Brace Maker

“I’m not sure about this,” John told me. “It’s been a very long time.”

“I don’t think we have a choice anymore,” I told him. John is a friend of mine and now about to be my client. “You fell.”

He looked away from me. “Yes. My balance is getting worse.”

I knew it was. It was why, at the age of 50 he was trying braces in the first place. He hadn't worn them since he was a kid. But cerebral palsy accelerates old age, accelerates osteoarthritis. Tight hip muscles had turned his legs in, so he tripped over his own feet if he wasn’t careful, walking as he did pigeon toed. Tight tendons bent his knees when he walked. Hence why he fell, I’m sure. Once there was a time, he hated the idea of a cane. It made him appear handicapped, an argument that never failed to annoy me. You do have a disability and you’re falling. No one cares that you have one. Get over it.  Then one day he did and got a walker.  And all this shamed him. As if it was his fault, he had been oxygen deprived at birth or getting older. My feeling is there’s enough people to blame without including him. The doctors, maybe. God. The Moirai-Fate. But he’s the one that feels ashamed. I have given up telling him not to. There’s no denying the voices in someone’s head and one can’t outshout them either. I’ve tried. Besides, I have my own voices that I try to deny. So, who am I to judge? Yeah, who am I kidding? Of course I do.

“I got very sick. I tried to get up and I fell.” He shrugged.

I remembered the incident. I had called him to wish him a Merry belated Christmas and he said he was sick. The flu. I don’t know why being sick makes his balance worse, but it also does the same thing to my son. I’ve seen him stumble, act like his legs can just about support his weight when he’s sick. Maybe it’s a similar thing in both of them.  Sean doesn’t have cerebral palsy, but he does have speech apraxia, difficulty speaking.  And John has difficulty with skilled movements, another apraxia. His hands tremble when he writes or eats. He has to concentrate very hard on anything I take for granted. Walking or cooking. Even speaking. He lives alone and in his voice I thought I heard fear. What if next time I can't get up? Who will help me? I couldn’t blame him either. So, John got a prescription from his doctor and here we are in my patient’s room where all the chairs have plaster on them. We clean them but there is still some on the legs, in the crevices. On a table is our tools. A cast saw. Plaster and fiberglass bandages. Cotton stockinette, tubes and bandage scissors. Also, samples of various braces. I tell him I want to make him ones of plastic that will fit in his shoes and go up the back of his legs.

 “And they will help keep your knees from buckling.” Hopefully. “So today we’re going to take a mold of your legs. From the knee down.” I pulled over the bucket of water that's usually sitting in the patient room, gloves and plaster wrap.  “Roll up your pants and next time don’t wear black.” Inevitably plaster will get on them especially if I do it. I’m messy. I put cotton stockinette on his legs. Then a narrow rubber tube.

“I’m going to work after this. What’s that tube for?”

“I’m going to cut the cast off along that.”

He nervously eyed my cast saw.

“Don’t worry I got my eyes checked two years ago. If I just squint I can see you.” We laughed. “What’s new anyway?” I dipped the plaster into the water and squeezed it out. Then I started rolling it on his leg from his toes to just below his knee.

“We’re busy.” John works at a store in Miami. “It’s season you know. All the old people have come from New York to God’s waiting room.” It’s what he calls the 50 and over retirement community near his store. And he doesn’t say it but I’m sure he’s exhausted at night. Even if he sits and works the cash register instead of stocking, I’m sure he’s exhausted. He’s struggling to walk. That in itself must be exhausting. I never thought about it before.

“John, why don’t you retire and go on disability? It would be easier for you, no?”

“No,” he said quietly.

“Well, why not? Wait, hold that thought.” The plaster on his right leg was hard. I decided to forego the loud vibrating cast saw. He might jerk at the sensation. Instead I took a cast blade, similar to a utility knife and ran it down the cast along the tube. It began to separate. It took me a few goes but I was able to get through the plaster. I cut the stockinette with bandage scissors, pulled the edges of the mold apart and lifted it away from his leg. “Now I have a mold to make your brace from.” I explain although I wasn’t asked. “We’ll seal this and fill it with liquid plaster. Then we can strip off the plaster cast and have a mold of your leg.”

John isn’t listening or doesn’t care. “I like working. And I have bills to pay. I need work done on the house I can’t afford to have done as it is. And then there’s my father. He has no money either.”

“He has his girlfriend.” His father isn’t a stupid man. I don’t know where his money went. The only thing I can think of is that he simply outlived it. Guy’s what, ninety years old? Whose retirement can last that long? If he retired at 65 that’s as long as I’ve been working, almost.

John laughed. “She’s broke too. Besides, she’s leaving her-again.”

Those two are always off and on.  I don’t know. I might have told him that it wasn’t his business, that he wasn’t responsible for him. That he is cold and probably the reason why John is often ashamed of himself. I think he was ashamed of him, God only knows why. But I knew better than that also. It is his father after all. I started casting his other leg. John continued on, “I can’t just quit work. And my new lady friend won’t be happy either.”

“Stubborn pride.” I muttered to myself. I’m in the same position in that I can’t afford to retire. But I’m also healthy. At least for the moment. If this job ever taught me is this: good health should be cherished, valued, considered a blessing from the gods. That can change in a heartbeat. Also, nature has unbelievable ways to destroy a person. But a lot of people have unbelievable strength. Or they’re too stubborn to give up. I haven’t decided which it is. But there is an indescribable force in a lot of people. Like John they’ve said screw this pain, this stroke, this polio. I have to live. I have to because I have things to do. A child or a grandchild to raise. A mother, father to help. A game of golf or pickle-ball to play. A new lady friend. I don't know where they find this force either. If one could bottle that but we never would be able to. Each of us must create it inside ourselves.

“What did you say?”

I’m kneeling on the floor, holding his ankle in as close to a neutral, correct position as I can get it. Everyone says I will kill my knees but actually it’s my back that hurts. “You’re stubborn.”

“And? You just now figured this out?”

“Quit laughing. You’re shaking and I’m not going to be able to cut this off.” I gave up on the blade and took the cast saw with its round, vibrating blade. “Now this is what you get. Noise and vibration.”

He laughs again so his body shakes. I laugh too and we have to wait. Finally I've got the cast off. I'm done.

A week later we were back for the fitting. Two stiff plastic braces, because I don’t want his knees to buckle, just bend when he swings his legs to walk. As much as he can with his stiff hips. They’re made of polypropylene and their color is off white. Like a translucent cream.

“Take your walker. They’re going to feel weird.” Also, probably throw your balance off, at least at first. I didn’t say that.

John stood in them. “I feel taller.”

“That’s the idea. They straightened your knees.” Not a lot. But enough so that he could feel the difference. That was good enough for me. I’d long ago given up on miracles. I’m happy if a person gets the smallest benefit from braces. Even if they’re a lifesaver they’re like a pair of steel toed shoes. Everyone is happy to take them off. They’re not muscle and sinew after all.

He slowly walked across the room with them.  It wasn’t perfect by any means. He still struggled. But less. “They hurt,” he said.

“Builds character,” I told him.

“You’re not funny. I thought I had character enough.”

“My son doesn’t appreciate it when I say that either. Fine. Where do they hurt?”

“I could try them and see if I get used to them.” He walked back. “I do think they help.”

“If they’re hurting, I have to fix them. Where are they rubbing.”

He showed me. The right ankle and a spot on the left foot. I marked it with a pen. “Wait a minute.”

I went back into our work area. Also, the area where my boss stores stuff. I think the man has hoarder tendencies. It’s a small room crammed with tools, old braces, and supplies.  I found our heat gun on the work bench and started heating plastic. I eyed the smoke alarm. I had set the stupid thing off before doing this but today it was silent.  When it got hot enough, I took it to the anvil and contoured the spots John had said hurt him. I let them cool and then brought them back into the patient’s room. “Let’s try them now.”

“They’re better. But I have to get used to them.” He walked towards the full-length mirror at one end of our long room. “What do you think?”

That your hips are still stiff, you’re still rotated in and we only straightened your knees a little. And we’re forty years too late. On the other hand, he looked more stable and what did I want, a miracle? Because he and I both knew we weren’t going to get one. We’d get him to keep working for a while longer. We’d get him walking a little longer. Because everyone knew once someone got in the wheelchair, he may never get out of it again. We all want to keep going a little longer.

"You're walking better to me. You tell me."

"I think so." He smiled at me.

"But look. Practice at home first. Don't wear them to work yet. When you get used to them in the house, then wear them there. Okay? And if you get a sore you need to let me know. Are you going to your job now?"

"Yes. Yes I am."