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(This blog tells my family's story. To see more, click "blog" at the top of this webpage.) I transferred to the Coop clothing department from textbooks. Everyone I worked with was under-employed and many had more than one college degree. That set the stage for interesting philosophy and political debates while we folded and refolded endless Harvard sweatshirts for big displays. I had friends at the Coop, but no close friends. Everyone Beth and I met had a story. Harvard students stood out in one way or another in addition to strong academics. With the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) down the street, a freshman joke claimed that MIT students were smart but Harvard students were interesting. Cambridge was nothing if not interesting. I grew up near Cleveland in Lorain, Ohio, the International City. Many cultures had settled in Lorain, along with some of my ancestors, drawn by the jobs at the steel mill and shipyards. Cambridge beat Lorain in diversity hands down. My co-workers hailed from India, Germany, Iran, Russia, Kenya, Ireland, Puerto Rico, Jamaica, and more. For the first time in my life, I numbered among the distinct minority as a white American. One morning, I walked back to my apartment from my job in the Quad and drove the car to the grocery store and laundromat before my shift at the Coop. Running short on time, I parked on the outskirts of Harvard Square. When my shift ended at 9 p.m., the car wasn't there. I blamed the misleading parking signs and called the police to find out where it had been towed. Not recognizing the address, I walked to the taxi line on Mass Ave. My taxi driver weaved through many dark streets as the fare ticked up to over twenty-five dollars. At the lot, I also paid the towing charge and received a hefty parking ticket. Finally behind the wheel in Beth’s blue car, I looked at a city map to figure out how to get back. I found the lot within walking distance of the Square, only a short distance northeast. Or a brief drive. I knew parking tickets translated to big bucks for the city of Cambridge, but I hadn’t realized the boon for taxi drivers as well, when they drove the long, long way to the tow lot. In the news, Christopher Reeve’s death hit me unexpectedly hard. He had been quadriplegic, a diagnosis Beth shared. A pressure sore on his back became infected and strong antibiotics no longer worked for him after nine years of frequent health issues with a high spinal cord injury. John and I carried the Reeve Foundation's Superman tags and supported the nonprofit’s research and resources. The message of hope on the tags said, “Go Forward.” We mourned Reeve’s passing, a grim reminder of the risks of quadriplegia. . . . And I bought more antibiotic cream to treat the leg and foot abrasions Beth acquired from swimming. Next: A Boston Thanksgiving! 
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 (This blog tells my family's story. To see more, click "blog" at the top of this webpage.) Beth’s decision to leave the rehab hospital early ramped up preparations for her return to home and school. At a July meeting with staff at the high school, she expressed no concerns about her first year in the sprawling building or her inability to do almost everything. I obsessed over every detail, trivial or not. I planned to meet Beth at school over her lunch break, so I requested a cot. A storage closet with an attached bathroom was converted into her private locker room. It included a small vinyl mat table. I also would be on call before and after lunch, so I signed our first contract for cell phones, ready with speed dials. We dropped physical education and band (trumpet) from Beth’s schedule and added two study halls, including one at the end of the day that she could skip to leave early. Three afternoons a week, we would drive straight from school to physical therapy in Green Springs with Laraine. Beth would not need to stay late at school for volleyball team practices and games, as we had planned before her injury. Her last weeks in the rehab hospital, John and I converted our living room into a first-floor bedroom. He removed the carpet and put down linoleum so the floor would be easy to wheel on. I bought a hospital bed and a cumbersome shower chair with rails for our one small bathroom. There wasn't enough time to build a bigger one. I tried to focus on anticipating what Beth would need, but my guilt over causing her disability would not be ignored. Averse to pity, I avoided everyone except my family. Even with my husband and children, the last thing I wanted was to cause them more worry. I made a heroic, but ultimately futile, attempt to bottle up my emotions. Planning for school turned out to be easier than going to school.  |
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