Care

It's still dark, I have to pee, and judging by the low hum from the wheelchair charger, my batteries have done all they can for one night.  So have I.  Moments later, I don't have to pee, and I don't have to look at the clock, but I do.  Five a.m.  It's supposed to be a bad practice, looking at the clock.  But in this case, it hardly matters.  At five in the morning I would begin hearing the sounds of the first morning trains.  Knowing the schedule by heart, my insomniac self would infer the time.  And then where would I be?  Where I am.  Staring at the dark, glad that Marlou is asleep and breathing fine and wishing I was in a similar state.

I sleep pretty soundly these days, all things considered.  And when I do awaken, all it takes is a few minutes of tuning into my own mental distress to bore me back into slumber.  But not this morning.  I stare at nothingness for 90 minutes or so, remember that I am a 62-year-old quadriplegic in too many ways, and that Marlou has cancer.  Mental progress clogged, things fester until the clock reads 6:25.  The central heat kicks on.  I kick into action.

Action is awfully slow.  At 8:05 the train pressure mounts.  Will I make the 8:23?  I know the answer, and the answer doesn't matter.  I'm headed southbound on an errand, perhaps a useless one.  I'll have breakfast on the road.

'The road' means central Sunnyvale.  There is a street, only one, with a series of shops and small eateries, and I roll into a familiar café.  This is silly, this entire exercise, and its purpose eludes me.  Going out is fun, a treat, something special.  Only it's not.  I am alone, there's no time to dine.  And the compromise, ordering something quick, proves mildly disastrous.  Egg on a bagel.  It tastes as bad as it sounds, but it is mildly time efficient.  Within a few minutes I am rolling again, heading for the familiar wheelchair repair guy.  He's waiting for me.  I am slightly late.  What am I doing?

Marlou enjoys staying home more than I do.  Or at least I think she does.  In truth, I may enjoy staying home more than I realize.  It's hard to say, for my feelings in this area are confused and conflicted.  As someone recently pointed out, when the childhood home is a place of unpleasant tension at best, and vicious explosions at worst, quiet moments with the family threaten more than they soothe.  This has become something of a habit.  Let's go out.  Let's do something.  Why be stuck here at home?  Like all compulsions, this leaves one feeling vaguely empty.  As I do now, approaching the premises of California Rehabilitation Equipment, Inc.

Yes, there's nothing to be done.  Wayne talks me through the state of my wheelchair repair.  He has patched things.  An old controller, tape over the electronic connection, and all this will hold together...for a while.  I need a new wheelchair.  I need a new everything.  I need to get back on the train and get home, as long as I have a home.  And that is what this morning, and its joyless bagel and solitary double espresso, has been all about.  Pretending that home, which means Marlou, will be there forever.

Menlo Park?  The train guard remembers me and where I get off.  This is so profoundly touching that I almost forget the next part.  It is my job to force the overlong wheelchair against the forward edge of the train's lift.  'Move forward, please'.  I hear this twice before understanding.  The wheelchair inches into position, the lift rises, and then, 20 minutes later, descends at Menlo Park.

I don't know why I feel obliged to get my nails done.  They are a bit long.  But my approach to such matters is utterly pragmatic.  A little healthy biting off a nail here and there will save an entire 30 minutes at the local manicurist.  But, no, I'm already wheeling in the door at Sky Nails.  And here is Mai with her packet of implements.  Her Vietnamese accent is considerable, and our topics few, so we mostly smile.  How is business?  Slow after the holidays, and how is your wife...she searches her memory...Marlou?

When I have to give a different answer regarding my wife.  When I have to give the same answer again and again...how will it feel?  It has always slightly embarrassed me, the amount of pride I feel in having a wife.  Part of this derives from an essential sense of unworthiness.  But there's a good part too, the knowledge that, for me, marriage is an achievement.  I have had to learn everything about it the hard way.  And the current way is the hardest.

Mai has finished with my nails and is moving onto this other stage.  Without a word, she removes my watch and has a go at my arms, rubbing them with lotion and then massaging wrists and knuckles and palms and fingers.  This seems utterly gratuitous.  I'm here for functional nail care, something Marlou gave up early in her illness.  And why not?  Mai and her nail crew are only a couple of streets away.  So, today's mission has been accomplished, yet there's all this lotioning and kneading up and down my forearms.  I don't need any of it, yet I do.  I can have my arms rubbed by someone who remembers, or only half remembers, Marlou.  It's not good to fear memories.  It's much worse to say goodbye to things before they say goodbye to us.  I'm taking care of my nails and taking care of things and taking care of business and taking care of Marlou.  And care, I am beginning to understand, doesn't go away.