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.