By My Side

by Alice Peterson

  I shudder, recalling my first lesson with her. I was lying on the bed with my legs spread apart, inserting the straw-like catheter into my bladder, via the uretha, Georgina towering over me, saying, ‘Up a bit. No! Down a bit!’ Georgina didn’t pick up on how upset and uncomfortable I was, or if she did, she ignored it. All I could think about during that lesson was how unnatural and degrading it was and that I had to do this for ever. I even wished I were a man. At least they could see what they were doing.

  ‘You’ll get the hang of it, Cass,’ she said. ‘Believe me, there’ll come a time when you don’t even think about it. It’ll be as simple as brushing your teeth.’

  I remained silent. It was the only time I was truly relieved that my relationship with Sean was over. It was all so unsexy.

  ‘With the bowel,’ Georgina continued, ‘you might find it’s more sluggish so the best way to deal with this is to manage it by making yourself “go” on a regular schedule, say every morning at the same time. It can be a good idea to take some laxatives the night before to help things along but you can minimise this by drinking lots of fluids and eating a high fibre diet and staying as active as possible.’

  Georgina ended the lesson saying, ‘You’re lucky, Cass, because a lot of injured people can’t use a catheter independently. No one will know you even have one, so don’t look so glum, my dear.’

  I open my eyes when I hear footsteps outside my bedroom.

  ‘Cass, supper … oh, what are you doing?’ Mum looks at the empty suitcase on the floor. ‘Why haven’t you packed?’

  ‘I’ll do it later.’

  Mum stands at the door. ‘You’ll need lots of warm clothes. Winter’s here already,’ she says, dressed herself in a chunky-knit polo neck with jeans. It’s the end of October.

  ‘Um.’

  Mum places her hands on her hips. ‘Are you scared?’

  ‘No.’ She can read me so well now.

  She raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. That knotted feeling in my stomach won’t go away.

  She perches on the end of my bed. ‘OK. What’s worrying you most about being away?’

  I chew my lip. ‘I don’t want to have an accident, Mum. I’m nervous.’

  ‘I understand,’ Mum says. ‘But if you have any kind of problem, you must talk to someone. Also, darling, they’ll make sure you have plenty of breaks during the training so you can have something to eat or go to the bathroom. Try not to worry.’

  ‘Um.’

  ‘You can always call home if you need us, too,’ she continues. ‘But don’t ring after nine.’ She nudges me. ‘You know what your old dad and I are like, falling asleep in front of the TV. Seven thirty isn’t a good time either because it’s EastEnders and it’s getting to a juicy part.’

  I nudge her back. ‘So that leaves me a free slot at eight?’

  ‘Oh, Cass, you know you can call any time. Now, you won’t forget to pack your alarm clock, will you? You won’t have me knocking at your door.’

  Dad runs upstairs with my mobile. ‘It’s Guy,’ he says, handing it to me. Mum leaves, telling me she’ll be back in five minutes, otherwise the fish pie will burn.

  ‘Wanted to wish you good luck for tomorrow, Princess.’

  I twist a strand of my hair. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s two weeks, Guy.’

  ‘You survived four months in hospital with Perky and me so you can survive fourteen days with a cute dog.’

  I breathe deeply.

  ‘Look, it’s all you’ve been banging on about recently. Ticket this … Ticket that. You’ll regret it if you don’t go.’

  He’s right. Of course I would.

  ‘You can do it,’ he says. ‘Besides, Ticket would never forgive you if he gets landed with that Trevor bloke because you couldn’t be bothered to show up.’ Trevor is one of the other applicants.

  I laugh now. ‘Since when did you become so wise?’

  ‘Always have been, just hidden it well. So, what are you waiting for? You go get that dog, Princess.’

  10

  It’s the first morning of the training course and I’m having breakfast with the rest of the group. Unlike last night, we’re far too nervous to talk or eat because finally we find out which dog we’re going to train for the remainder of the course and take home afterwards. Last night Lindsey had warned us again that occasionally it doesn’t work out the way we think, but that she’ll make sure we are all happy with the dog we’re matched with.

  Sitting opposite me is Jenny. Jenny is in her fifties and has a rare disease where the brain sends the wrong messages to the muscles. She has short silvery grey hair, wears glasses and loose clothing and looks as if the slightest breeze could blow her over.

  Tom sits at the end of the table; he was born with cerebral palsy. It’s hard to understand what he says because his speech is badly affected. He desperately wants to communicate but the disease fights against him to make sure no words come out. However, he did manage to tell me that I was as pretty as Michelle Pfeiffer. I could feel myself blush, surprised by how lovely it was to be given such a compliment. Tom is twenty years old and is studying for a broadcasting degree at Leeds University. He wants to be a journalist or radio producer. His small pale hands are contorted and look painful. He writes his essays with a head pointer that fastens around his forehead. ‘What … do … you do?’ he’d asked me, when we first met.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said, before adding, ‘I used to study medicine.’ I think of Sarah, now in her final year at King’s. Was I wrong to give it all up?

  Then there’s Alex who lives in London. She doesn’t know what’s wrong with her. ‘Don’t you want to give people a right old slap when they ask what’s wrong with you? I feel like turning round and asking what’s wrong with them, you know? It’s like a family tree, yeah, with us cripples in our own little box and the rest of them branching off into who married who and whatever. Well, I don’t know what’s wrong with me; all I know is it’s to do with me nerves.’

  Tom started to say something. ‘We … can … put … you in …’ We all listened patiently, hoping that it was going to be worth the wait. ‘ … the miscellaneous file,’ he finished and laughed so much that his shoulders heaved up and down and he dropped his ham sandwich on to his boot.

  Then there’s Trevor. He has had severe osteoarthritis for twenty years and is desperately overweight, largely because severe pain has stopped him from taking even moderate exercise. Today he’s wearing a badge on his jacket that reads, ‘Proud to be DISABLED!’ Trevor loves to talk gadgets. Last night he was telling us about a chopping board that has spikes on its base and an indent to put your cucumber or whatever into, without it rolling across the board and falling on to the floor. ‘But it cost me seventy quid!’ he exclaimed, before saying sadly, ‘I’m afraid we’re a captive audience.’

  Finally there’s Edward. He’s in his late twenties and I discovered he was a lance corporal in the Royal Marines. He told me he’d been out to Afghanistan in 2007, but was flown home injured in a mine strike. He lost his left leg above the knee and now has a prosthetic limb. He can walk, ‘Very badly,’ he’d added, but when he’s in pain or has to walk any distance, he slots his crutches on to the back of his wheelchair. That’s about as much as I know. He was quiet over supper last night, answering questions as quickly as he could, and he hardly said a word when we all went on our first outing yesterday afternoon. However much Lindsey reinforces that our dogs want companionship, that it’s good to laugh and talk to them, he remains reserved, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

  After breakfast we meet in one of the training rooms. The moment has come. I know I will get Ticket, yet I still feel as anxious as an actress waiting to find out if I’ve won the Oscar.

  We are deathly quiet when Lindsey walks into the room with her clipboard and stands in the middle of our circle. She’s sporty and glamorous even in her purple T-shirt and jeans. ‘You’re as quiet as mi
ce,’ she says, flicking a hand through her hair, knowing full well why we aren’t talkative.

  ‘It’s called panicking,’ Trevor mutters. ‘I hope you’re not going to give my dog to anyone else. I like Pandora.’ He nods at all of us in turn, in case we’re in any way confused.

  ‘You mustn’t get too disappointed,’ Lindsey reminds us. ‘You might think that one dog is perfect but they might not be perfect for you.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’ve told us that,’ Trevor grumbles.

  Lindsey goes on to prolong the agony by warning us that our dogs might find it difficult to begin with being parted from her and their routine at Canine Partners. ‘Dogs love stability and they form strong attachments so these two weeks are all about you showing them that you are now their master. OK, we’re going to bring the dogs into the room, one by one.’ She goes out and returns with Pandora on the lead, groomed and wearing her purple coat. I think Lindsey is enjoying this. She’s acting like a judge on X-Factor, prolonging the decision of who goes through to the next round. Trevor is breathing heavily as he watches Pandora trotting by Lindsey’s side. I am sure he’s going to have to undo the top button of his trousers. Pandora sniffs and wags her tail when she’s near him. ‘That’s my girl,’ he says, sure she’s going to stop and sit by his sandalled feet, but she moves on and is brought tantalisingly close to me. Pandora circles my chair. ‘And the person who will have Pandora is …’ There’s a dramatic pause, all we need is a drum roll. ‘Trevor,’ she says at last.

  When Tom is given Leo he gasps with relief as if he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

  Edward gets Tinkerbell, the pretty chocolate Labrador. When he smiles I am drawn to the warmth in his green eyes.

  So far, everyone has been given their first choice, so Ticket has to be mine. I can relax. Priscilla, the Labradoodle, walks in next. She’s a cross between a Labrador and a poodle, but the poodle gene is clearly the stronger as her coat has tight little curls.

  ‘You’re joking,’ Alex says, followed by an uneasy laugh when Priscilla sits by her side. When Lindsey shakes her head Alex cries out, ‘I’m not taking no poodle home. They’re not proper!’

  ‘Excuse me?’ Lindsey says.

  ‘My friends will take the mickey.’ Alex crosses her arms in a huff.

  Lindsey looks concerned. ‘Alex, of course you need to be happy, but …’

  ‘I can’t have no poodle in Brixton! When I signed up for this, yeah, I thought I’d be taking home a Labrador, not some poodle with curly hair and fancy ways.’ Priscilla barks at this insult. ‘I want Captain, the Golden Retriever.’

  I catch Edward smiling at me. When no one’s looking, I smile back.

  ‘Stop being a Poodleist!’ Lindsey continues.

  ‘A what?’ Alex screws up her face.

  ‘A Poodleist,’ she repeats, annoyed now. ‘Alex, I understand you’re disappointed and I know you did get on well with Captain too, but didn’t you see how Priscilla worked for you in the assessment days? When you were in trouble in the lift, she took over. This is what I mean. Sometimes you don’t see what we see. The dogs chooses you just as much you chose him or her.’

  Alex’s face softens for a moment. She looks at Priscilla. ‘I did like her,’ she admits now. ‘She really chose me?’

  Lindsey nods. ‘So can you give her a chance?’

  So if Alex didn’t get her choice, there’s a possibility I won’t get mine now. Jenny could get Ticket. I know she likes him too. He trots into the room next.

  Please give him to me. He’s my boy. Ticket rests his head on my knee.

  ‘He’s yours,’ Lindsey says, as if there was never any contest.

  11

  It’s the second week of our training course.

  So far we’ve been given lectures each morning on the many different aspects of looking after a dog: grooming, exercising, feeding, playing, taking them to public places and what to expect, dog psychology – their moods and body language – and we have had to learn all the various commands. We also need to be aware of our environment. For example, if living in student accommodation we need to make sure no one has allergies to pets. That was mainly directed at Tom. I looked over to him, admiring his strength. Tom fights for everything; he writes his essays with a head pointer because he can’t type with his curled fists. He doesn’t rely on equipment like voice liberators to be understood; he battles to be heard. At university he has a full-time carer, just as he has a carer here. When I’d asked if he found the carer’s constant presence intrusive, he said no, but then confided to me that one of them had bullied and taunted his weaknesses to such an extent that he’d cried himself to sleep for months, and almost gave up his degree. Yet, he didn’t, because the most important thing for him is to live away from home and to get a job when he graduates. The carer was sacked and he is now much happier with his new one. ‘I love my mum, but she’d … drive … me round the … bend!’ he’d said to me, followed by a shriek of laughter. He has inspired me to put everything into this training course. If Tom can have a dog and look after it, so can I.

  In the afternoons we often perform role-plays in one of the training rooms, pretending to be in a supermarket, bank, restaurant, lift or shop. If we’re at a pedestrian crossing, we say, ‘Up switch,’ asking our dog to use his front paw to push the pedestrian button. The props are laid out for us, the shelves stacked high with plastic tins of baked beans, reminding me of Guy. All this preparation is building us up to our final assessment day at the end of the week, when we will be taken out on a Farmers’ Market Day. We have been warned that it will be crowded, ‘So you’re going to have to have all your wits about you,’ Lindsey said.

  During the training we are watched every second of the day. Lindsey is never far behind us with her clipboard. I am certain she was hiding behind Trevor’s bedroom door last night to see if he was acting the same behind closed doors. Did he go from jolly old man to gruff demanding old sod, ordering Pandora to get him his slippers?

  ‘These dogs are not machines,’ she reinforces daily. ‘You must love them and treat them with respect.’

  The hardest part, however, has been learning the commands. If a dog jumps up at you, you don’t say, ‘Down,’ as that’s asking them to lie down. You say, ‘Off.’ There are four positions around a wheelchair: ‘Heel’ is asking your dog to stand on the left-hand side, ‘Behind’ is behind, ‘Go through’ is go in front of the chair and ‘Side’ is please stand on my right-hand side. It’s important to know where the dog should be placed at all times so they’re safe. Lindsey told us about one of their dogs on the last course who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time when entering a lift. The doors shut and his paw was broken. There’s so much to learn that I’m not having nightmares any more. Instead I wake myself up saying the commands.

  Lindsey slots the video into the machine. We have to watch on film how we work with our dogs outside the training room. I’m anxious about seeing myself on screen, but thankfully it’s Trevor first. We watch as he throws a tennis ball across the field. ‘Play ball,’ he calls out to Pandora. Trevor struggles when it begins to rain, grappling with his hood and trying to zip up his anorak. Rain turns into a hailstorm. Trevor is spitting in fury now and making no sense at all. He calls for Pandora, distress in his voice.

  ‘Why did you flip out?’ Lindsey asks him, pressing the pause button.

  ‘I forgot my command, went blank! It’s not easy remembering them all, especially at my age,’ he jokes.

  Lindsey places her hands on her hips. ‘That’s not good enough, Trevor.’

  ‘I know,’ he says, cowering in his seat.

  ‘If you panic, so will Pandora. You see here?’ She turns to all of us. ‘Pandora is stressed out by Trevor losing his cool. Commands can be less formal inside your home, but outside, there are too many risks so you’ve got to stay calm. Better luck next time, Trevor. All right, Cass next. Are you ready?’

  The last time I looked at myself properly in a mirror was dur
ing one of my sessions in the gym with Paul at the hospital, over six months ago. I didn’t recognise myself. My face was pale from being cooped up in the rehab ward for weeks and my feet looked dead against the footplates.

  ‘It’s purely from the point of view of Ticket and his responses to you,’ Lindsey says, sensing my apprehension as she presses play on the machine. ‘You see here,’ she begins gently, ‘when you were at the supermarket and Ticket was sitting by the chocolate stand. Now, I don’t blame him for that –’ she looks at me, hoping for a smile – ‘but he’s not in a safe place. Do you see? You need to manoeuvre your chair around him, to protect him from another person’s trolley.’

  I thought I looked better than that. In my head I imagine I’m the same old Cass. Five foot eight and slender, deep brown eyes, OK, not model legs, but good legs, thick dark blonde hair scooped back into a ponytail. Sean loved to sneak up on me when I was studying and blow softly against the nape of my neck. Then he’d wrap his arms around me, I’d turn and we’d kiss …

  ‘You positioned yourself nicely there when it was your turn to pay,’ she continues. ‘But did you see what you didn’t do? Cass?’

  I open my eyes and the image on the screen is still there. I look like a giant slug in my wheelchair. I hear Lindsey say something about the conveyor belt, that I should have asked the shop assistant to turn it off.

  ‘Cass, what’s wrong?’

  I reach for my glass of water. ‘I didn’t think I was that bad … I didn’t think I looked like that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That ugly.’