Moving Forward in Reverse

by Scott Martin

  The fingers pinched the stem of the fork just as I wanted them to and when I lifted my arm to scoop imaginary pasta, the utensil was pointing into the bowl without me having to tweak the angle. Bringing the invisible forkful of food to my mouth demonstrated similar results. The angle was perfect!

  Zenon and I beamed at each other like two kids watching a science experiment perform to expectations.

  ‘They’re spot on,’ I told him and almost belatedly remembered to test the left arm. ‘Spot on,’ I repeated when the glass met my mouth without trouble.

  ‘Super!’ he whooped, collecting his glass and fork. ‘That’s great news. Really! I hadn’t anticipated it going this well. That only leaves us with attaching the receptors and waiting for your gloves to arrive.

  Okay, then. Let’s take these off and I’ll get back to work.’ As he held out his hand for one of the arms, I felt a fleeting sadness at our impending separation. A part of me wanted to ask if I could keep them just until dinner time – give me one meal not using the hooks and he could have them tomorrow.

  Smirking at my own lunacy, I placed the left myo in his arm. He tugged it off like removing a tall boot and left me pondering how I was going to do that without his helpful hands.

  When both prosthetics were safely back in his case, Zenon stood up and brushed a hand across the creases in his slacks.

  ‘Expect me back soon.’

  ~~~

  Three days later, he came bearing the greatest gift of all: fully assembled, rubber-gloved myoelectric hands – my fully assembled, rubber-gloved myoelectric hands. The designer was rolling out the final product.

  I grinned like a child on Easter as he placed the hands before me. The rubber of the gloves was too smooth to truly resemble skin and didn’t match my skin tone nor the shade of the plastic forearm, but I didn’t care. After dueling with the hooks for the past month, anything remotely human in construction was a boon. Someone had even taken the time to draw on pseudo fingernails of the type you find on girl’s dolls.

  As a special treat, Zenon also produced three, foot long, quarter inch thick dowels which he had bought from a local hardware store. ‘In case you break one – or two.’ he said.

  I thanked him enthusiastically and frequently as he helped me navigate through donning my arms for the first time without help. I was clumsy and stumbled through the process – rolling the arms haphazardly across my lap, dropping the dowel, not pulling the sock on far enough, and otherwise making a bit of a mess of things – but in the end, I had hands. Eight fingers and two thumbs: What more could a guy ask for?

  12

  My Night with Captain Morgan

  With fully-functional myoelectric hands now at my disposal, I could think of only two things I wanted: a spiral notebook and a pen.

  It was time to start writing a coaching manual to help solve the issue of my no longer being able to demonstrate the techniques of play by providing a direction. To start, I would need a second assistant coach to focus on technical skills while I managed tactics, scouting, and match evaluation, but the adjustments would need to extend past there.

  Rattling around in my brain since my time in the ICU was a little ditty I titled The Soccer Atlas: Where are we going and how are we going to get there?. It would be an atlas for winning the National Championship. During the past two months I had written nearly the entire booklet in my head and was relieved to let it start squirting out onto paper. I was surprised to find I had no difficulty writing with the myos. The letters were legible and my speed was good. Finally, a task I could do just as well post-illness as before

  In the days and weeks that followed, I became totally immersed in constructing the Atlas. Every spare minute was spent transcribing The Atlas into my notebook. Typically these moments came in the evenings, so it was really no surprise that I was frowning over my notebook when he shouted my name.

  ‘Wonder!’

  I flinched, startled out of the present by my old, high school nickname. I’d been dubbed Wonder Boy by my senior gym class after I had struck a bicycle kick for a goal. This was at my new high school in Port Edwards where football, baseball, and basketball reigned supreme; most had probably never even heard of a bicycle kick, let alone seen one. The comparative soccer hot bed of Wisconsin Rapids where I had transferred from was just a few miles away, and I continued to play for the club team there under the direction of high school German teacher, Klaus Kroner, who developed more than teams, but a family among the players. Thanks to some of my soccer teammates dating girls from Port Edwards, the nickname followed me across city lines. Luckily, the word Boy was removed and the name didn’t follow me to college.

  I looked up to see a burly man with reddish hair steering a wheelchair chaotically through the door and my jaw dropped. Jim? It couldn’t be. Then came another ‘Wonder!’ from the doorway as a long-legged man with an all-knowing smile curving his lips sauntered in. Barry? Holy crap! Jim, Barry, and I had played ten seasons together. We had won countless matches together. Ours was a brotherhood formed on shared passions and long years of camaraderie.

  Before I could even greet this blast from my past, two more bulwarks came barreling through the door: the strong man from Germany, our steadfast goalkeeper Rainer; and another of our staunch back line: Jeff Dix with his brown jacket draped over a brawny forearm and sporting a new tuft of thick, dark mustache.

  I was dumbfounded. These guys lived a solid two hours away. Had they really just driven all this way to see me?

  My mom had told me that when I was in the coma a bunch of my old teammates – this motley crew, plus other former teammates, Willy, Tappy, and Stuart, and Coach Kroner – had heard that I was sick and came to visit, thinking I was heading towards death. This was the first time I was awake to see any of the old team, though – and for them, the first time they didn’t need to fear for my life.

  ‘Geet your lazy ass outta bet, man,’ Rainer commanded, his thick German accent taking assertive and demanding to a whole new level. ‘We’re going out!’

  ‘What? Where’d you get that wheelchair?’

  Jim smirked and shrugged. ‘Eh, we made a deal with the head lady out there,’ he replied, gesturing over his shoulder to the hallway outside. I assumed by ‘head lady’ he meant Carolyn, the head nurse on duty. ‘Promised to keep you in the chair, got it?’

  I just laughed. With how much pain walking caused me, I didn’t anticipate wanting to deviate from that plan.

  ‘So, where should we go?’ Jim asked.

  Finally something I had an answer to: ‘The Camaraderie. I’ve been Jonesin for some fried cheese curds.’

  There seemed to be no objection to ‘fried cheese curds’ so Jim stationed the wheelchair by my bed. Barry helped me oust myself from the covers and looped his long arms around my chest to hoist me into the chair. Jim took hold of the handles and steered me out of the room with a tad more care than he’d handled the empty wheelchair.

  On the way past, Carolyn called out from behind the nurses’ station. ‘Hey! Remember our deal, all right?’

  ‘We promise he’ll stay in the chair,’ Jim said to appease her, ‘but we can’t guarantee in what condition he’ll return.’

  ~~~

  It had been months since my last alcoholic drink. With two Rum and Coke’s down, I was sliding effortlessly past tipsy into drunk. I may have broken a glass accidentally (a casualty of my unfamiliarity with the myos) and caused a bit of a raucous with the guys, but I did stay put in my wheelchair for the duration of the outing. Being out – truly out, not just somewhere between a soccer field and the hospital – was intoxicating in itself. The sense of jubilation and confidence that came with being in the company of close friends combined with more than a few drinks left no room for concerns. It didn’t matter if I was the only guy in a wheelchair, or that I didn’t have hands, because what I did have was the buffering companionship of my soccer family. Stationed between them, I was the same old Wonder.

  It was a simple thing, a night
out with friends, but buoyed by their joviality and buffered by our easy camaraderie, I thought I could feel a subtle shifting of direction inside of me; the pendulum of my life beginning to swing forward again.

  Across the assortment of various appetizers and drinks spewed the stories of our past times together. Politics and religion played no part in our banter. ‘Do you remember the time. . .’ was a common opening. ‘Have you heard from. . .’ was there, too. We discussed the World Cup that was coming to the United States, our plans to attend the opener in Chicago, and our continued frustration with the style of play by the US Men’s Team. The years apart were no more a factor in our ever-changing storyline than politics were; we never missed a beat in our ability to sit and bullshit about everything.

  Everything except my handicap, that is. I don’t know if they were being polite or read my attitude, but the illness was never a topic of discussion. And what a refreshing break it was.

  As promised, I returned securely belted into the wheelchair but still a bit toasted. After the guys left, I leaned back and reveled in the long-forgotten sensation of being truly relaxed. It felt so good to be carefree; to have all my fears silenced for once by the alcohol thrumming through my veins. I thought about going back to my old life in my new condition and felt only eager anticipation. I thought about walking and the pain I’d endured and felt nothing. No pangs of anxiety or sense of dread. With the taste of rum and Coke still on my tongue, I felt invincible. I could walk. I had walked up and down nine flights of stairs, damn it. So why did sober me fear it so much? Pansy, I thought of my timid alter ego. Grow a pair, would you?

  I snickered drunkenly until the pansy retorted: Look who’s talking. You just spent an evening getting sloshed in a wheelchair. Real brave, you are.

  And he was right – I was right. I couldn’t just claim invincibility and fearlessness. I needed to prove it. I looked to the door; considered the hallway beyond.

  Why the hell not?

  I threw the covers off my legs and slid my feet to the floor. Without hesitation, I pushed myself up from the bed until I was standing. I bobbled slightly – which I attributed to the alcohol – and had to take a moment to balance myself on the bedrail, but then I was up! I was standing on my own two feet and would you believe I felt no pain?

  Grinning dopily, I started to walk towards the door. I was going to give the nurses one heck of a show. Before making it out of the room, my eyes lighted on floppy, faux fur ears. The bunny slippers my little sister, Lisa, had sent me. On a whim I slipped my feet in them and continued to the door.

  I came sauntering out of my room without difficulty. Balance always having been a strong point of mine, I had no trouble walking on feet half their former size. As I reached the nurses’ station I found Carolyn and the fluff of reddish curls that adorned Cheryl’s head bent over a chart.

  I lifted my nose and said somewhat smoothly, ‘Hello, ladies. What’s up?’

  They both looked up and I got the distinct pleasure of watching two sets of eyeballs bulge. Carolyn did a double take, shaking her head and blinking to make sure I was really there.

  ‘Looks like you are,’ she responded. ‘All six feet of you.’

  I grinned as Cheryl rushed around the desk to help me. I backed away from the counter before she could reach me, though, to show that I was stable – a little drunk, but stable.

  ‘Well, look at you,’ Cheryl said when I declined her help.

  ‘Yup,’ I said and twirled my way down the hall with Cheryl by my side, ready to rescue me if I started to fall. I made it all the way back to my bed without even a hint of losing my balance and let Cheryl help me kick off my slippers and slide into the covers.

  Once safely in the confines of my hospital bed, Cheryl handed me an envelope with my mother’s handwriting on it and news print protruding from it.

  ‘Came today,’ she said and left me to my reading with a good-natured shake of her head at my audacity. I pulled away the envelope to find an article clipped from the Oshkosh Northwestern, the daily newspaper out of Oshkosh, Wisconsin where I’d attended college. The familiar grey beard and dark brown hair of the paper’s editor, Jim Metz, were pictured above the right-hand column. The title read, “As undergraduate, he made mark on Oshkosh.”

  ‘Hm,’ I said and reclined against my pillows to read:

  Seldom does a person come to UW-Oshkosh as an undergraduate and put a permanent mark on the lives of hundreds of Oshkosh people before graduating.

  Scott Martin did. I am one he touched.

  I was honored by the first lines and struck to the point of tears by the next few. Bleary eyed, I continued.

  When classmates got to know Oshkosh night life, Scott got involved with the then fledgling Oshkosh Youth Soccer Club.

  His first year, 1980, he coached two teams, one 8- and 9-year-olds, the other 10- and 11-year-olds. The next year he was elected to the board of directors, and it was here I met him.

  He did not introduce me to soccer, but immersed me in it. He not only coached, but he also officiated.

  I looked away and wiped my eyes. I was stunned.

  I joined him in the task of recruiting and training and scheduling the referees.

  It may have seemed unusual, the young college athlete allied with this paunchy middle ager, but we put a great deal of effort into our duties.

  In 1983 Scott was elected president of the club, presiding over an ever-enlarging program. And when it was difficult to find enough coaches, he took on more of that responsibility. One season he coached four teams. That’s about 70 youngsters under the supervision of this college student who went to practices and games all around the city on a bike.

  His dedication was total, his example inspiring.

  I had to pause again, this time for a chuckle at the memory of me pedaling everywhere I went and the thought of all the responsibility I carried without a thought to its weight.

  Jim went on to write about my bout with the flesh-eating disease and the article took on a different tone:

  Scott Martin is now mending.

  He’s being fitted with artificial arms. He’s undergoing intensive therapy, both occupational and physical.

  And he’s active in coaching his team. Even from his hospital bed their playing and their success are not just on Martin’s mind, they’re receiving his instruction, his insight, his special inspiration.

  The sheet of newsprint wavered in my grasp. Slowly, I lowered it to my lap and felt my mind drift back in time: back to Jerry Stark, my coach at UW-Oshkosh who convinced me to start coaching; back to Fred Werner who hired me as his assistant coach at Oshkosh West High School shortly after my graduation; and back, of course, to all those kids that I coached and by now had kids of their own playing soccer.

  I sucked in a ragged breath and let my hands fall to my lap. Here was proof to myself of what I was capable of doing. I shuddered at the thought that this could have been my obituary.

  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.