-
1. the trike and the 49 bus
- Temple University Press
- Chapter
- Additional Information
the trike and the 49 bus one W e had it down pat. As soon as I'd hear that "Mar!" I'd yell back "Okay!" so I wouldn't have to hear it again. I'd hear it again anyway. "Mar! Toilet!" I'd sink; I'd shrug; I'd tantrum, to myself or aloud. I'd race up the stairs and down the hall to Jeff's wheelchair , which we called lithe trike." I'd unlock both brakes at the same time, spin around to the back, zoom through the two doors, enter the bathroom backwards and swing clear of the sink, then spin around in front and lock both brakes at the same time. As fast as possible, I'd undo Jeff's belt, unVelcro his pants, pull off the side of the chair nearest the toilet (sometimes it would stick), brace his legs and then my legs (making sure he'd gotten hold of his pants), so he could push down while I pulled up. Then I'd bend down, lift his right arm around my back, make sure he could lift his left arm today. (His left arm was his good arm, then; he had a good arm, then.) Then I'd pull up and try to stay up so he could make sure his pants went down. Using both my knees I'd ease him down and onto the toilet, and steady him between my knees. (That was a discovery, using my knees 1 Copyrighted Material dirty details 2 as though they were limbs.) I'd put the side of the chair back on so he could lean on it, and I'd put a jar on him, too, in case he'd need it for urinating ("toilet" meant defecation). Then I'd go back to writing, typing, Scrabble with the kids, playing the piano, correcting calculus papers, or supper . I could, or at least I did, eat under those circumstances; one of the reasons I'd eat instead of wait for him was so I wouldn't be away from the supper table, and the kids, any more than I had to. "Ten minutes, okay?" I'd ask him, hoping he'd answer, "Okay," hoping he wouldn't say"I need you to balance me" or "Could you just scratch my left ear?" In ten minutes, maybe fifteen, I'd run back up, hoping he'd say it had been a false alarm but knowing that if it had been he'd soon be calling "Mar!" again-and then there'd be two interruptions to dinner, at least. If it was a "success," as he'd call it, I'd pull him forward, leaving four inches of space between him and the inside back of the seat. I'd leave that space-that "steamy triengle," I called it in the title poem from Epsilon Country-for the paper to fall into, hoping it would fall and not get wedged in there. Sometimes I'd pause at this point to look through the slightly open bathroom doorway at sleeping Devin, our child of those years, still a baby; I'd sneak a look at those almost blond curls and those Bubbalah hands lying gracefully in the most ungraceful positions; I'd sneak a peak or two at the happiness that got us through those years. Anyway , then I'd wipe, starting far enough down so I'd get it all, which would mean fewer wipes, and I'd pause again, pause and think back thirty years, to imagine my mother saying not "Have you and Jeff been petting?" but "Have you and Copyrighted Material [54.242.75.224] Project MUSE (2024-03-19 13:06 GMT) the trike and the 49 bus 3 Jeff been wiping?" If she didn't approve of him then-I'd almost laugh when I thought of this-what would she think of him now? To get him up again and the pants back on, we had a new trick (we were always having new tricks). I'd pull Jeff forward and all the way to the left so I could pull up his pants on the right side. Then I'd shift him all the way to the right so I could pull up the left side. Then I'd get in back and sort of juggle him a little, which would eventually bring up the middle of his pants. I'd buckle, then Velcro, then lift up...