“Are you sick?” the boy asked Robert.
“I had an accident, so now I live in a wheelchair,” Robert replied.
“Why?” the boy asked.
Robert had spent years pondering that very question. Why was his neck snapped at the age of twelve? Why had his mother escaped the accident with only a broken wrist? Why was he reduced to a being a life support system for a head, ever fearful of unfelt scratches and sores that could kill him.
“Just bad luck kid,” Robert said and wiggled his fingers to speed away from the conversation. He had partial use of his thumbs and index fingers, his head and neck worked, but everywhere else he was like a ragdoll. Their car had been T-boned, a cute name for the high-impact and sudden change in direction that shredded his spinal cord below his collar bone. When he later learned what a T-bone steak was he didn’t understand why his accident had been named after a cut a meat. He remembered seeing the steak in the store, wrapped in plastic on a little Styrofoam tray. He identified with the inert muscle and bone.
Robert had been waiting at the bus stop, on his way to an appointment with his neurologist. After talking with the kid he decided to skip it. He wasn’t even sure why he went anymore. The story never changed, and his doctor didn’t have any new ideas. But it did get him out of the house. Robert wheeled himself along the sidewalk, cruising around downtown, people anxious to get out of his way and averting their eyes when he looked up at them. He barely noticed them anymore, the normals. He used to hate them and their working bodies, but he finally realized it wasn’t their fault they were assholes. They had never lost anything like he had, so how could they appreciate the miracle they walked around in every day. They drove to work, went to lunch, had a shit, tried on clothes, crossed their legs, complained about their backs or their feet, took showers, slept in beds, took deep breaths, could masturbate, climbed stairs, went on vacation, raised kids and all the other things the normals did.
Stephen Hawking and Professor Xavier from the X Men helped to acclimate people to cripples, but Hawking with his permanent slump and underbite was beginning to look a bit like a monster. Just a freak with a super brain sucking the life out of his twisted body.
The people downtown weren’t bad, they just didn’t know any better. Occasionally he’d see someone from his tribe, but they could still be assholes. Just because they both wheeled around in and electric box didn’t mean they’d be best pals. He remembered meeting a guy when he went for his twice-weekly physical rehab.
***
“Gotta keep you loose Robert,” the physical therapist would say as he stretched and pulled on Robert’s limp limbs. Robert didn’t care either way, it was something to do for a couple of hours and it did seem to increase his heart rate a bit which was probably a good thing. This is where one day he met Troy, another quad.
He seemed like and okay guy, and was in a similar situation but he went on and on about being bathed by the nurses.
“Don’t cha love it when they scrub your balls? Man, that’s the best. So hot,” Troy said.
“They’re just doing their job,” Robert was trying to bring his new friend in line with proper patient behavior.
“Are you kiddin’ me? A hot nurse is soaping you up and you don’t get off? What’s wrong with you?” Troy asked.
“I’m dead from the neck down,” Robert said, “I’m a crash test dummy. It’s like they’re washing a corpse before the burial. It’s about as exciting as having my diaper changed.” Robert also thought back to the nurses he’d had over the years, half of which were men and the rest with all the sex appeal of a Wal-Mart greeter. They were nice enough, but were just getting through the day like everyone else.
“Man, you’re missing out. I’ll get you the name of the agency that sends the hot nurses to me, then you’ll see.” Of course, the referral never arrived and Troy disappeared after a couple of weeks.
As immobile as his tribe was, they moved from place to place more than the normals. At the doctor’s office, the physical therapist, the Health and Welfare office, the bus – he’d see someone new trapped in a chair he was, and in six to eight months they were gone. His people were often shuffled around to different family members or nursing homes based on their shifting disability checks and insurance coverage. His tribe also lost quite a few members due to an untimely death.
***
When Robert finally went to his neurologist, he found that there was some news.
“There’s a trial for a new treatment. They’re looking for volunteers,” his doctor said.
“New drug? Hook me up to electrodes and make me dance?”
“No, this is something different. They’ve modified stem cells from lizards.”
Robert didn’t say anything, until finally, “And?”
“They’ve managed to isolate the gene that allows lizards to regrow their tails. They combined it with stem cells to make a serum. The stem cells merge with your cells, find the disrupted electrical signals and bring the two parts together. Your spinal column damage is repaired by cells that become your own.”
“What’s the down side?”
“They’ve only done animal studies so far. The results have been very good but you would be among the first humans to try it.”
“Side effects?”
“They didn’t report any, but the animals can only be observed. They can’t tell anyone how they feel.”
Robert considered what the doctor said. Feel. Feelings. How do you feel? How does it feel? Feelings were a preoccupation of the normals. Robert had to abandon pride, shame, lust and whole host of other feelings once he’d been disconnected from his body and had to rely on strangers to bathe and dress him.
“Let’s do it.”
***
Robert was sitting in an exam room in Stanford, California with three doctors, two nurses and several medical assistants. He’d never been this outnumbered in his life. They were going through a PowerPoint about the stem cells, the risks, how he would live in a private, luxury hospital room to make it simpler to perform the daily tests necessary to track his progress.
“I don’t have any pending engagements, Doc. Let’s get started.”
Robert’s room was a plush suite with a Jacuzzi, bedroom, living room, kitchen and private bathroom. He was cleaned, massaged, primped, and smoothed over with lotion that smelled like a wealthy housewife. A private chef made his meals, delicious and perfectly balanced for ideal nutrition. Everyone knocked before they entered his suite, apologized for bothering him, and constantly attended to his every need with cheerful enthusiasm. He’d never had it so good.
“Man, if this is the life lab rats lead I may need to reconsider my donation to PETA,” he joked.
The earnest intern checking him for any signs of returning sensations said, “Robert, you’re not a lab rat! These trials have been rigorously tested and we would never do anything to put you in harms –”
“Easy there, Doc,” Robert chided, “just a joke.” He had been in the suite for three weeks with no changes other than having the best pedicure and manicures of his life. But nobody seemed worried or anxious or in a hurry to get him back on the street. He tried to just relax into and enjoy the ride.
That night, Robert woke up in pain, which wasn’t that unusual. He’d dream he was still normal and suddenly his legs would get cut off. The pain of it would wake him, and then instantly wane as the dream faded. But this time, he was awake and his legs still hurt. They were burning, and Robert couldn’t have been happier about it. He calmly said, “I need some help here,” and a nurse sprang into his room. “My legs are burning,” he told her.
She pulled out her phone and called someone.
“Dr. Matthew? This is Stephanie, Robert’s legs are burning. Yes. Yes. Ok, we’ll be ready.”
As it turned out the burning was the first sign that the serum was working. Over the next few months, every part of Robert’s wilted body would go through the burning sensation, which was followed by full sensation and the ability to move. He gradually regained his strength and coordination and was able to move about as easily as any normal on the street. Despite his gains he had still never been allowed to leave the hospital.
“Liability. You understand,” was the standard answer. He was being treated so well that he didn’t mind too much but did want to eventually go home. He kept pressing his doctors for an answer, which one day brought Dr. Matthew to his suite carrying a small box.
“How are you feeling Robert?” the doctor asked.
“Great. Mentally, physically, I’m tip top. When do I get out of here?”
“Soon. I know you’re anxious to go, and I don’t blame you. But we have a few more tests to run and we really need to you stay here until they’re completed.”
“Let’s get them going. The sooner the better,” Robert said.
The doctor smiled and pulled the lid from the box he held. Inside was a fly, which he blew on to make it buzz around the room. Robert watched the fly for a moment, then looked back at the doctor who had a bland smile pasted on his face. Robert looked back at the fly looping around the suite when suddenly his tongue shot out across the room, plucking the fly from midair and snapping it back into his mouth. It happened so fast Robert wasn’t sure it was real. He tried to speak, but found that his tongue was writhing down his throat, pushing the fly into his belly.
Robert retained the use of his arms and legs throughout his long life. He lived in New Mexico with his wife and family on a private nature reserve with all the other stem cell lizards.