(This is part of the Brejcha Personal and Disability Resource Site, and after reading this page you can Click here for a Menu . But for now, Welcome to one of my stories:
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This was written in 1988 while working night shift at Graduate Hospital in Philadelphia and lost until I found it and it was published in the January 2003 issue of M.S. Musings. For an audience with or involved with M.S. it was perfect. It is too much of what editors call a 'Mary Sue' story - obviously based on the authors themselves - for most paying markets, so I forgot about it again. But for the editor who ran it for her M.S. Musings magazine, it was just right, and maybe I'll find another proper market sometime.
©1988 F. Alexander Brejcha
Introduction: This story isn't autobiographical at all... okay, it is :-). It was written at an intermediate stage of my M.S. between my first (safe) and second (a blessing that saved me in many ways) relationships. My first girlfriend was overweight and not "pretty" in the way our chauvenistic society defines the word, and the next was an absolutely stunning woman who could have had any man she wanted. But the fact that she got involved with me blasted my poor self-image and made me realize I did have value and appeal. The fact that her own self-image was as warped as mine and I helped her as much as she did me, was a lucky twist of fate. Our relationship ended as she got her head together and moved on, but we stayed friends until her tragic death a few years ago and I will always owe her my life. I thought I had lost this story, but just found it and thought appropriate for some other M.S. venue.
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Red for bold, blue for underlined and yellow for both. Mike played idly with the keys of his computer, typing meaningless words as he shifted from one style to another -- all to avoid starting the story. The ever-patient cursor blinked expectantly at him. It seemed to know that he was stalling and typing nonsense. Was the flashing getting faster? Impatient? He studied the small dash of white that was signaling so insistently. Then, from under his wheelchair came a tentative rustling sound and then a soft furry tickling on his leg.
He looked down to see a mitten-like little paw tapping his bare leg playfully.
"Hi Thunder-toes." He leaned down to tease the polydactyl kitten with a pen, careful to avoid the feline Freddy Kruger's awesome claw armament. He couldn't wait till TT was old enough to declaw. Seven toes on one front paw and six on the other was a little much for the furniture, and his bare legs!
"Go play with your brother, okay? I'm busy." He threw the pen across the floor towards the broad lump of his other cat who lay unsuspectingly asleep across the room. A grey streak shot across the floor trying to grab the enticing object, but then changed directions and pounced on Pywacket instead. A shocked hiss and then the two were wrapped up in a mock fight as Wacky tried bravely to keep from squashing his new housemate. Satisfied that they would keep each other busy, Mike turned back to the expectant screen.
The trivial junk he had typed glared accusingly back at him and he deleted it. "Write what you know," he muttered, his tone denying the words repeated in every writing book and by every writing teacher he had ever heard of. His response was to ask why? He had done quite well writing what he didn't know, as the array of photocopied checks on the wall testified. Science fiction, horror, mystery and even romance. All in settings and with people who were total strangers. But his mother kept prodding him to write about himself, his own feelings and experiences.
"Let people know what it's like to be handicapped. Give them a story, but from your point of view," she kept hinting. Gently, because she knew it had to come when it was time. But she was hopeful, even as he kept resisting.
But her words had penetrated on one level, because there were handicapped people entering into his stories. "Handicapped", not "disabled"; he resented the term disabled. It implied he was "unable", which he was not! But people with various problems appeared without planning, just like his characters often took off in unexpected directions and did, or said, things he had not intended. He shrugged and accepted them. As did editors.
A sudden squeak of pain and a muffled hiss interrupted his thoughts and he looked over to see Wacky back away from a tiny hunched TT who was spitting at the bulk of the other cat and held a paw extended in defense.
"Easy guys!" Mike wheeled himself back and pivoted to face them, gently chiding Wacky. "What did you do, sit on him? You're too damn fat for that. I don't want a kitten applique for the refrigerator."
Wacky looked up at him uncomprehendingly, but as he realized the tone wasn't angry, he waddled over to Mike and rubbed against his leg. TT had already forgiven and forgotten and took advantage of the opportunity to pounce on Wacky's temptingly swaying tail. The large cat looked up at Mike with a pained expression, as if asking why he couldn't just sleep in peace.
Mike laughed. "Sorry kid, it's the only exercise you've had in years, and it'll do you good." Wacky flopped to the ground with a sigh and allowed himself to be assaulted again. He only put up the barest minimum of effort to fend off the attacking fluffball that darted in and out. For a moment Mike watched the surprisingly silent tussle, punctuated only by occasional gasps and squeaks. He was amazed again by how quickly the new kitten had been accepted by the older cat. For TT, he had the feeling that Wacky had simply become TT's 'mother', and after a few days of ominous protests, Wacky had come not only to accept the newcomer, but even to like him. The two were inseparable now, and groomed each other and slept together. Mike was relieved since he had really come to love the abnormal little kitten.
But as he sat watching the two playful combatants, he could feel the invisible pull of the quietly humming printer that waited for something to be sent to it. He glanced over and his eyes were snared by the chiding cursor. Blink, blink, blink. The empty screen was worse than the trite phrases that had at least taken up space, and he wheeled back to the computer that was waiting under the taunting array of checks on the wall. What had started as an ego boost and an act of defiance to those who hadn't thought he could be a writer, had turned into something else. It had mutated into an accusing reminder that except for as a way to earn some extra money, his writing was nothing more than a hobby. He would never escape his comfortable but boring job and be a full-time writer unless he could write books. Mass-market books. And that meant writing more, and writing seriously.
He ran his fingers through too-long hair -- he really ought to get it cut -- and then joined them behind his head as he stared at the screen. Write what you know. Hesitantly, at first, he released his fingers and leaned forward to begin tapping the keys...
"Red for bold, blue for underlined and yellow for both. Idly he played with the keys of the wordprocessor, typing meaningless words as he shifted from one style to another, all to avoid starting the story. The ever-patient cursor blinked expectantly at him. It seemed to know that he was stalling and typing nonsense..." Hey, that wasn't too bad. He kept working for a few pages, running out of steam after a while, unsure of which direction to go. No. He knew the direction; he was just afraid. As he looked at the promising first few pages he realized it was only logical to continue autobiographically and dig into his mind to pull out the anger and fears that lurked beneath the surface. He really did not need to be afraid.
Who would know it wasn't fiction? His friends, perhaps. And if others should guess: did he really care? He decided that he didn't. If people thought he was a little strange because he put down things on paper he was afraid to say: tough! He had always been better at expressing himself on paper anyway. And if he couldn't convince an editor that his little piece of "fiction" was worth printing: so what? Then no one would ever know.
There! He was safe.
Chances were no one would be interested in it anyway.
Then a sharp needle of pain intruded and he looked down to see a paw attacking one of his feet which had started a spontaneous spastic twitch, much to TT's fascination. He reached down and captured the squirming kitten who was too wound up to be affectionate at the moment and put him over on the bed next to him, wadding up a piece of paper and setting it in motion, watching the ensuing game of solitaire-hockey for a few minutes. In the other room, the soothing strains of a Vivaldi concerto transcribed for guitar reached a joyous climax and then faded reluctantly into silence. For a minute he sat waiting, unsure if he'd put the player on repeat or not, but soon the disk began again and he turned back to the computer and stared at the expectant screen.
"Where are you going?" the line seemed to ask. "How honest are you going to be?"
A challenge.
Maybe it was time to put down on paper his experience with Multiple Sclerosis. Mike thought back to when he had first been diagnosed. At first, it hadn't really meant too much. He had had some numbness in the hands and a little problem walking, but if he just took it easy, he was fine. Then the fine coordination problems had gotten much worse and he had had episodes of vision problems. Being an art student, whose main strength lay in etchings, that had meant problems. For one thing, working with concentrated nitric acid is not a good idea when you are unable to keep your hands steady or grip anything properly.
And drawing had become impossible.
The loss of his coordination had been frustrating, but working at a hospital, he had gotten fascinated with the psychology of critical illness and decided to switch majors to Psychology. After all, there was definitely a limited earning potential in art. Crassly materialistic, perhaps. But the truth.
But after a few very successful part-time semesters, his M.S. progressed and he found himself going in and out of the hospital as he grew progressively worse and school was forced into a part-time endeavor. Very part time, as his energy reserves dropped. One course a semester with an occasional semester off. In the span of less than three years he had gone from sometimes using a cane to being stuck in a wheelchair, full-time; virtually useless from the waist down.
"Do you have any idea how frustrating it was, TT?" Mike looked over at the twisting kitten, trying to hatch the paper as he sat on it. Or maybe he didn't realize where the paper was?
At the sound of his voice, TT looked up curiously, flopping down to lie with the two mittened paws stretched out in front of him, head tilted. "The worst part," Mike explained, "was the way it developed, you see. I would have a sudden drop with some nasty symptoms that would scare me (looking back, he laughed at what had scared him, then), and then I'd go in the hospital for ten days and get intravenous steroids." The cat stared at him intently, as if understanding every word. "Then I'd come out of it better than when I went in, but worse than I was before I started having the new problems. You know what a bitch that was?" His hands clenched and the kitten sensed something in his voice and hunched, backing up.
"Sorry." Mike reached out and scratched TT on top of his head and the kitten closed his eyes in bliss, settling down with a loud purring. "Over and over this happened," he went on, "moving me from a regular cane, to a wide-base quad cane, to Loftstrand crutches," TT looked puzzled. "They're a cross between regular crutches and a cane, made of metal, that let me walk better, for a while," he elaborated for his fascinated feline audience. "Then from those, I went to a walker, and then finally into a wheelchair. First only for longer distances, but then full-time as I lost all function in my legs."
For a while he sat, leaning forward with his elbows propped on his knees as he studied wide yellow eyes that solemnly returned his inspection. He leaned forward even more, so he was almost face to face with the tiny whiskered face. "Wouldn't it be a riot if you really understood me? He certainly couldn't!" Mike jerked his head in the direction to the curled up black and white lump of Wacky who snored away, oblivious to his master's(?) gentle derision.
TT didn't budge.
Mike shook his head and leaned back in the chair, eyes skipping past the overhead trapeze that hung over his bed so he had something to grab so he could shift and get himself up in the mornings. "And do you have any idea what was the hardest of all to handle?" TT didn't know. "It was that each time I had a drop, things would seem to stabilize and I would get used to the new level, thinking the M.S. was going into remission, but then the rug would be pulled out from under me again and I'd wind up back in the hospital!" His jaw clenched. "And I'd come out, another step lower, and further away from the rest of the world."
He stared at the screen, focusing his thoughts. "If I had lost everything at once in a car accident and wound up all the sudden in a wheelchair, I could have handled that in time. Boom!" He called out as his fist slammed onto the arm of his wheelchair and startled TT into backing up with a hiss. "And then pick up the pieces. But the way it went with me was so unpredictable, and fast, I never knew where I would be a year down the line!" His voice had an anguished tone to it as he remembered.
Suddenly the bed shook as Wacky jumped up onto it and waddled over to plop himself down next to TT to start licking the kitten, almost knocking the tiny body down with each stroke of a raspy tongue. Mike reached out and petted Wacky's bulk gently, laughing as the cat stopped cleaning TT and started chewing on his leg as Mike's fingers brushed a certain spot near the base of Wacky's tail.
"I'm not the only one with neurological deficits in this household!" Mike chuckled, glad for the comic relief as he teased the fat, older cat by scratching the sensitive spot deliberately. To make it worse, he held Wacky's head away from his leg and watching the frantic look that came over the cat's face as his tongue jerked in and out, trying desperately to reach his forepaw. Then Mike relented. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't make fun of your problem. I wouldn't want people to make fun of mine!"
He sighed. "At least I don't have to pop in and out of the hospital anymore, since the steroids don't help anymore." Wacky shared his relief, flopping down and going back to sleep.
Thinking back, he realized that he had wound up vegetating in depression. His erratic school-going had become more so, and had then ceased entirely as he had done nothing but work, read and watch movies from his ever-growing collection. The only constructive thing he had done was to start writing; because he found that he had to create, something. Haphazardly at first, discouraged by rejections and putting it aside for months each time. But then the creative urge would resurge and he would find himself trying again. Maybe three or four stories a year, no more, but they had been the embers that had kept a low fire going. The writing had also taken the place of school, he realized now; an excuse to put off continuing and come out of his shell.
But eventually reality had begun to filter in and he had grown tired of his self-pity and after some encouraging comments on a rejection letter, had realized that he had to play things out and see if he could make a serious go at it as a writer.
Gradually, the depression had been displaced, and coincidentally(?), his M.S. had stabilized and he had been free from further problems for several years now. In some ways he had even improved. All the writing with a computer had retrained his fine coordination to a degree and while he was still having problems, his hands were better now than at any other time since he first started having problems.
And then rejections had started to be replaced by contracts and checks and he realized he was now a professional writer!
A sudden sneeze off to the side startled him and he saw TT sitting there, one paw in midair and with a shocked look on his face as if the explosive sound had surprised him, too. Mike laughed. "Critics! Everyone's a critic." TT tilted his head at the sound of Mike's voice and got up, extending his nose forward to offer his head for some rubbing. Mike obliged and was rewarded by a loud rumble as TT climbed onto his bare leg and a tiny head butted forcefully against his hand, trying to get the best angle possible, even as a host of tiny pin-pricks assaulted Mike's naked thigh.
He indulged the kitten for a few minutes, and then moved forward, hands poised over the keyboard, while a small grey form curled up precariously on his thigh to peer up in expectant fascination. Mike looked down. "I hope you're comfortable, because this is going to take a while.
All of the sudden, the words were lining up in his mind, waiting to flow from his fingers. Stumble actually. But he could feel it. Much like with his short stories, the whole plot was laid open to him. He saw his life laid bare, and revealed for others.
He looked down. "This is it. And do you know what's next?" TT looked up, feeling the deep voice as much as hearing it. "Remember that lady who came over here a couple of times to visit?" TT sneezed again. "I know. You didn't like her perfume. But I did. And I liked her." He remembered with aching longing the nurse he'd run into at work and had helped with a term paper for a course similar to one he had taken before. They had hit it off incredibly well and had gotten to be very close in only a few meetings. The "old souls" concept, where you meet someone and it is like you have known them before. You just feel comfortable with them.
"Well," he rubbed TT's head absently, "I think it's time I stopped being afraid of rejection and make an effort to tell Lisa how I really feel about her."
How he felt about a woman. One particular woman.
That was something he had denied even dreaming of for years. Nearly impotent and wheelchair bound, he had stopped even trying to develop a romantic relationship with anyone. He had felt that he was "inferior" somehow because of his handicap. After all, what kind of relationship could he offer? How could he ask any woman to accept the sacrifices that she would have to, in order to be involved with him?
But, deep down he knew he was rationalizing. What he was really afraid of was reaching out and being rejected. He had a lot to offer and there were women out there who would be strong enough to deal with the problems relationship with him would entail. But he had been afraid to even try to make an effort.
Until he had met Lisa. Suddenly, feelings repressed for years were surging again. She was everything he had been searching for. Intelligent, witty, and marvelously talented in music, art and photography. And she was beautiful. He couldn't understand how someone like her could have been alone. He had been overwhelmed by her. She had even inspired him to expand his own creative efforts. Since meeting her, he had been toying with music, and he had tried his hand at art again. The drawing he had made for a Valentine's day card had turned out beautifully, and he had started on a song; for her, naturally.
He knew that he had been lazy in a lot of ways, but now, that was changing. Lisa was so full of drive and energy that he had been forced to gear himself up to keep up with her. And at the same time, she had a tendency to get too involved and driven in some cases, and he was able to help her relax a little. Contrasts that were turning out to be complementary.
But what had surprised him the most, at first, was that she didn't seem to care about the problems his handicap caused. Any of them.
They had discussed one particular problem one evening when in taking a break, they had started talking very seriously, and personally. He had revealed his anger and fear at the fact that he felt inadequate as a man because of the near impotence the M.S. was causing. He had felt himself in tears, not so much because of what he couldn't experience as fully as before, but because of what he would be unable to provide for anyone getting involved with him. He knew there were more ways than one to give a woman pleasure, and he knew that that would be a pleasure to him, as well. But he also knew he would miss the extra closeness a more "normal" sexual contact provided, and he suspected that there would be a subconscious feeling of failure on the part of his partner. He worried that she might feel somehow that it was her fault for not being desirable enough to arouse him, despite his M.S.
As he had shared his worries with Lisa that night, they had clung to each other, and the feelings between them at that point had been so intense that if it had not been for the fact that he was due in at work not much later, he had the feeling that she probably would not have let him take her home.
He could still remember that abbreviated evening with crystal clarity.
His hands dropped into his lap and he stroked TT absently. "You guys are good company, but I'm afraid I need more. I've been denying it since the M.S. started screwing up my life. I had a perfect excuse to hide in here and vegetate. After all, who would want a near-impotent cripple?" TT looked up as if to ask "who's a cripple?" And it was safe. I can't get rejected if I don't try. Right?" TT conceded the point, but still looked skeptical. Wacky was comatose.
He stared at the expectant monitor and nodded to himself. "You're right," he glanced down at TT, "it's time to take a chance."
He saved the document and turned off the computer. Then he moved TT over to the bed and reached for the phone. "Later for you," he promised the darkened monitor. "First I have something more important to take care of."
This time he would not be stopped!
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