Karyn Anne Petracca

KARYN ANNE PETRACCA

once more, in the ladies' room

the stall’s one of those where i can’t fit
my chair inside, so i’m peeing half-public

most people have the decency to avert
their eyes and say nothing, but not her--

from the neighboring stall, "aren't you
glad to be disabled in america?"

jesus christ, this is a new one

i can’t help but ask, through the metal wall--
supposed to be a barrier--what she means

"well, in other parts
of the world, like africa,

you would be shunned, ostracized, bedridden."

(i am paraphrasing)

"here you have a wheelchair, options, privileges.
you are lucky, no?"

brace yourself

she was a friend of yours,
so i had no guard up

when you introduced us,
the wheelchair took her by surprise

her eyes widened, and
she said the first unfiltered thing:

“that doesn’t look like much fun.”

i couldn’t resist--"actually,
sometimes it’s a ball.”

maybe my reflex sarcasm is just
as cruel, i don’t know,

but i had been hoping
for a simple, "hi,

it’s nice to meet you.
i’m really looking forward

to this concert,
how about you?”

now i always insist:
tell people before they meet me--

she is my life partner.
brace yourself, behave yourself,

you will see a wheelchair.

those gentle-incline ramps

i met gregg at a “wheelers” (good god) picnic one day
potluck, i think

dave, not yet sober, was grilling in the backyard
and laura, lovely leader and organizer of us all,
was doing the introductions

gregg was late, if you can be late to that kind of thing,

and came, grinning and careening
down the ramp, half-bald and wearing a hideous hawaiian shirt

his sunglasses were pretty cool though
and i knew immediately, he was well-adjusted
in his chair,

and i was just getting started

he had my attention, and apparently i had his
i was a vision or something, whatever

he was a charmer from way back,
definitely pre-wheelchair, whenever that was

he pursued me, and i was cautious curious

the affair was short, and i don’t believe in angels,
but goddamn if gregg didn’t come along at exactly the right time
and save some essential part of me

i watched his upper body, massive and capable,
do it all and then some

i will never be that strong, but because of him
i know i can try

he took me to the mall to practice
on those wimpy gentle-incline ramps

they kicked my ass
(more specifically, my notably underdeveloped arms)

i cried and he soothed,
and i let him

it was almost as though he’d gotten a memo:

this lady’s in trouble.
MS, wheelchair, a whole ugly mess.

she’s sure she’ll never be loved again.
see what you can do.

he had his own modifications/accommodations--

paralyzed from someplace well above the penis
no fluids, a bunch of viagra

rarely have i felt so desired,

and to this day when we talk,
which we don’t very often,

he never fails to recall my superlative sensuality,
sex that apparently still makes his current

girlfriend suspicious, no matter how many ways
she can bend her body

first, do no harm

the nurse assigned to my case
has mad impressive eyeliner skills
which is tangential

she visits monthly
to monitor my head-to-toe health
and keep my comprehensive care
humming and greased
like the fine engine we both know
it will never be

she was here friday 4pm
when my daily neurological wind-down
begins to threaten

and i tried, but couldn’t
laugh at the joke whose punchline was--
i’m pretty sure--
an allusion to her happy avid sex life

she was promising to “fight for my orgasm,”
which sounds like serious feminist advocacy
and i tried, but couldn’t
feel grateful

i don’t know--
i’d rather fight for my own orgasm

but see, my orgasm is in grave danger
because every catheter pushed into my urethra
is very close to my clitoral nerves
and they could die

or i could have a hole drilled
into my bladder
and wear a tiny tube with a discreet plug--
a whole new way to pee
and a total clitoral win

also there is sludge stuck somewhere
in my bladder, harboring bacteria
and upping the risk of more infection,
which she calls “urosepsis”
which is directly linked to pneumonia

next time she will bring me
a pulmonary exerciser to ward off
this horror too

and when she does,
she will dance through my door
holding it aloft and exclaiming,
it’s christmas!

i am, like, wowed
she is a tremendous wealth of knowledge
and i can’t help it--
my brain keeps circling back to this--
she will fight for my orgasm
though she doesn’t use a fancy medical term
for that

i tried, but couldn’t
appreciate her certain diagnosis
of deep-tissue something-or-other
(for this she even has an abbreviation!)
on or near my ass

there is a prophylactic paste
for this condition
which she spells on my folder with a sharpie

just before she leaves
she says,
ok, i think you’re going to make it.

which is meant as reassurance
and i tried, but couldn’t
quite see it like that

i felt seriously fucked,
all the way down to my clitoris

volunteering at the school library

a fifth-grader calls down the stairwell,
what you got, is it courageous?

i already knew she had a vocabulary problem
she’s a sweet, tough kid

i can’t help but smirk
i love this situation

i answer the question i know she meant to ask

i think you mean contagious.
and no, it isn’t.

not even a little bit.

you could hug me all day,
and i promise you wouldn’t get multiple sclerosis.

i don’t answer her original question,
but sometimes, sure, it is

Karyn Anne Petracca is from New York. She now lives in Wilmington, NC, with her partner, Ken. She also lives with MS. She enjoys wheelchair-accessible frolicking, almost all homemade baked goods, and re-reading Infinite Jest.