Page Utilities
Glenys Carl, Pan Books (page 11 of 13) Page 11 of 13
Two world-class boxers volunteer. Frank, a lightweight from Dublin, is seventy now, but full of care and compassion, and is battling poverty himself as nobody will employ him because of his age. At the slightest hint of sadness he breaks into an old pub song with a full tenor voice. His friend, a quiet and very large man from Nigeria, is introduced simply as The Champ. Much younger than Frank, he is a one-time Commonwealth heavyweight champion. The two work on Scott's left arm to get more flexibility. It is tedious and torturous for Scott. His face grimaces, but he never complains or loses his sense of humour. 'You want to arm wrestle?' Scott chides the Irishman. 'I'm not sure you're up to it, so I'll use my bad arm to make it easy on you.' The Irishman laughs joyously and eggs Scott on. 'Come on now, mate, you can't go through life without a good left jab.'
Two little boys, five and seven, arrive with their mother. While she talks with Scott and stretches his right arm, I ask if they would like to rub lotion on his feet. They reply, 'Can we really?' I say, 'Of course,' and give them the bottle of lotion, and leave them to their own devices. Too often, we shield children from life's ills and infirmities, and in the process we deprive them of the skills and compassion needed to cope. It is a shame how we lock children out when tragedy appears. They should be allowed to share in these situations, so they learn not to be afraid of sickness or death. It is mainly the unknown that is scary for them. With Scott, I saw children learning to exercise their natural compassion and healing energy.
Many volunteers bring their young children who laugh and giggle as they romp through our small apartment and play outside. Fathers bring their babies and balance them on Scott's stomach. He loves having the babies the most. He strokes their heads and it takes his mind off his pain while their parents pull at his legs. After all, babies are pure love.
A young Israeli woman named Haiki appears at our door. She is short and stout with dark, thick, curly hair around a cherubic face. Haiki is a medic in the Israeli army and informs me she possesses an intuitive sense of how to work with disabilities. She is drawn to Scott and when the other volunteers leave and I am in the kitchen cleaning up she lies on her back next to Scott and they talk of sex. I shut the kitchen door to leave them alone. I am sure their relationship is just talk, but sometimes mothers learn things they should forget.
Keith walks in unannounced and introduces himself as an osteopath with spare time who wants to help. He is slightly built and about thirty-five years old with over-the-collar blond hair and blue eyes that brim with enthusiasm. I introduce him to Scott and he immediately begins a neck massage treatment. As he works, Keith asks my son about his injuries. 'I don't remember how I was injured,' Scott explains briefly. 'But I'm getting much better.'
'That's wonderful,' Keith replies. 'Miracles do happen, don't they?'
Scott laughs. 'Maybe so, but I don't live on 34th Street.'
Jonathan comes when he can to take Scott for afternoons at the beach. One day, rolling Scott's wheelchair along the boardwalk, they pass two young women. Reaching out his good hand, Scott pinches one on the bottom. Whipping round in surprised anger, and confused by the sight of an invalid in a wheelchair, she turns her wrath on Jonathan, who wheels briskly on in embarrassment as Scott convulses with laughter.
Scott wants to put his feet in the ocean, but wheelchairs do not go through sand, so we have to devise another way. With Jonathan and Rollie's ingenuity, we cut off the legs of a chair and nail poles in their place, put Scott on the seat, tie him in with Ace bandages, and bear him like a maharaja across the sand to the water. After we lay it down in the ocean, a big wave comes and wipes him out with sea spray. Scott can't move and he doesn't care; he just laughs. I think he feels safe strapped to the chair. We also carry him to the rocks and put a fishing pole in his good arm. To everyone's surprise, he catches a little fish. Luck is on his side. By summer's end, Scott's face fills out and shines with a healthy copper glow. Unfortunately, those outings become few and far between as Jonathan's visa expires and he and Ulla depart for Denmark, leaving me to continue my crusade.
I receive a call from the Probation Department, asking if I could use the help of an osteopath, as they have one who could come every day. He is on probation for financial impropriety. I don't care and eagerly say yes. I laugh to myself each day when I have to mark his card to say that he has been there all day. He is a gentle soul. I can see where he would have money problems. He lives in the moment and only his work matters. Even after he is off probation he still comes, almost every day. He works wonders.
Three housewives become regulars. One is mired in an unhappy marriage, but can't break out as she's been diagnosed with cancer and can't work. The second has a schizophrenic son and a husband who's just left her. The third is raising four children alone. They quickly bond with Scott and with each other. Like Scott they are not bitter, they are just trying to get on with their lives. They initially arrive individually but soon carpool together and become fast friends. It takes an hour each way for them to reach our apartment. I found that level of commitment very moving. The women work as a team to exercise Scott's arms and legs, rolling him on the bolster.
One day I watch them turn him over on his stomach and bend his legs back to stretch muscles. When they finish, in the process of repositioning his body, they lift his upper body. Instinctively Scott thrusts his thighs forward, and quite suddenly he is upright on his knees. Stabilized and encouraged by two of the women, he awkwardly puts one knee forward, shifts his body, and slides the other knee forward while they hold him up, one on each side.
I catch my breath. Slowly and haltingly, Scott is walking, if only on his knees. He cannot balance, he cannot take more than a few steps, but he possesses some control of his thigh muscles and his hips. Might Scott someday stand on his feet? One leg is longer than the other, and one bends at the knee, so it is a little shorter. Haven't I just a few minutes ago seen him walk on his knees with help? If he can go from a coma to balancing on his knees, surely he can make another leap forward. All of a sudden the possibilities seem limitless.
From Hold My Hand: A Mother's Journey by Glenys Carl. Pan Books, Pan Macmillan LTD, England, 2005. All rights reserved.
