Me-Before-You-by-Jojo-Moyes

him twice, bringing him music and nice things to eat, and offering to keep him
company, but peculiarly I felt in the way, and realized quite quickly that Will
didn’t actually want the extra attention in there. He told me to go home and
enjoy some time to myself.
A year previously, I would have wasted those free days; I would have trawled
the shops, maybe gone over to meet Patrick for lunch. I would probably have
watched some daytime television, and maybe made a vague attempt to sort out
my clothes. I might have slept a lot.
Now, however, I felt oddly restless and dislocated. I missed having a reason to
get up early, a purpose to my day.
It took me half a morning to work out that this time could be useful. I went to
the library and began to research. I looked up every website about quadriplegics
that I could find, and worked out things we could do when Will was better. I
wrote lists, adding to each entry the equipment or things I might need to consider
for each event.
I discovered chat rooms for those with spinal injuries, and found there were
thousands of men and women out there just like Will – leading hidden lives in
London, Sydney, Vancouver, or just down the road – aided by friends or family,
or sometimes, heartbreakingly alone.
I wasn’t the only carer interested in these sites. There were girlfriends, asking
how they could help their partners gain the confidence to go out again, husbands
seeking advice on the latest medical equipment. There were advertisements for
wheelchairs that would go on sand or off-road, clever hoists or inflatable bathing
aids.
There were codes to their discussions. I worked out that SCI was a spinal cord
injury, AB the able-bodied, a UTI an infection. I saw that a C4/5 spinal injury
was far more severe than a C11/12, most of whom still seemed to have use of
their arms or torso. There were stories of love and loss, of partners struggling to
cope with disabled spouses as well as young children. There were wives who felt
guilty that they had prayed their husbands would stop beating them – and then
found they never would again. There were husbands who wanted to leave
disabled wives but were afraid of the reaction of their community. There was
exhaustion and despair, and a lot of black humour – jokes about exploding
catheter bags, other people’s well-meaning idiocy, or drunken misadventures.