Photo by Kristine Wook on Unsplash
How can a serious problem be a benefit?
Stamping the snow off my boots in the vestibule, I called out to Diane in her living room, “Hello! Well, you’re not missing anything by staying indoors today. It’s a genuine blizzard and the driving is a mess.”
“You are so kind to come to see me anyway,” she answered in a weak voice. “I’m not having much of a day.”
It Began with Cleaning
In March 1980 we lived a kilometre apart in Nepean, a suburb of Ottawa – parishioners of the same church, although we’d never met there. A year earlier, after hearing that Diane was confined to a wheelchair, I joined a parish team that cleaned her house every two weeks.
After getting to know her and appreciate her sense of humour and positive outlook, I also began popping by once a week to chat over tea. Currently working on a master’s in education in counselling, I relished the chance to practice some of my new helping methods and observe our dialogues. (Counsellors talk about developing “a third ear.”) Our easy-going relationship had flourished.
This married woman of 39 had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis when she was a teenager. The fact that she’d gone on to marry and had given birth twice was a testament to her husband’s love and optimistic nature. Paralysis had gradually taken over and now her forearms were the only limbs she could move at will.
The first time I watched Diane grip a lit cigarette between her fingers and swing it to her mouth to take a drag, I realized that smoking was one of the few physical pleasures she could still enjoy. As a non-smoker, I had no business judging her unhealthy habit.
Her son Johnny was eight, daughter Wendy was ten, and I had never met her husband. Dick remained a ghostly figure whose clothes hung in their closet and jogging trainers lived in the vestibule. During my first tidying of her bedside table, I came across her birth control pills so realized they must still make love. How difficult that must be.
On this snowy afternoon, I was the advanced age of 34 and Diane was the first incapacitated person with whom I’d regularly spent time. I’d never worked in health care or social work and had been blessed with able-bodied relatives and friends. During my year of regular visits, we learned about each other’s early lives, educational journeys, careers, interests, and families. Her physical limitations had steadily faded into the background of my consciousness as her remarkable personality came to the fore.
Anxious to help the wheelchair-bound, she had worked with an industrial designer to invent a portable metal ramp to ease wheels off and on sidewalk kerbs. (Being 1980, the inlaid metal plates installed in present-day cities hadn’t been invented.) She also wrote to the manufacturers of disposable diapers,
complaining that the perfumes they added caused painful skin irritation when they got wet. “Babies can’t tell anybody, but I can!” she’d proudly declared.
Chatting over Tea
“Would you like me to make you some tea?” I asked once I’d joined her in the living room.
“That would be wonderful. No nurse came today – due to the snowstorm – so I’m dying for a hot drink.” Every weekday morning a personal support worker came to help Diane, and sometimes another arrived for the afternoon.
Heading into the kitchen I put the kettle on and hunted around for the biscuit tin. Upon my return, I noticed she was on the verge of tears.
“What’s the trouble?” I asked.
“Because the nurse didn’t come today, my poor little Wendy had to change my diaper! It was just awful for her.” Tears flowed down her cheeks. “She’s only ten years old. She should be learning to change babies’ diapers so she can babysit, not MINE – after a bowel movement, no less. It was just awful for both of us.”
“Where is Wendy now?”
“Over playing at Julie’s. The kids had a snow day.”
As I busied myself pouring boiling water into the teapot, I desperately tried to think of something meaningful to say to my friend. To buy more time I used the washroom. While carrying the tea tray to the table beside her wheelchair, it came to me.
“Yes, Wendy is only ten. She has her whole life ahead of her, and you have no idea what she will end up doing with that life. In taking care of you, she’s learned that people with physical limitations still have feelings, and personalities, and big hearts. You’ve told me how much she enjoys making you laugh when she gets home from school.
“Who knows? She might become a doctor, physiotherapist, social worker…she could go on to change hundreds of lives. The fact that she’s been exposed to the messy side of chronic illness at such a tender age is actually a positive. You may have trouble seeing it now, but it’s true.
“For heaven’s sake, I was the ripe old age of 33 before I got to really know someone confined to a wheelchair. In terms of feeling comfortable with those facing challenges, look how far ahead of me Wendy is – at the tender age of ten!”
By this time, Diane was smiling. Her blue eyes twinkled as she asked, “Do you really think so, Pat?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “No question.” I poured her a cup of tea, which needed to cool before I could help her take a sip.
My visits with Diane ceased seven weeks later when our family moved to England for two years, for my husband’s exciting new job. I only managed to see my friend one more time, in an Ottawa hospital during the summer of 1981.
It was devastating to hear that she died shortly thereafter, aged 41. I wonder what her kids are doing now.