act of pure petulance, it refused to swing when I walked, remaining stiffly by my side, barely budging from my thigh. So I had an idea: I would carry my left stick under my arm like a purse, tapping it on the ground only if I fell into my drunken side-steppy walk. Otherwise, I was pretty much walking without props.
Henry did tricks on his scooter just ahead of me.
“You better be careful, Hen,” I warned. “You almost hit yourself with that thing.”
“Mom, that’s the point! You never know when I’m doing the trick or not!”
I stopped for a couple of minutes to watch him, but even then I didn’t lean on my pole. I had been studying how other people walked, taking mental measurements, amazed at how they could put one foot in front of the other so quickly and with such consistency. If there was enough distance between a particularly compelling biped and me, I would try to fall in step with his or her gait, test out his or her walking rhythm against my own to see how it fit. I thought that syncing my steps with the steps of strangers would not only force me to move at a different pace—often one that was faster than my own—but also help me relearn the significance of body language. I was sure that how one walked told the world something interesting about oneself. I was also sure that if Henry didn’t stop swinging his scooter around his body like that he was going to slice his ankles off.
“Do me a solid, Hank, and get behind me. Tell me how I look.”
I started walking, back ramrod straight. I felt like John Gielgud in every part he ever played.
“You’re too stiff,” Henry said. “Loosen up a little.”
I slackened my knees, rounded out my posture, let my hips do the talking.
“That better?”
“Too much swag.”
Swag?
“You mean my hips are moving too much?”
“Way too much.”
I split the difference. I felt like I might be approaching something natural.
“There. You look great, Mom.”
Not too long after that, I asked Joey to take a walk with me. I told him how excited I was that I had finally regained the art of walking and talking while his dad and I were out on our Sunday morning stroll through the neighborhood ravine.
“What I mean is that I didn’t have to choose to either do one or the other. I could actually look at him while I was walking. This was a real revelation because, as you know, I haven’t been able to do both for the longest time.”
“ALL RIGHT ALREADY. I GET IT. THAT’S ALL YOU TALK ABOUT! YOU DON’T HAVE TO ANNOUNCE EVERY SINGLE THING. IT’S ALL YOU TALK ABOUT ALL THE TIME! I GET IT, ALL RIGHT? I GET IT!”
We got home. I opened the door and Joey went straight to the TV. I went straight to the kitchen.
“Did you want some pasta?” I asked him after several minutes of silence.
“Sure.”
He came into the kitchen.
“I want a plate,” he said. “I mean a bowl. I desire a bowl. I’m desire-a-bowl!”
He sat at the kitchen island and I watched him eat the way he does, with his head bent so far down over the bowl he practically touches it. I didn’t see his face again until he was finished.
“You’re right,” I finally said. “I do talk too much about my recovery.�
�
“It’s okay.” He wouldn’t look at me.
“I guess it’s what I think about a lot of the time.”
“Of course. I understand that.”
“Anyhow, it’s really boring and I’m going to try not to do that anymore.”
“It’s okay, Mom.”
“I’m really sorry, Joey.”
“Mom, it’s okay.”
18
Walk It Off
Each morning I took a shower, dried my hair, and put on my makeup; dressed in my workout pants, running bra, workout top, and hoodie; and made my way down to the basement. Walking on the treadmill, although strenuous, never caused a sweat. I meticulously recorded how far and for how long I was able to walk before needing a rest. My limit at Lyndhurst had been twelve minutes, but three months after returning home I was able to complete thirty-two un-pretty minutes. I bobbed and weaved and listed side to side, but I refused to grab hold of the sidebars to steady myself. I bodychecked the wall twice. I looked like a giant drunken boxer throwing punches at an invisible toddler.
I started taking small treks outside without my walking sticks. If I passed my reflection in a store window I stopped to take a look—not at my face but at my feet. Walking toward my reflection in the windows of bus shelters was also an excellent way to keep my feet in check, to ensure I didn’t have “swag,” that I didn’t look too stiff, that my knees were bending just the right amount. And then, the ultimate test: walking past a bunch of construction workers.
I had just left a friend’s place when I saw a convoy of trucks parked on the street, thick hoses stretched out beneath them. Men in sunglasses and orange reflector vests hung around with their legs spread wide. There was very little sidewalk for me to navigate, so I asked one of the men if it would be okay if I walked around the trucks and into the road so I could get to my car. I was graciously waved ahead. I tried to play it cool, to walk smoothly, to not veer too dramatically to one side or the other, when I heard it: an unmistakable woo-hoo kind of whistle, one that lingered on both the woo and the hoo. This was a solid “I’m just appreciating the view” whistle. Maybe, probably, definitely, there was a far younger, far more attractive woman walking right behind me who was the real object of their whistles, but I couldn’t risk turning around to look. And anyway, just the thought that I was whistle-worthy motivated me to keep taking these treks outside, alone, without my sticks.
This taste of independence was the sweetest I’d ever known. Soon after that walk, I took a road trip by myself to visit my friend Paula, who had left for Alberta to start a new life just before I left for St. Mike’s to start mine, which meant she was one of the blessed few who had never seen me in a wheelchair. Our reunion took place in Guelph where she was visiting her mother. She ran out to meet me in the driveway. We hugged like long-lost lovers. I had forgotten to warn her that hugging was easy but letting go could throw me off balance. Luckily, Paula was the kind of hugger who let go with every part of her body except her hands, which she used to grasp my arms and hold me in place to take a good, long look at me. She didn’t let go of me all the way up the stairs and into the house.
“Paula,” I said. She was gripping me so hard it was starting to hurt. “I can walk by myself, you know.”
“Shut up. I’m not doing this for you. This is for me.”
Once inside, I walked around for her.
“I don’t see any difference,” she said, slapping her thighs. “No difference at all.”
Paula and I had worked together on a television series for several years. She is an excellent actress, which meant I couldn’t tell if she was lying.
“Really? You can’t see any difference in my walking between then and now?”
“None.”
We drank an entire bottle of wine and then fell asleep around midnight, mid-sentence. For the first time in a long time, I was pleasantly—not maddeningly—buzzed.
At home, having a glass of wine with dinner was fine. When my coordination felt wonky, I just parked myself on the nearest couch. But drinking away from home was another matter entirely. I was concerned that my new feet might become that secretary at the office Christmas party who, after one too many mojitos, ends up in the broom closet making out with her boss’s wife.
Then, one day, Rich announced that the two-time flower-sending movie star and his famous director wife had invited us out to dinner.
“That might be fun!” I meant it. I was excited to dress up and show off how well I was walking.
But after only one martini, I knew I was in trouble.
“When I drink, I don’t walk very well,” I confided to the movie star, who was sitting next to me, but I couldn’t tell if he had heard me or not.
The meal ended. I bent down to get my purse. I put my scarf around my neck and gingerly pulled my jacket on. My back was sparking, a warning that the steel rods would soon be forcing their way up between my shoulder blades. I pushed my chair far back so I would have plenty of room to stand. I unbent my legs slowly. The tension in my back and chest was unbearable. What will my first step away from the table look like? And where the hell are my feet? I surreptitiously checked under the table to make sure they hadn’t migrated up the famous director’s pant leg. I wasn’t drunk, but my feet might make me look like I was.
We partnered off for the walk to our cars. I was with the movie star. The whole way, I walked like a crazy person. I farted frequently. I was fairly certain the latter was lost on him (if not on Rich and the famous director walking right behind us), but my loopy walking couldn’t have possibly gone unnoticed. My ankles kept slamming into each other like I was walking in a canoe. I banged into the movie star. If I had been with anyone else, I would have blamed my inebriated feet, laughed about it, slipped my arm through theirs, and moved on. I don’t know if the movie star’s absence of a helpful arm was because he really didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary or because he noticed but, kindly, didn’t want to embarrass me. Either way, I was furious.
On the ride home, I ranted to Rich about this perceived insensitivity to my needs.
“Honestly,” Rich said. “Why do you hate him so much?”
“I don’t hate him.” In fact, I thought he was wonderful. But there was no denying that he stirred me up. I didn’t want to say it out loud, but the truth was that he underscored that my career was in limbo.
Lying in bed that night, with my drunken feet passed out below me, I wondered if I would ever act again, and if I didn’t, what on earth was I going to do?
•
“I have an announcement and a question,” I said to Dr. Bright during one of our frequent appointments.
“I’m ready.”
“Rich booked us a trip to Las Vegas!”
“Fantastic! You’ve been before, right?”
“Many times. We love it. So that should be good. It’s three months away. End of May. I think I should be perfect by then, don’t you?”
She laughed but didn’t answer. “What’s the question?”
“It’s about my wheelchair permit.”
I don’t remember the day that I officially began walking on my own without the aid of a stick, only that it snuck up on me so gradually it was several days before I realized I didn’t even know where my sticks were. But I still had my wheelchair permit. Six months had passed since it had been issued, which meant it was either time to renew it or give it up. What had originally felt so shameful, so demoralizing, so necessary, now just felt like a crutch.
“It’s up to you,” Dr. Bright said. “If you want me to sign the renewal papers, I’m happy to.”
The winter had been hard. I was constantly on the lookout for black ice. I was terrified of falling. “Maybe just for another six months?”
I left the appointment with the papers signed and drove to Service Ontario. I parked my car and walked the remaining block to the license office. It happened to be just a couple of doors away from the Starbucks closest to Lyndhurst where I had routinely gone with
Joey and other visitors. I felt triumphant, strolling back through my temporary old ’hood wearing a long black pair of boots with the tiniest of stacked heels. I had only just started wearing them. They were lined with fake fur, precluding the need for dreaded socks. The boots made me feel like my old self.
The sidewalks were clear and dry even though there had been a massive snowstorm days earlier. I was thinking about where I might go for lunch and who I might corral to join me, when I crashed. I don’t remember the fall, only the hard bounce of my mouth on the sidewalk and the sharp smack of my sunglasses cutting through the bridge of my nose. I couldn’t get up. One arm of my glasses was around my ear, the other pushed up to the top of my head. I was sure my teeth had gone clean through my lip. My face was burning. I blinked several times. I could see three pairs of shoes very close to my cheek.
“Are you okay?”
“Oh my God!”
“Can I help you?”
“I, I can’t. Just gimme a second. I need . . . uh, I don’t really walk very well.”
Somebody lifted me up and helped me into the paint store I had tripped in front of. My helper gently sat me down at the table at the front of the store and offered me some water. I accepted and then I took off my glasses, covered my eyes with my hands and burst into tears. The man tried to soothe me.
“I’m so embarrassed. So humiliated.”
“No, no, ma’am,” he said. “No.”
And then the whole story—all of it—tumbled out of me. I told this poor stranger about the tumor, the surgery, Lyndhurst, recovery, walking, wheelchair permit. I don’t know why I kept going; I don’t know why or when I stopped.
“Is something going on with my face?” I finally asked. “Am I bleeding?”
I looked up so he could assess me. Shawn was written in cursive on a badge sewn to his shirt.
“Well,” Shawn said. “You’re bleeding a little.”
“Where?”
He pointed to my forehead and the bridge of my nose.
“Do you have a mirror, please? A washroom, please?”
“Of course, ma’am.”
He walked me there. I passed two employees with their names also embroidered on their shirts. They looked at me, then quickly looked away. Were they the ones who had helped me off the sidewalk? Instead of asking, I just tried to bleed a little less as I walked past. I looked in the bathroom mirror and a sad-sad face stared back at me. I was full of cuts and blood. What kind of woman falls flat on her face on the bone-dry sidewalk and then can’t get up on her own? What kind of woman babbles and blubbers and bleeds in front of strangers? What kind of woman tells a perfect stranger her long-winded tale of woe without even being asked? Only one kind: a divorcée who eats Xanax for breakfast and gets plastered while her children are in school. I dabbed at my bloody nose and forehead. I pressed some wet paper towel to my burning lips, and then I walked the gauntlet back to Shawn.
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