And so, back to the real world to witness years fly by from a seated position. Pops’ newest house had a pool in the backyard, which my therapists thought was great. By simultaneously providing buoyancy and resistance, pool therapy is the best exercise for gimp fucks like me. In theory, one could float, swim, goof around, and pee while gaining strength, flexibility, and balance. I bugged and begged daily to go swimming. But Pops’ fear of water kept me out of that beckoning, beautiful blue kidney-shaped body of water. I could never conjure words to convey what a bummer that shit was.
My “independent with assist” meant Pops helped me to transfer, and clearly did not pay attention when we worked on the correct technique during my rehab. Instead, I was grabbed around the rib cage and then yank-lift-twisted to be hurled toward the target, leaving ribs and/or shoulders aching. Within days, I quit requesting assistance whenever I needed in/out or on/off. I got myself in a bind a few times, and had to summon help, but my stubbornness allowed me to gain more strength and functionality during the first few weeks at home than I made the entire seven months at Rancho. I became fully independent within three weeks of my hospital discharge. Suck it.
It takes a quadriplegic way longer to perform even the simplest of tasks. If I’m out of bed within fifteen minutes after my eyes open, that is lightning quick. Then a shit, shower, and shave takes at least an hour. Sometimes, when it looks like I’m struggling, it is only because I am. But stubborn me’s default is to deny needing help. At times, I’ve found myself in frustrating situations, unable to complete the relatively simple task at hand. When a perceptive passerby notices my dilemma and asks, “Do you need help?” reflexively I will answer, “No thank you.” Then, as they continue on their way, I beat myself up a little – “Yes, Raz, you really do need help.” Most of the time, the mere thought that someone is going to insist on lending a hand will give me that psycho-boost needed to get it done on my own.
I had the option of waiting until after summer vacation to begin school at Estancia High, but chose to get out of that fucking jail of a house for at least part of the day. It was too late in the semester to receive credit, so my attendance was for socialization, integration, and a few other pedagogic buzzwords. I was so eager for school that I’d be early and waiting at the end of our driveway for the bus. I had the bus all to myself, and my regular driver was pretty cool. We’d smoke Marlboros and bullshit on the way, and one day he asked how I ended up in the chair. When I told him that I broke my fucking neck, he said, “But you can still move your leg. You’re lucky.”
I said, “I don’t feel lucky. I’m just not as unlucky as I might have been.” But the more I thought about it, I came to realize that bad luck is luck, too.
I wasn’t able to push my wheelchair very far, or fast, but there was a very sweet, Hawaiian-looking cutie pie that would chauffer me around campus. At lunch, she’d roll me out behind the gym, to where the stoner kids hung out smoking cigarettes while boomboxes cranked out KMET, KLOS, or cassettes of AC/DC, Van Halen, Skynyrd, ZZ Top, plus, of course, Sabbath and Zeppelin. The going-to-a-new-school experience was far different than any I had before crippling myself. The stoners at Estancia were super cool, and immediately took me in like a long-lost friend. Whenever they went out onto the field, they’d pop a wheelie and push me along to join the crowd. That was a big help, because a wheelchair’s tiny front casters get stuck in grass, ruts, or whatever lay ahead, making lawns nearly impossible to navigate solo.
No more shop class for me, but I’d bet nowadays disabled kids get accommodated in shop with a student helper to construct the project for them. Can the “special needs” student then point at their wooden lamp and say, “Look what I built”? I still had PE, and for the first time, I liked it. Coach and me were on the same page, gung ho and raring to get me in better shape. A few years earlier, one of his football players had broken their neck in a car wreck, motivating Coach to study up on adapted exercise. Even though the equipment was lacking and time was short, the man was always available to help make sure I got a decent workout.
There I stood, holding onto the Chevy’s door, while Pops stared like he had seen a ghost.
About a month after leaving Rancho, I rolled up to the passenger-side door of the 57 Chevy, removed my footrests, grabbed the top of the window frame, and pulled. There I stood, holding onto the Chevy’s door, while Pops stared like he had seen a ghost. I was pretty excited myself, and twisted my hips to direct my butt toward the car seat and then landed with a bounce. I smiled while pointing toward the sliding board Pops held. “Guess we won’t be needing that.”
“How long have you been able to do that?” he asked.
I had never even tried to stand up before that day. Apparently, using my left leg to push myself backward – an integral part of how I propelled my wheelchair – strengthened my quad muscle. The stronger left leg, combined with my right leg spasm locking that leg straight whenever I put weight on it, and shazam – me stand. First time was the charm.
