The Four Walls of My Freedom by Donna Thomson

stopping to stroke the puppy and ask about it. “Why? Why?” Nicholas demanded to know why people were stopping to chat. I explained that it was not to express sympathy or curiosity about Nicholas — it really was about the puppy. After that, he became more enthusiastic about his outings with the dog.
    When Nicholas was a small boy, it was my job to present him to the world, and actually, it was fairly easy to convince people of his adorable qualities. Now, as an adult, he knows that negotiating a relationship with strangers is largely his own responsibility. He is fully aware that the world of adults can be harshly judgemental, and that even though his mother calls him handsome, strangers in the park might only see a disabled man in a wheelchair. Over the past few years since Nicholas has been at home and out of high school, he maintains a dignified environment in his bedroom. Occasionally, he meets someone who will be invited in for a drink and chat. With a little help from his aides, Nick is quite successful at negotiating a safe and happy social encounter. Nicholas would tell anyone that his life was full, exciting and interesting. He does not wish that his disability didn’t exist, because he doesn’t admit to a disability. For Nicholas, it’s a kind of ruse that he insists we all buy into as a matter of life and death. What is harder to deny is Nick’s world of pain.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
    The Prison of Pain
    I don’t remember exactly when the pain began, but two years ago, at a time when I thought Nicholas might not survive, I watched all our home videos. One, a film of his ninth birthday celebration at the cottage, showed him on our balcony surrounded by family, friends, hot dogs and torn-open gift boxes. Early that day, I had prepared hamburger patties for more than twenty guests and had left them on the kitchen counter ready for the grill. Jim had built a golf course of sorts on our back lawn, using ski poles tied with plastic grocery-bag flags sunk into buried lidless tin cans in the ground. We had eighteen such holes, each with amusing “hazards.” Jim helped Nicholas deliver handwritten invitations that read “The Nicholas Wright Invitational Golf Tournament to be held at the Royal and Ancient Lake MacDonald Golf Club.”
    As the golf game neared its finish, I went upstairs to collect the hamburgers for the bar-b-q. They were nowhere in sight. The platter sat clean and empty on the counter. I suddenly had a terrible thought and knew in my heart that I was right — Goldie, our golden retriever, had eaten them. Twenty generous hamburger patties couldn’t fit into the stomach of a normal dog, but I knew the capacities of our Goldie from previous experience. By now, the golfers had congregated on the patio, ready for their lunch. I announced that hot dogs would be served instead of burgers because of one very greedy dog having just eaten our lunch. At the same time, my brother-in-law Gerry with his video camera captured Goldie on the beach below belching up mounds of raw hamburger on the sand. Frank, my sister’s husband, was on-screen suggesting that I should patty them up again since the meat was still fresh.
    As I watched the scene unfold on the videotape, I laughed again as hard as I had the first time it played out. Nicholas was happy, excited and full of jokes. Suddenly, though, his face changed. His laugh turned to a look of shock. “There,” I thought, “is pain.” That startled look and holding of breath would appear sometimes, and gradually we began to see it happening more frequently. We discovered that Nick’s right hip was the problem, and that we could make him more comfortable by standing behind him, grabbing hold under his arms and pulling his body up and backwards. This had the effect of positioning his lower back against the chair — the same as anyone adjusting their position to sit up straight.
    In February 1998, an x-ray