HE USED TO WALK DOWN THE STAIRS BACKWARDS 

Squeezing a tennis ball was out of the question. He'd throw it under his hospital bed. Sometimes across the room, to the side where the other patient was. The old Portuguese man he wouldn’t let watch his TV. Who he’d pull the curtains on if he saw him looking at it.  

“Let him pay for his own” 

Dave was different after the stroke. Called all of his black nurses Sambo. Those poor nurses who always pretended not to hear it. 

“He doesn’t mean what he's saying”, Norma had to keep telling them. 

When he was finally allowed to go home, he never stopped feeling sorry for himself. When the cat died a few days later, he hated that everyone cried for it. Angry they were upset over that, and not him.  

“Oh, stop it”, he snapped. “Such a fuss about a cat” 

Because Dave continued to refuse to do any of the exercises the hospital had insisted he do, his right hand quickly withered. Could do nothing but hang limply at his side and from then on he would have to come down the stairs, holding the banister with his left hand. Walking backwards very slowly, very carefully.