Page Utilities
Glenys Carl, Pan Books (page 8 of 13) Page 8 of 13
Another time Jonathan has helped him shower and Scott is naked apart from a towel, his arm around Jonathan's neck, unable to stand by himself. The body that a few months earlier was playing rugby is now bent over and lopsided, his left foot not reaching the ground. About to move down the hall, he catches sight of himself in the mirror outside the bathroom. I see the surprise and shock on his face, which seem to say, 'Shit, I don't look too good!' Then the sad silence.
In general, his injury has created a condition that keeps him unaware of how bad he really is. We are lucky in this respect because, during this period, he really isn't depressed.
Dismayed at how much help I will need, I search my mind and think of the volunteers I have to press into service. It dawns on me that every minute, dozens of potential volunteers pass my door. Each hour, hundreds are shopping in Paddington Market. I need only a few. Not many, just a few at a time. Tearing pages from a large pad, I make flyers. With a pen I write, 'I need help with an invalid son. Please if you can spend even one hour per month, come by,' and give my address. I ask Scott if he will be okay for a few minutes, then walk down Glenmore Street pushing them into the hands of pedestrians.
Returning home I can only wait, but in the meantime I set my mind to procuring a wheelchair. Towards evening there is a knock on my door. I open it to two women and a man. One of the women, in her fifties with grey hair, holds my flyer. 'I brought my husband,' she says, nodding towards the man who is dressed in work clothes and carries a brown paper sack. 'And we've brought a little food. What can we do to help?' I motion them in while turning away for fear they will see my streaming tears. My prayers are being answered. Scott and I are strangers, yet these people care.
Together we move Scott into the bedroom and make him comfortable. I put on music and light a few candles. Sandwiches are passed out and we sit and talk. They tell me with warm smiles they will be back. After my guests leave, I lie next to Scott and read aloud until he falls asleep, placing his entire trust into my unqualified hands. But I do not sleep well. Every two hours I need to lift and turn him to a more comfortable position. And I will have to get him into the bathroom or bring it to him. Still, I'm wonderfully excited, and my blood pounds with exhilaration. We are winning. Scott and I, I tell myself, are winning.
The next day my three volunteers return. I create more flyers and they fan out, pinning them on bulletin boards in the supermarket, the library, St Vincent's Hospital, a bookshop and other public places.
Moments after they leave I open the door to the pony-tailed cabby in the same Hawaiian shirt. His name's Tim. 'I've been thinking, mate,' he says with a clever grin, 'that maybe we should go find ourselves a wheelchair.'
When the volunteers return, they stay with Scott. I get in Tim's cab and we are off, pulling to a stop at the entrance of Coorabel. 'The hospital?' I ask.
'Why not?' he says with a twinkle. 'If you need money you go to a bank.'
We walk into the emergency entrance. The hall is deserted except for a row of empty chrome and black wheelchairs against a wall. He shushes me, then motions for me to sit down. The cabby spins the chair around, wheels me rapidly out the swinging doors, helps me into the back seat of the cab as if I were a patient, then quickly tucks the folded chair into the boot. 'We're just borrowing it, mind you,' he says, flashing a bright smile as we speed off.
That afternoon two other volunteers knock on my door. The leaflets are working. The next day three more show up and we move Scott to a bed on the living room floor where he can be more easily handled. As the days pass, and as the word spreads, the numbers increase. Most are neighbours. Some spend an hour massaging Scott's muscles and stretching his ligaments. Others volunteer to do our mountains of laundry or run errands.
I try to take Scott out for a walk every day. It is not easy for me, standing five foot two, to manoeuvre a wheelchair carrying a man much taller and heavier than myself who has trouble keeping upright. The first challenge, especially when I am by myself, is to get the wheelchair out of the flat, up the steps and onto the street. Sometimes I wheel Scott to the steps and lift him out of the chair, which I am able to do by myself, lay him on a blanket, lift the wheelchair up the steps to the pavement, then find somebody who will help. We each take hold of one end of the blanket and carry Scott up the steps to the wheelchair. Then I'll try and get Scott on his knees and into the wheelchair. We often overbalance, Scott pinning me to the blanket. It causes much amusement among the passers-by. Some ask if they can help, and others hurry on and pretend they haven't seen anything.
Once Scott is secure in the chair, we head off down the street. He takes some bumps as we negotiate the kerbs and other obstacles along the way, and rates me on my skills, grumbling, 'Gee, Mom, that was a minus six!' Or, laughing, 'Great, Mom! Plus two!' The rating game is a regular feature of our walks over the coming months and years. It is a way for Scott to express himself, and he always keeps a generous sense of humour. And of course it keeps me on my toes.
In the evening I light candles and play tranquil music – sometimes opera, sometimes Mozart, sometimes New Age inspirational.
After a day of therapy Scott is usually exhausted with pain, but in the evening he and I have our special time of quiet. Sometimes I lie beside him and hold his hand, neither of us needing to speak.
Sometimes Scott asks me to dance for him, which I gladly do, pretending I'm a ballerina, moving around his wheelchair, laughing at how good it feels even as I realize how much more flexible I was in my younger days. When we do talk, it is of neither the past nor the future, for they have ceased to exist. We live only in the moment, for that is all we can count on, and we live each golden drop of these moments as if we'll never live another. Or we simply talk to hear each other's reassuring voice. He never says to me, 'Mom, why do you think this happened to me?' Sometimes I wonder about this. I'm not sure the question ever occurs to him.
I'm rubbing his head and hair as I used to when he was a little boy. Without thinking I look into his eyes and say, 'Scott, are you afraid to die?' as he has been to the edge so many times.
In a loud voice he replies, 'I LOVE LIVING.'
After he is tucked in bed, I watch the candles glowing, making shadows on the wall. In my solitary daydreaming, I get lost in the shadows. It is my way of meditating, to revitalize my mind and soul.
From Hold My Hand: A Mother's Journey by Glenys Carl. Pan Books, Pan Macmillan LTD, England, 2005. All rights reserved.
