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“Hazel? Is everything okay?”
I held up the bottle of wine in my hand. “It’s all good now. Do you want to share some wine and talk?”
He turned his chair and my heart sank, but then he motioned me in while he held the door. Star came over to investigate and I gave him some love after I set the bottle of wine down. “Hello, again, Star,” I cooed, rubbing my face on his soft head. “Are you ready for sleeps? I bet you are! You worked hard today,” I said, ruffling his fur until he shook it out, making both of us laugh.
“To bed, Star,” Irving said, and the dog gave me a lick up my cheek and then trundled off to bed.
I was still laughing when I washed off my cheek and grabbed two glasses from his cupboard. I’d been in his space enough to prepare food and drink for us without feeling awkward about it. It was comfortable, and I liked comfortable when it came to Irving Wallace. Tonight, we didn’t feel comfortable. Tension rolled off him when I turned with the glass of wine, so I motioned him to his bed. He was already in his night clothes, which told me I had interrupted his bedtime routine.
“It’s been a long day, why don’t you climb into bed and get comfortable,” I suggested, as he wheeled toward me.
“I’m confused,” he admitted as he locked his chair by the bed. After he transferred and adjusted himself, I handed him his glass and walked to the other side, sliding in myself since I decided to wear my lounge clothes after my shower.
“About what,” I asked, sipping the wine.
He motioned between us as though that should be enough explanation. “This. About thirty minutes ago you said goodnight.”
“That’s fair,” I agreed. “I needed to think, cry, and find a place to be with the poem where I could talk about it.”
“It was just a poem, Hazel. One I made up on the fly, essentially.”
“Wait. You made that up as you spoke it?” I was more than surprised. Shocked was a better word. “You performed it like you’d written, rewritten, and bled over the words.”
“I did, just not on paper,” he said, staring into the glass. “Every day of my life for twenty-five years, I picture that bullet hanging in the air until the breeze tips it a little to the left. I picture the word it had written on it. Alone. It’s a word that means nothing and everything to me.”
“That explains why your poem left me bereft of hope when you finished yet strangely uplifted too.”
His eye roll was strong as he took a sip of wine. “So inspirational, right? I must have heard that thirty times before I could escape the crowd tonight. They mean well, but—”
“But living life, having a job, and being a community member isn’t inspirational simply because you use a wheelchair.”
He held up his glass, clinked it against mine, and then took another long drink. “Exactly. Bereft of hope,” he repeated as though he was pondering the idea. “Come to think of it, that’s how many of us in the disabled community feel. We might have a great job and wonderful people in our lives, but hope for a different future is hard to find. The inspirational porn fans think we eat, sleep, and dream hope, but we don’t. We often feel more hopeless than hopeful regarding different aspects of our lives, if that makes sense.”
“That makes total sense. I would venture to say that the abled can often feel the same way. I would also venture to guess yours is more focused on not having a human connection?”
“That, but also the fight wears us down. We’re always fighting for something, whether it’s better equipment or affordable housing. We’re in a constant tug of war with insurance companies over coverage for even the most basic equipment we need to survive. Nothing steals your joy quicker than being told that our durable medical equipment is functional in our home, and that’s all they care about when approving claims. We can’t even put that aside and go on with our lives. The equipment is the only thing that allows us to keep doing our jobs and contributing to society. However, as much as they say they want us to work, they’d rather keep us in our homes away from the rest of society.”
“I get that,” I said. “Not in a personal way, of course, but as part of my job. I’ve spent a lot of time on the phone fighting for clients to get what they need so they can continue to work.”
“Then you can understand why we don’t want to put that on someone else, especially when the someone else isn’t disabled. It’s a lot of stress and frustration to deal with when you don’t have to.”
“While that’s true, what if the other person doesn’t look at it that way? What if they look at it as sharing the burden?”
“That’s a romantic way of saying someone is signing up for it. Noble but not true.”
“What do you mean?”
“The other person says they’re here for it, right?” he asked and I nodded. “Maybe they are for a few months or years, but slowly, the constant considerations, expense, and lack of accessibility wear on them until they realize they hadn’t signed up for that much and ditch.”
“You speak from experience.”
“Been there, done that,” he agreed.
“Not doing it again?” He tipped his head and shrugged his shoulder as though he wasn’t sure how to answer.
Silence pervaded the room for a moment until I spoke. “You know, now that you mention it, I’ll never date a businessman again. Blue-collar workers only for me from now on!”
“What does that have to do with this conversation?”
