Without even looking up, Bobby snapped back, “What do you want?”
Michael, without the slightest change in his demeanor, said, “I want to go get shitfaced drunk and find some hot women.”
Bobby, curious and confused by this answer, slowly turned toward Michael. His look softened when he saw another quad, just like himself, but Michael was still wearing a halo. Bobby, trying to gather up his anger again, said, “So why don’t you go?”
“Because I need a wing man,” Michael said. He noticed Bobby’s scars from his halo device, two screw-sized marks above each eye. “Hey, did you have a halo too?”
“Yes,” Bobby’s said. “I got mine taken off two weeks ago.”
“I just had mine tightened today, and I got a fuckin’ headache,” Michael sighs.
“That sucks. Try Extra Strength Tylenol. That’s what the fuckin’ doctor told me,” Bobby said tersely but more politely.
“Did that help you?” Michael asked.
“Not really,” Bobby answered with a slight smile.
Michael appreciated his humor and said facetiously, “Thanks a lot, kid.”
“Seriously, it helps a little,” Bobby admitted.
“Okay, I will try that,” Michael said as he tried rolling his chair again. “See you around, kid. Thanks again.”
Later that day after dinner, Michael was in the visitors’ room watching TV with his cousin Frank Mancuso. “Do you still need a wing man?” Bobby said sheepishly as he entered the room .
“Is that you, kid?” Michael tried to maneuver his chair so that he could face Bobby. “Of course I do. Come on in. I would like you to meet my cousin Frank. Frank, this is...What’s your name again, kid?”
“I’m Bobby, Bobby King,” he answered. “What are you watching?
“Monday Night Football,” Michael said in his best Howard Cosell impersonation. “Rams against the Seahawks. Eric Dickerson is back.”
“No kidding.” Bobby showed some enthusiasm but tried to rein it in. “He is pretty good.”
They sat and watched the game for a while. Bobby said to Michael, “So what happened to you?
“Car accident,” Michael replied, still focused on the game. “What about you?”
“Swimming pool accident. I dove into the pool and hit the bottom with my head.”
Frank said, “You too? There is a woman here who also had that same accident isn’t there, Michael? They should put warnings on those pools.”
“Yes,” Michael said. “Shirley had the same accident. She almost drowned. Her brother pulled her out. How did you get out?”
“My dad noticed that I didn’t come up and jumped in after me.” Bobby continued with a little bit of shame as he admitted, “He was always telling me not to dive into the pool.”
Frank, who was an aeronautical engineer, replied as only an engineer can, “Those pools are really not made for diving, even the ones with the diving boards. Some are not deep enough or long enough. ”
Bobby became uncomfortable, thinking that he was going to hear another lecture, and quickly changed the subject. “Do those fingerless gloves really help you grab the wheel better?”
Michael held up his hands, showing off his gloves that looked like ones worn by power weight lifters. “Not really.” Michael gave him a sideways glance and a smirk. Bobby nodded and accepted the payback-remark. “But they do stop the calluses.”
They continued to watch the game as Frank said, “I think your mom left some Pepsi in your room. I am going to get one. Would anyone else like one?” Michael and Bobby accepted and, at the next commercial, Frank ran to the room and came back with three bottles of Pepsi. Michael had a bag on the back of his wheelchair with a plastic water bottle with a lid and straw. Frank took it out, filled it with Pepsi, and carefully handed it to Michael. Frank asked Bobby if he had a water bottle, but Bobby said, “No, I just drink right out of the bottle with a straw.” Frank opened the bottle for him and carefully handed it to him. Frank went over to the cabinet to get him a straw but before he could come back, Bobby spilled his Pepsi all over himself. “Oh shit. I am so stupid sometimes,” Bobby said miserably.
Frank rushed back with some napkins and started cleaning up the spill. “It’s okay. I will clean it up.” But Bobby was inconsolable.
“I am such a fuckin’ loser,” he continued as he pounded down on the arms of his chair. “I am such a loser.” Even the ultra-calm Frank could not seem to stop Bobby’s meltdown. “I am such an idiot,” he continued.
“Do you want me to bring you back to your room and call a nurse so that you can get out of those wet clothes?” Frank asked.
Bobby just nodded yes, too embarrassed to answer .
In an effort to relieve Bobby’s embarrassment, Michael said, “When you get some dry clothes on, come back and we will finish watching the game.” But Bobby never came back to the visitors’ room.
The next day at the lunch table, Michael invited Bobby to join them. On this particular day, they were joined by Bill, Jerry, Shirley, the other quad with a swimming pool accident, and Matt Gugino, who had suffered severe head trauma during a college football game. He introduced Bobby to the group, and he was, of course, warmly received. Soon everyone was curious about the new guy and his story. Bobby told them how he dove into a swimming pool and how his dad saved him.
“Me too,” Shirley said.
Matt suggested, “The manufacturers should put a ‘no diving’ warning on pools.”
Michael glared at Matt and said, “And they should make better football helmets too. Hey, shit happens.” Matt nodded in agreement.
Jerry had an epiphany. “When we get out of the hospital, we should bring this to the attention of the public. We could become…” he struggled for the word. “Oh what is that words…ADVOCATES! Then we could draw some attention to these issues.”
Everyone got caught up in Jerry excitement. Someone suggested they could also advocate for more curb cuts on city streets and more ramps to get into public buildings. They all got fervently motivated behind these ideas and were inspired by a unifying purpose. Michael seized the opportunity to bolster Bobby’s sagging spirit and redirected the group’s energy. “I couldn’t agree with you more, these are great ideas. However, we have to make ourselves as strong as we can while we are here if we are going to be taken seriously out there. And I think we have to start mentally. The self-talk we use every day is like the food we put into our bodies. If you put junk food into your body, it harms your body. If we put junk words into our minds, it harms our minds and it harms our spirits. I know I am guilty of this; I get angry with myself when I can’t pick up a spoon. I called myself an asshole this morning when I dropped my toothbrush. Who hasn’t done something like that since they have been here?” They all nodded empathetically. “We are not stupid, we are not jerks, we are not cripples, we are not victims, we are not charity cases, and we are not even patients. We are rehabilitators. We are survivors. And we will soon become reformers, advocates, agents of change, and soldiers of a new revolution.”
“Mikey is right,” Bill said. “It was only after Dr. Jekyll ingested the evil that he became Mr. Hyde. And the Greeks could not conquer the fortified city of Troy until the Trojans let the wooden horse within its walls. It is like James Allen said in As a Man Thinketh, ‘A man will find that as he alters his thoughts toward things and other people, things and other people will alter towards him...Let a man radically alter his thoughts, and he will be astonished at the rapid transformation it will make in the material conditions of his life. Men do not attract that which they want, but that which they are…The divinity that shapes our ends is in us.’”
Michael started to interrupt, but Jerry put his hand up and mouthed, “Let him go; he’s on a roll.”
Bill continued without interruption: “‘It is our very self, all that a man achieves is the direct result of his own thoughts. A man can only rise, conquer, and achieve by lifting up his thoughts. He can only remain weak, abject, and miserable by re
fusing to lift up his thoughts. We are not weak; we are not abject and miserable. We are a force to be reckoned with.’”
Michael asked, “How do you remember all this shit?” Everyone laughed.
Michael was establishing himself as one of the leaders at Magee. Everyone began to wonder who Michael Battaglia really was. He was the only patient who had a family member or friend visit him nearly every day. He was setting records for the volume of mail. One morning when Mary was visiting, Amy asked her, “Who is your brother? I mean, who is he really?”
Mary looked at her with disbelief and answered, “What are you talking about?”
Amy continued, “Mary, we have had celebrities here at Magee. We had Teddy Pendergrass, who had the record for mail before Michael. He didn’t just beat Teddy’s record, he has shattered it. The mail people are joking that they are going to need back surgery from carrying Michael’s mail.” They both laughed as Amy continued, “And it is not just the amount of mail, it’s who the mail is from. Michael gets letters from people like Max Cleland, the head of the Veterans Administration; Governor of New York Mario Cuomo; Congressman Jack Kemp; the mayor of Buffalo; Lee Iacocca, the chairman of Chrysler; a Catholic cardinal; and Senator Ted Kennedy. I mean, the average person doesn’t receive personal letters from these people.”
Mary finally said, “Amy, my brother has a magic about him. Everyone who has ever met or spent time with him knows he is special. Even his friends from grade school and high school all stay in touch. His story and how he has accepted this terrible tragedy and how he is helping other patients in this hospital learn to deal with their tragedy has touched so many people. Had this accident not happened, there is no doubt in my mind he would have become a major figure on the national scene. Who knows, he still might be.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me at all. Excuse me, I have to get Bobby ready for therapy.”
Donna made the drive to Magee every couple weeks. Her mother would often come to keep her company, share the driving, and just keep a loving, watchful eye over her daughter. Donna continued to hold out hope that Michael would fully recover, and they would continue their life together. Dealing with some of the small minds in her small town was starting to wear on Donna. At first everyone in town was helpful and sympathetic. As the weeks turned to months, however, she started to hear comments like “It’s time to move on with your life”; “Michael’s never going to walk again”; “Michael will never come back here to Delhi”; and, the most hurtful one, “You deserve more than half a man.” The first time she heard the “half a man” comment was from a male family friend at a large family gathering. Donna slammed her hands on the table and shouted, “He is not half a man. He can’t walk right now, but he is not half a man. In fact, after my last visit with him, I can assure you he is more of a man in the bedroom than any man in this room.” She stormed out of the house with her sisters in hot pursuit. Her mother turned to the men in the room and angrily said, “Stupid runs deep in this room. We are here to help her, you morons.” With that she went to try to comfort her daughter.
While she looked forward to seeing Michael, the visits brought mixed emotions. She was happy to see Michael becoming a leader at Magee. That was no surprise. However, it was depressing to see once strong, healthy, and vibrant people struggle to hold a spoon, or brush their teeth, or even take a sip of water. Donna tried to learn how to perform a transfer and dress Michael. When she struggled she became more depressed. Amy took her aside one day and told her, “Sweetheart, everyone struggles at first. It takes time and practice. You will get it. It’s never easy, but this is his new reality, and it will be your reality when he gets out of here.” It will be my reality. Those words continued to echo in her mind. Donna started to come to grips with the fact that Michael was not going to walk out of Magee—or ever again. “I have to focus on the positive,” she told herself. “He is still Michael. He is different, but he is still Michael, and he is still alive. We can make this work.” Despite her self-pep talks, she had begun to doubt whether she could do what was needed.
Rehabilitation from a major spinal cord injury is a long, trying, exhausting, and often depressing process. Every day is a battle. Every activity previously taken for granted is a struggle. Some days are okay; most days are not. As if relearning every single thing again isn’t hard enough, constantly fighting sickness and infections becomes a way of life. Urinary tract infections (UTI), the scourge of every spinal injury, are a continuous problem. For every quad and a majority of paras, something as natural as draining your bladder is a challenge. The bladder and surrounding muscles no long function, causing small amounts of urine to remain in the bladder. Even a catheter does not anyways completely drain the bladder. The insertion and removal of a catheter causes irritation, which also leads to infections. UTIs are a very serious matter because they can quickly progress from a UTI to a bladder infection and, ultimately, to a kidney infection. Because quads and many paras have trouble regulating their body temperature, a kidney infection can become fatal.
Decubitus ulcers, or “bed sores,” occur in patients who are bedridden or wheelchair users. If they are not properly repositioned, they often develop ulcerations or sores on their skin, typically over bony prominences. These bed sores, which are a result of prolonged pressure, are also called “pressure sores” and “pressure ulcers.” If untreated bed sores can lead to a major infection, which, again, can be fatal. As Michael found out, a bed sore can occur when a quad or para is moved on an X-ray table and the skin sticks to the table. Every day at every rehab hospital in the world, you can find at least one person lying face down on a gurney, moving through the hallways as a result of a bed sore.
Group psychological therapy sessions are interesting events. Many of the sessions are very depressing. This is understandable when one’s life is suddenly and often violently ripped away, and he or she is going through the ordeal of learning how to perform basic human functions again—oh, and throw in constant sickness and infections for extra measure. Michael attended these sessions but quickly lost patience and stopped going. Amy mentioned to Carm, “I just wanted you to know, Michael has stopped attending his group therapy sessions. Nothing says he has to attend these. He hasn’t said anything to me about why he isn’t going anymore. Has he said anything to you?”
“No,” Carm said, somewhat alarmed. “Is that bad?”
“No, it’s not bad. Some people find these group sessions to be a safe place to share their feelings and emotions and hear from others. Maybe Michael just needs a break. He is still involved with Jerry, Bill, and Nunzio, plus he has been a Godsend for young Bobby King. It is nothing to worry about.”
Carmela Battaglia was a first-generation Italian-American Catholic, mother of five children born eight years apart. She worried about everything. On one visit when both Mary and Anne were at Magee, she mentioned it to her daughters. “I think he is getting tired of the three of us telling him what to do and questioning things. Joey is coming out here tomorrow. We’ll have him ask Michael why he stopped going.”
Mary added, “Good idea. Joe can say anything to Michael without upsetting him. Remember when Michael was playing softball a couple of summers ago? Tony was in town and went to watch the game. Michael wanted to show Tony how good he was, but he had a bad day. He struck out three times and made a couple of errors when he was playing first base. Tony tried to cheer him up for hours. Joe came home, walked into the kitchen where they were sitting, and said, ‘So, douche bag, I heard you sucked today.’ I remember the look Tony gave him. I thought Tony was going to kill Joe, but Michael started laughing. Remember, he said, ‘Yes, I guess I did suck today.’ Tony just shook his head, went to the fridge, and got everyone another beer.”
“Okay,” Carm said, “it is settled. When Joey gets here tomorrow, tell him to ask Michael about group therapy, but tell him to be diplomatic.”
The next day Joe went into Michael’s room. “Hello, you monkey’s ass! How the hell are you doin’?”
> Michael answered, “Hey, shithead. When did you get here?”
“I just took the red-eye in this morning,” Joe said as he found a chair and sat down across from Michael. Then, as diplomatically as he could, he said, “So, you lazy bastard, how come you are not going to group therapy anymore?”
Michael just rolled his eyes and said, “I told those assholes already.”
“Well, tell me, and then I will tell those assholes too. What’s up?”
Michael started with a frustrated sigh as he said, “Everyone in group therapy complains all the time. ‘I can’t move my legs’ or ‘I don’t have any legs’ or ‘The curb cuts outside are too high.’ It is just one giant bitch session, and I am sick of it.”
“Now, Michael,” Joe began to explain, “you have to admit that those are some pretty good complaints.”
“Yes, they are good complaints, but they’re not getting us anywhere. We have to play the hand life dealt us. I can’t move my legs either, but I have to fix myself first. I have to become as strong as I can so that I can live as independently as possible, and then I can start to fix the world, and then I can fight for more curb cuts on city sidewalks and help design better bathroom stalls to accommodate wheelchairs. Sitting in a pity party is a fucking waste of my time.”
Joe was humbly silent. Later, when he told his mother and sisters, they all agreed to never ask again.
During one of their lunch meetings, Jerry said, “One of the highlights at Magee is when someone goes home. Kelly goes home next week. She’s going to walk out on her own. Nunez will be leaving three or four weeks later.”
“Best news I’ve heard in a long time,” Michael said as he gave Nunzio the quad version of a high five.
Five Years to Live Page 11