Not Fade Away: A Memoir of Senses Lost and Found by Rebecca Alexander, Sascha Alper

grandma or Polly would help me. I’d wheel myself into the bathroom, put the lid of the toilet seat down, and then I’d transfer myself using my right leg to sit on a towel placed on top of it. I would sit there, naked but for my casts, passing a washcloth back and forth with whomever was there to help me that day. They would patiently wash every exposed inch of my body, and, while at first it was embarrassing, it was such a relief to be washed, and it felt so good to be clean.
    Once a week I’d pull my wheelchair up to the sink and put my head back slightly while my helper used a cup to scoop water from the sink to wash my hair, massaging the shampoo deep into my scalp. That was the most wonderful feeling of all. With most of my body in casts, I felt as though so little of me was ever touched, and when it was, it was generally in a very clinical way. To have someone’s hands touching me affectionately was such a relief and a joy. I longed to be able to throw my arms around someone for a hug, to snuggle, to dance up against Cody, even just to hold someone’s hand.
    Grandma Faye came to stay for a few weeks, arriving with armfuls of flowers, and, in addition to helping me bathe, she would spend long hours talking and visiting with me. I felt like I really got to know her at that time, as a person and not just a grandma, and I treasured our time together. She is still gorgeous, even now, at ninety-six, with beautiful, keen blue eyes and an infectious smile. Every day she completes the
New York Times
crossword puzzle. She travels the world on Road Scholar tours, is about to go to China and the Far East, and has remained a student of life for nine and a half decades.
    When we spend time together now, both with our hearing aids, me with my cane and her with her walking stick, Grandma Faye is a living example of what she taught me then. Nobody wants to hear you complain, so keep the bitching and moaning to yourself. Embrace the world with a positive outlook, and you will get so much more out of life. She is such an inspiration to me, and she was indispensable to my recovery.
    Even with my visitors, though, I spent most of my time alone. Although I used as many hours as I could to help myself recover, doing the exercises prescribed for me diligently, there always seemed to be more time. Waiting, waiting, waiting. As an adult,spending time alone is something I cherish. At that time, though, the loneliness was excruciating.
    One night, when I didn’t think I could take another minute of sitting in the bed, my family and I decided to go to the movies. I was so excited to finally be going somewhere, anywhere; it had been so long since I had done anything that would even remotely be considered fun. When we got to the theater, though, we found out that the movie we had come to see was all the way upstairs and not wheelchair accessible. As I looked up at the huge flight of stairs in front of me, which might as well have been Mount Everest, I felt completely defeated, my disappointment almost bringing me to tears. It was the first time I realized what a challenge even the simplest pleasure that we all take for granted could be for someone with disabilities, and it gave me an appreciation for what some people have to go through just to do things that most never think twice about. At the time, I didn’t connect it with my other disabilities, but I would soon enough learn that feeling myself. We ended up at a Disney movie downstairs.
    A month or so after my first surgery I had a follow-up one to take the metal pins out of my left foot. After so many surgeries I was terrified and exhausted by the idea of going back to the hospital—another cast, another recovery. Even though I would only have to stay over for one night this time, the idea of even another hour in one of those sterile, medicinal rooms made me nauseous. Then, though, I remembered the present Lisa had given me right before she had left for college.
    Knowing that I had to go