SCI. I never thought I’d need to know what those letters represented or meant--- but now I’m an expert, thanks to Drew. Spinal Cord Injury. Approximately 450,000 people live with SCI in the US. There are about 8,000 new SCIs every year; the majority of them (82%) involve males between the ages of 16-30. These injuries result from motor vehicle accidents (42%), violence (24%), or falls (22%). I wonder if that includes cat fights in gay bars?

Drew dreamed of flying but now he had fallen. However, x-rays proved that his spinal cord was not severed, and that chances are he had an incomplete SCI because he could FEEL his legs but could not move them. Once the swelling subsided, the doctors would be able to get a bigger picture of his injury.

In sports medicine, we often said that if a patient was an asshole before their injury, they were certainly an asshole afterwards and to not put up with their abuse. Drew was no different.

Granted, he had a right to be unhappy and to complain. But if there were an Academy Award for the best pity party performance of the year--- it would have to go to Drew. Demanding, whining, crying, and worst of all, a control freak.

I had to rent a van that would be able to allow him to stretch out completely for our drive back to Los Angeles. He demanded it had a CD player. My mother helped once again, and normally, even this stoic woman of virtue would be able to put up with someone like Drew. But even she was growing weary as she brought him dinner in bed--- again--- since he stated that eating in his wheelchair made him feel like a Baby Jane reject.

“You know Drew,” said my mother. “I was thinking of getting you that Barbie doll.” He looked up from his plate of food.

“The lamb is overcooked.” He said, pushing the plate towards the edge of the TV tray.

“Yes, Drew, its called Share a Smile Becky. And it’s a Barbie in a wheelchair.”

“You should get me one so I can roll her into the toilet, because that’s where I’m going to end up.”

My mom looked at me; frustrated that even her desperate attempt at camp humor couldn’t break his sorrow.

“Eric,” mumbled Drew. “I’m done.” He motioned to me I could remove the TV tray of food.

“Eric,” said my mother. “Could you get me another glass of Chardonnay?”

As I balanced the plates and glasses and crossed towards the door, suddenly I found a wave of anger rising inside of me. I was taking care of everyone and I was tired. No, I was exhausted, and found myself about to burst.

“Oh, and honey, could you get me another pillow from the closet on the way back?” Asked Drew.

“You have a wheelchair, go get it yourself.” I said. Both Drew and my mother stared at me, dumbstruck. “Oh, please. Drew, I’m sick of it. Quit living that movie THE OTHER SIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN and get off your ass and do something. You’re not a diva, you’re my new husband, and I’m not going to treat you like a baby.”

“LUIGI!” Barked my mother, clearly surprised.

“And mom, quit playing the doting mother-in-law. I’m not taking care of you all the time, either.” You could hear my mother’s mouth drop to the floor but I continued. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything left to give anyone. It’s my turn. I need a break; I deserve some attention.”

Not even married a month and already I felt ignored and taken for granted.