Friends for Life ~ 1988

“I believe in people. I may not understand why the heck they do what they do, but I believe in them.”
— K.E. Hansen

The first time I see you, I determine
I do not want
to know
you.

Outside of a summer school class,
before the first session, you stand
secure in a swarm
of fellow students, they taking turns questioning,
“What’s your guide dog’s name?”
“Can I pet him?”
“How old is he?”

You answer warmly, sometimes laughing loud
and long, head thrown back with the confidence
of someone who knows
people will wait,
want more.

You are wearing a black leather miniskirt,
a crimson low-cut top, a black
shiny belt, and cherry red
pumps. At your side, your guide dog Danny,
a black lab, sits obediently.
Later you will tell me
that you always wear
at least one black
accessory, not just because black
“never goes out of style”
but also because wearing black
keeps you and Danny always
color coordinated.

Like moths at a light,
students keep surrounding
while I steadfastly step
inside the classroom,
burying myself in a book, putting you,
too bold and brash,
out of my mind.

Corner of my eye
minutes later,
I see your guide dog
leading you,
one trusting high-heeled step at a time,
straight to my side,
and I watch you touch
for the chair next to me,
feeling your way into my life,
bringing the brightest smile
I’ve ever seen,
a sunray spread surrendering me,
as I hear you ask,
“Is this seat taken?”

As If You Always Will ~ 1992

“Over twenty-five operations and losing my sight, this scares me most. I keep touching it. I can’t believe it will be gone tomorrow. I keep telling myself God must have a plan.”
— K. E. Hansen

Night before surgery, you tell me you’re scared,
really scared. Through four years’
friendship and more health scares
than I can count, I’ve never heard
you say this.

In the Christmas photo you sent
this year, you frolic
with your guide dog on the beach.
Clad in a white tank top and rolled-up jeans,
you stand balanced
in the surf, knees bent, back arched,
arm poised to throw
a stick. Your honey-colored hair streams
in the wind, water rushes round toned,
tanned calves. Below the photo, your words,
“Lover of life, come dance with me.”

Days after surgery, you’re bantering
already, asking your nurse,
“Could you check with the doctors
A-SAP
to see if hair is going to grow
out of my stump
and when I can shave
it?”

Below the knee, your right leg
gone, thick cover of bandages crisscrossing
the amputation site.
Intense pain
comes and goes.
You swear
you’re going to dance
again. Soon.
In your red pumps.

You have to settle
for black boots.
Against doctors’ wishes,
you’re dancing months
later, a benefit you’ve organized.
Doctors warn: injure remaining ankle,
may lose that foot, too,
skin so slow to heal,
steroid-brittle bones
caving in.

But tonight,
swaying to Kenny Loggins
in your boyfriend’s arms,
prosthetic leg barely noticeable beneath
black lace stockings,
pain of the last months
hidden in your laughter,
you draw all eyes in the room,
dancing lightly, naturally, blissfully,
as if you always will.

Last Resort ~ 1990's

“Blind disabled woman needs roommate. Low rent in exchange for personal assistance.” 
— K. E. Hansen

You live alone for many years, fiercely holding
onto your independence, redefining
what is feasible. Chili,
for example. You refuse to stop
making chili. Your party specialty.
Slowly chopping vegetables,
carrots, peppers, onions, tomatoes, garlic
carefully positioning the knife, slice by slice
checking the placement of your fingers
before each cut, then gradually pressing down.
Over twenty ingredients,
chopping, stirring, tasting,
you’re at the stove hour after hour,
seeking sublime.

I have learned over the years not to lend
a hand—not to find your clothes, not to fasten
your prosthetic legs, not to check your glucose.
Having seen you snip
at others who offer,
I know you will ask for help
as a last resort.
You are striving to keep yourself
the kind of woman who always leaves home
with her guide dog fed
and her nails done.

But after a stroke,
you have to start living with the man
off the street, anyone who responds
to your ad. “Blind disabled woman needs . . .
Some stay months, others
a few weeks. One man steals
your heart, another your life savings,
$273 cash from your boa constrictor’s
aquarium. “He must have really needed it,”
you conclude, not angry, “if he had to
look in there.” Then comes the woman who loves
boats. “You mean she loves to sail?”
“No,” you explain, “I mean she loves boats.
Romantically. Works with them, chills
with them, sleeps with them. She’s a fetishist.
She’s nice, you know. I just say, whatever
floats your boat.”

Your fingers less sensitive, mind less sharp,
you have had to learn to trust,
even when you shouldn’t, to accept
what many wouldn’t. Still you fight
for self-sufficiency, often crying, yelling
in frustration, searching for missing lipstick,
wallet, insulin, cardigan, band-aid, lotion, leg
the objects in your life
rarely where you left them
in your mind.

Sometimes, sitting with you over a Diet
Dr. Pepper, watching you reach
and reach and reach
for the can, grasping
only air, I can’t stand
not to
and I slip my hand
across the table, sliding the can
a few inches forward,
far enough still
for you to find.




 

Ten Years of Therapy ~ 1998

“I wouldn’t trade this life for anything. I feel like I’ve lived twenty lives."

— K. E. Hansen

As we drive to pick you up,
my sister says that spending
an evening with you feels like getting ten years
of therapy.

When we ring your doorbell, you yell
for us to enter. “Sorry I’m running late,"
you call from your bedroom.
“Having trouble getting my legs
on. Be with you in a few.” Minutes later,
we hear a thud and a cry. “God damn it
to hell. I hate this bloody
life.” On your way to join us,
you have fallen, foot snagged
in a heap of laundry.

Standing and feeling your way to the kitchen,
moments later you’re dishing Gravy
Train, telling Danny, "It's girl's night.
You get a few hours off." Without your dog,
you take my arm, teasing me,
as you love to, about the time
years ago when I led you straight
into a pole while painstakingly
warning you about a step,
way up ahead.

You order a seven-inch pyramid
of vegetables from our favorite restaurant,
carrots, beets, sprouts, jicama, cucumber,
which glisten with sesame tahini dressing.
Chit-chat ceases in the presence
of salad as you touch the tomato peak,
face alight with joy.

You take only one small sip
of water as you eat your salad, saving
your fluid allowance for later
in the meal. You don’t qualify
for another kidney
transplant and you have passed
the five-year mark
on dialysis. Your doctors say
you will have a few more years,
tops.

You ask questions over entrees,
remembering details—my sister's boyfriend's
name, my mother's trip to Oregon, my new
job. When my sister steers
the conversation to you, you say, "I can’t
complain. Life is good." You never hesitate
to say this,
days when it’s true.

Sometimes when we’re out, we bring
your wheelchair and take an after-dinner
ride. On empty sidewalks, 
you like to see if we can break
the speed limit, my sister and I each taking
a handle and pushing and racing
until you grip the side of your chair,
eyes wide, hair streaming,
and we all laugh like kids
at recess.

But tonight, teetering
on your prostheses, you ask if we’re up
for Mr. Toots, a café nearby with live jazz.
We agree, though my sister hovers
behind, hands outstretched,
as you ascend the long steep
staircase, gripping me and the rail,
unsteady still. Aloud, you count
each step, keeping a tally for coming down.
You have fallen in the past, taking
stairs on your own, losing balance,
breaking bones, risking
your fragile hold
on life.

We sit close to the band inside.
Occasionally, I look over and see you
smiling slightly,
nodding your head and tapping
your fingertips, skin split
and needleprick scarred,
still keeping time
to the beat of the music.

 

Pulling Through ~ 2001

“I have an ego the size of a Porsche.”
—K. E. Hansen

Each piece takes hours,
blue under gray, gray over blue, cord upon cord,
slowly you knot
intricate spirals.

Doctors have given you The Sentence
over and over
neurologists, nephrologists, endocrinologists,
can’t seem to figure out how
you keep pulling through.

You store colored beads in different sized
jars, a rainbow small to large.
Bit by bit, you intersperse them in symmetrical
patterns, each bead a witness to concentration
woven with curses
as you keep track of multiple cords,
threading, braiding, looping, knotting
by touch alone.

By now, your body is a battlefield,
legs, abs, hands, breasts, face,
assaults on every front,
eye and limb
casualties.
You’ve lost track
how many times they’ve told you to get ready
for goodbye,
how many times you’ve kept preparing
for tomorrow.

Mid-piece, you always wait for a pair of eyes
to critique,
later, unraveling, unbraiding, unstringing,
if a single bead does not match
your plan.

Days when you’re rushed to ER,
sugar plunging or skyrocketing,
the doctors ask if you remember
who you are,
and you give them your first, middle, last,
and the names and doses
of every medication your doctor’s ordered,
the —izers, the —iptins, the —izones,
reciting the list
even on your way out
of consciousness.

Had you ever had a call back,
you would have put aside your macramé
and taken work,
when you could,
a telemarketer, you hoped at one point,
a survey conductor, you wished at another.
No employer took the risk.

“She’s not going to make it
this time,” doctors tell your family when you slip
into a coma one day and fail to slide
through. Week four, week five, week six,
they wait
for you to die.

Years’ end, you’re macraming again,
ornaments, key chains, wall hangings,
hands even slower now,
each piece days’ labor,
gifts you will wrap in thick Hallmark paper
the kind that does not wrinkle easily
you have called three stores to find.

Only your primary doctor
finally gives up
predicting,
realizing at last
you’re not going to go
on someone else’s
timetable,
not going to give up
before you’ve threaded through every bead
of energy you have for this life,
not ever going to start
cutting corners.