Rehabilitation: A narrative from Ms. Gimply's collection.
We were on our way to our first party since I was injured. It was only an informal afternoon gathering at my cousin Mary's place. Tad, my husband, had helped me into the car and stashed my wheelchair in the trunk. I was looking forward to getting out. But I was nervous about showing my newly acquired disability to so many old friends and acquaintances not to mention all the strangers who would be there. I reminisced as Tad drove.
It would be a cliche to say that I never knew what hit me. And it would not be exactly true. The accident was patiently and slowly explained to me when I began to emerge from the coma three months later. I gradually realized that a slate shingle had blown off an old building and struck a glancing blow to the right side of my head as I innocently walked along a city sidewalk.
I received a large monetary settlement to cover my rehabilitation and the adjustments to disability that were expected to be required for the rest of my life. The negotiations were helped along by the convenient fact that Tad is a personal injury lawyer of some renown. He actually got a cash settlement, himself, for lost companionship! The process was also helped along by the fact that the building owners had a history of citations for unsafe conditions.
The money was more than enough to pay for a top flight rehabilitation center where I spend my weekdays. A van comes every day to pick me up and then delivers me at home in the late afternoon. They had helped me to learn to dress myself and to take care of my personal needs. I could even put on my own makeup if I clasped both hands together and held my elbows in close. Then the trick was to move my face instead of my hands. It seems wierd but it works.
In spite of the size of the settlement, it couldn't really make up for the consequences of a brain injury. After all the speech therapy, I still speak as if I am fighting to talk around a three-inch wad of chewing gum. It gets worse if I try to raise my voice to be heard over any noise. If I am laughing (or crying)I can barely make myself understood.
I have little control of the left side of my body. I can feel firm pressure on that side but have no sensation of light touches. My left arm and hand work a little bit for grasping and holding things but is useless for any kind of delicate task. Moreover, when I make no conscious effort to control it, my arm folds up like a chicken wing - the kind you see in plastic wrapping at the supermarket.
My left leg was similarly out of control. My foot arches down all the time. When I sit in my wheelchair, the leg tends to wander until it is pointing straight in front of me. Doctors suggest inserting a steel plate to stabilize the foot and to give me a slim hope of walking again. I am skeptical. My right side is wobbly but much more predictable.
When I am likely to be seen, I use Velcro bands to anchor my left arm and leg to the chair. I hate the feeling of being pinned down but it is better that making a spectacle of myself. I planned to use the straps at the party.
In spite of the physical difficulties, I grieved more about the mental challenges that I face. I cried for days when I finally realized that I could not help our children with their math homework. That part of my brain was just gone. My short term memory was erratic, too. The rehab people taught me to deal with that by keeping calendars and lists.
I am thankful that I can still write coherently. I taught myself some new tricks for doing that. I always make a tight outline of paragraphs so that my silly memory doesn't let me forget what I am doing. When I am done, I simply erase the outline topics. I think that now I write better than I did before. I hope that I can teach that trick to my kids.
I will probably never work as a regular teacher again. I have volunteered to be a writing tutor at our local high school. In spite of all their policies about accommodating the disabled, I think they tend to see the spasms and hear the chewing gum voice before they see our abilities. I am going to push them hard until I am accepted.
By now, my reader may be disappointed because I promised a narrative about sex. Please forgive me, but I felt a need to tell about all the circumstances surrounding my sex life before I actually got to writing about it. Perhaps, I had put those topics in my outline and felt a compulsion to follow through. The reader can judge. I will turn to the sex part now.
A big regret, I thought as we drove, is that our sex life had not recovered. Of course we had resumed making love once or twice a week, but it was not like the old days. I felt like Tad was reserved and holding back as if he thought that I would break. I worried that I was not attractive anymore. I also realized that I was holding back and maybe worrying that my body wouldn't tolerate the raucous abandon of our youth. I was determined to do something about it but I still had no clear idea of what needed to be done.
Then my thoughts went to my clothes. I had paid a lot of attention to how I dressed for the party. To begin with, my underwear was new. Shopping for it had been some of the best fun I've had since the accident. I went to the mall with a group from the rehab center. It was intended as part of our reentry to everyday living. The attendant assigned to me was a very handsome young college boy. I had come to know him well enough that we could flirt with each other. It felt good. Of course the flirtation was harmless. I knew he had a girlfriend whom he cared for and, of course, I was married. Nonetheless, I liked it and I think that he enjoyed it, too.
As soon as the others dispersed, I directed him to push me to Victoria's Secret. He complied, but was reluctant to enter when we arrived at the door. I told him that I really couldn't handle my shopping by myself and, besides, I needed his opinion. The biggest problem with using a wheelchair is that you can't see the person pushing you from behind. But, I sensed, he was blushing as we went in.
I knew my sizes very well, so I didn't try anything on. I imagined asking him to take me to the fitting room. I savored the thought but didn't act on it. I selected some fairly scanty panties and a matching push-up bra. I knew that the bra would give the illusion of cleavage that I didn't usually display. I paid the cashier with my credit card.
Then, on a whim, I told him that he should get a gift for his girlfriend. He blushed some more when I said that I would pay. He blushed even deeper when I asked if he knew her sizes. He admitted that he didn't. I asked him to compare her size to mine. He looked me over closely and eventually came to the conclusion that she was a little smaller all round and I was able to recommend sizes.
We shopped for panties and bra similar to mine. I insisted that we also buy her a teddy to complete the outfit. I paid cash and gave him the receipt so that he could exchange it if he needed to. Playfully, I challenged him to tell her about me. Of course he didn't need to, but I wondered what other excuse he would make for spontaneously shopping for sexy negligee that was of approximately the correct size. We stopped at another store to get a bag that did not carry the VS logo and put his purchases in it. We didn't want to arouse the suspicions of the officials of the rehab center. I remember the afternoon as the most sexually arousing since my accident.
