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My husband and I were at a crowded party in Berkeley. We were glad to be there. He had been bedridden for eight weeks, but had just been given permission by his doctor to get up for a few hours each day. 

I was leaning against a wall and he was sitting in his electric wheelchair, facing me. His wheelchair blocked the flow of partygoers, much like a big, unmovable Lazy Boy in the middle of heavy traffic. People walked around and in front of him, sometimes stepping between us and over his feet to get to the bar and buffet table.  

I scanned the jam-packed room to see if there was a better place to position ourselves. The only alternative was to wheel Ralph into a corner. I didn’t want to do it. I wanted him to be, as much as possible, a participant in the party.  

A woman sidled up beside me. “You’re the gal who writes about her husband sometimes, aren’t you?” she shouted.  

I balanced my drink in my left hand and introduced myself. “I’m one of them,” I answered. “But there are lots of women who write about their husbands.” 

“I mean you’re the one who writes about her disabled husband, right?” She cast a glance at Ralph.  

“Yes,” I said. “This is Ralph, my husband.” 

She nodded at Ralph and then leaned in closer, toward my ear. “You know, don’t you, that when your articles first appeared in the paper they caused quite a furor in the disabled community?” 

I felt my body go stiff and blood rush to my face. “No,” I said. I glanced at Ralph. I was glad he was unable to hear her words. “What kind of furor?” 

“You don’t know?” she asked. “I was working for a non-profit several years ago when one of your essays was published. No one could believe the things you were saying. You were obviously very angry that your husband had become disabled.” 

I looked down at my feet and up at the ceiling. I took another sip of my drink. 

“Someone copied the article and passed it around the office for everyone to read,” she continued. “We discussed coming over to your house and rescuing your husband. We were worried you might hurt him.” 

I took a bigger gulp of my drink and tried to focus on something. I looked directly at the woman’s face and stared at her nose. It was small and perky. 

“Really?” I said. “I wish you had come over. We could have used some help.” 

She chuckled softly. “We thought you sounded like a crazy person, like you couldn’t handle the situation.” 

“I couldn’t,” I said. “Sometimes I still can’t.”  

“Well, you seem to be doing pretty good now.” She shot another glance at Ralph. He was busy blocking traffic, talking to no one. 

“We were,” I said, “until now.” 

“What?” 

“I didn’t know that anyone wanted to rescue Ralph from me. All those times I took him to doctors’ appointments, therapy sessions and advisory meetings, no one said anything to indicate that they were worried about his safety.” 

I looked at Ralph. He was no longer just in the middle of the crowd. Now the buffet line actually snaked around his wheelchair. The room was growing hot and more congested. I thought it might even be spinning but I wasn’t sure. 

I peered back at the woman. “Do people still feel that way?” I asked. 

“Feel what way?” 

“That Ralph is in danger?” 

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s getting crowded in here. I think I’ll get something to eat.” She scurried off to the end of the food line. 

I turned toward my husband. “Ralph,” I said, leaning down so that he could hear me.  

“I want to go home.” 

“Why?” he asked. 

“Because it feels unsafe in here,” I said. “I think it may be dangerous.”