The first time we found out about it was after the accident, after we had come home and I found him lying on the bathroom floor in a puddle of grimy water. The doctors explained it really well, backed up their fake sympathetic smiles with medical jargon and suggestions for support groups. I remember marking out the irony in my head. Support. His legs were his only support, and since those had already been destroyed, what more could possibly support him?
Pretending was the easiest, pretending it never happened or pretending it could be forgotten. Of course, post traumatic paraplegia isn’t something you can just will away. We never called it paralysis or a disability though, for us it was just it, something that existed, like a third person between the two of us. In the beginning, he found it the hardest. Countless sleepless nights and nightmarish days blended into a single ephialtes with no beginning and no end. He would lie in bed all day, and would grunt in monosyllables to any question asked of him. He wouldn’t look at me when I would undress him, or help him to the bathroom or even look at his legs. Purplish-blue bruises decorated his calves all the way around, and as time passed, their colour darkened to match the hues of our relationship.
For me, it was easier at first. I was just there. Work suddenly didn’t matter anymore, it seemed so pedantic and frivolous compared to being there for him that I didn’t give it a second thought. Eventually, as he got used to it and then got used to staying at home, it became harder and harder until I just couldn’t bear it.
“Look, why don’t you go back to work already? I’ve talked to Harry, he would be happy to adjust-”
“I can’t run the place if I can’t walk, Carrie, now can I?”
The response was so brutal, I was stunned. This was the first sentence in weeks of practically no communication, and it was so stripping that it laid me bare.
“It doesn’t have to stop your life.”
“Well, it does. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed lately.”
I left the room after that, left vulnerable to the fast forming exhaustion that sucked the optimism right out of me.
***
When we first met, we were on a five mile uphill trek. John had just gotten out of a relationship and I was looking for something new. The whole group was partnered up and as we hiked, we talked. I fell in love with his spontaneity first and his willingness second, though now that I think about it, they go hand in hand. We both loved walking and it seemed so right that our first moments together would match with our personalities so perfectly. The forest grew so luxuriously around us, thick undergrowth and trees stretching all the way up the mountain slopes. When it snowed, delicate little flakes would dot each segment of the coniferous vegetation in a fine layer of white which would glisten as it melted down the incline and the soles of our shoes would crunch against it as we made our way upwards. We started with what I always considered a long journey. I wouldn’t have ever imagined that the journey had just begun, and would multiply in length so many times and with such profound determination that it would leave me breathless.
***
“There’s really nothing in my life to be thankful for.”
I purse my lips in annoyance. He wouldn’t have his way on this one. I would make sure of it.
“It’s the first time we’ve decided to celebrate as a family since…”
He smirked at my hesitation, in a cruel jab to imitate my unwillingness to acknowledge what had actually happened.
“The crash. The crash where I drove the car down a seriously sharp turn.”
“Almost. You almost drove the car.”
This time, he grinds his teeth and the gesture brought me a queer pang of satisfaction, an instance where I finally gained the advantage of having made him feel uncomfortable. Then I felt repulsed at my own line of thinking, because who thinks like that?
“We’re not going.”
I face him square in the eye.
“How long are you going to stay here, John? Just tell me, how long?”
But he’s already turned away.
***
The funeral was a quiet affair. The congregation was just family, and some of her friends who vanished almost as soon as they had appeared. Even though it was drizzling, I insisted that I would wheel myself back to the car. I just wanted to be next to her for a while longer. She had tried so hard for the last couple years. I know she had. And I had tried so hard to let down those efforts. Towards the end of the cancer, all Carrie talked about was the walk. ‘Our first walk’ she called it, and then later, as she got sicker, she would start calling it the last walk. I thought of how, during that trek, her hair had spilled out of the cap of her fleece lined jacket. How she would insistently try and shove it back inside, but it would never conform to her methods.
I turned the wheelchair around from her coffin, and thought of how I was only one more walk away from her.
***