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.

OUR GHOST

THIS IS A BIT OF A SIDE NOTE. My GRANDFATHER was lost at sea many years ago and this is the first picture that I have seen of him as a young man. I was only 10 years old when he went overboard, so I really didn't know him well, but well all believe the he was our GHOST.
My fondest memory of my Grandfather was of him building the facade of the fireplace in the parlor. He was facing it with beach rock and sent my sister, me and our cousins(all very young) to the rock beach to collect rocks for him to work with.
We all had a pail to fill and Grandpa promised to select the best ones from each bucket.
We all picked the perfect rocks-boulders actually, and put them in our buckets, Then with GREAT EFFORT we dragged those buckets back to the house and proudly presented our collection of "PERFECT ROCKS".
My Grandfather accepted each on and lovingly place the rock into the fireplace facade. His smile was genuine and our pride at lifting and dragging such big rocks all the way from the rock beach, certainly couldn't be measured.
Grampa Guy could tell (and would), who brought which rock and would recall the struggles of the "little ones"
We will always remember those days, but as we aged, those boulders became rocks, then stones, and now as adults, we see them as they are...just pebbles.
Guess it is the same with every problem or pain. With time, everything gets a new perspective.

THE CHAMBERPOT BOOGIE

One bathroom. enough beds to sleep eleven and only ONE bathroom! Have you ever been in line behind a Crip going to the bathroom? Trust me, it is not pretty, nor is it comfortable. I firmly believe that we all learned to dance form the experience>
Due to the processes involved, Bob’s shower and commode time usually took about an hour and one half. Thank God for the invention many years ago of the kiln. Without the kiln, we would have no porcelain. Without porcelain, there could be no chamber pots. Without chamber pots, the house at the end of Sergeant’s Street would be at a constant phase five-flood stage!
I remember as a youngster coming out of the bathroom to a line of kids, each one holding their personal chamber pot, with faces scrunched up with the malodorous air. We even had an occasional first time visitor to the Winter Harbor Estate that wanted to know why they had a soup tureen under their bed. This was embarrassing, but had to explain, lest they decided to help set the table! The thought of a wonderful lobster stew in a chamber pot served with a china ladle adorned with dainty flowers-never mind, the picture in my head “I don’t think so”………
Needless to say, Bob and I decided that the earlier the better. This decision was based on the availability of the bathroom and that fact that our bedroom faced due east. I guess I forgot to mention this fact to Bob before we left New Hampshire.

WINTER HARBOR

As I explained before, Bob had now been in his Fiberglass Tuxedo for what seemed like an eternity. The time had ALMOST FINALLY come to remove the damn thing forever! Although the “tuxedo” did manage to keep him quite slim (like living in a sauna) it was cumbersome and very difficult for him to transfer, lean etc., and as I said “We were ready for a vacation”.
The decision was made to celebrate the end of the “Tuxedo phase” by going to Winter Harbor, Maine where the gravel pit down back seemed the perfect place to “Shoot the crap out of the thing” the very day he could remove it. We could stay a month and enjoy fog-laden mornings, 15 minutes of warmth in the afternoon and then bone chilling cold for the rest of the time.
We crammed all of the necessary gear into and on top of the car, found a place to “creatively-cram the suitcase and off we went!!
We had already missed the one-day of summer (August 23 rd), but decided that we could get up early one morning and experience fall colors then the next day smell the wonderful earthy scents of falling leaves. Then several days after that, Bob dreamed of polishing his snow mobile!
I know, I exaggerate- a little….
I had previously tried to explain to Bob that Winter Harbor was the most aptly named town in the US. We had fires going on the fourth of July to stay warm. Needless to say, Bob was sure that I was exaggerating. Little did he know?
Winter Harbor is a small fishing village that surrounds Henry’s Cove, and boasts a lovely harbor where most of the fishing boats are moored. Old Victorian homes line the street down to the town dock. There was one gas station, one grocery store that at one time was also the post office, and soda fountain and general gathering place. Times changed, however, and a new post office was built a bit further out of town and a restaurant or two sprang up.
Chases became the restaurant of choice and the Fisherman’s Inn was considered “dress-up” (if you could catch the chef sober enough to cook). Down on the “Cove side” of the street and built precariously close to the water, was the Donuthole. There was a bit of a gully between the street and the entrance that had to be traversed by a plank to get inside. The molasses donuts were worth the trouble, except the plank was not quite wide enough for the wheelchair to say nothing of the too-narrow door. Needless to say, Bob never got to go inside. This was a good thing because without the fiberglass tuxedo, Bob would have definitely managed to gain weight. The donuthole might have produced all the evidence required of the tasty offerings.
I digress. We did manage to arrive in the dooryard of Mom and Dad’s before sundown and was enthusiastically greeted by Mom and Dad. Dad had built a ramp to the front door, but it was so beautiful outside, we decided to have a “cold adult beverage” first. (I believe this was to bolster courage enough to tackle the ramp. It was a bit steep).
Bear in mind this home was almost 300 years old. The ADA wasn’t even a twinkle in Congress’ mind and most important, if you ended up in a wheelchair when this house was built, you basically kept it in park and got watered and fed-that was it! They didn’t need wide doors.
Well, we got Bob up the ramp (with a bit of “oomph”) but before we could celebrate, we noticed Bob was not going anywhere. “Why not” you ask.
Well, fortunately the door was wide enough, unfortunately, the foyer was not! Once Bob got into the house, he couldn’t move. There was not enough room for him to turn the chair.
We had to back him down the ramp (backwards).
My dad, ever ready to jerry-rig anything, went to the barn and triumphantly returned with a crowbar and a pair of hinges.
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There always was something ominous afoot when Dad had a crowbar in his hand. At the very least, it was scary and the big smile on his face let us all know,” he had a plan”. Dad smiled. We trembled.
Dad opened the front door and with a mighty “OOOMPH” we heard the ripping of wood. Poor Mom was hiding her eyes. We knew what she was thinking, “IT is an antique house, and he’s killing it!”.
Dad had attacked the “formal staircase” with the crowbar and unceremoniously pried the tread of its riser.
Again, we knew what Mom was thinking, “it was the ONLY thing sacred enough to escape Grand pa’s paint brush!” That staircase had remained pristine, highly varnished and polished through two generations of Cole’s and Conway’s and Dad just attacked it with a crowbar!
Dad, still smiling, went back to the barn and returned with a screwdriver. In order to fit in the foyer, dad closed the door. All we could hear (and we were very quiet) was drilling and grunting.
The triumphant yell came about 15 minutes later. Dad emerged from the house with the biggest grin on his face! He had conquered!
Dad grabbed the back of Bob’s chair, pushed him up the ramp and into the foyer. Then we distinctly heard “I’ll be damned” from Bob. “Yup it works, clever you! “ Mom was almost afraid to look. But I must say, it was a “jury-rigging feat befitting Ben Franklin. Dad had removed the tread, added hidden hinges, and then replaced it. You couldn’t tell that the step flipped up out of the way. It was a “Master-stroke” of genius! (Even Mom had to admit it was great).
Unfortunately there were no other “easy solutions to a make an inaccessible home, accessible, so for Bob to get to the living room we had to “pop the tread” then if he wanted to get back to the kitchen, we “popped it “ again. You have to very careful to replace the tread; otherwise you booby-trapped anyone that happened to be upstairs. Then there was the bathroom…

THE BOX

It was a HUGE box, approximately 3 foot 8 inches tall, and the same wide. We hadn't gone through it yet partly because of the size and secondly, I guess we felt that opening it signified a finality of some sort. Frankly, I am not sure why we didn't open it. I suppose that some highly educated shrink could have explained, but I was not going to ask. It took awhile, but we finally got up the nerve.
I sat on the bed while Bob tore open the box. I then started pulling out the supplies.
Bed pads were on top. LOTS and lots of bed pads. There were enough bed pads to cover Manhattan with bed pads! We assumed that the staff at the hospital were concerned about our ability to properly secure Bob's bodily functions.
They were immediately stowed in the closet.
Next came five or six boxes of osteo supplies, you know, all of those attachments to a "crip's" body that keep the rest of the world from knowing that you have a "bodily function" control problem There were leg bags, bed bags, catheters, and at the bottom of this pile, KY JELLY:
Pulling out a case of KY Jelly, was the beginning of the end. I started to giggle.
"What's so funny?" Bob asked with his eyes twinkling, "You know what that's for right?" "Yes, I know, but I was wondering how the hell I was going to go into a store and throw this stuff on the counter while keeping a straight face and not blushing!" "Bob, I can't put tampax on the counter without blushing, never mind KY.! I've lived in Boston, I know what some use KY for and it ain't pretty! " " I am VERY sorry, but this is on your shopping list. I can get used to a lot of things, but I don't think this is one of them".
After calming down a bit and wiping the tears (from laughing), I reached in for the final box. It was unmarked and a bit heavy. I mentally went through all the steps of performing as a primary care taker (so I could bring Bob home),we truly had everything required, including a case of baby powder to make his bare butt slippery on the transfer board into the shower!
I opened it with trepidation.
There, inside the box was a spool which held (according to the label) fifty feet of rubber hose.
yep, fifty feet of rubber hose. "What in Hell are we supposed to do with fifty feet of rubber hose? They must have mixed up your order with the janitors or something. What-no mop to clean up the mess???
Bob looked a bit astonished, then he broke out in laughter," I think it is to use on the leg bag, you know, to drain it and to use for the connections." "We have enough here to go to a bar for the entire evening. I could just unwind the spool and throw the end out the door. I could drink beer all night and never have to leave the table!" "Just think about it! We can go visiting-never have to leave the room, drive to Maine,just throw the end out the window and keep on driving!" Bob laughed Leave it to Bob, an aircraft mechanic, to come up with all the angles! The fifty feet of rubber hose proved to be a wonderful gift. I siphoned aquariums,over-flowing bathtubs,gasoline etc. for the next 15 years before we finally ran out. I felt like saving the spool as a memento of the first years of "Cripdom".
Our routine is now set. We go to the store once a week and purchase peanuts(5 pound bag) and the same day I make banana bread, just to keep the "Herd" of squirrels content. Weekends consist of our neighbor Mathew and his friends for popcorn,cartoons and old horror movies, with an occasional movie, thrown in the mix Bob goes to out patient therapy in town and has joined a local wheelchair basket ball team.
The therapy sessions appear to be helping. Bob was able to ambulate at least 20 feet before he" hit the pavement". The insurance company issued him parallel bars and leg braces so he could at least stand for several hours a day. Bless his heart, he worked out every day and stood for 2 hours(at least) every day. Life was good! ) Shortly into our relocation and ou'r "new life", my brother Guy got out of the service and needed a place to stay until he could find an apartment. He is such a .fsweetheart, a little goofy, but a sweetheart, and we had an extra room. That was , "easily settled.
Another phase-begun!

THE BEAT GOES ON

For all you “crips” out there, you know from whence I come. Some pitying fool who has never been in a wheelchair, save being pushed out of a hospital by a 90 year old volunteer, after a toenail removal, has gone through so called “higher” education to become an engineer. This evidently entitles him (or her) to draw some weird contraption on a piece of paper, name, patent it, then pass it off as a great innovation for any quad or para that comes along with a problem. Unfortunately, these innovations are designed for 90% of the disabled. I suspect that if the product was to work for 100 %, the Insurance companies would tell you that you don’t need it, they won’t help pay for it. Therefore, those folks who market the product up the rates so everyone can see how nice they look on display, but no one can afford them. Case in point: Stand-up chairs that can move while the user is in an upright position.
This marvelous piece of machinery aids a para or a quad stand, say in the kitchen, and reach the top shelves. In my husbands case (he used to be 6’-1” ) he could reach the top of the refrigerator and discover all the treasures( or critters) that have hidden there for years. He could also reach that stupid cupboard above the frig. You know the one, it holds the secrets to what occurred the first day you moved into house. Never to be discovered until some poor unsuspecting fool looks in there when he moves in.
The chair also lays flat. This gives the disabled a chance to nap after he has fought what ever was located on top of the refrigerator.
All of the different positions not only assist in the independence of a crip, it also helps prevent pressure sores, atrophy, poor circulation in the lower extremities. Bob and I figure, if he had started out in one of these things, the insurance company would have paid $23,000 for the chair, but saved over $350,000 10 years later when Bob got a pressure sore and had to have plastic surgery, home health care, special bed, special mattresses, etc., etc.. oh well, obviously, we didn’t get one.
To achieve some of the same benefits, Bob had parallel bars and leg braces. This combination was designed to allow him one day to ambulate with the freedom of crutches.
Bob and I practiced putting the leg braces on and getting up from the chair on to the parallel bars. Frankly, we were quite successful and well pleased with ourselves. He could swing himself forward, hop and move ahead with little or no effort.
The results of this whole exercise were pretty good. It all seemed to keep him regular, no pressure sores, and it seemed to help keep his weight down. The decision was made that if we were going to travel, this was a “must bring” so he could continue the 1 hour per day regime .
We were just getting used to this new regime when (dramatic music should appear in your head) THE BOX ARRIVED!

BASKETBALL

The squirrels were a constant distraction, but not enough to jolt the inactive to "the active", thus Bob checked into programs available for the disabled. (I think they called them handicapped this month).
There were in fact programs, however, most of them were geared for the mentally disabled, with the possible exception of one. Crochet Mountain sponsored a recreational grant for the handicapped. I am supposing that Sue Wormwood applied for the grant, got it, then was at a bit of a loss what to do with it. This is where Bob and Fred (friend) suggested wheelchair basketball.
The wheelchair basketball thing, I call it a thing, because the group that they had could hardly be called a team.
They were a motley crew of amps, paras, quads, and I am not sure but, combinations of all of the above. I believe the only rule was that if you dumped a guy out of his chair, you were not allowed to intentionally run him over. Able-bodies were allowed on the court to scrape the fallen player off the court and dump him( or her) back into their chair. If they could still "track"(keep the chair moving forward in a straight line), they were allowed to keep playing. Timeouts were regulated by bursting leg bags or the occasional blood globular clean-up. Oh, there were also time-outs for the wheels falling off the chair or an occasional footrest caught in a wheel-spoke.
Spouses and friends of the players were automatically designated "Pit crews".
It was this period of my life that I learned that wrenches came in different sizes and one was not allowed to estimate. 7/16th was not interchangeable with 1/2 (but it is such a small difference) and one NEVER approached a wheelchair armed with a pair of pliers. Socket wrenches were really things to loosen a nut, they were at no time designed to "bang" a rim into shape. Why God allowed Bob, an aircraft mechanic to marry a blond is beyond me ! Took me months to figure out a screwdriver had better things to do than open paint cans.
Sue managed to get very nice equipment and Bob and Fred whipped the guys into a "not so bad" team. There were other teams in the state so games were scheduled and games were played. We traveled all over the state of New Hampshire with the standard equipment always at the ready. The travel kit consisted of a compressor, inner tubes, tool kit and a cooler full of beer.
Life was good!
Then we went north to a small town near the White Mountains and met the "Larry, Daryl and Daryl" of wheelchair basketball. I don't remember their names (sorry) but I do remember them! Bless them, they obviously had fallen through some fissures along the way and appeared to have had their wheelchairs supplied by the trash pickup at a local hospital. The chairs were the old E&J type with straight wheels, big push handles and sort of straight legs. (It was hard to tell, so much banging around, so little repair).
The guys were the stereotypical "rednecks", flannel shirts, ripped jeans and I am not sure, but I believe that they shaved with a bowie knife and cut there hair at the same time they mowed the field. All of that aside, they were the nicest bunch of guys and as honest as the day is long.
And they could play. They played hard and fast (well as fast as their chairs would take them) and they had no fear of denting the chair frames or themselves.
One of the "Minor problems" with the entire scenario was the location of the basketball court. It was located in the municipal building which, unfortunately, was built in the early 1800's (I believe) or at the very least, before the invention of lifts or ramps. As we got out of the van and looked around, I realized that I am no longer, friend of Bob, wife to be of Bob or even primary care person. I (at that very moment) became the resident pack-horse.
Most people would have looked at the situation,5 wheelchairs and 30 steps and pulled a u-turn, jumped in the van and left-But not these guys.......
Before I said “wanna beer”, those guys had turned around and started up the steps. One at a time……”UGH” push,” “UGH” push, over and over until they were at the top.
I looked at Bob and the rest of the team, ”You don’t really think you’re going to try that, do you?”
Mike, a double amputee, and veteran wheelchair user, advised it was no problem and “Up he went!”. The rest of ‘em just looked at me, “ you are going to help, aren’t you?????”
“Oh yeah, just why I come to these things, drink beer ,eat snacks and haul your asses up and down stairs” “It’s nice to be needed “ (yeah, right).
Typical of my cheery attitude, I pissed moaned and groaned the entire teams worth. I found the worst part was not one of them understood why I got into the gym and fell asleep in the bleaches! (Not really, just felt like it). I do believe this was the first time my back flipped me the bird and quietly whispered, ”YOU ARE GOING TO PAY”! “ If you do anything like that again, I am going to torture you, slowly and painfully. You will give in. I will make you pay.”
Unfortunately, I was having to much fun watching Larry, Daryl and Daryl beat the crap out of each other on the court, I didn’t hear my back speaking to me………Not ‘til I stood up. Then, I heard it loud and clear!!!!!
This was the beginning of what I call our innovative period. This is when the Gerri-rigging gene kicked in and Bob’s troubles just began……

Life's little "Hiccups".

I enjoy cool days with the sliders and windows wide open. The squirrels enjoyed popcorn and peanuts…You guessed it! It was not long before one pesky little critter figured out where the popcorn smell was coming from and he (the squirrel) began showing up in the living room.
It was a game. I’d leave the room and come back, there he would be sitting on the coffee table, noshing on the pop corn left-overs or stealing peanuts. As soon as I entered the room, he would grab a peanut and run out the door.
I am no rocket scientist, I did close the screen….finally.
The little devil showed up with a friend. When her found the screen closed, he climbed to the top and hung up-side-down and start whining. I finally filled a bowl with peanuts (shell on), opened the screen and let have at it.
Unlike most New Hampshire squirrels, this little guy had a short stubby tail. Most are long and bushy. I do believe he was 2 seconds “shy of a win” between he and a cat. Regardless of how he lost his tail, he became known as “Stubby”.
Stubby, became very comfortable in OUR surroundings. It was obvious that he understood we were not going to hurt him and he was welcome. After all, the bowl remained ever-full for him. He also quickly learned how to pry the screen open enough to let himself in. It was not uncommon to come into the room to find him sitting comfortably on the couch with a peanut in his little paws, merrily munching away. We figured out that Stubby had invited guests to his new restaurant.
They (the squirrels ) are truly God’s comedians. If the bowl of peanuts or popcorn got low-they would threaten to race around the apartment or start chattering at me incessantly. The result was newly filled bowl and a very humble host!
Then screen door was beginning to show a bit of wear (who new?) so, discretion being the better part of valor, I just left the damn thing open and kept the bowl full.
It was much safer than shooing them out and chancing war in the living room!
This tactic created “Peace between the species”. Stubby began just coming in, grabbing a handful, then returning outside. I believe the enterprising little bugger had started a catering service.
Bob had a habit of parking in front of the stereo, putting the headset on, and listening to music at decibel 10. This is how he relaxed!
So many years on the tarmac with the wine of jet engines and I swear his hearing was gone.
I cams down the hall and saw Bob, who was completely engrossed in music. strategically positioned on the floor, with his paws on Bob’s legs and butt, firmly planted, was Stubby. He was chattering, growling and scratching at Bob’s pants. (guess they don’t understand “cripdom”) Bob appeared to be ignoring him.
I tapped Bob on the shoulder and pointed. Bob removed his headset and looked a bit perturbed that I had interrupted his favorite song. “ WHAT”!
“ You , sir, have shirked your duties as “Father Forest” and His Royal Highness, Stubby, is in a state of revolt!” I chuckled. (still pointing)
“Jeezus!!” he yelled.
(This is another example of the miracle of Mother Nature. She almost got Bob to Stand!)

It only took a second to recover and start to laugh. By the time Bob recovered fully, I had refilled the bowl. Stubby took his “due” ,sat on the couch for awhile, then grabbed a few more and left.
All was “NORMAL” at the Carr residence, at least for the moment. I went to the kitchen to use up the “dead bananas” by concocting a banana bread and Bob went back to his music.
An hour or so later, the aroma must have traveled to Stubby’s home, because he showed up with his family and friends in tow.
He ( and gang) came into the kitchen, in a line, and waited patiently for their portion. I tried reverently to appease them with peanuts….NO GOOD. They waited. They watched. They WANTED!
I know, I know “Please don’t feed the animals”, a lost admonishment on me, I’m afraid. I sliced of a couple of pieces and divided it among the “kids”.
With great aplomb, they ate their bits and when they figured out there was no more, they departed the premises.
We didn’t see them for the rest of the afternoon and stupidly assumed they didn’t like the bread and wouldn’t return……..SILLY ME!!
I was puttering around the kitchen getting dinner ready and Bob had decided to get his exercise by “wheeling” around the parking lot. Bob had grabbed a handful of peanuts on the way out the door and put them on his lap. (this, no doubt for energy). I let him know dinner would be ready in about ½ hour.
I was not prepared fort he spectacle ½ hour later.
I went out on the porch to call Bob for dinner and there he was, off in the distance, heading for my direction with a parade of squirrels merrily following behind him. Behind the squirrels, were three or four children trotting behind them. It was the strangest adaptation of the ”Pied Piper” I had ever seen! The entire troop followed Bob all the way back to the apartment.
The last thing I heard before I “lost it” was, ”Honey, look what followed me home!”

NASHUA

We made it to our new apartment in Nashua. The management of the complex, true to their word, had a ramp poured onto the porch for us. It actually made code and went right to the parking lot.
We unpacked boxes, put the furniture in place and the bed put together! THIS WAS HEAVEN! We were about to settle in ,when maintenance dropped by to see if the apartment was ok. We explained we had just arrived and hadn't gone through yet, but thanked him profusely for the ramp. He walked through with us and all seemed fine until we got to the bathroom. Although the chair fit in and the layout was perfect, there were no safety rails in the tub. The maintenance man made a note and disappeared. I am guessing it was 2 hours later when the guy showed up lugging a pile of stainless steel, heavy duty rails, looking very smug that he was able to come up with them so quickly. He dropped the rails in the bathroom and left abruptly, only to return a few minutes later with a HUGE toolbox and various power tools. I don't have that many power tools( and I adore them ) (that's for the OTHER book). He asked Bob to tell him how he wanted them placed and where.
He then kicked Bob out of the bathroom and went to work. Amid the din of the power tools, cursing (in a language not understood by sailors) ,we decided to leave for awhile. It was unbearable. Bob asked the guy how long he thought he would be and the guy replied "Have her ready in about 2 hours". We took our leave, went to dinner and returned to find a safety rail on every wall and the tile and bathroom were immaculate. There was no other sign that anyone had been in the room. Bob could have transferred in every configuration a physical therapist could come up with and there at his fingertips would be a safety rail. I now had a place to hang every towel I owned!
As we were standing in the doorway, in awe of the spectacle, the doorbell rang. Standing in our doorway was a rather perturbed woman with a 5 year old boy trailing behind. "Can I help you?" I asked "What the hell did you guys do in this apartment, Did you get permission to go into my apartment?
“What is wrong? We didn’t go into your apartment. Maybe it was the maintenance guy? He was here awhile ago installing grab bars for Bob”.
“Just come and look! Oh, I am Alice and this is Mathew, we live next door, and you are?”
“Bob and Lauren (Bob’s the short one), nice to meet you. Now let me go see what’s happened.”
Alice took me into her apartment, down the hall, to the master bathroom. Low and behold! I immediately saw the problem and the reason for the “Hissy-Fit”.
Her shower wall was now nicely decorated with HUGE NUTS ! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO not the kind you eat. The kind you use to secure a HUGE bolt !
I did manage to speak after what seemed like an eternity, and tried to explain the unexplainable. Then it hit me. The last thing Bob explained to the maintenance guy about the grab bars, they had to be secured enough to pull is weight across the transfer board without ripping out of the wall.
Just a little “over-kill”-ya think?
Once we explained the situation, she mellowed out and welcomed us to the building. The maintenance guy’s handi-work was greatly appreciated by all. As far as we know, a tornado could remove the entire complex, but that wall and those grab bars were secure. They weren’t going anywhere!
It didn’t take long to become friends and Mathew was a true “Charmer”.Alice worked during the day and it wasn’t a big leap that we became after school sitters until Alice got home. Mathew and his “Complex Buddies” would show up after the bus dropped them off to check in with us before he went out to play. Eventually, we got into the habit of an afternoon movie, pop corn and all.
Saturday mornings were the big movie day. The old Horror movies were on. Mathew and the “Complex Gang” arrived at 9:00 am and promptly aligned themselves on the couch-near where Bob parked.
This was a win-win situation. Bob loved the old horror shows and need the kids to protect is “macho“ image, and the boys needed protection.
The kids would be totally engrossed in “The Mummy” eating popcorn with one had and covering their eyes (sort of) with the other. They were fun to watch.
This led to our first problem in the apartment.

ROBBED

Bob and I made it through the first AND second “parole” weekends quite nicely. The fire Department was ever-so kind and we quickly learned to plan our day around one pick-up and drop-off. . Most of our day consisted of making plans to move to Nashua.
Bob arranged for a moving company to pack us up, move us and unpack us in Nashua before he was returned to Rehab.
He was so thoughtful. I, on the other hand, am basically a cheap bitch!
I could not see spending all that money to have them pack glassware and dishes. It was basically a sacrilege for a Scotsman, so, after I left Bob off at University Rehab, I returned to Salem and packed them up myself, labeled the boxes and had them stacked by the door for pick up. All of this, while Bob was having such a wonderful time back at “rehab”. (He would never had known until I produced the cash I had saved……RIGHT!)
Bob had arranged for the movers to arrive in Salem on the following Friday morning. The plan was, once the movers were out of the door, I would lock up the Salem apartment, return the key to the apartment office, then meet the movers in Nashua and open that apartment up for them. While they were unloading, I would leave them to do the unloading and go to University Rehab, pick up Bob and return to the Nashua apartment for a weekend of unpacking, and (truly against my nature) organizing.
My packing efforts paid off. The movers handed back $350.00 cash, (Oh Happy Scotsman), and took off with our “Stuff” and headed for Nashua. I followed through with returning the key to the office and arrived at the Nashua apartment in time to unlock the door for the movers. (They had stopped for lunch).
“Mission accomplished”! I headed directly for the Rehab to pick up Bob for the weekend “Parole”.
When I arrived at Rehab, Bob was “parked” on the sidewalk gift wrapped in the ever present “Teflon-Tuxedo”, with a HUGE grin on his face.
I pulled into the parking spot that was designated as “Load Only” zone. Trust me, “loading” was a perfect word to describe Bob’s “less than graceful” entrance into my Escort.
We agreed that we could take our time and stop for lunch on the way to Nashua. The movers would need a lot of time to complete their end off the bargain.
By now, we had this whole “stuffing the elephant through a key-hole” thing down to a science. We had even gained an audience that could be counted on to watch every time we performed !
I opened the rear hatch (per usual), opened both doors of the car (per usual), and carefully placed my purse (containing the $350.00 cash) right behind the front seat, then placed the transfer board under Bob’s butt and started the initial slide to the front seat.
Our audience had assembled (as usual) on the side walk. Nurse, Pt’s, patient’s parents, all lined up to watch Lauren and Bob perform the “Stuff Big Bob into the Little Car” act that combined startling sound effects with clumsy choreography, and a few choice words to boot!
I slid Bob across the transfer board all the way to the part where I had to run around the other side to pull him through and DAMN, if a little kid from the projects jumped in the back of the car, grabbed my purse and in a flash was headed back to the projects.
I jumped out of the car, grabbed Bob by the pants and pulled him to the middle of the transfer board. “Are you stable?”
Bob just said “Yeah, what’s the matter?”
I yelled at Ralph (one of the patient’s father) while I was running down the driveway, ”Go help Bob into his chair-the little bastard has my purse!!
I put chase to the little creep, high heels and all. (I must have looked like sick imitation of Beau Derrick running down the beach in her swim suit!) I was truly in “slo-Mo” compared to the fleeing bastard.
The kid was several yards ahead of me and he was approaching the security hut at the entrance of the hospital. I yelled at the security guard “ stop that kid! He has my purse!”
The security guard (obviously not the braggadocios type) shrugged his shoulders and let the brat pass un-approached (other than by yours truly).
For a brief moment, I though I was closing the gap. Unfortunately, I was (nor am I now) accustomed to wearing “Girl clothes”. The fine art of walking upright in heels was always a problem with me. Hell, I had enough trouble walking and staying upright in sneakers!
I digress.
I threw off the heels (on the fly) and continued after the kid and my purse screaming like a wounded banshee using language (I’m sure) that could not be construed as proper nor lady-like. I believe I offended several species of animals during my verbal attack of both the security guard and the little twit!
I crossed the four lanes and ran into the Projects., cursing a “blue-streak” and getting more pissed as I ran. I passed a swing set that had a bunch of kids playing on it. They looked like little carnivores that had just discovered lame prey in their midst.
I ran passed the group and glanced over my shoulder. They were (all of them) right behind me. NOW I was REALLY PISSED! “ I have been robbed, run ragged, and now these buggers are gonna mug me”, I thought.
Damn it, I had worked hard for that $350.00 !
I finally stopped when the kid I was chasing went into a building. I was not familiar with the buildings and I was unarmed- not a very good combination.
I turned around, evidently looking as though I would kill the first thing that got near me, and walked straight through the crowd of hoodlums, across the street and passed the security guard. If I hadn’t been such a “Lady” I would have spit a the security guard. I just called him a f----g idiot and left it at that.
The Pt’s had put Bob back in his wheelchair and Ralph had called the Boston Police. The cop was standing at the curb when I returned.
The policeman( use the term lightly) lit into me with a tirade of memorable words (some I had just used-minutes ago) calling me a f----g idiot for going into the projects alone, jay-walking, littering (I presume he was referring to my shoes), etc.. SO I answered him “good, you don‘t go in there alone I‘m coming with you“.
I jumped into the cruiser and pointed the direction the “little bastard“ and my purse went.
The officer got in the car and agreed to take me into the projects to see if I could at least get my purse back. Thugs like this usually grab the cash and ditch the purse. I was hoping to find it on the other side of the building in the bushes or the dumpster.
When we got to the back side of the building I hopped out-alone. The cop wouldn’t get out of the car! .
“FINE, I will go look for myself”.
The cop locked the cruiser doors behind me.- comforting……..
I searched, bushes, dumpsters, sidewalks……nothing. I finally gave up and had my “chauffeur” take me back to University Rehab. So I could fill out the report and give a statement.
While I was doing the obligatory paperwork, the Rehab administrator was calling the tow company to move my car. Evidently, it was parked illegally because “nothing had been loaded in it“!
At this time, I added my entire repertoire of French, Spanish and English curses to the previous blue-stream of earlier. “You can’t take my car! The bastard stole my purse with my keys in it. I was loading Bob in the car when the bastard took them!”.
Ralph stepped between us. Did I mention Ralph was a very large man with a marine “high and tight” haircut and a tattoo?
He was the “hero of the day”. He told the guy that if he touched my car, he was going to kill him with his bare hands.
The (Oh so brave) Cop stepped up and explained. The tow-truck driver, tail between his legs, Just drove off, without my car.
I finished signing reports and took Bob back inside. Now I was stuck at rehab, my car in a tow-away zone, with shift change coming up (no one to corroborate our story) which meant a possible re-run of the 20 minutes.
Bless Bob. He is so grounded. He called his buddy, Walter. Remember the Guy that didn’t like to be rear-ended?
I believe he pulled up before Bob hung up. It never did take him long to get anywhere.
Walter took me to Nashua to get my spare key. (believe it or not, I knew which box it had been packed in). I think the trip took ten minutes. DAMN! He scared the “Bejeezus” out of me! I don’t believe the speedometer went below “red-line” the entire way.
I retrieved the key and we were back at the rehab. Total elapsed time…..45 minutes!
Talk about “Ground-Hog Day”. I met Bob at the curb, the audience gathered, I loaded Bob.
Our New adventure was just beginning………

WEEKEND PAROLE

AH! a weekend off. PAROLE! Our first day in the sun after months of torture!
DECENT FOOD! after months of "Airline-leftovers", REAL PEOPLE, instead of freezer- wrapped sour pusses and A KING SIZE BED! Oh the HUMANITY!!!!!!
I pulled up in the (now-sorta new) Escort. I opened the hatch and there was Bob, Wrapped in his Teflon sandwich with a broad smile on his face and armed with a shiny new transfer board. At that very moment, it hit me," How the hell was I gonna get him, a six foot and one inch tall,220 pound ,stiff as a board, man, into a teeny tiny two door ford escort hatchback! I had this God-Awful vision of Bob wedged into the doorway and having to ride the 45 minutes to Nashua, New Hampshire, with his feet clunking away on the pavement and his head and arms wedged in the window to prevent the door from falling off.
I vaguely remember having said something silly (early on) like" I will stick with you no matter what",and "I will be there, no matter what happens". Silly me, (l thought).
I rolled Bob up close to the car and placed the transfer board under his leg as I had always been instructed to do. The trick was to pull Bob across the board and dump him into the seat, then lift his legs into the car, close the door, and drive off into the glorious sunset.
NOT SO EASY in real life.
The body brace prevented Bob from helping in ANY WAY. Sliding him across the board was easy enough, until he got to the car door. BOB- TALL, Door small.........Bob can't bend from the neck down. Got a picture in your mind yet? OK I will fill in the blanks.
We figured, if Bob tucked his chin, and I ran around the car, and climbed across the seat, I could grab his belt and force his butt in through the door and the law of "Lauren Physics" would kick in!
This "Lauren Law"(of physics) is that generally, if something doesn't work, if something doesn't fit, if is something is totally uncooperative, beat on it, yank it or fold it. If it was meant to survive-It would, If it doesn't survive-it wasn't worth it anyway!
Regardless, I followed our plan. Bob got as far as wedging his butt in the doorway and his head tucked the best he could.
The one minor detail that was forgotten (by both of us) was that little, minor detail, called "Body must Breath".
The entire time that I was running around the car, opening the door and "Carefully" climbing in.( short dress-big ass),Bob was unable to breathe. Being unable to breathe, means one is unable to speak, if one can't speak, one can't advise those around him that he CAN"T BREATHE!!!!!!
When I finally noticed that his face was sort of matching his jeans (quite "Martha Stewart" actually) Light Dawned over Marblehead! I grabbed his belt and gave one hell of a yank. It was like trying to pull and elephant through a keyhole. All the while waiting for the proverbial "pop"!
He made it in the door.
We now had an audience gathered on the sidewalk staring in what I chose to believe was "AWE". It was only later, that I found it wasn't awe at all, it was pure unadulterated HORROR!
That was the day I first discovered that I "abused" crips. All can say is that I am fortunate that those nurses haven't followed us around for the rest of our lives.
We did learn a valuable lesson, however, "It is not easy to shove an elephant through a key-hole"!
The ride back to Nashua was wonderful. We laughed a lot, breathed many sighs of relief and experienced a mutual silence that we could feel together, you know, like an "letter hug". It was perfect..........
Have you ever had one of those moments in your life-just when all things were "Bright and Beautiful" then in a flash-The seagull shits on your shoulder, and you're screwed from then on. These describe the feelings that permeated (again) the both of us when I pulled into the parking lot of the apartment building.
In all of our conversations, all of our laments, all of our daydreams, neither one of us thought about the 8 steps down to the "Garden Apartment". In case one is not familiar, wheelchairs, new crips, and stairs do not mix. this is a scientific fact. This is not a theory. I can prove it!
We both just sat there looking .It was not even possible to toss him through the window, as they were all 5 feet off the floor and not large enough for the Teflon tuxedo with Bob enclosed to even roll through never mind shove through. Bob (bless him in a pinch) said "let's go to the fire station and see if there is anyone that can help." Off we went.
Upon arrival, it dawned on me that I couldn't send Bob in to explain. It was too difficult to surgically remove him from the car then stuff him back in. I had to go in and prove to the entire fire department that I was TRULY BLONDE.
Bless them, they were kind, and surprisingly understanding. There were three guys on duty. Two of them were strapping young lads. Never underestimate the bravery and brains that hide behind the brawn. They followed us over to the apartment, plucked Bob out of the car and carried him down the stairs as easily as I carry a bag of groceries. .
As they were leaving, they offered to help Bob get out for dinners, groceries etc.
once or twice a day. My God, they were wonderful! We accepted the offer and that was that.
Bob immediately got on the phone to the apartment complex and explained.
They, too, were wonderful. The office manager said she would call back, she had a plan.
Later that day she called back and advised Bob that the owners of this complex also owned an apartment complex in Nashua. They had arranged (if acceptable to Bob) for a ground LEVEL apartment and offered to put in the proper grab bars and ramp in the porch so we could enter from the parking lot, through the sliding glass doors easily.
Trust me, this was agreed to almost before she finished the last sentence!
Nashua wasn't that far from Salem and actually was an easier trip to University Rehab(I certainly use the term loosely).
The transition to the new apartment would take two weeks, so we had time to get a mover and figure out if they would let Bob out on "parole" again.
Just what we needed, another adventure!

CAPTIVE BIRTHDAY

The tedium is often broken by little things, such as the cold inflicted puff and blow chair operator. But not often enough.
The occasional visit by a doctor to tell you how broken you still are and visitors.
Sometimes, one just has to manufacture excitement, just to get by.
For Bob this was difficult. He was still in the Teflon tuxedo and when ever he was sent to bed (usually after annoying the nurses and P.Ts to the point of distraction) they put his chair in the hall. I think they were truly afraid that he would try to escape. Therefore, as his primary care person, I became the self -anointed Diversionary Tactician.
It was now July 26,1980. Two days left to figure out a "Perfect" Birthday surprise.
Hanging around "Baggage-smashers" and aircraft mechanics tended to lean one's thoughts towards the rude, crude, and socially unacceptable.
I ordered a cake from the local x-rated bakery. (Bet there isn't one in your neighborhood), but we definitely needed something different, exciting , DISRUPTING!
voila! IT WAS PERFECT! There was no danger-if anyone there had a sexual thought, they couldn't act on it. If they somehow found a way to get near, you could slash their tires and leave 'em in a corner! A BELLY DANCER!! That was it.
The party plans would take three phone calls. One to Braniff Operations( for guests) one to the belly-gram folks, and one to my Aunt Birdie! These three calls could round up enough people to pack Fenway Park!
The entire operation took approximately 20 minutes to organize. The one thing that slipped my mind, was to check with the nurse on the floor-woops!
Everyone gathered in the lobby on the first floor then came up the elevator. Then they his in the hallway, outside Bob's wing, barracks, cell block, whatever.
Then, the belly dancer got on the elevator with her "boom-box". By this time the nurses were a bit flummoxed (easily done). When it was explained, they started gathering the patients from other wings, We could hear the usual elevator noise coming up the shaft with the addition of coins jingling. Sounded a bit strange, but Bob was still in the dark.
All of a sudden, the elevator door burst open and the music started blaring, coins clanging together and castanets clicking wildly. The dancer gyrated her way to Bob's bedside. Every patient in the place was oohing, aahing and drooling, including Bob.
This gal was pretty savvy. She got just out of reach of Bob's outstretched arm.
It took they entire evening to pick the floor-grit out of his teeth!
We then brought in the cake. This sent Bob's legs into spasm.
Standing at the end of the bed was Laura. She was the secretary at Braniff. Bless her heart, she used to complain constantly about her weight. She had often stated
that she had, over the course of her life, lost one million pounds. This complaint was usually accompanied by a big Mac, large fry and diet coke.
She was delightful person and truly a joy to have around. Bob enjoyed her visits as long as she didn't get too sympathetic and morose.
When Bob's legs started to spasm, She shrieked then went pure white. I thought she was going to faint. Then she started shouting (over the music) "It's a miracle It's a miracle!, Bob can walk!!!!" Bob and I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. I had all could do to calm her down. Bob finally yelled at her "Yo, dingbat, I am having a spasm,1 CAN'T FEEL IT!" Then Laura started to cry, couldn't help it, we all started to laugh. It was a honest mistake (l guess). Every patient in the spinal chord rehab center, had spasms before. Some had them with such ferocity that they had to be strapped in their chairs to keep from being propelled to the floor.
Finally, the belly dancer left( with a very confused look on her face).Oh, before she left, she did give Bob a birthday kiss.....He still thinks of it to this day. She was a knock-out. I still remember it to this day!
Everyone was eating their piece( of cake) and we got to explain fully to Laura that Bob was not going to chase her down the hall.
The entire afternoon was worth the reprimand I received from the head nurse.
Evidently, I had somehow, ruined their whole schedule. One might think I set those poor patients back a years worth of progress. Personally I think that is as close to walking again as they held since their injuries.
It was that coming weekend that Bob was temporarily paroled.......

REHAB,ROACHES & HAIRY ARMPITS

Introductions were made, and Bob was settled in a corner bed. The advantage (supposedly) was a real wall with a bulletin board, (instead of a curtain) all the comforts of home (Not).
The guy next to Bob had been in a motorcycle accident. He was a 'hemispheric paraplegic.( I think that is what they called it) He was paralyzed on one side. He could feel the pressure sore that was big enough to drive the motor cycle through!
We got the feeling he had been there for quite a long time. The nurses seemed to ignore his moaning.
The kid across the aisle was a full quad-diving accident. I believe he was a c3, I know he was a whiner! He cried for attention all day and half the night. (at least 'til the meds kicked in). He spent all of his time manipulating anyone that came near him. Bob spent his time perfecting rubber-band shooters.....
Three or four beds down was a quiet gent named Tom. He was a trucker that just jumped out of his cab the wrong way and snapped his neck. He was a C2,which translates into "talking Head". The only things he required were conversation and a cigarette. This became my duty. He was so nice and never complained.
Occasionally his mouth thing that he used to turn pages and point would fly out of his mouth. He would ring the bell. The nurses would never come. It became apparent that this particular ward was not exactly at the top of anyone's list.
Bob decided that the 6 month period was going to be over as soon as possible.
It was policy to remove the wheelchairs form the bedside in the evenings. Don’t ask me why. I suppose they were afraid these guys would get out of bed, get in their chairs and mutiny while they nurses and aids were playing cards or stuffing their faces.
I would get to the ward as early as possible and retrieve Bob's chair. We could have him shaven, bathed, teeth brushed and dressed, before the nurses even knew I was there. Then Bob would toodle down the hall to the "rec room", also known as the torture chamber.
Bob then started lifting weights and doing exercises to try and gain some of his strength back. While he was busy with that-I would smoke for Tom, then go to work.
I managed to get a job across the street in a meat-packing plant. I could see Bob's ward from my desk window. By this time, I had quit the airlines, not re-upped in the air force ,and quit the job at the Sheriffs Department, as it appeared that Bob was going to be a full-time occupation.
The plant was close enough that I could go to the "ward" for lunch with Bob and "the boys".
I must backtrack to The King unit. Early on during his stay, he let the kitchen know that he disliked parsley. The kitchen at King unit, trying to be a bit more appetizing than a cafeteria , tended to decorate the main meal with parsley and fruit. I guess they were truly trying to be restaurant. The chef relayed Bob's distaste to my Aunt Birdie, who immediately relayed this information to the doctor, who, immediately wrote an order to put parsley on ALL of Bob's food. Everything, including his cereal in the morning had parsley on it!
Of course, they all had a wonderful laugh at Bob's response, but they never rescinded the order. The entire stay at Elliot Hospital, King unit, was decorated with parsley. Picture it! Decorated cheerios, orange juice and a cold beer-What a Country-eh?
Now, back to the present. Bob received his mail in the late mornings. One lovely card came from the King unit nurses. Enclosed in the card was, you guessed it, a bouquet of pressed parsley! The note to Bob stated that they all missed him, this was to remember them by! Several groans and chuckles later, I thumb-tacked the bouquet to the bulletin board, just as a reminder not to complain!
Several days passed. Bob became a bit stronger and I had figured out ways to spend a bit more time at the rehab unit. I did miss a few days of lunch (thank you), but would get there for the "gourmet road-kill" at dinner. I have had jail-food that was better, and that was boiled by a drunken Indian. (different story, different lifetime ).
The decision was made that I would either cook and deliver, or find a reasonable restaurant.
Our old friends at Ming Chows missed us I guess, the owner showed up with enough Chinese food to serve an army. It was one of those "Happy-Sad" kind of things. The owner was happy to see Bob progressing, sad that he could no longer get down stairs to the after-hours portion of the bar (which is where we spent most of the time). None the less, he left the food and a promise to deliver at least once a week for the "Troops".
Unfortunately, that left 2 more meals and 6 other days to find something edible.
There was small hope on the horizon! The next day Bob was to start "Occupational Therapy" . This was touted as the way for Bob to take care of himself and for him to begin a "Normal" life again...Ah new anticipations, they were going to open the kitchen and teach Bob to cook......
We figured that Bob would be able to create something edible at least once a day as he was quite adept in the kitchen. Due to his single status, New Hampshire (inexpensive) apartment and Airline mechanics job, he was accustomed to making escargot, gourmet "mac" and cheese, steaks etc.. These thoughts were comforting.
Unfortunately, the excitement passed about the time we both looked up and watched a cockroach nibbling on the piece of petrified parsley on the bulletin board.
I thought that there was nothing that could be grosser than that! We went to the dining room, just in time to see Steve( puff and blow chair guy) open his prefab, cellophane SEALED Sandwich . He started to lean down to take a bite and a roach crawled out from between the mystery meat and the bread.
Needless to say, I left and went to the nearest restaurant I could find. I was obviously guided by Angels! Who knew there would be a GREAT Italian restaurant in the middle of a Polish neighborhood?
I must have still been a bit green around the gills, because the guy behind the counter looked very concerned. The first thing he asked me was "are you alright?" I explained the best I could (without messing up his floor). I noticed there was distinct air of understanding. Then he asked what floor Bob was on.
"rehab, God help him". I said The poor man went gray! "My mother was almost killed on that floor, They tried to starve her!"
He calmed down a bit and asked what I wanted. I said what ever the special was. He disappeared into the kitchen.
About 10 minutes later, the man showed up with 2 huge grocery bags. He said he had made way to much so he packed it all up for me. When I asked how much, he said "my lunch specials are ALWAYS $2.50. Every Day, they are $2.50 ",with a wink. He became my guardian angel.
I returned to Rehab with my acquisition.
The aroma as I got off the elevator, attracted the patients attention (as well as the staff). It was MAGIC! The dining room was instantly filled. I opened the bags and there was enough spaghetti , salad, hot Italian bread and meatballs to feed everyone. I even had enough to fix a plate for Tom (cigarette man). It was wonderful.
The reverie did not last....We met the Occupational Therapist.
I am grateful that my mind is such that I almost immediately forget (or bury) those things in my life that are most unpleasant. I can't remember her name (the O.T.).
What I do remember is her appearance (unforgettable).
She announced her arrival in the middle of the first edible meal in quite awhile (since Ming Chow)."Forget restaurant food, I am going to teach you how to cook for yourselves!".
Bob might have been excited, except her legs had more hair than her head, a sleeveless dress revealed that what hair didn't fit on her legs had snuggled under arms.
Her hair appeared to tamed with a rake and her clothing was possibly stolen from a homeless shelter. .
My first thought was that she was working undercover for a Drug sting. Bob thought she had escaped form the psych ward, except the staff all seemed to know her.
Again, Bob was glad he had finished his spaghetti.....
The Occupational therapist (Brazilian hostess reject) announced, with all seriousness, she was going to teach them all to make chocolate chip cookies. Bob asked "and why, pray tell, are we going to do dessert before dinner?" The "Waif" replied, "Oh I am only teaching you how to make cookies, after that you will know how to run the kitchen!".
The collective GROAN could be heard in the projects. There was no escape. This was for real. After the cockroach incidents, the thought of her in the kitchen, cooking ........ We are talking, "gag factor of 10"!
Bob held back as the parade of wheelchairs lined up behind "Her Hairiness" he was hoping he could duck into another room and miss the whole thing.
His plan was thwarted, however, by Steve.
Steve was a high level quad that they had fitted with a "Puff and Blow" chair. It was operated with a tube that was positioned near his mouth, much like a headset mike. Steve a slight case of the sniffles. No, he had a BIG CASE of the sniffles.
Thank God they were headed away from the stairwell when he sneezed.
Bob saw it coming. You know, that "AH,AH. chu chu ...........AHCHOO!” Unlike the rest of the lambs being led to slaughter, he got out of the way.
He quickly sidled up to the wall and grabbed hold of the rail, and braced himself for the crash.
Poor Steve. He had no control. Thank God he was strapped in, because when he let go, the chair lurched in full speed ahead.
There were several turns but all corridors met at the nurses station. Each blind turn had a convex mirror mounted near the ceiling so you could see what was approaching from the other corridor. This was a safety thing for the nurses.
Remember, this is a Rehab for newly injured "Crips". Power chairs can be lethal machines, especially uncontrolled power chairs.
A couple of nurse saw what was coming and jumped behind the desk. (Just in the nick of time). Steve (eyes closed) was screaming. Think now, this expels air, which makes the chair go forward-the more air in the tube, the faster the chair goes.
We could only hope he would have to catch his breath (SOON) as the act of inhaling stopped and reversed the chair. No such luck. He smashed into the desk then took a deep breath, got in reverse, then had to sneeze again. Back he went going 90 miles per hour on the "Ah" part then 90 miles an hour in forward on "CHOO" part.
There were dents, screams and general chaos on the floor.........Bob's only thought was...."thank god, we don't have to make cookies today, my stomach couldn't take it".
Damn good thing something like this was anticipated. I think the desk was steel reinforced. It remained upright and mostly intact!
Needless to say, they were all sent to their rooms while they inspected the damage. We never knew if Steve broke anything or how severely he was hurt (he can't feel anything) and they nurses weren't talking. I do know he was immediately put on a full course of antibiotics to get rid of the cold.
The rest of the day was taken up with watching the cockroach on the bulletin board. It had consumed over half of the sprig and still chewing… Bob figured he (the roach) had about a week to finish it. How bad would things get after that? "At least I didn't have to make cookies".
Bob realized that the nurses were a bit preoccupied, but Ed needed to be rolled.
Ed was the guy next to Bob who had been in a motorcycle accident and was the semi-hemi-para. The poor man could feel everything, but had no motor sensors at all, therefore he couldn't move himself. He had developed a HUGE pressure sore and was supposed to be rolled every hour. No one came. He a tried to get the nurses with the call button, but it had moved out of his reach. Bob was in bed and the nurses had a nasty habit of putting his wheelchair where he couldn't reach it., so Bob used his call button.
At first, the nurse answered and said she would be right there.
15 minutes later-"she would be right there" 15 minutes after that-"quit calling, someone will be there" 15 minutes after that-NO ANSWER!
So Bob, a Lead Mechanic, (not used to being ignored) got on the phone and called the hospital and asked for his floor. The "Nurse Nasty" answered very sweetly.
Her toned soon changed when she recognized Bob's voice. She slammed the phone down and 10 and behold showed up to roll Ed.
Bob now knew how to get their attention.
The days dragged on......