charming smile. “I don’t have a lot of relationship experience either. I guess we’ll practice on each other.”
As far as corny lines go, it’s pretty bad. Yet, I am tempted to believe him. Jeff is playing with my hair and scalp when he abruptly asks, “Would it help with the overheating issue if your hair were off of your neck?”
I am confused by the non sequitur, “I suppose, why?” I ask.
“I can help with that if you’d like,” Jeff offers.
“I thought you didn’t have any girlfriend skills ?” I tease.
”You are the first girl I’ve ever done this for that wasn’t my sister or didn’t have an appointment,” Jeff replies.
“See, I knew that under those pinstripes, beats the heart of a nice guy,” I tease with a grin.
“Oh no! Don’t give me the ‘nice guy’ curse. It’s the kiss of death for relationships,” Jeff cautions, crossing his hands over his heart dramatically.
“Why does everyone keep saying that? I like nice guys!” I demand for the second time in two weeks. This conversation is starting to feel like a scene from Groundhog Day .
Jeff takes a plastic hair pick out of the pouch beside the seat and proceeds to part and section my hair. I can feel the deft motion of his hands as he braids my hair in a tight French braid. Then, I feel him braiding the ends back through in a complicated weaving pattern. He grabs my corsage and anchors it on my new ‘bun’.
“What are you doing?” I ask Jeff, dying of curiosity.
“Securing your hair since I have only one girly do-dad and none of the goop you girls’ put in there to make things stay put ,” he replies.
I lightly touch my hair and I’m stunned by the complexity of the braids. It blows my skills out of the water. “How do you even know how to do this?” I ask.
“ I’m the only sibling in a very dysfunctional family. My sister and I played beauty shop a lot; she always got to play the client. I had to braid dreadlocks, doll wigs and everything in-between. At first, I hated it, but I did it so that she would let me tag along with her. Later, it made me popular with the cheerleaders and it helped pay for my books in college, so I can’t complain.” Jeff explains. Suddenly he seems to shift gears, “So, I think I remember the basics about autonomic dysreflexia from my pre-med classes, but it’s been awhile. It has to do with getting pain signals to your brain past the damaged part of your spinal cord, and it makes your blood pressure go all haywire, right?”
I blush as I answer haltingly, “Yes, that’s correct, for the most part. The big debate in the spinal cord injury community — we call ourselves SCIs — is whether an attack can be caused by pain. Some studies say no. However, anecdotal evidence — including my own — seem to support the idea that pain below my level of injury can trigger an attack. Tonight, for example, Mr. Best ran into my knee. Most of the time, though mine are caused by a bladder infection.”
“So, how do you treat it?” Jeff asks, his face etched with concern.
“I take several kinds of high blood pressure medicine and diuretics. I have some that I take just during an attack” I respond with a casual shrug. “But, don’t worry; this is really unusual for me. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve had an attack.”
Jeff looks at me with an expression of stark astonishment as he shakes his head and mutters, “Look, I know I might be missing the obvious here. But, last I checked, your condition can kill you. It might have been helpful to mention to your date — who happens to be an EMT — that you have a condition with life threatening complications and that you have medications for it.”
Dandelions. The man has a point. “You’re right. I’ve been living with this so long that I forget how serious it can be, or at least I try to so that I can stay sane. I hate not being normal. For the most part, my dad treated me like a normal kid, except he worried a lot. I
As far as corny lines go, it’s pretty bad. Yet, I am tempted to believe him. Jeff is playing with my hair and scalp when he abruptly asks, “Would it help with the overheating issue if your hair were off of your neck?”
I am confused by the non sequitur, “I suppose, why?” I ask.
“I can help with that if you’d like,” Jeff offers.
“I thought you didn’t have any girlfriend skills ?” I tease.
”You are the first girl I’ve ever done this for that wasn’t my sister or didn’t have an appointment,” Jeff replies.
“See, I knew that under those pinstripes, beats the heart of a nice guy,” I tease with a grin.
“Oh no! Don’t give me the ‘nice guy’ curse. It’s the kiss of death for relationships,” Jeff cautions, crossing his hands over his heart dramatically.
“Why does everyone keep saying that? I like nice guys!” I demand for the second time in two weeks. This conversation is starting to feel like a scene from Groundhog Day .
Jeff takes a plastic hair pick out of the pouch beside the seat and proceeds to part and section my hair. I can feel the deft motion of his hands as he braids my hair in a tight French braid. Then, I feel him braiding the ends back through in a complicated weaving pattern. He grabs my corsage and anchors it on my new ‘bun’.
“What are you doing?” I ask Jeff, dying of curiosity.
“Securing your hair since I have only one girly do-dad and none of the goop you girls’ put in there to make things stay put ,” he replies.
I lightly touch my hair and I’m stunned by the complexity of the braids. It blows my skills out of the water. “How do you even know how to do this?” I ask.
“ I’m the only sibling in a very dysfunctional family. My sister and I played beauty shop a lot; she always got to play the client. I had to braid dreadlocks, doll wigs and everything in-between. At first, I hated it, but I did it so that she would let me tag along with her. Later, it made me popular with the cheerleaders and it helped pay for my books in college, so I can’t complain.” Jeff explains. Suddenly he seems to shift gears, “So, I think I remember the basics about autonomic dysreflexia from my pre-med classes, but it’s been awhile. It has to do with getting pain signals to your brain past the damaged part of your spinal cord, and it makes your blood pressure go all haywire, right?”
I blush as I answer haltingly, “Yes, that’s correct, for the most part. The big debate in the spinal cord injury community — we call ourselves SCIs — is whether an attack can be caused by pain. Some studies say no. However, anecdotal evidence — including my own — seem to support the idea that pain below my level of injury can trigger an attack. Tonight, for example, Mr. Best ran into my knee. Most of the time, though mine are caused by a bladder infection.”
“So, how do you treat it?” Jeff asks, his face etched with concern.
“I take several kinds of high blood pressure medicine and diuretics. I have some that I take just during an attack” I respond with a casual shrug. “But, don’t worry; this is really unusual for me. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve had an attack.”
Jeff looks at me with an expression of stark astonishment as he shakes his head and mutters, “Look, I know I might be missing the obvious here. But, last I checked, your condition can kill you. It might have been helpful to mention to your date — who happens to be an EMT — that you have a condition with life threatening complications and that you have medications for it.”
Dandelions. The man has a point. “You’re right. I’ve been living with this so long that I forget how serious it can be, or at least I try to so that I can stay sane. I hate not being normal. For the most part, my dad treated me like a normal kid, except he worried a lot. I
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