Summer's Cool

I was woken at six o'clock by the alarm. I pulled back the duvet and sat up, then turned round so that my legs were off the bed. I stood up, naked, and limped to the bathroom, where I did what I had to do, then turned on the shower and stepped in. I soaped myself all over with my left hand (the left armpit is awkward, but I'm used to it), then I stepped out and dried myself with my left hand in the towel. I then stood in front of the full-length mirror to look at my body. I was 26, tall (five feet 10), a little overweight, and reasonably good-looking, with short, black, frizzy hair, dark-chocolate-coloured skin, large brown eyes, a broad nose, and full lips. I am of decidedly statuesque build in general, with large breasts and magnificently shapely left arm and leg. It's a pity about the right ones. They are both thin and atrophied, especially the arm, and completely useless and sensationless, as is the right side of my torso. I have been a complete right-hemiplegic since birth. The right leg is very stiff and spastic, which means that, though I have no movement in it, it will at least bear my weight. It is somewhat bent at the knee, and the foot is very bent downwards at the ankle: it is almost in line with the leg, at an angle a healthy foot couldn't reach. I walk on the toes of that foot, and have to lean well over to the left when hauling the leg forward, to avoid the toes scraping on the ground. The knee and foot point outwards, to the right, at about 45 degrees. My arm, by contrast, is more or less flaccid, and dangles with the hand in front of my groin. The hand is small, about three-quarters the size of my left hand, and the fingers are perfectly straight. I also have right-hemianopia; the right half of the field of vision in both eyes is missing. I am also severely epileptic.

I then limped slowly back towards the bedroom, dragging my right leg forward laboriously while leaning over to the left each time. I really am very lame and slow. My arm, meanwhile, flopped about all over the place.

I came round lying on the floor of the hallway, just outside the bedroom door. When the mental confusion cleared, after 30 seconds or so, I realised that I must have had a fit: I have two or three full-scale, tonic-clonic epileptic fits a week on average. I usually wet myself during them, and wear a pad just in case, but this time, having just been, I didn't. I hauled myself backwards on my bum into the bedroom and up to the bed, then, at the third attempt, managed to turn over on my front and haul myself up on to the bed, then struggled into a sitting position. I realised that I was sitting on my right hand, so I reached across with my left and pulled it out, overbalancing to the right as I did so, and ending up lying on my right side, with my legs off the bed to the side. By the time I had struggled back to a sitting position, I was exhausted and my left arm was shaking with the effort, so I lifted up my right hand with my left and put it on my lap, and sat where I was to recover.

After a few minutes, I started to dress, in the clothes I had put out ready on the bedside chair the previous night, including the short-sleeved yellow dress. I have, of course, got a lifetime's experience of dressing with one hand and a stiff, unbending leg, but that doesn't make it easy, and it is a slow business, but finally I was ready, and limped into the front room.

My sister Jennifer arrived just before nine to give me a lift to Queen Mary College in London, where my Open University summer school was being held. (I'm studying Literature, and this year's course was on the 19th-Century novel.) Jenny bears a marked facial resemblance to me, and is the same height, skin-tone, and overall build, but has four magnificently shapely limbs, instead of two, and two useless ones. We have been taken for twins on occasion, but she is in fact 20 months older than me. When I look at her, I see myself as I should have been.

She extended the handle of my suitcase and wheeled it to her car and put it on the back seat, then opened the passenger door for me. I got in and did up the safety belt, and we left. Jenny, as usual, did most of the talking on the journey, leaving me to chip in with the occasional "yeah" or "no" as appropriate.

On arrival at the college, she took charge of my suitcase again, and offered me her right arm, which I put my left hand in - far from essential, but it helps. I limped slowly into the building, my right arm flopping around all over the place, and went up to the registration table. Jenny parked my case, wished me luck, said she'd see me in a week, gave me a sisterly peck on the cheek, and left.

"Good morning. Can I have your name please?"

said the pleasant middle-aged lady behind the table.

"Nnnnuh... nnnuh... nnnnnnnuh..."

I replied, before giving up, reaching into my shoulder bag, pulling out the laminated card which I keep for just such occasions with my name, Nicola Williams, printed on it, and showing it to her. (A relatively high proportion of congenital right-hemis also stammer, the equivalent of the aphasia which people with acquired right-hempilegia usually have. It's an odd fact that many stammerers have especial difficulty saying their own name, and that is certainly true of me.) She asked me to sign in, pointing to my name on her list, which I did, squinting at it a bit sideways because of my limited field of vision, then gave me a folder with various bits of information about the coming week. I grabbed my suitcase, politely declining the offer of another volunteer to carry it, and headed towards the Halls of Residence after she showed me the way.

"Excuse me - are you heading for the Halls of Residence?"

The male voice came from behind me. I turned, and saw a tall, good-looking white man of about 30 with short brown hair, wearing a blue shirt and jeans, and pulling a wheeled suitcase similar to mine.

"Err... yeah"

I replied.

"So'm I. Can I carry your case?"

"But - but yyyouve - got - got - got your... (long pause) own ca-case to ca-carry...".

"That's ok, I can manage two"

he said. I gratefully relented.

"I'm Gordon Wright, by the way"

he said, as we set off.

"Hi. I'm..."

and out came the card again.

As we walked, he considerately adjusting his pace to mine, He asked me where I'd come from.

"St Albans"

I replied.

It turned out he was from Hemel Hempstead, just down the road.

"Are you going to the quiz in the main bar tonight?"

was his next question.

"Mer - maybe"

I answered.

"Great - we can be a team!"

he said. So that was arranged.

We were grouped into study groups of six, and I was mildly surprised to discover that we were in the same group. I'd spotted him talking to one of the lecturers beforehand. Could he have wangled it? I'm not used to being pursued by good-looking blokes, but who knew?

We met in the bar at eight-fifteen that night, and he bought us both pints of beer, and we found a table to ourselves. We were in the middle of the results in the end - not the worst, but not the best, so no prizes. He offered to walk back with me to my room - he was in another block - but I politely declined. He was nice, but just a bit on the pushy side, so I thought it wisest.

Next morning, at breakfast, I peered round the hall, and saw him sitting at a table on his own. I headed for it, and the volunteer lady who was carrying my tray for me followed me over. I sat down opposite him, and said

"Hi!"

brightly, and smiled. I was glad of the opportunity to make it clear that I hadn't been giving him the complete brush-off the previous night. He was obviously pleased to see me, and began by apologising if he'd been too pushy the previous day. I put my finger to my lips, and he smiled and stopped.

"Erm... erm... erm... wuh - what are we... what are we doing... erm... tonight, then?"

"Well, there's a disco..."

he started.

"I doh - I doh - I... don't dance"

I replied,

"Fuh-for... [long pause as I struggled to get a sound out of my mouth; finally, after more than ten seconds] obvious reasons. Ha-how... how... how about the bar?"

He happily agreed.

That evening, over pints, we told each other more about ourselves. He was a manager with Royal Mail; I told him that I made a living as a freelance writer of articles for various magazines on disability and cookery, and also as a food photographer.

"I... erm... love fafood!"

I said, patting my ample belly. I then got a bit serious, and told him about the disabilities I had that he was unaware of, the severe epilepsy and the restricted field of vision. He said that he'd noticed the way I squinted at things a bit sideways, and had wondered if I had sight problems. I said that I sometimes walked into large objects on my right-hand side, because I couldn't see them. We both got rather drunk, and I as usual got silly and giggly. Finally he walked me back to my room. I made us both coffee in the communal kitchen, refusing his offer of help, then let him carry them back to my room. We drank them sitting next to each other on the bed, somewhat closer than was strictly necessary, and he confessed that he was very strongly attracted to me, and that he had a thing about disabled women. I told him I'd guessed as much, that I didn't mind, and that he was brave for saying so. He leaned in a bit closer, and I, to encourage him, put my left arm round his waist.

"Puh... put mmmmy arm... round you"

I said.

He put his arms round my waist, then realised what I'd actually said, took my right hand, and put it behind his back, where I grabbed it with my left hand. Then he embraced me, and began to snog my face off. I responded, just as enthusiastically.

We were by this time lying on the bed alongside and facing one another. I could feel his membrum virile standing to attention.

"Wuh... we ca-can't... wwwaste that, cacan wuhwe?"

I started to undo his shirt buttons, and he unzipped my dress and unhooked my bra. He had invested in a packet of johnnies, the cheeky young so-and-so, and now unrolled one on to his erect member, then entered me, thrusting vigorously. I yelped with pain, but urged him to continue, until we both achieved climax together.

Afterwards, as we lay alongside each other, he to my right, he picked up my right hand and began stroking and kissing my thin, withered arm after asking if I minded, and being assured that I didn't.

After he left, I sat on my bed, amazed and delighted that I had finally, at the age of 26, lost my virginity, having never considered myself boyfriend material before, and having assumed I'd be single for life. Then, as a precaution, I put my knickers back on, with a pad inside them, before throwing my dressing gown around me and heading for the loo. I didn't quite make it, and in the end didn't need to. I came round on the floor in front of the bowl, next to the shower, and removed and disposed of the soaking pad before struggling to my feet and heading to bed.

We saw much of each other for the rest of the week; on one occasion I rather spoiled things by having a fit just as we were starting to get intimate. We continued to date after we went home, he driving over to St Albans each time. We had a day out in London, me in a manual wheelchair, pushed by him, which we hired for the day, since I can't walk vey fast or very far. We went on the London eye, and I had a fit right at the top. We were an item, and he moved into my flat.

All that was three years ago. We are now married, and I am happier than I've ever been, despite the fact that my stammer continues, very slowly, to get worse. On the other hand, new medication has got my epilepsy much more under control - I now have only one or two fits a month. However, the main reason for my current happiness, apart from lovely Gordon, is that I am three months pregnant!