The Wheelchair Diaries - Chapter 7

Friday.

The hum of the office isn't enough to distract me today.

It's warm, not hot, not freezing, just that dull kind of in-between warmth that clings to your shirt sleeves and makes time feel slower than it should. I'm at my desk, fingers hovering above the keyboard, pretending to respond to an invoice request while my mind is already in tomorrow.

Saturday.

I said yes.

I said yes to letting a man inject something into my spine.

Ben called it "temporary spinal anesthesia." A low dose. T10 level. Nothing dangerous, he promised. Monitored. Controlled. It'll wear off. Maybe by Sunday night. Monday morning at the latest. He sounded calm when he explained it over the phone again, like this was routine. Like it wasn't the biggest moment of my life.

I glance down at my legs under the desk. They're folded neatly, pressed together, the way I always try to sit at work, composed, symmetrical. Presentable.

What if I can't sit like this once it's done?

What if my thighs flop outward like in the videos I've watched over and over? What if I lose the subtle tension I didn't even realize I used to keep them in place?

God. What if they look even better that way?

I touch the fabric of my jeans. Not enough sensation to count, just pressure through my fingertips. I imagine what it will be like when I feel nothing there. Not numbness, not tingling. Just... nothing. A blank canvas. A silence where sensation used to be.

Someone walks by and says hi. I smile automatically. My screen still shows the half-finished email I've been avoiding for the past fifteen minutes.

Would anyone notice if I came in Monday and I was different?

It's not like they've studied me. I've only been here a few days. Maybe Steph would say something. Or Liv, she's observant, sweet, the type who'd notice if my posture changed, or if I wasn't reaching as far, or if my back was suddenly stiff and slouchy. But even then, would they question it?

Would they ask?

Or would they just assume it's normal?

I think about showing up and letting it happen. Letting the wheelchair carry me differently. Letting my body be looser, softer, heavier. I'd have to lean more. Maybe even strap in. I'd have to hold onto my bag in a different way, ask someone to pass me coffee instead of rolling myself over to the counter. And if I wet myself... what then?

No, when I wet myself.

That's what this is, right? If the injection works the way Ben said, it'll block motor and sensory. So I won't know when I have to pee. I won't know when I've already done it. And if I want to feel real, really real, I shouldn't try to time it. I should just... let it happen. Diaper up and let the rest go.

The thought sends a strange flush up my neck.

I'm not supposed to want this. I know that.

And yet I do. Fully. Completely.

Ben didn't flinch when I said yes. He didn't hesitate. He said, "I want you to experience what you've always imagined, and I want to help you do it safely."

I've never had anyone say that to me before.

I should be scared. But all I feel is possibility.

Still. What if I hate it?

What if the fantasy shatters the moment it becomes real?

What if I try to transfer and fall flat on my face?

What if I look in the mirror and don't recognize the person I've become, not because it's too different, but because it's too right?

What if that scares me more than anything?

"Jessica, you okay?" someone asks behind me, marketing lead, I think, the guy with the bad cologne and always-wrinkled shirts.

I nod quickly. "Yeah, just zoned out. Sorry."

He smiles and keeps walking. And I return to my screen, back to the pretend-email. My cursor blinks. My heartbeat slows. But my thoughts don't.

Tomorrow is Saturday. Tomorrow I get what I've always wanted. Or at least, a glimpse of it.

The spreadsheet in front of me blurs.

Cell after cell of numbers, invoice dates, VAT calculations, salary disbursements, but none of it sticks. I type one thing, delete it, retype it. It's not even complex work. Payroll is simple once you get into the rhythm. But I have no rhythm today. My body feels like a decoy. Like I'm here, but not really.

"God, I need a drink," Steph says as she drops into the chair next to mine. "Friday brain is officially here."

I chuckle. "Tell me about it. I've been staring at this one line item for fifteen minutes."

She peeks at my screen. "Yeah, that's enough payroll for one week."

I hesitate, then say, "Big weekend plans?"

Steph shrugs. "Not really. Seeing a friend tomorrow. You?"

My mouth opens before I can stop it. "Just... seeing someone."

"Ooh," she grins. "A date?"

I nod, trying to keep it neutral. "Sort of. Yeah."

"That's new," Liv pipes up, wheeling her chair slightly over. "Is it the same guy from the bar last week?"

Ben. The doctor. The one who wants to help me feel like my body's not mine anymore.

I nod. "Yeah. That one."

Steph raises her brows. "He sounded nice. And sounded hot. Where's he taking you?"

"He's cooking, actually," I say, and immediately regret how intimate that sounds.

Liv grins. "Very husband behavior."

My cheeks flush, but I fake a smile. "We'll see."

They laugh and drift back into conversation about plans and outfits and some art fair Steph might go to on Sunday. I half-listen. Mostly I'm just holding myself in place.

Tomorrow, I'll be different.

Not pretending different. Really different.

No movement. No feeling. No faking.

Will it scare me? Will it turn me on? Will it make me cry?

I don't know yet.

But I do know I've never wanted anything more.

I clock out at 6:07 because I can't make myself leave at exactly on the hour. It feels superstitious, like if I look eager someone will ask why. I tell Liv "have a good one" without stopping. She's mid-sentence with someone from exhibitions anyway. I roll out into the damp, bright-blue London evening, that in-between light where everything looks like it's thinking about itself. My hands are buzzing. My brain is a stadium.

I head straight for the big pharmacy on the corner, the one that sells everything from toothpaste to inflatable neck pillows and somehow smells like sunscreen year-round. Automatic doors whoosh, heating hits my face, and suddenly I'm inside a fluorescent version of my private life.

I didn't make a list. I should have. Ben texted earlier: "Breakfast, 9:30. Don't overthink tonight." I laughed out loud at my desk. Then immediately started overthinking.

I start with "wellness," which is just code for "the aisle where I pretend I'm not shopping for what I'm shopping for." I put hand sanitizer in the basket. Then two. I don't know why. A box of latex-free gloves. A second box because what if I run out. Antiseptic wipes, the big pack, the one with the unrecyclable plastic. Then the "personal care" section, where the packaging is suspiciously cheery for things designed to manage bodies that don't listen.

Diapers. Not even pretending they're "pads." Real ones. Thick. Leak guards. I stare way too long at the sizing chart like it's a personality quiz. I pick two types, because what if one rustles louder than the other, what if one bunches weirdly under tights, what if I like one more when I can't feel any of this and then can't find it again. My basket is already a small Tetris of shame and relief. I feel strangely proud.

I add barrier cream, two tubes, because internet girls always say barrier cream like it's gospel, like the annointing oil of the unfeeling. Baby wipes, unscented and also the stupidly scented ones because my brain is dramatic and thinks my future might need options. Disposable bed pads, "underpads," pastel-blue, a cartoon droplet smiling like we all agreed to pretend this is fine. I hesitate, then reach for a pack of soft washcloths because I want control over something.

For exactly six seconds I stay in front of the catheters and hate myself for wanting to know. I pick the shelf talker up like it's a brochure for a museum. Put it back. I hear my own voice from last week, I haven't gotten my hands on catheters yet. The yet lingers. I keep moving.

Internal monologue turns into logistics: Do I need tape? Probably not. Do I grab tape anyway? Yes. Do I need a tiny trash bag dispenser like for dogs but for shame? Apparently yes. I throw it in. Powder. Aloe gel. Lip balm because I weirdly always buy lip balm when I'm scared. A spare phone charger goes in too, future me will be helpless and dramatic and low-battery. I can feel it.

I roll to the till with the basket balanced on my lap like I'm smuggling a baby. My heart's thrumming. I'm not doing anything wrong, I know that, but my face still burns like the cashier can see my browser history. The woman behind the counter is young and kind of bored in the end-of-shift way. She scans everything like it's all mouthwash.

"You need a hand with the bags?" she asks.

"I'm okay," I say, which is both true and not true in twenty ways.

She double-bags the underpads without asking. That tiny, unshowy kindness makes my throat tighten. I want to explain myself to her. I want to tell her I'm rehearsing my own life. I want to tell her tomorrow is the day I might not come back from. I say "thanks" like a stranger in a film.

Outside, the air is cooler, the street brighter. The bags hang from my push handles and knock into the wheels with a soft thud each time I move. It's an annoying sound and also, this is pathetic, it feels like company. I take the long way home because I need to hear the tires, feel the grade of the pavement under me, memorize the last night my body is exactly as it is.

My building's lift mirror catches me: work blouse, cheap gold hoops, lipstick scrubbed down to a stain. Big pharmacy bags heavy with intention. I look like a woman making a bad decision carefully.

Upstairs, I unload everything onto the bed like a show-and-tell for an audience of one. The disposable pads fan out into an artificial sea. The diapers look huge and medical and, god help me, reassuring. The gloves smell like dentist. I line everything up by type, then by imagined chronology, before, during, after, like I'm storyboarding tomorrow. Hydrate, block, wait, confirm, learn the new transfer, diaper, breathe, don't cry, don't perform, just be. I know I'll still perform.

I try to imagine the moment sensation stops and my mind skips ahead to Monday because I can't stop counting: What if it hasn't worn off? Will people notice? Will anyone ask? Would I want them to? I picture Liv squinting at me. You okay? and me saying Yeah, just tired, like tired explains posture and absence.

What if I don't like it? The question is small and disloyal, but it's there. What if it's boring. What if it's only logistics and wet laundry and the scrape of plastic. What if the silence in my legs feels less like truth and more like a dare I regret.

I open a pack of wipes just to smell something neutral. I tape a bed pad down over my sheet like a stagehand. I put a fresh diaper in my backpack next to a spare sweater and my charger and a book I won't read. I add a note to my phone "don't forget barrier cream", like I'm suddenly a person who leaves herself sensible instructions and follows them.

Then I sit on the edge of the bed and do nothing. I let the room be a room. My chair is at a slight angle because I always forget to park straight when I'm thinking too hard. I look at my legs. They're compliant tonight, which somehow feels like a taunt. I press my thumb into my thigh until it hurts, the stupid human proof of being alive, and then I stop because I don't want to ruin tomorrow with a bruise.

I text Ben: Home. Got stuff. Not overthinking. Three lies and one truth.

He replies almost immediately: Proud of you. Sleep. I'll bring pastries.

You're a cliché, I type, then add a heart and delete it and add nothing. He sends a croissant emoji like a man who's had therapy.

I shower because it feels symbolic, like I'm washing off the week I lied the least. In the steam, I practice the small movements I might not be able to make tomorrow. I twist, lean and balance. It feels like touching a museum exhibit I'm not supposed to.

Back in bed, I put a diaper on and it's not a rehearsal this time, it's insurance. I think about the last time I told a man a true thing and he left. I think about the first time I watched a video of a woman in a chair and felt the wrong kind of envy. I think about my mother's voice messages. Comes y descansas, cariño. And how I will never say this out loud to her. Not like this. Maybe not ever.

The apartment settles around me. Upstairs, someone drags furniture like they're working through a fight. I scroll nothing on my phone for twenty-two minutes and realize I'm stalling because sleeping means waking up means Saturday means the needle means the part where wishing becomes evidence.

I set an alarm. I plug my phone in. I turn the lamp off and the room goes soft and blue and too quiet. Somewhere in the building a baby cries and a shower starts and London keeps being London through the walls.

I lie there feeling everything for the last night, and I ask the most obvious question a person like me can ask: If tomorrow is perfect, what then?

I don't answer. I don't have to. Tomorrow gets to speak for itself. Tonight, I hold the space where fear and relief braid together and call it preparation.

When sleep comes, it's shallow and fast, like falling into a pool you meant to step into. The bed pad crackles faintly when I turn. The pharmacy bags sit in the dark like evidence.

I'm ready. Or I'm not. Which is another way of being ready.