Strangers Assume My Girlfriend Is My Nurse

by Shane Burcaw

  When I came out of the back room of the nurse’s office, Mike asked, “Did she suck you off, too?”

  Today, being the mature and well-adjusted adult that I am, I let everyone help me pee: family, friends, strangers. In fact, if you’d like to try it, just email me and we’ll make arrangements.

  Chapter 2

  Ron

  It was Good Friday, a day of somber reflection for millions of Americans. It was cloudy, but unseasonably warm for late March. It was midafternoon. I had the day off, as did my father, who spent his day doing quiet work around the house—laundry, organizing the garage, more laundry.

  He came into our dining room, where I was enjoying a refreshing adult beverage and working on this very book. It was a lazy day. On the back patio to my left, a gathering of birds was devouring the seeds my mom had put out for them that morning.

  My dad pulled the earphones off my head. “You good if I run over to Brian’s to see his new bike?” he asked me.

  “Yup,” I said, not really listening. At the age of twenty-three, I stayed home alone quite often. Sounds reasonable, right? And yet, people always reacted with surprise when they learned that I wasn’t constantly monitored by an able-bodied adult figure.

  Take my grandfather, for instance, who thought my mom was joking when she first told him that some days during college I just hung out at the house alone if I didn’t have classes. As long as I had my phone and some food within reach, I was perfectly content. As long as I moderated my beverage intake and avoided IMAX films about beavers, I could hold my pee for days, so that was not an issue. Still, my grandfather grumbled that I should have someone with me. In his mind, leaving a person with a disability alone was absurd, since his mind blended all disabilities together into a big jumble of helplessness.

  With the right adaptations, I can be just as independent as anyone else, which is really important for me. The constant reliance on other people throughout my life has created in me a fear that I’m a burden. I occasionally feel guilty when asking for help, and the feeling can become pretty intense if I know I’m interrupting someone’s schedule or activity by asking for their assistance. I can get irritated if my mom so much as interrupts my Netflix movie to ask how to turn off her Bluetooth, so I can only imagine what my family members must feel when their daily lives are routinely interrupted by my round-the-clock care: lifting me, feeding me, showering me, etc. Because of this burden complex, I look for every possible way to increase my independence and reduce how often I need to involve others in my care. I’ve been staying home alone since I was about fourteen, and it has never once been an issue.

  So my dad left the room to get ready, and I returned to my work.

  A few minutes later, I saw a figure walking slowly up the porch toward our back door. What the hell? Nobody uses our back door except me and occasionally my brother, but he was three hours away at college. There was a knock, followed shortly by the doorbell (which we installed years ago so I could get my parents’ attention when I was playing outside). I couldn’t physically turn my head far enough to see who it was through the glass back door.

  “Uh, Dad? Someone is at the back door?” I said, hoping he hadn’t left for Brian’s yet.

  “Who in the world…” said Dad as he returned to the dining room and opened the back door. “Hey, can I help you?”

  The man’s voice was old, but gentle. “May I come in?”

  My dad hesitated, but then opened the door wider. “Sure, everything okay?”

  The man didn’t answer, but walked into our dining room, past my dad, and into my field of vision. His steps were slow, almost like he was deliberately taking his time. He stopped a few feet into the room and turned his head to look down at me. He was tall, with sleek white hair and expensive clothing—dress pants, Dockers, plaid button-up, and a black suit jacket.

  “Do I know you?” he asked, looking at me with genuine curiosity. My initial thought was that he was one of my blog followers. I’ve had a few rare occasions where strangers felt it was acceptable to simply drop by my house to meet me. It’s not acceptable—it’s creepy 100 percent of the time. But his question didn’t seem to support that theory. He was truly asking who I was.

  Either that, or he was toying with me.

  “I’m not sure, do I know you?” I said, trying not to let the bizarre situation influence my voice.

  He laughed. Full-out chuckled to himself. Then, suddenly, he stopped and looked directly into my eyes. “No.”

  He said it with force, like a parent scolding a child, more of a command than a response, with a hint of anger. He walked farther into our kitchen, keeping his eyes glued on me. His arms were crossed.

  My next thought was that this was a trick. Mom was constantly berating me for “sharing too much” on the internet, and I now wondered if she and Dad had put this little scare together to teach me a lesson. At the very least, this theory explained why my dad had been so quick to let the total stranger into our house. Another similar theory that flashed through my mind was that my dad had invited an old friend over and told him to mess with me just for shits.

  The man stopped in our kitchen, directly in front of me now, and looked around at the fixtures. “This is a nice kitchen,” he said. Then he turned his attention back to me. “Do I know you?” he asked in exactly the same tone as before.

  The alcohol in my system was not helping at this point. I looked down, and my phone screen was visibly greasy from the sweat on my palms. My heart rate was beginning to climb.

  “No, dude, I don’t think so. Who are you?” I felt inexplicably wimpy.

  Again: “No.”

  He laughed and walked around the table, toward me. The process repeated itself for a third time.

  “Dad, what the fuck is going on?” I said, no longer hiding my growing fear.

  Dad was still standing behind me, near the back door, and the way he answered both refuted my current theories and scared me more than anything else that had transpired so far: “Shane, I really have no idea.” I could hear the fear in his voice as well—not exactly the best thing to hear from the only person capable of defending us.

  “Sir, I think it’s time for you to leave,” he said.

  “No.” Laughter, laughter that carried a mocking quality, the way a bully laughs at his victim.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Ron,” he answered, matter-of-factly.

  “Where do you live?” asked Dad.

  He pointed to the southeast. “2308 Lansdale Drive.”

  “And what are you doing here?” asked Dad.

  “No.”

  He pointed to a picture of me hanging on the wall and took another step toward me. “That’s you right there.” He was close enough to reach out and grab me.

  My voice was shaking. “Dad, can you, like, do something?” It felt unreal, but I was sizing up the old man. He was at least seventy-five years old, well built, but still, he was old, and I decided my dad could easily take him on as long as the man wasn’t carrying a weapon.

  “Sir, you need to leave. Now.”

  “No.”

  The man turned and walked into our living room, out of my sight. Dad followed him, repeating that he needed to leave.

  Frantically, I dialed 911 on my phone, but I couldn’t physically lift the phone to my ear, and I didn’t want to alert this possible psychopath to my actions by using speakerphone, so I simply dialed the number and flipped my phone over in my lap, hoping the responder could use call tracking to locate our house. Even as I did it, I couldn’t believe I was doing it. I was either going to be the hero, or I was about to get murdered.

  From the other room I heard, “This is a great living room you have here.”

  “Sir, please leave now. You’re scaring my son.” Cool, Dad. Blame the kid in the wheelchair.

  “I have to leave now,” said Ron, as if the idea had just struck him for the first time. I heard the front door opening. I flipped my phone over and shouted at the 911 respo
nder everything that had just happened, but she didn’t seem to understand.

  “Did he physically break into your home without your consent?”

  “Well … No, I mean…”—shit, that sounded bad—“my dad let him in, but he wouldn’t leave!”

  We went back and forth like this a few times until she agreed to send an officer over. When the officer arrived a few minutes later, Ron was long gone. The officer—young, bored—took down our story and said he’d take a look around the neighborhood.

  I was shaken up. Never in my life had I experienced a threat of physical violence. I was twenty-three years old and I had never seriously considered the fact that I couldn’t defend myself. In the past ten minutes, Ron had rudely awoken me to that reality. What if I had been alone? What if his intentions really had been malicious? I was utterly defenseless! Sure, I could dial 911, but it would not be hard to take away my phone. What if he came back while I was alone?

  Imagine standing in an alligator-infested swamp with your arms and legs tied. Do you feel safe?

  Dad decided not to go to Brian’s (thank God), and we spent much of the rest of the day attempting to replay Ron’s visit in search of clues that we had missed. After dinner, I sheepishly asked my parents to reschedule their plans to meet friends for drinks. I did not want to be alone that night.

  Before the family went to bed, Dad locked all of our doors for probably the first time ever. It’s ironic how a locked door—ostensibly much safer than an unlocked door—can make you feel like you’re in danger.

  I fell asleep analyzing every tiny creak of the house.

  During breakfast the next day, we discussed Ron’s visit again. I was still thoroughly unsettled, thinking through all the moments I’d be alone in the coming weeks. I started texting friends and family to see if they were available for an hour here and an hour there. Many of them rearranged or altered their schedules to hang out, which caused some pangs of my burden complex, but right then I was more concerned with my safety. It felt ridiculous to be this scared by an old man, but his sinister laughter kept replaying in my head. He had been toying with me, I was sure of it.

  To further protect myself, I went online and began researching home security systems.

  On Monday, life returned to normal. I managed a nonprofit organization from the dining room of my house. When my coworkers, Erinn and Sarah, arrived to the Laughing at My Nightmare, Inc. office, they gave me lots of crap as I recounted the events of the weekend. To them, it sounded like instead of helping an old man with Alzheimer’s who got lost and ended up at our house, I called the police and made him out to be a blood-crazed predator. As they were making fun of my neurotic, overly imaginative mind, we heard footsteps on the back porch. Ron had returned.

  He approached the back door and stood there silently, his gaze fixed intently on me through the glass. Sarah went to the back door but did not open it.

  Ron pointed at her foot. “That’s a nice tattoo.”

  “This is not your house. You need to go home,” Sarah said to him.

  “Do I know you?” He let loose one of his signature laughs and began trying to open the back door. It was locked, but he continued to jiggle the handle with increasing frustration. My stomach was in my throat. Erinn was dialing 911 as Ron stepped off the porch and began to circle our house looking at all of our windows for a place to enter. We heard him fussing with the front door of our house, which was also locked.

  The police arrived and calmly explained that they had picked him up a block away and taken him home. He indeed lived just down the street, right where he’d told us. They said this was not the first incident they’d had with him. Classic dementia, they said. Erinn and Sarah gave me a look that said, “We told you so,” but this explanation did not immediately calm my nerves. I was angry and jacked up on adrenaline from fear after a potentially dangerous man had tried to infiltrate my home for the second time in four days.

  I said to the cop, “He just tried to break in. You can’t arrest him?”

  The officer reiterated that Ron had dementia, explaining this to me in a soft, gentle voice as if the situation were beyond my comprehension. He was not dangerous, the officer assured me. “There’s really nothing we can do.”

  Later that day, I purchased security cameras. I’d known the phrase “paradigm shift,” when your view of the world suddenly changes in a profound way, like when it was discovered that the Earth revolves around the sun, but I’d never personally experienced one.

  Now I had. My sense of safety was distinctly cut into two phases of my life: the time before Ron’s first visit, when I was carefree and secure, and the time after, when I was extremely cautious and obsessive about not being alone. I was angry that no one else seemed to understand how unnerving it felt to suspect looming danger with no way of protecting myself.

  Over the next four months, Ron came back seven more times. I’m not sure what it was about our house, but every time he wandered, he ended up at my back door. One of the times, he brought a Miller Lite with him, finished the can on our porch, and deposited the empty in our recycling bin. Another time, he stood next to my van and refused to move so that we could back out of the driveway. Eventually, I stopped calling the police, as it became clear they were not going to arrest the man for simply “trying” to break in.

  Looking back two years later, I feel bad about how I handled the entire Ron ordeal. My initial fear of his going berserk and trying to eat my face was probably unwarranted, but his visits did cause a big shift in how defenseless I feel. Not being able to physically protect myself was a legitimate concern, but as Ron repeatedly tried to get inside my house, I never once attempted to understand Ron. I made assumptions about him based on his age and his clear dementia without considering his specific case. I installed security cameras rather than helping him walk home.

  One of the most frustrating things about my disease is the tendency for strangers to make negative assumptions about me because of my wheelchair and appearance, like my grandfather assuming I can’t be home alone. I must constantly work to overcome social stigma when people judge me by how I look. However, when I was faced with a person living with dementia—a condition I’d never come into contact with before—I rushed to make negative assumptions: He’s dangerous, he’s unpredictable, he’s targeting me. I only thought about how his suffering negatively affected me and never truly considered his humanity. That was wrong. And hypocritical.

  So, Ron, my dude, I know it has been a while since we’ve hung out, but I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I thought you were evil, or faking, when in reality you were dealing with a terrible condition. I hope that, wherever you are, you’re receiving the care you need.

  If we ever meet again, let’s have a few Miller Lites together.

  Chapter 3

  Locked Out

  Ron paid only a brief visit in my peaceful life, but his role in my story was significant and destructive. Whereas before his attempted break-ins, I was content to stay home alone for long stretches of time, after his visits I spiraled into a prolonged period of nervousness and vulnerability. Although I eventually accepted that Ron was not a threat to my safety, his mere presence brought with it the realization that I would be unable to protect myself from someone who did wish to harm me.

  To fortify my defense against this newly perceived threat, I became neurotic about my safety. I went to great lengths never to be alone. When I had no option but to be alone for any stretch of time, I demanded that all doors be double locked. Instead of spending my home-alone time in my bedroom or our dining room, where I had no sight of the outdoors, I set up a new workspace near the window of our living room, which provided me an easy view of the road in front of our house. Should anything suspicious go down, at least I could watch it developing from my new position and get a jump start on calling the police. I Googled ways to booby-trap a house like I was Kevin from Home Alone.

  Several times—and I cringe to share this with you—I panicked when I
saw someone approaching the house, causing me to call my neighbors and ask them to come over and check out the situation. Every time it was embarrassing—a power-line inspector or a door-to-door salesman or no one at all—but even in my embarrassment I couldn’t shake this new, intense fear of being totally susceptible to danger. (Also, I just want to give a huge thank-you to my neighbors Jim and Tess, for coming to my “rescue” every time. I appreciated that so much.)

  My friends and family, although supportive of my new defensive measures, clearly did not fully understand the type of fear I was experiencing. Requests to lock the door or set up a security camera were met with jokes, and I don’t blame them. They all have a built-in security blanket: They can attempt to run away from or fight off any physical threat they might encounter. I, however, felt like a sitting duck: I was stuck in my wheelchair, just waiting for someone to get into my house and harm me. No matter that the chance of this happening was infinitesimally small.

  I consider myself to be a rational person (which is probably something an irrational person would say), so I recognize that I live in a quiet suburb that probably hasn’t seen an actual crime in sixty years. On top of that, I know that it would take a particularly terrible type of person to target a cute little wheelchair boy like me. But even rational people can have irrational fears. Ron had truly rattled me.

  It was not until many months later that another scary experience finally forced me to relax.

  Like one-seventh of all scary occurrences, it happened on a Tuesday. My parents were attending a dinner function, and I didn’t want to be alone for those couple hours, so I put out some texts to friends to see if anyone was around. One of my friends, Martha, an intensive-care nurse who was visiting from Philadelphia, said she’d swing by. Our agenda for the evening included eating chicken wings that tasted like spicy cardboard and drinking beer. Just a real classy night all around.