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114 LIVING RESISTANCE The Pickup Catherine Bergart There wasn’t any place to park, so Ed drove the van around the block while I ran in to get sushi at our favorite Japanese restaurant and a movie from the video place next door. Back at his house, I started the film—Prelude to a Kiss—and we ate in the living room: I on the sofa, he in his power wheelchair. “I wish we could snuggle up together while we watch,” I said, pressing the pause button. “We can if we watch in the bedroom.” “Yeah, but how would you get into the bed? Viktor won’t be home for hours,” I said, referring to his live-in aide. Ed is paralyzed from the chest down, although he still has some use of his arms. He was in a bus accident while traveling in South America twelve years before we met. I’d been seeing him for seven weeks, and one of the things that had surprised me most about dating a quad was how much attention we drew when we were out together. Normally shy, I found myself enjoying it, flattered by what I imagined people thinking : “Hey, look at that attractive, independent guy in the wheelchair out on a date with a cute, hip-looking woman who obviously harbors no bourgeois fear of people who are different.” Then one Saturday afternoon Ed drove into town to meet me, and we went for a stroll along the riverfront in lower Manhattan. Skaters zipped around on Rollerblades, and couples sat on benches eating ice cream, their dogs lollygagging at their feet. Sensing people watching us, I asked Ed whether he still noticed that kind of thing. “Yeah, sometimes,” he said. “They think you’re my nurse.” “What?” I turned to him with a smile, but he wasn’t joking. “You mean like I’m just taking you out of the institution for a little air?” “Exactly,” he said. “You’re wearing a white shirt, and besides, who else could I be with?” With our video still on pause, Ed said, “You could try transferring me to the bed—I mean, if you want to.” “There’s no way I’m strong enough to pick you up!” “Actually, it doesn’t take strength—just technique. Beth, a young woman who fills in when Viktor’s away, is smaller than you—she barely weighs ninety pounds—and she doesn’t have any problem transferring me.” “Really?” I said, still skeptical. We went into the bedroom, and Ed drove his wheelchair up along the side of the bed. “The first thing we have to do is take my shoes off,” he said. Kneeling on the floor in front of him, I undid his laces and pulled off his shoes. The Pickup 115 I took one of his sock-covered feet in my hand. “This little piggy went to market, and this—” “Let’s try to stay focused,” he said, fighting a smile. “The next thing you need to do,” he continued, “is pull my hips forward a bit.” I followed his instructions to pull one leg forward, then the other. “OK—now stand facing me, and press my feet together with your feet.” “Like this?” I asked. “Yeah, that’s perfect,” he said. “Now bend your knees a little, press my knees between your knees, put your arms around my lower back—I’ll put mine around your neck—and, as you straighten up, lift me by the waistband of my pants, swivel toward the bed, and sit me on it.” “Uuug!” I’d gotten him onto the very edge of the bed. “Don’t let go!” he barked. “I’m not! I’m not!” “OK—put your right arm under my knees, reach under my right armpit with your left arm, and rotate me on my ass so my feet are at the foot of the bed.” I managed to swivel his body lengthwise on the bed. “Great!” he said, sounding relieved. “Now you just have to pull me up higher on the bed.” “How do I do that?” “Reach your right arm over to my far hip and lift both hips while you pull me up.” “Uuuunh!” Nothing happened. “OK, you’re going to have to stand up over me and try to pull me up like that.” I climbed on the bed so that I was straddling Ed’s legs, bent forward, lifted his hips, and shoved him up higher...

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