Many of you have become familiar with my friend Mike Schwass in the course of my writing. Michael and I often talk about his shortened lifespan and the mounting challenges facing a 31-year quadriplegic (not 31-year-old, but 31 years as a quad) and about all the ways I offer him physical assistance when we spend time together, but we never directly talk about the impact of his quadriplegia on me.
I recently tried to read his book for a second time and I can't right now. I just can't. It's a beautiful book with layers and layers to it, but because I know and love him, reading about what he went through is just too difficult.
Over the sixteen years we've known each other, there have been a number of moments I'm only now admitting to myself were traumatic for me. Like the first time my eyes landed on the scar on his neck from life saving surgery he'd had a few years before, when I glanced down while we were talking. It's a hell of a scar. It caught me up short. I'm used to it now, but that first glance blindsided me.
Then there was the weekend at his cabin in Echo Lake when I saw him out of his chair. I really got what his life is like in a deeper way than I ever had before. It showed me he's the strongest, most powerful, weakest, most vulnerable man I know — a mind-boggling paradox. I wrote a poem about it, which I share with you here:
Perpendicular
I suppose the decent thing
would have been to look away
avert my eyes (in a gesture at least)
of preserving your dignity.
But I did not.
Not that there was
curiosity
some morbid sense of
fascination,
anything that felt like
interest
at all. I was simply seeing you
prone and vulnerable
on the
bed.
We were simply perpendicular.
That was all.
I
upright
with
arms
full of
laundry
pausing
to ask
a simple
question
You, with that peculiar flatness
wrong in a way that can’t be named but that
animals and children would sense.
My mouth
of its own accord
carried on with the words
of ordinary dayness
While my eyes,
(had you been able to turn your head you would have seen it)
Saw you,
unblinking and steady (my eyes that is) leveled on you across the room
(and now I
recall,
yours too,
yes,
equally steady,
fixed on
the ceiling,
directly
ahead
while
answering
my
simple
question)
While I stood there, a bit too open…my eyes, I mean…not you…but maybe that too
Article comments
1 - Donnie Marler
Laura,
An outstanding and loving article. Your friend is fortunate to have you in his life.
I had an accident in June, breaking my neck and fracturing my skull. I've gone through two spinal fusion surgeries and I know the pain, fear, and loneliness one feels, regardless of the support they receive.
I was lucky, I can walk and will soon return to work. I was also lucky to have many wonderful and caring friends that lifted me up each day, in ways large and small. Sometimes it was an unexpected gift or card, sometimes it was a joke to put a smile on my face. Sometimes, it was simply letting me know they cared that got me through the hard moments.
Fear is a difficult thing for a man to admit, but to myself, in the dark, I could admit that I was afraid, that I was terrified of making a mistake and becoming paralyzed. I got through it, and I believe I am stronger now than I was before. I was always a strong man, but the accident led me to places inside myself I'd never been, facing an issue I never expected.
With the love and help of my friends and family I survived it and have a far greater appreciation for the sweetness and fragility of life. It is truly marvelous, simply to be alive.
Thank you for sharing your story. It hit very close to home.
2 - Laura Young
Thank you Donnie, for your kind words and sharing your own story. What a tremendous journey you have had as well! Wonderful that you have had such a strong recovery.
Such an interesting road we travel, yes?
Stay safe and well,
L
3 - Joan Hunt
Thank you, Laura, for sharing this journey. It's actually helped me heal a bit.
4 - Laura Young
You are welcome, Joan. The journey, of course, is not over, so walk with us as long as you will...