The year was 1978 and by virtue of my pigheadedness, I was homeless while still attending high school. Trouble was, I turned 18 in December, which meant I considered myself an official adult. I had my clothes, my crappy pea-green Plymouth Cricket, and my job at Marshalls. My take home pay was $60 a week which I considered a richly sum and enough to set me on my goal of independence.

It didn’t really work out the way I had envisioned.

First off, NO ONE will rent an apartment to an 18-year-old in high school. Trust me on that. Secondly, food cost money. Without parental refrigerator stocking, one is left to one’s own devices in acquiring food stuffs – and that involved cash. Finally, sleeping in one’s car may lead to indigents peeping in your windows while offering you some indistinguishable treasure and your fear level jumps up a few notches. It sucked.

So the first thing I did was to seek out better living accommodations. I found an ad for a roommate who would be allowed one room in a house, use of the kitchen, and would be required to help a polio sufferer. After meeting Miss Sandy face-to-face, she decided to hire me to help her, yet charge me to stay in the room. The net result was that I would owe her $40 a week for lodgings. Made sense to me, especially since I only had nighttime duties which meant I could still go to high school and work at Marshalls.

Sandy had been a vibrant young woman. An avid outdoor person, she hiked, skied, and surfed. In 1966, when polio was on the steep decline due to aggressive vaccinations, Sandy somehow acquired the virus. She was only 20. Unfortunately, Sandy had paralytic polio – and after a few years of medical care, her prognosis was bleak. She couldn’t walk or move her arms, however, she could move one index finger. And she could somewhat breathe on her own, as long as she had her portable oxygen tank with a tube nearby to take sips off of.

My job was each night at precisely 10 pm, I was to wheel Sandy from her livingroom space to her bedroom. All day long Sandy had a slew of folks who’d visit with her, some political advocates, some childhood friends and a few relatives. Sandy, with a specialized phone and help from her day worker, would make calls to her congress people requesting an audience. She was an advocate for the immobile folk. She’d refer to herself as “handicapped” but capable as well. She made things happen for others. But at night, when the phone was silent and the people were gone, it was a quiet and empty house made bleaker by the few decorations, lack of rugs, wall hangings, and color. Sandy’s priorities were elsewhere.

What I did learn, is that she once had a fiancée who loved her dearly. He stuck by her for a few years, waiting out the finality of her condition. And then he just disappeared, she told me, without sentimentality. At the age of 18, I knew the subtext – that romance was gone from her dreams. I downplayed my own romantic adventures.

When I’d wheel Sandy, I had a process, which took me a few nights to understand. I’d wheel a huge hook toward her mechanical hospital bed. I’d unhook two huge straps then place each one under Sandy’s body by rolling her to one side, then the other. I’d rehook the straps and wheel her to her bedroom. In the bedroom, I’d reverse the process by unhooking her. Then I’d get a hospital-looking blanket and put it across her chest and down to her feet. Her arms were placed on top of the blanket, and an emergency buzzer was placed near her one working finger. That finger could move up and down, but the knuckles did not bend, so it was important that I place the buzzer in the exact correct position. All the while I would be conducting each step, Sandy would recite outloud exactly what I should do and how. She had a deep respect for the body which could not move – and she demanded the same respect from me.

After that I placed a mobile artificial lung over her chest, making sure her arms were not pinched in the process. I had but a short time to do this, then turn on the artificial lung, which made a strange whooshing back and forth noise. Sandy would be taking tiny gulps of air while I set everything in place, and by the time I turned on the machine, a look of abject relief would grace her face. Sometimes I was a bit slow, which would anger Sandy and reprimand me, “I need air! You have to be better at this!”

The last thing I did, was assist Sandy in relieving her bladder. I’d have to remove her underpants, then lift her pelvic region while placing a bed pan under her body. She was absurdly lightweight. She knew when she was finished, and say, “okay, you can clean up now.” With gloves on, I would then take a warmed washcloth and gently wipe her. She had asked me to look away, and to keep the blanket down around her pelvic region as much as possible. It would be silent. I could feel her humiliation, having a teen girl help with such an intimate necessity. Sandy’s anger, pain and annoyance at her condition bubbled at the end of the night. I sensed she was unhappy with me, unhappy that she had been like me once not too long ago – that loved loomed in her life and left – that long walks were now just dreams and recollections – and I sensed at the unjustness that someone with a definite love of outdoor and activity, was stricken down, literally, from the neck down – with something as tiny as a sickly germ cell.
In daylight, the grace of sun seemed to restore Sandy’s better humor and her focus. She got back to work – making calls, dictating letters, and meeting other advocates. I usually left for school just as the day got busy, and didn’t return until 10pm.

I want to say I did all the right things, that I was honorable and reliable. But I would not be telling the truth. After a couple of months, and learning that I didn’t really have the maturity necessary for this job, it was apparent I was a great annoyance for Sandy. How I recall those final days, was sitting in an empty bedroom in Sandy’s house, sniffing a bar of Caress soap, and realizing I was horrifically lonely. I had a boyfriend, but I had no interest in being with him, seeing him or even spending time with him any longer – but I couldn’t help but want to flee. I scraped at the pleasant-smelling Caress with my fingernail and sat on the bare floor in that room, tears rolling down my cheeks. “What have I gotten myself into?” I had become selfish on top of lonely. Each day I found myself staying out just a little bit later, especially on Friday nights when I spent time with my best girlfriend, Mel. We’d just go driving around and such, but going back to Sandy’s house was too much for me.

“You HAVE to be here at 10PM! I can’t fall off schedule. It’s critical!” she said, likely would have been yelling if her lungs were more functional.

“Yea, I’m so sorry,” I’d always say. Sandy’s exasperation said it all.

One day, a friend offered me a place to stay in lieu of where I was living. I jumped at the chance to get away. I thought Sandy would be relieved, but she was not. She’d have to advertise in the paper again, train a new person again, suffer ‘that kind’ of humiliation again, it was too much. She was not a person to hold back, heck, she had to fight everyday just for a walkway accessible area – so indeed she spew out a few choice barbs at me. Now it was I who felt humiliated by my own actions.

It was over. I felt so miserable and relieved. 35 years later, I still think of Sandy. I think how I’ve matured and can’t believe the teenage Terese put someone through that kind of misery or inconvenience. I know, if Sandy’s still alive, she would not remember me because I was just a blip in her history line – that I wasn’t one of the people who made a difference in her tragic life. But, I think of her, and the lessons I learned. I reflect a lot about the billions of choices and commitments that affects other peoples’ lives. Once in a while, I tried to remedy my own humiliation, like writing down the things I’ve done in the past that were hurtful to others. I only hope, wherever Sandy is – hopefully alive and being an advocate in her 70s – that she forgives a teen who took a long time to understand the ramifications of responsibility.