The Harm in Asking: My Clumsy Encounters with the Human Race (33 page)

“You let him shave your back?”

“
Sí
, yes. I let him shave my back. But then
when
he shave my back, he shave it to look like
los huevos
.”

“
Los huevos?
Some … eggs?”

“
Sí
, yes. Some eggs.”

“But why, Angel,
why
?”

“For to look like—
como se dice—‘escroto’
?”

A pause.

“Your scrotum!”

“
Sí!
Yes! My scrotum! This man use my hairs to make a scrotum on my back!”

We all laughed at the expense of the scrotum on the back, of the ruined male pageant. We told Angel how funny he was.

“Muchas gracias,”
said Angel. “But now we back to business. Sarita, ankle circle going left. Thirty seconds
por favor
.”

I spent nearly three weeks in the hospital. Over the course of those three weeks, there were three surgeries, four visits from Maggie, seven sessions with Angel, eleven hugs from Terri, twelve Reiki sessions with my mother, twenty inspections at the hand of Dr. Dean, two hundred and fifty hours of television, and a single rock-hardiest of rock-hard bowel movements ever made in the history of man. I’d lost a total of fifteen pounds, and looked (if I may say) lithe upon my hospital departure. My midriff was flatter than my A-cup chest; my collarbone, balletic. I would say I had never looked better, but the lack of attention to hair, makeup, and clothing one confronts in a hospital meant that this was not technically true.

There had been many unpleasant aspects to my hospital stay, and one of them was being forced to look so disgustingly unkempt amid the ongoing parade of male hotness. I had bigger fish to fry, of course, but all I mean is that those bigger fish did not feed upon the smaller ones. I hoped to use my hospital departure as an opportunity to show off my new figure and potential for attractiveness to Angel and Dr. Dean, and therefore asked my father to make an extra trip to and from my Bushwick apartment to collect what I referred to as my “Good-bye Outfit.” This is the one I’d change into from my hospital gown. I chose a racer-back tank top and a pair of Daisy Duke shorts. Additionally, I asked for contact lenses, my makeup bag, and a hairpiece I’d worn three Halloweens prior to facilitate a fuller up-do. I had my father sit at the foot of my hospital bed holding a hand mirror in front of my face for an hour and a half while I put on the makeup, the hairpiece, and the contact lenses. Having completed my preparations, I awaited the oohs and aahs, the Sara-we-had-no-idea!s. But then when the moment finally came neither Angel nor Dr.
Dean showed up. There was only a nurse and an orderly. The nurse helped me into the wheelchair, then handed a set of crutches to my father for my own future use, for when I transitioned out of my wheelchair.

The orderly reached for a pack of baby wipes on the tray beside my bed.

“These yours?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah,” I said.

“Well, here,” he said, and put them in my lap.

And that was pretty much that. My father gave the crutches to my mother. Then he pushed me out the door.

I had been told that I would spend two weeks in the wheelchair until I was ready for crutches. I had been told that once I got up on the crutches, I would stay there for an additional four months.

This is not an ideal prognosis for anyone, but I do believe it’s especially grim for someone in New York City who lives in a walk-up apartment, who commutes via subway every day. There are people out there who do it, of course, and with a certain grace. You see them around, navigating public transport and busy city streets, and most of these folks, due either to physical competence or a positive attitude, project an air that says, “I’m fine.”

In my wheelchair, however, I did nothing of the sort. I moved like I was in a broken bumper car, and on crutches, I was even worse. I used them for the first time to get myself out my wheelchair and into the cab that would ferry me back home. But I was so clearly
so
clumsy, the cabbie intervened.

“I am no psychic,” he said, “but I think you gonna break another leg.”

There is a tradition in my family of discounting positive
predictions, instincts, and feelings whilst clinging to their negative equivalents. If someone says, “Don’t worry. Things’ll work out,” we think, “Yes, well, that’s what
you
think, because
you
are ill-prepared.” Conversely, if someone sees tragedy looming, she is perceived as wise and insightful.

The cabbie told me I was poised to break another leg, and we, the Barrons, figured he was right. We riffled through various solutions to the problem until we hit upon one that would work: For as long as I was on crutches, my dad would stay on with me in New York.

My brother, Sam, had predicted this exact turn of events. Toward the end of my hospital stay, my parents had gone to buy me a Kiehl’s astringent. I’d called Sam while they were out, and he’d asked how I was doing.

“Miserable,” I’d said. “Although I
am
pretty skinny.”

“Skinny like you look sick?” he’d asked, “Or skinny like you look good?”

“I think it’s skinny like I look good,” I’d said. “Or, you know,
could
look good. With makeup and a better outfit.”

“Well, great then, right?”

“You’d think so, but the nurse made me try to stand up the other day, and after two weeks lying down, my body was like, ‘No, thanks. We’re not doing this. We’re fainting now,’ and then I fainted into the arms of my physical therapist. Which wasn’t so bad—he’s really handsome—but the point is just that if I am literally too weak to stand, then my current weight is not sustainable. I won’t have the strength to use the crutches.”

“They want
you
to use … 
crutches
?”

“I know, right? I will be that person. I’ll survive a car crash, and then just trip on the street one day and crack my skull and die.”

“No. You won’t,” he’d said.

“I won’t?” I’d said.

“You won’t,” he’d said. “Dad’ll wind up staying with you, don’t you think? He’ll just … I don’t know, like, follow you around. He’ll catch you if you fall. Which sounds cheesy.”

“It does.”

“But I mean it in a literal sense.”

It turned out Sam was right. My dad decided he’d stay with me in New York, to catch me if I fell. And I mean this in a literal sense.

My father had retired six months prior to my accident, and had so far spent his abundant free time watching TV and reading historical biographies. To sacrifice these leisure activities to a career of live-in nursing was not an ideal situation, but he didn’t have a choice. Because my mother couldn’t do it. She was still gainfully employed as a suburban psychotherapist, and while Sam and I had both grown into solvent
-ish
adults, she nonetheless continued to pay for every dollar of our medical coverage. And, of course, the day-to-day life of her husband and herself. What this meant, then, in practical terms was that my father’s “golden years” had thus far been underscored by the following soundtrack:

“Well, have fun with your book, then. I’m off to support the family.”

Or: “How many hours of TV have you watched so far today? What’s that? Sorry. I don’t have time to listen. I’m off to support the family.”

Or: “Since
I’ll
be supporting the family all day, I’d like
you
to clean the basement. Throw out everything that’s yours. Save everything that’s mine.”

It was therefore unsurprising that as we hammered out a plan for my at-home care, my mom said, “Well, since
I’ve
been supporting the family, I think your dad should be the one to stay. Since
I
support the family.”

Placing the burden on my dad made the most logistical
sense, but it also felt like the smarter investment in my future. Had my mother stayed instead—had she been made a slave to a bedpan, a sponge bath, to another person’s schedule—I do believe she would’ve mentioned it every day, for the rest of her life.

Every
day.

For the
rest
of her
life
.

My mother returned to Chicago the day after I was discharged from the hospital. She hugged my dad and me good-bye.

“Good luck,” she said. “You two will be fine. And if you’re not—if you need me—just try me at work. I’ll be busy supporting the family.”

When you, age thirty, and your father, age sixty-five, are forced to stare at each other from across the studio apartment that is now your shared accommodation, the first word to jump to mind is “privacy.”

How will you have it, or get it?

The thought occurred to me, and I do believe it occurred to my father as well. But we had to forgo the luxury of that concern, and fast. Because
somebody
needed a sponge bath. I had neither bathed nor showered while in the hospital, and the crushing urge to feel soap-and-water lather on my skin far outweighed any thought of how odd it might be to have my father bathe me.

I had been forbidden from getting my leg wet, so we worked out a bathing-suit contingent plan to cope. Every evening, I would slip into a modest one-piece suit. As I did, my dad would fill a bucket with soap and water, which he would then set down on the floor of my bedroom/kitchen/den. Alongside the bucket, he’d place a large pile of bath towels. Having positioned both the bucket and the towels,
my dad would go stand in the corner with his back toward the room. He would stand there and begin to read a book, at which point I would cast my crutches to one side and hop to it. Literally. I would hop on my good leg to the bucket and the towels. I would sponge bathe all private and reachable parts of myself while my dad continued reading.

I would call to him when I was done.

“Dad! Back!” I’d call, at which point he would set down his book and come to wash my back.

You’d think I’d enjoy all this being tended to, but I did not. I
could
not, you see, for I had already spent years of my life dreaming up my ideal sponge bath scenario: I am on a sun-lounger beside the water in the southern coast of France. Jean-Paul, my manservant, brings me half a glass of champagne and a tub of guacamole. He feeds me the guacamole out of his hand, then rinses his hand in the sea.

A sponge appears at this point, and Jean-Paul lathers it with Aveda body scrub and uses it to wash me.

Throughout the experience, I remain horizontally positioned on the lounger.

At the very least, I should have felt lucky to have my dad there to take care of me. But as his aging body crouched behind my own, as he washed my back with some year-old sponge from Walgreen’s, I mostly just thought, This is bullshit. Where’s Jean-Paul?

High expectations are a bitch.

I am someone who takes a comparatively small amount of pride in self-sufficiency. The skill sits low on my priority list, and still: Even
I
feel mildly compelled to be able to clean my own body. Not to
clean
my own body. To
be
able to
clean my own body. A lady likes an option. I felt depressed having that taken away, and I only got more depressed when, along with my knack for self-cleaning, I lost my knack for the efficient disposal of my very own urine.

It was late one weekday night, and my dad and I were both in our usual bedtime positions: he, on an air mattress, me, in my bed. I have always been one for a nighttime pee, and so on this night in particular, I did as I have always done and got up to go to the bathroom. I grabbed my crutches and was galumphing along when one thing or another went wrong, and because it was dark and I could barely see, I slipped and fell and landed on my dad. The process was terribly un-erotic, but also pretty lucky. For if I had crashed anywhere else in the apartment, it would have been on tile flooring. This would not have been the worst thing, but as I was now a delicate flower in possession of a delicate frame, it was a process worth avoiding.

The episode served as a warning shot, and the warning shot called for a commode.

From that point on, instead of going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, I would use a wide-mouth vase. I would keep it at my bedside.

Pissing in a vase might sound degrading, but I don’t actually think that it is. It’s like a remote control, is all: a welcome convenience to eradicate small-distance walking. As far as I was concerned, the problem was not that I pissed in a vase, but rather that I had to
dispose
of my piss in a vase.

Imagine that you are on crutches, and that if and when you walk, your hands are never free. Add to that scenario a vase full of urine that needs to be transported from your bedroom to your toilet.

Imagine trying to hold that vase while hopping.

Transporting a piss-vase like a normal person was not
an option, even in an apartment as small as my own. It was ambitious for me to think I could, but nonetheless I wanted to. Craving a semblance of competence, I sent my father out for kneepads.

“Why do you need kneepads?” he asked.

“No reason,” I answered.

So my dad went and bought me kneepads, and these, the kneepads, enabled me to get down on the floor and “walk.” I would “walk” on my knees, and to my toilet while precariously carrying the vase.

My father did not bear witness to this routine the first few times I tried it; he’d gone to the local coffee shop to buy himself a coffee and croissant. Eventually, though, he bore witness. And when he bore witness, he cried.

“Calm down,” I said. “It’s not that bad.”

“It
is
!” he cried. “You look
deranged
!”

“I don’t
feel
deranged,” I said. “I just feel”—and I considered how I felt—“competent, I guess.”

My dad shook his head. He reached for the vase.

“Please. Let me take it,” he said.