Stories Life Together (Like Me)
This story was written as part of the Amputee Nation Writing Challenge for July 2020. The topic was “reverse amputation”, so I aimed to show how limblessness could be the default state for someone, one of comfort and security, and how two people who see this differently might fall in love before one wants more.
It starts with a violin. It always does. The thin A string elicits a single hoarse note before another joins, then the next, a pull of a bow matching with a dozen others. Then the cellos, and the violas, and soon the basses will join too, filling out the near-unified cacophony. Tiny tensioning knobs turn only in my imagination of what’s happening inside our alarm clock as it elicits that same concert tuning track every morning at 9am.
I open my eyes slowly, blinking and squinting the sleep away from them, and I look over to find the first flat note.
Your side of the bed is empty, as it has been for… weeks now. I close my eyes again and try to let the foam pillow take me back but the orchestra is louder now, closer to unity, shouting from the bedside table past the guard rails, might as well be the other side of the room. It’s no use; when I’m up, I’m up.
Fay comes in shortly, the sound of her key in the door far off soon followed by her smile walking around the corner.
“You sure you don’t want me to turn that racket down?” she says, using her very able hands to hit the alarm off, standing over me.
“No, Dan is a deep sleeper, I…” the reminder that you aren’t here stops me in my tracks. “You can actually knock it down a few steps, thank you.” I smile politely up from the bed. Luckily my covers are still on, but I’m not too exorbitantly self-conscious. I’ve never had that luxury, plus Fay has seen it all.
She picks up the alert button velcroed to the pillow next to my head, just far enough away that I don’t nudge it in my sleep, before pulling back the covers and revealing all three feet of me from head to hips, entirely nude without the sheet. It’s so much more freeing than the oversize t-shirt and heavy blankets they used to keep me in at St. Anne’s orphanage, but that’s just a drop in the bucket in that regard.
I shrug and twist just a bit before my carer grabs my shoulders and pulls me upright, sitting on my legless hips, which she then holds firmly, pressing my not-so-privates into the mattress, rooting me in place so I can lean this way and that and stretch my back. My spine isn’t nearly as bad as yours, but life like this does tend to twist us this way and that over time, so I try to make the most of the opportunity. Not for too long though, since as the smallest woman in the building I feel like I have a bladder to match.
Picked up in Fay’s strong arms I feel myself leave the safety of the bed and I’m carried to the bathroom, so high up, before she lowers me down again and I’m fastened on the toilet with a simple strap under my breasts, and left to do my business. I don’t know how people walk and balance and carry things so high up, it just baffles me. I shuffle myself just a bit, the seat is cold: you’re usually the first to get up. Or should I say, the first to be taken for your morning routine.
A routine defined that first week three years ago, moving into Secluded Oaks after many months of planning and waitlists and insurance and the rest. The state welfare didn’t want the complication of joining up two accounts to one. They said it had never been done, which fucking blew my mind. Middle of the 21st century and they all still thought we were sexless cripples stuffed in a home and left to live our little lives. My social worker suggested the closest option for you to move in was five miles away. Say that ‘c’ word a little louder to the girl with no legs, will you? The logistics of transport and visitation times and reserving a chaperone just killed me alone, it made the whole arrangement no better than our romance online. An absolute tease.
But we appealed, and pushed, and finally they realized consolidation was a good thing, the idiots. But it was all worth it, to live with you.
Fay turns on the water and lets it heat up before unbuckling me and lifting me into the shower chair, the tensioned net sagging a bit in the middle, hugging my butt that curves from back to front seamlessly, divided in two by my greatest source of tension these past weeks. I almost tell her which soaps to use, but with her being my primary attendant she knows already, leaving me to my shower thoughts.
I couldn’t believe my eyes when you messaged me all those years ago. Daniel, stuck at home and wanting to chat. What a bore, still living with your parents, but against all odds we still clicked. You had seen me in some inspo-porn article in the local paper, around the time I resolved to never do those again, lest it benefit me rather than my university’s reputation for ‘accommodating such a helpless girl.’
You weren’t local, though. You didn’t just stumble across my article. You had to search for what I am rather than who I am. God, there were so many red flags early on. After the many visits from the Head Admin at St. Anne’s, personal visits to see how I’m doing, the caring hand on my useless shoulder, I knew what that kind of attention looked like, and I wasn’t going to let it go so far ever again.
I blocked you, even after a month of texting as fast as my phone could interpret, typos and all. You had told me I was perfect. Block.
You stalker, it was a week before you found another angle, another inbox, and you finally told me. You were a quadruple amputee, but not like me. You had lost your limbs with one late drive, a bad infection, all shaken and stirred with a sprinkle of malpractice. Your parents couldn’t keep up. You were aimless. The ‘get well soon’ cards from the symphonic dried up and your cello sat in the corner untouched as you tested out your first wheelchair…
But why the secrecy? You still go beet red when I tease you about it, admit you were a complete fool back then, because the minute I knew you were like me I was glue. Every time our phones were near our lips we were talking or texting. My grades slipped but I learned to balance everything a bit better. Can you blame me? No one had ever talked to me like you did. Eventually you sent me blurry pictures of your shoulder scars, your short legs, taken with your phone in your mouth after many attempts I knew better than to laugh at till years later. I had it much easier, growing up as I did. Not easy per se, but you understand. We exchanged tips, I talked you through the loss of your independence as best I could, never having had any to begin with.
Fay applies shaving cream to my shoulders and down below, can she tell I haven’t been fucked in weeks now? Of course she can, the surrogates are literally written in my assistance planner, ending when you left. I ponder asking her, “When you’re done…” but the awkwardness is reinforced by the memory of how rigid and trepidatious her hand was last time I asked, a usually so gentle and caring touch turned polite and hasty. No, best not. It won’t be the end of the world to be deprived till your return. It took me 25-odd-years before the first time, hadn’t it?
We are two of a kind, but our very situation precluded us from meeting in person. I was here in Secluded Oaks, placed here in possibly the nicest care home in the whole state after my lawsuit with St. Anne’s and my approaching adulthood made the government step up.
You were 600 miles away, give or take, having a very difficult time convincing your mom that you weren’t being catfished or some other paranoid set-up, but I took it upon myself to call them, your parents, to prove my existence, my “friendship and comradery with your son’s experience” — you laughed at that, but I mean how was I supposed to know what parents want to hear? — and ultimately to invite all of you to visit me. There was a bigger symphonic orchestra here, after all.
Sitting beside you in the accessible row, the real you, our chairs as close as they could possibly be bumped together, your shoulder moved awkwardly as you imagined putting your missing arm around me, but I didn’t mind. I still couldn’t believe you were real. You told me I’m perfect, and I told you respectfully to go fuck yourself. You cried during the performance. I thought I had been so smooth, but of course this would be your trigger, seeing the cellists down there on stage. I told you, “Fine, if you’ll admit that you’re perfect too, as you are, I’ll accept your compliment.” That seemed to quiet you and we leaned over and kissed deeply, both of our ribs digging hard into the pointless armrests dividing us.
I saw your father look over from the next section before immediately gluing his eyes back on the program in his lap. It was my first kiss ever. St. Anne’s doesn’t count.
He put you on the couch next to me that night, your sheepish thanks making plain your lack of peace with this new body of yours, but as soon as we were alone and on an even playing field, you pressed up to me snuggled against the mass of you, you’re my man. I felt more at home and at peace with my limitations than ever before, and I could only hope you felt the same. You tried to take my nicest blouse off with your teeth, but no luck. You whined about the tightness in your sewn-up pants and I laughed, whispering, “Welcome to the club.” to which you teased, “What do you know about having one of these?”
Touché.
We settled on enjoying each other’s lips, the warmth of our chests pressed together, our foreheads meeting, whispering sweet nothings like the old poets said. The entirely unreal unity of it all was electric in the air until you left a couple days later. Your parents joked about taking me home in a suitcase, so I knew we had broken the ice, and I think your mom wanted to adopt me. A little late but I was happy to play along. But you and I, we had made our plan. We needed to be together.
“You seem distracted today, Jen.” Fay interrupts my thoughts after I give her the 42nd ‘mhmm’ to a question about my care. I asked for the nice blouse, right, the one with the bite marks. She’s right, I’m on autopilot. My whole damn day fails the Bechdel Test because you’re coming back and I can’t focus, I can’t sit still. Relatively speaking.
Plopped down in my chair and strapped in tightly, my shoulder rubs against the sensitive joystick but the folds of the empty sleeve are in the way until Fay pulls it up and over so the rubber nubbin is in the short sleeve, touching my bare skin. Much better. I zip across our apartment to the table for two that has only one setting right now, my phone left there with a mouthstick in its holder, and I keep myself busy while Fay makes breakfast. 15 minutes later, placed in front of me is some cut up omelette with sausage, spinach, and tomatoes, and my special fork. Laboriously I reach forward, take it from its magnetic rest with my mouth and stab it into the nearest bite, before putting the utensil back on the stand and nudging it with my nose until the pointy end is facing me when I can take my bite.
Eating with assistance is much easier, but ever since I told you about this special fork and stand, something my OT gave me when I was… 7?… well, you refused to be fed by Tyler, your primary attendant. So I’ve gotten back in the habit, though I catch pitiful looks from Fay once in a while twiddling her thumbs. She likes the independence streak you inspire in me, though, all in all.
There’s some things we just can’t do ourselves though, hard as we try. Like our first night together in our apartment, in our room, in our bed. We were absolutely giddy with excitement, yet as we were put to bed, there was almost a foot between each torso there, laying on our backs.
Unacceptable.
You tried first, arching your back, kicking your tiny thigh stumps I’m openly jealous of, but you got maybe a couple inches closer to bridging the gap. Your body wasn’t used to this though, nor particularly well-exercised since the accident. Comparatively my lean abdomen had a hard time twisting and gathering momentum to roll over onto you, but I eventually made it, hitting hips and compressing my boob into your chest, but the light sheet that was covering both of us found itself pinned in between, barring most of the skin-on-skin contact we had been yearning for since that one night on the couch almost 18 months before.
What’s more, my empty hip didn’t just feel yours, but also the growing rod rubbing against the fleshy bit of me that should have been a leg. I flexed it sporadically, leaning and twisting, but I was just grazing you down there teasingly, and my pussy was miles from where she really wanted to be, very much eager to try what I had read so much about, all those years.
We spent our first full night kissing passionately and talking like always, before I fell asleep with my head on your softly beating chest. It was lovely, but when Tyler suggested sex surrogates the next morning, finding his new client laying so close to me yet with almost-painful morning wood tenting the sheets (something I had never heard of before), we both stumbled over each other to scream, “Yes!”
I finish my breakfast and Fay runs out to grab groceries from the central pantry and a few other things they don’t supply. I back away from the table and head to my desk, a simple Ikea flat-top with mounts and holders for everything so I can be hands-free, confident I can dig into a bit of schoolwork before you arrive. I’m so wrong.
James and Sarah weren’t used to working together. No one had ever heard of a pairing like you and I, our situation was too rare, but I think a para and quad had planned a similar rendezvous in the complex, or so Tyler told us. Luckily, there was an instant chemistry between them so we were a little more confident this would be a good time. That’s how I found myself with an able-bodied woman spreading me with her fingers so her companion could lower my boyfriend down and get inside me for the first time.
James had you strapped to his chest in this ridiculous harness he found online, and at first glance I would have been too weirded out if I wasn’t so damn hot and desperate, lying there, waiting. For the record, Sarah spent most of her time making out with James while he thrusted your cock into me laying on my back with this steady, deep rhythm that had me seeing stars. Luckily James’ hands held me in place, and I could see your eyes following each toned arm as if they were your own and I was all yours, fully owned each time you buried yourself inside me to the hilt and shifted your hips so I really felt it.
I was your first time since the accident, and you were mine… ever. No exceptions this time, thankfully.
Whenever they eventually left, James and Sarah knew to push their tiny clients toward each other, propped toward each other with pillows and blankets too hot to cover with, so you and I could cuddle and fall asleep together. Brushing my hair away with your nose or chin, our shoulders twitched in response to each other wanting to pull the other closer. You told me I’m perfect, that you were made to be my counterpart. I was too spent and sore to disagree.
A soft knock on the door interrupts my reverie. Strange, visitors usually have to check in at the front desk first, then we get a call. I look around but Fay ran to get groceries. Maybe she forgot her key.
I drive up to the door and nudge my joystick until it clicks and I have environmental control, pushing and shuffling my sharp shoulder nub, entering the code to unlock and open the door.
“Hi…” your voice floats in, my hearing and sight severely misaligned. A thousand gut reactions roll through me, rash actions hindered only by my disability.
All I can muster is, “How could you…” I’m in one of those nightmares where my throat gets caught and with it my last bit of agency evaporates in silent terror. I beg the universe for a spare hand to slam the door in your face.
There you are, beyond the threshold, standing with a walker. Standing. With hands gripping an aluminum frame as if the apparatus or you will buckle otherwise. Your face falls from elated to confused, then understanding. But you don’t understand.
“W-what did you do?” My voice quivers as my shoulder scrambles to get back to my drive controls, to reverse away. You must think I’m getting out of your way, and you stumble forward into our apartment with those… things…
“I can explain.”
“What the hell happened to scoliosis decompression?” I accuse before bumping into the coffee table in my slow horrified reverse, adjusting and swinging back. You find your way slowly to the couch we ended our first date on, these massive bulky appendages that don’t at all match your complexion taking up all this damned space now, leaving no room for me, leaving someone else’s hair all over.
“Jen, listen, this was supposed to be a surprise,” you plead.
“Oh it is.” I bite back. “How… I didn’t know transplants took this fast, you’ve only been away five weeks.”
“They don’t. I still can’t feel most of it all, but I can move them pretty good. I’ve been in therapy as often as I can be. Jen, this is for us… I want to take care of you myself.”
“Fuck no. Those aren’t your hands, those aren’t you.” If a limbless body can shrink in place, I do.
“What? Of course they are! I’m still me. Look!” You stick out your new arm, palm facing up. Your whole body wobbles with the effort, the mismatched hand shaking. You make a fist and extend those sausage-like fingers, the motion uncoordinated and full of tremors. As if from an older host, they can’t help but remind me of the man who touched me before you, with all their dirty potential.
You are oblivious to me, only smiling at the exhibition of your new abilities. “I’ll get better, and then I can support us, probably not as a musician, but we can live alone!”
I shake my head. “Don’t say that. Don’t say this was for me. I never expected to live alone… ever… “
“But it will be better than having carers do absolutely everything for us. I want to pour my own cereal, Jen!”
I look down at the empty seat in front of me, tears falling even though I want to be strong, to yell and fight and stand up, but my eyes can’t stop, and I can’t wipe them away. “You don’t get it, Danny. The man I married wouldn’t have kept this kind of life change a secret. We met because you were like me, because we were the same, we understood each other. I don’t understand… this.” I shrug at you, highlighting how quickly I end in any cardinal direction. “I can’t even fathom having limbs.”
You say you don’t have the right words.
I want to say “Asshole, you really thought you could swoop in here like a knight in shining armor — or perhaps a Frankenstein’s monster with Parkinsons — and I would just glow at the possibilities!?” but I know that wouldn’t get us anywhere…
I lock eyes with you for the first time since seeing you walk in, and it hurts to be this direct, more than I ever imagined I would have to hurt with you. “I… I can’t follow you down this path. I don’t have any residuals… my body would never understand what to do with all that extra…” I can’t seem to track down a good word that doesn’t insult the dead man you’re wearing.
You soften and appeal like I haven’t made up my mind already. “Hon, you don’t have to change, I can hold you and care for you and our life can be perfect together.”
I can only muster a whisper, but it’s the whisper that ends us. “You already said I was perfect… Not ‘normal’ or beautifully malformed… but ‘perfect!’” I finally find the energy to yell, furious, broken. “Fuck, I believed you, Dan! I believed you!”
“But you are, Jenny, you are perfect!” You lean forward and reach out unsteadily, and I reverse my chair so hard I feel the whiplash, the strap cutting into my ribs, in total revulsion not of just your ruined body with all its dexterous growths, but of the man inside who used to reach out with his nose or his chin or his lips at most, the man for whom I thought this was all enough, the man who I used to love.
“If you ever really meant it, you would have stayed like me.”