TALES OF A CRIP

There is no point to this book, with minor exception, the purpose is to entertain the exception is the revelation that a spinal chord injury or debilitating disease is not the end of the world. Life can and does go on. There are people who love you enough to ignore the obvious and carry on. No pity is required., just lots of band-aids, good friends, and a good scotch!
Thank you to all that have made our lives full and fun. Though we have aged, slowed down and appear to be more responsible, WE ARE NOT.

Chapter 1
Logan Airport, the hub of Boston, Mass., is a busy and chaotic mass of people, airplanes, luggage and ornery tourists. It was a great place to work!
The Midnight shift could get a bit quiet, but there always seemed to be something going on. If (on a rare occasion) there was nothing, I could always go to the Braniff Airlines break room. There I could use the employees restroom and sleep on the couch with out being disturbed. I suppose it is no wonder that I always looked refreshed the next morning for shift-change. The other advantage of the Braniff break room was the coffee. It was pure Colombian. Rich, smooth, aromatic and always in abundant supply.
I must admit I basically did my “shopping” in the Braniff Break-room. Not only did they have great coffee, they had pure fresh-squeezed (tasting) orange juice. The airline I worked for had Colombian floor shavings and Tang! It was disgusting and hardly worth stealing, but Braniff…….
Bless them, they had soft toilet tissue that was pure white, and paper towels that didn’t remove the first few layers of skin with every wipe and real flatware. The airline I worked for had tacky “T’s” embossed on every square, and was stiff enough to perform origami feats when you were not using for it’s intended purpose. Plastic flat-wear and seemingly glass-encrusted paper towels rounded out the supplies.
I happened to be out of paycheck,coffee and orange juice on the same day in June of 1980, going about my business (filling a grocery bag with the necessities) when I felt a slight tap on my shoulder and a rather agitated voice, ”What the hell do you think you are doing?”
“ Shopping, who the hell are you?”
“Lead mechanic, Braniff. Unload the bag a get out”.
“Can I at least keep the coffee? “
“No!”
I reluctantly put the stuff back into the cabinet and started to leave. I figured I better thank him for not calling security and slink out quickly, but he stopped me. “ I’m Bob,
Events of yesterday, June 21, 1981, prevent me from attending my life!
Mom and Dad invited Bob and me to Aunt Birdies in Chester to celebrate Grampa Conway’s Birthday (the big 8-0) and Fathers Day.
Bob wore slacks! Obviously he was trying to impress Mom and Dad and my brothers. Bad move! (Although he looked quite handsome.)
We had beautiful roast beef dinner, all the fixin’s, and a birthday cake for Grampa. Thank God we ate! It was the last decent meal Bob got for five months. (No, it was not my cooking.)
Bob sat on the bench built into the railing to speak with my sister-in-law. Within seconds, Bob went ass-over-teakettle, off the deck. Clumsy me went flying down the steps (fell the last three, left blood- oh so normal). I finally got to Bob.
Thank God that “Sullivanville” was there. They are all either firemen, or E.M.T.’s. And Ant Birdie is the head nurse at the hospital. They swung into action immediately.
The ambulance was there in minutes and they gave Bob oxygen, he said he couldn’t feel his legs and was having a horrible time breathing. I had never been so frightened in all my life. Poor Bob looked like shit!
They (the ambulance crew) rushed Bob to the hospital, Birdie went with them to rush through admit. By the time I got there, The staff had Bob Strapped into an aluminum sandwich that flipped like a high-tech cannibal tribe. The nurses would come in every hour or so and “rotisserie” him. Poor man, stark naked, buns up; strapped in, just waiting for someone to show up with garlic and start the fire. He hurt. Real Bad! Even the morphine wasn’t helping. One feels so helpless.
He knew immediately it was going to be a bad day. No, Bob knew he was doomed. Bad Chinese food and an empty fortune cookie, foretold the future- He was positive, after all, no good ever came of an empty fortune cookie!
“Hey, Lauren, wanna go visit the Scanlan’s?” said Bob, “It’s a beautiful day, Gloucester is beautiful, the ocean, Boats in the cove….”
“Sounds wonderful. Climb the rocks, visit Margaret and Richard, I’ll be ready in ten minutes!”
There was no mention of the fortune cookie. Cool breezes with that salty smell kept the focus on the radiance of Gloucester. It is a fishing with her share of triumph and tragedy. Quaint, picturesque with a group of crusty, rugged, hardworking folks, who’d shoot you for stealing from their traps, but would feed you if you were hungry. Typical New England, I suppose. An outsider could never fit in, they20could only enjoy the candor.
Bob and I stood on the shore, drinking in the fresh air and enjoying the escape from the bustle of Logan Airport. Airline work was wonderful, but this was heaven.
Thoughts drifted- so did the seagulls. Soaring and squawking, harassing fisherman for treats. All I could think about was watching a poorly choreographed ballet of birds, while Bob guzzled a beer. I chuckled to myself and turned to relate the mission to Bob, when one of the dancing sky-rats relieved himself on Bob’s shoulder.
“No shit Bob, that guy has good aim!” I said laughing hysterically.
Bob’s disgust was evident. “Damn, don’t know whether to get out a gun, or a paper towel.” Then he lost it. I don’t believe “laughter” is the right word for it. Close to “hysterics”. We finally collected ourselves and header for the house.
“What happened to you?” Margaret asked (while stifling a laugh) “Better wash it off, or it’ll stain. You know that its bad luck.”
There, It had been said aloud “BAD LUCK” so much for sweet revelry, the empty fortune cookie was now compounded by bird shit on the shoulder. Our thoughts lingered, no, housed in the back of our minds. Sometimes we would take a little nap, then, “whammo”, up and refreshed, the thoughts were there….
Dear Doc,
Well, it’s been a wreck. Rather uneventful if you can call a trauma word uneventful. The nurses even “rotisserising” Bob, (not familiar with the stryker frame) real slow… Poor guy would scream in pain. We spoke with Aunt Birdie (head nurse) and explained what was going on. She went ballistic. The next thing we knew, Birdie had ordered EVERY nurse on EVERY shirt of the floor that evening.
Birdie made each nurse get on the frame and experience a fast turn versus a slow turn. The poor girls found out that “slow” hurts. Even if your back isn’t broken! After the experience, Bob was being flipped faster than a prime steak on fire!
The amazing part of this whole episode Bob’s life, was that this man, hurt, semi conscious (at best), had the presence if mind to call Braniff Airlines and apply for Social Security Disability! He is Amazing!
Friday, they brought him to the Operating Room and after eleven hours, were able to stabilize his back. Two twenty-eight inch Harrington rods, and a big chunk of bone from his hip- he was a new man!
The Doctor, who had the bedside manner of a Tolkien Orc, advised Bob and I that he was a paraplegic now and would be forever. It wasn’t news, we had discussed the possibilities. It was, however, and conformation of our fears.
The doctor no sooner left the room, and Bob called Braniff and explained, then (the worst call of all) a call to his parents. If you have ever been to an Italian funeral, you know, the professional waiLers in the front row. Then you know what the phone sounded like. Bless them, they wanted to be with him-Yesterday!
A flight was arranged and Bob’s friend Walter agreed to pick them up at the airport. It was soon to become-“old home week” at the hospital.

We awoke the next day to “a cool breeze and “severe-clear” weather! I purposely use an exclamation mark because in Winter Harbor, one usually arises from a comfortable nights sleep to “Pea-Soup” fog.
After going through the morning routine, we decided that not only was the crabapple tree the perfect spot to “Hang out” , it was good for Bob’s circulation etc.. , so after a hearty breakfast, I attached the leg braces and we headed down to the crabapple tree.
We followed the “steps” we had taken the previous day; I give Bob a wedgie as he grabs the tree branch and “Voila” Bob is “standing”!. He had his book, a beautiful day and the fishermen headed out of Henry’s cove for the morning “take”- a perfect start to a perfect day.
I went back into the house to clean up after breakfast and it started….The phone rang.
I answered with a cheery “Good Mornin’” and was answered back with a string of accusations.
It was my sister on the other end. I knew she had been up since the crack of dawn. It was her routine. She got up at 4:00 am to watch the boats leave the harbor and then got ready for work at the Sardine Factory. This day she interrupted her routine to blast me out!
“How could I treat the disabled like that, why do I stay with him, if I am just going to hang him from a tree. I have a good mind to report you to the authorities for abuse”….and on and on.
I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
She slammed the phone down and just left me standing there with a dial tone wondering what hit me!
I no sooner hung up the phone and it rang again-this time a neighbor. Then another and another, the damn phone didn’t stop long enough for to check on Bob! Thank God there are only 399 people in Winter Harbor and half of them had already left to haul their traps, otherwise, I never would have gotten off the phone.
I finally gave up answering and went to the Crabapple tree. Bob was just hanging there, quietly reading his book, looking vey content. Frankly, I wanted to knock him over(just to prove the abuse charge) except Pricilla had already left for the post office so that would go un-noticed.
I explained what had gone on inside-he was no comfort-he just started laughing. I knew he had no idea of the “Pricilla Power “ in town.
I tried to explain that the Sheriff’s Office could be on us at any minute.”Nah” he says…….Then Francais showed up. And Bob almost fell out of the tree!
Francais Torrey WAS the Sherriff’s Department in Winter Harbor. Gratefully, he was also a friend.
He sauntered down the path to the tree with a very curious look on his face. When he got close enough to see the book, he just cracked up, “Pricilla is at it again”! “Got any coffee?”…..That’s where it ended, over coffee and molasses doughnuts- I just love small towns!
This incident led to the revelation that although Bob was standing up for a long period and aiding digestion, circulation, etc., he was not exercising his upper body as much as he had been doing. Thus the decision was made to not only mend fences and prove he was not abused, he would also meet the neighbors by pushing up and down Sergeant Street (it about 1 mile long) a couple of times in the evening before the nightly fog settled in.
This little adventure would allow me a bit of a respite. I figured about 30 minutes each round trip. AHHHHHHH one hour to do nothing!
I am not really one to “do nothing” so I found little things around the house to amuse me, like going through old photographs or the view-master pictures of the world as it was. Both of these activities kept all of us busy for hours when we were younger and still managed to hold my attention. I could literally get lost in them.( and often did).
I was going through the third box of photos when I looked out the front window to see ROBERT weaving and sort of wheeling down the driveway. It had been almost two hours since he left and I had taken no notice. (Fine primary care-giver I turned out to be).
I wet out to put up the stair tread and open the door for him. ”What on earth is wrong with you”.
“I met a neighbor a few houses down , we chatted ,he offered me a cold drink, so I was polite. It was a gin and tonic”.
“That isn’t enough to make you weave like that”
“No, but there are 5 or 6 more neighbors out there…they are all very polite”.
Needless to say, I had to guide him up the ramp. It was an early evening, but all was well in Winter Harbor and I was somehow comforted by the fact that the town had abused Bob way more than I ever could!

CRABAPPLE TREES ARE HANDY

Mustering energy and a bit of courage, Bob forced his legs forward. VOIlA! His first step! Still upright!
With renewed confidence, he gathered steam for another ‘swing-through”. Success-again!
He made it look easy enough. I stood by: just as proud as a peacock. He had come such a long way.
WOOPS….as usual, thought to soon….Bob took the forward plunge with all the grace of a three legged calf. He kind of cork-screwed himself into the driveway. What was once a determined man was now a pile of blue jeans and twisted metal, blessedly, unhurt and laughing.
What is a girl supposed to do? It is not funny watching the man you love looking like a pile of medical waste.
After a while, we couldn’t take it much more so better locations were sought.
I know, I know, we are quitters, but the asphalt was hard and it was a extremely difficult to peel Bob up off the driveway on a regular basis.
What to do?
Confound the neighbors!
In the field below the house stood an old crabapple tree. The trunk was all gnarly and the limbs were large and low enough to make it the perfect climbing tree. This tree was situated so it had a beautiful view of the Atlantic Ocean, Mark Island Lighthouse and lobstermen out hauling traps.
A bit to the left and down over the bank was the home of Pricilla Collins.
She was a fine lady, very sweet, and made the best tea-breads and cookies. She was also the Gladys Cravits (remember “Bewitched”) of Winter Harbor. Not much missed her watchful eye or her overly tuned ears at the general store.
I had previously pointed out her window curtains slightly pulled aside (barely eyes and nose visible) to Bob, just to let him know he had an appreciative audience.(much to his chagrin).
I explained to Bob how she was and he was better off to just ignore, because by now, it was all over town that I was your torturer . If she were alive today, I’d be in jail for hate crimes against the disabled!
We decided to that if she wanted a torturer and a show, we could and would oblige.
Due to the previously describe horror-show of putting on the leg braces,we spared her that particular spectacle but putting them on before we left the house.
It was a bit of a bumpy ride down the embankment, but with a bit of effort we were able to get near enough to the lowest bough and park the chair.
As luck (and God’s sense of humor) would have it, the bough was the perfect height for Bob to just reach up, grab it, then pull himself up. It was perfect! There he had a lovely view and could just hang from the tree. When he got tired he just had to let go and plop into the chair for a bit.
It was so great, I though about doing a theses paper on “Care-giving, Natures way!” (then thought better of it).
I left a very happy, dangling crip to get him a book and a glass of something cold and thought nothing of it!(Nor did he), but apparently Pricilla did. (although ,we didn’t know it until later in the day).

FREE OF THE BARS-SORTA

The time had come to graduate from the constraints of “the BARS” . Bob and I had made a pact; we didn’t tell anyone about the monumental “step” Bob was about to undertake. We had hoped that this decision would limit the audience to ZERO……
We did the usual grunting and groaning during the whole “brace-application ceremony” (actually, I grunted-He groaned). The follow-through on the bars was flawless, from the stretch to the ambulation. PERFECT HE WAS GOING TO BE A BANNER DAY!
Bob took a few extra turns about the bars, just to assure that he was ready and signaled. I, the ever obedient one, brought his Lofstrands and one at a time got them on his wrists.
For those of you unfamiliar with Lofstrands, they are crutches that instead of the arm-pit annihilators, they have wrist cuffs. Instead of aligning with the sides of your body, the Lofstrands are placed in front and to the sides. I am not sure that they don’t just exchange one pain from another, but the calluses formed on the palm of your had are much easier to deal with than the ones in your arm-pits.
From my experience, neither one is desirable but handy if you need them, but I digress.
Bob was still a bit unsteady, so I had him by the waistband of his jeans and held on while he steadied himself. Go figure, a wedgie builds self-confidence: Who knew?

PHYSICAL THERAPY,WHAT A CHARM!

I thought I had his foot secured on my shoulder. I didn’t really think he could slide back in the chair, yet somehow, I knew he was done for.
Bob knew before I did. He started with the usual “This can’t be done, you are going to lose me, what the devil are you trying to do, etc.,etc.” and at the same time he finished, I felt him going.
“There he was, GONE!”
Blessedly, it is impossible to take a photograph of your situation while you are upside down, face first in the crotch a a large man that is currently tangle up in a mass of metal and leather. I know, this sounds like a scene from an x-rated movie. I suspect that it looked that way from the kitchen window.
The entire kitchen emptied out to get a better look. There is nothing more gratifying on this earth than to have an enthusiastic audience,
I say audience-I mean audience. They were all completely dumfounded and had no idea how to help me get un-tangled nor did they know how they were going to get Bob in the upright and operating position. Instead, they all stood there, mouths wide open looking ever so much like a bunch of hungry Venus fly traps.
Meanwhile, Bob and I were laughing so hard, we couldn’t help ourselves.
Finally, I extracted myself, stood up, wiped the tears from my eyes and had a thought. A “Blonde thought, to be sure, but a thought.
“Bob is upside down, legs in the air……what a great way to put on the braces!!!!”
Amid the wails of protests from Bob (who couldn’t do a thing about it) and multiple protests from the ever-so helpful audience I put the damn braces on! Damn, it was pretty easy. I bet you will not find a “put on the leg-brace “manual ANYWHERE that describes this a proper method of brace application.
Needless to say, Bob would never allow me to flip him upside down in order to put them on. Pity, it was so easy…
He always appeared “this close” to falling on his face, Mostly it was hard to watch, but, like any accident, it was hard not to.
Bob, not exactly Tinker Bell, was a “wee-bit” self-conscious and had to work twice as hard as he had before, because every time he faltered, someone would run out of the house and try to hold him up.
As a well-trained (I jest) “primary care person” it was my duty to pick him up if he fell. No one said anything about holding him up! I, therefore became the evil, sadistic, wife in the “spectator’s eyes.
We were determined to get to the point where Bob could ambulate by using the loft-strand crutches. We pressed on.
Bob and I determined that the ambulating without the safety of the parallel bars could only be achieved after he had completely stretched out and was able to establish a rhythm with the bars, then once a round trip was accomplished, I would hand over the loft-strands and off he’d go. Great theory –poor execution….neither one of us wanted an audience, so we stuck to the bars. At least it was a success. Bob was ambulating up and down the bars pretty well after a few hesitant starts.
We learned to cherish new “Successes”
Like any accident, the novelty wore off. The audience dwindled and the routine continued with no further incidents. I got pretty good at putting the braces on and Bob got VERY good at stretching out and zipping up and down the parallel bars This was a good thing. It kept his skin from breaking down , his digestive tract working at peak capacity and most of all, it gave him a goal.

AMBULATING FOR THE MASSES

Settling into a routine in Winter Harbor, although difficult, was finally achieved. Get up. Beat the crowd to the bathroom. Get dressed. Go outside and hope for the best.
Unfortunately the only three rooms in the house that the wheelchair could get into were the kitchen, dining and bedroom, so out side was best.
As 5 explained before, we traveled with enough equipment to furnish a Rehab center. The most important (and entertaining) were the parallel bars.
I don’t believe the town of Winter Harbor had had many paras . Bob became a bit of a curiosity and the parallel bars didn’t help. The most level area to set them up was in the middle of the driveway, situated right in front of the kitchen window. The provided front row seats for the spectator
. It was a wonderful thing. They could eat breakfast and watch Bob. How much fun…
Putting the braces on Bob’s legs was supposedly an easy task, however, they were just a bit heavy and adding the weight of Bob’s legs didn’t help a bit. At the time, I was pretty fit and had decent strength, but…..
As I stated before, this had become a spectator sport. I didn’t want Bob to be embarrassed, especially by something I might do.
Starting out with the confidence of an old pro. Confident, never looking up, just professionally doing my thing.
First you put the shoes on, while simultaneously holding the braces close to the leg and securing the thigh-strap, while strapping, the calf- strap, while smoothing the pant leg, while assuring Bob that I knew what I was doing; I suspect you get the picture.
Once the process was complete, the trick was to position Bob at the parallel bars and hold the chair while he pulled himself up. This part should have been easy, except his legs are now straight(and stiffly)out in front of him. This makes navigating between the rails a bit difficult(at best). Once all this was accomplished, Bob would stretch out, and propel himself forward for the length of the bars, turn around and return to the starting position.
THAT IS HOW IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE!
I am not a trained physical therapist, nor am I the most coordinated person on the planet and to top it off, my back hurt. All of these excuses are valid, I assure you, but On the bright side, I am resourceful. I placed Bob’s shoe on his foot easily enough, but I couldn’t lift his leg to get the thigh strap, so I placed his shod foot on my shoulder to elevate his leg in order to secure it.
This is where, dear readers, you must remember that CG (center of Gravity) and breaks are the most important things you can remember about a wheelchair.
CG allows the chair to manuver without tipping over. Where the body is placed on the seat, determines how “tippy” the chair will be.
The breaks while set, do not allow the chair to move freely, nor do they allow the chair to spin on her axis.
One must be mindful of these two factors at all times. I guess, I forgot.

SPECTOR OR SPECTACLE

Morning in New Hampshire is at least an hour and a half later than it is in North Eastern Maine and I swear the sun is MUCH brighter in
Maine than it ever was in New Hampshire. The damn poets that “gently bathe their gardens in the in the morning sunlight”, have never been in the front downstairs bedroom in Winter Harbor. There (Winter Harbor) the sun breaks into the bedroom, kicks you in the ass and yells ”GET UP you lazy bum!” It is basically the halogen bulb in God’s arsenal of alarm clocks. Unless you are a fisherman, IT SUCKS!

One can also remove the “morning dew shining on the grass” references to anything written about Winter Harbor. That is Frost you fools. Those beautiful shining diamonds in the grass are merely ice-encased ants trying to get to the warm kitchen (if there was such a thing).
For all of you romantics out there, those strange looking Steven Spielberg kinda clouds hanging on the horizon are not going to turn into pictures you imagine against a beautiful blue backdrop. It is FOG!
Also known in town (and surrounding areas) as Pea Soup. You all know this fog. It is the type you have to shut off your headlights in order to see your hood ornament. This crap hangs on the horizon to make the fisherman’s life miserable. Then moves toward the shore and lands on the only road out of town. This occurs just in time for anyone who commutes to Ellsworth to work.
What’s not to love about this idyllic spot on the map-eh?
In order to experience these daily assaults by Mother Nature, one has to have gone to bed.
The Winter Harbor Estate has experienced paranormal activity since my grandfather was lost at sea many years ago.(probably a result of a "Maine Morning") For example, my sister swears she saw him in his old bedroom at the top of the stairs. Pictures have flown off the walls, books off the bookcase phone books relocating overnight, all occurring shortly after things were rearranged for aesthetic purposes.
We have all experienced these things and usually hurl a few choice words under our breath (we are sure only Grandpa could hear them) and then continue about our business.
I am pretty sure I had mentioned these little quirks to Bob.
Then again………
I must now remind you, Bob and I have not been married. Allowing Bob and I to share the same bedroom, never mind the same bed wasn’t easy for my Dad. Bless his heart; he was a chauvinist of the first order! “No daughter of his would ever………” Under the circumstances and the fact that he would have to wake me up every two hours to roll Bob, made it a fairly easy decision.
We finally said our “goodnights” and headed for the bedroom. Through the living room past the “stair-trap”, (didn’t forget to put down the step-lid) into Grammy Dot’s old bedroom.
Bob positioned the chair for transfer, with jet mechanic’s precision.
I helped him place the transfer board under his butt.
Remember the old pot metal beds? The ones with the jail-like headboards and footboards decorated with brass knobs? You know the things. I swear they were designed to hide under in case of Indian raids. Remembering back, I am sure they were at least two feet higher than a “modern” bed.
A slight exaggeration to be sure but the angle on the transfer board made the ramp to the front door look almost ADA compliant! Bob often commented on his now being,” terminally short” this bed was terminally Tall!
The only way I could get him up the board was to give the poor man the ultimate wedgie! I grabbed his waistband and at the count of three, yanked him upward. At the moment Bob reached the half way mark on the transfer board, his wheelchair flew out from under him and went whizzing across the room, out the door and came to rest on the stair tread lid (which I cleverly remembered to close).
We were both startled. I, being a girl, gasped and, through an auto-reflex action, threw up my hands. This act was accomplished by letting go of Bob’s pants.
“There he was…Gone!”. Yup, Bob, board and bedstead, all in a crumpled pile.
“Stop it Grandpa.” I yelled.
Bob looked at me with this quizzical twitch. Then he looked around the room (actually under the bed was all he could see),”What do you mean, Grandpa”.
“ I will explain, once we get you on the bed, if I can get you on the bed. Any ideas?”
“Yeah, just roll me under here and throw me a pillow. Are we going to have to go through this every night?” “You can hook me up to the 50 feet of rubber hose and call me in the morning!”
Bob was not a happy tourist!
“Look at it this way, at least you still have your pants on. You slide easier. No board burn to worry about”. I always try to be optimistic.
The process for raising a 195 pound man up to the perceived four foot height, is daunting at best, impossible for some, and “just another challenge” for a stubborn idiot with a bad back.
While Bob was yelling” go get your father to help”, I was yanking on his waste band again, trying to slide him out from under the bed.
“I am not getting Dad out of bed if I don’t have too!” “Help me out here, and let me get you on your knees. You then grab the bed and while you pull yourself up, I will grab your pants and help. Once you get started, I can sorta “goose” you onto the bed then throw you legs in afterward”. “Are you game to give it a try?”
If this scene were on TV and closed captioned, I believe it would have read, “Unintelligible, improper language,” but, Bob agreed.
I pulled, he slid. I yanked, he pulled. I pushed, he pulled. I grunted, he groaned.
EASY AS PIE!!!!! What seemed like hours was actually only 15 minutes of the comic opera. The whole ordeal had exhausted both of us. Now we could laugh.
After a good chuckle and the obligatory pat on each other’s back for our success, Bob blurted out “Was that Grandpa?”
Oh yeah, Light dawns on Marble head!
I started to explain but before I could, Bob said (into thin air) “Grandpa, you can’t keep doing this, Lauren is in my bed whether you like it or not. So just stop it!”
“We ARE getting married, just not before we leave Maine-get over it!”
Bob didn’t fully realize that at that very moment, he was genuinely part of the family. “Truly nuts and truly a believer”> we had no more “visits”. And the transfers on and off the bed became a breeze. You, the reader, will have to draw your own conclusions.