Page 17 of Revive Me

“Night, Mom,” I say with a forced smile.

I watch her walk down the path to the detached in-law suite as I wait for the van’s ramp to lower. As far as living with your parents goes, I don’t have a bad gig here. It’s my house, bought with my money, with complete separation from my mom. She has her own little cottage, and she doesn’t come into the main house without calling first or in case of an emergency. I would consider this as independent as I can get with my type of disability.

A disability that’s never far from mind. With a sigh, I direct my wheelchair down the van’s ramp and click the button by the door that locks and closes everything up behind me. Then I make my way over to the side entrance and enter the code on the keypad that makes the door swing open.

I rarely notice the modifications around my house anymore, but on days like today, when my disability is front and center in my mind, I can’t really help it. I move through the giant mudroom that has no shoes, down the wide hallway that can easily fit my wheelchair, into the kitchen that has low counters and where everything is stocked in the bottom cabinets. Everything in this rancher is set up to make my life easier.

It's also on days like today that I miss my old penthouse. But it became obvious pretty quickly after my accident that I couldn’t keep it. Even if I would’ve customized a few things to make them wheelchair accessible, just the fact that it was a high-rise made it annoying to get to at best, and a serious safety concern at worst. I sold it for a good price, but I still hated letting it go.

Now, as I throw some leftover pizza in the countertop microwave and grab a beer from the mini fridge, I’m reminded of how differentthisplace is compared to the condo.

At the ding of the microwave, I grab a paper plate and drag the greasy slice of pizza onto it. With dinner in my lap and beer in one hand, I struggle to get myself over to the living room. Once I’m there, I have to lift myself out of my wheelchair and onto the couch. By the time I’m situated and relatively comfortable, I regret not bringing the entire six-pack with me.

Some days, I try to remind myself how good I have it compared to other people in my situation. With the UFC’s insurance covering everything on the medical side, and me being frugal enough to save most of the shit-ton of money I made while I was fighting, there are a lot of good things in my life that other SCI patients don’t have. I’m not drowning in debt, I have a parent who retired early to take full-time care of me so I didn’t have to hire a stranger as a nurse, and between disability and my savings, I don’t need to work. I can structure my days the wayIwant to, the way that’s “most conducive to my recovery,” as my previous therapist said.

Whatever the fuck that means. I’m just glad I don’t need to figure out what possible job I could work in this state.

With a huff, I reach for the TV remote, hoping to drown out my struggles with the sounds of an especially violent video game. I scarf down my dinner as the system powers up, putting all thoughts of jobs, accommodations, and physical limitations out of my mind. I’m going to spend the rest of my night playing a mind-numbing game until I pass out on this couch.

I’m just about to hit play when my phone vibrates with an incoming call.

Looking down at the screen, I’m not surprised to see it’s Mikey. After two years of ignoring everyone’s calls who might remind me of my old life, Mikey and my mom are the only two people who call me anymore.

“Hey,” I grunt into the phone.

“Hey. You home?”

Another grunt, this time affirmative.

“Cool. I’m coming over.”

I roll my eyes—I can’t remember the last time Mikeyaskedif he could come over. Most of his phone calls are declaratory, just like this one.

Part of me wonders if I should be upset by it, if I need to draw a boundary.

But then I realize that that’s never going to happen while I’m still relieved by Mikey’s drop-ins. Because after everything, he’s the only one still around.

Realizing he’s already hung up the phone, I sigh and drop my phone on the cushion beside me. But before I can start my game up again, I hear the beep of a passcode being entered into the side door.

I frown at my middle school friend as he struts into my house and throws himself down on the couch, looking every bit as if he owns this place.

“Why even ask if I’m home if you’re already standing outside my house?”

Reaching over, he steals the crust off my plate and pops it into his mouth. “I was trying to be polite,” he says with a full mouth.

Shaking my head, I move the plate to the side table beside me. “Mikey, I don’t think you even know the meaning of the word polite.”

“Sure I do.” Reaching over me once more, he grabs my beer from the side table. “I just don’t waste it on you. I save it all for the ladies.”

Irritation sparks, and I make a grab for the can. But he pulls it easily out of reach and moves to the other side of the massive couch.

“Youdorealize I’m fucking disabled, right?” I snap. “You’re supposed to be gettingmethings, not stealingmyfucking things.”

He doesn’t even look at me as he waves me off mid-swig. “You’re fine,” he says casually, then lets out an enormous belch. “It’s not like you’re incapacitated.”

I gape at him and gesture at my immobile lower body. “Mikey, I amliterallyincapacitated.”

“Nah, you just have to try a little harder than you’re used to,” he says with another nonchalant wave.

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