Creaking wheelchair, motorized whirring, engine malfunctions, nakedness, fed by others for his entire life, loved intensely by everyone around him. He does as much as he possibly can. I don’t know him in any other way or physical state except for this one. He has been this way since I was born.

    His sharply angled elbows and gnarled hands move slightly yet remain in the same rigid shape. The only movement he’s capable of is the slight shifting of his shoulders. I feed him forkfuls of cheap, greasy chow mein. He mumbles through a mouthful of food for me to try and get more bean sprouts in the next bite. They have always been his favorite. The grease causes the fork to slip out of my hands onto the rough and short green carpet. As I stoop to pick it up I feel how abrasive it is on my flesh. It has to be short and hard or else his wheels would get caught in it.

    When no one in the house makes food we always order BoBo’s Chinese food. It tastes like grease and burning rubber but he loves it and I tolerate it. Usually when I come over we watch some sort of science fiction television show or movie. Tonight it’s Star Trek: The Original Series. As we watch he tells me tidbits of Star Trek knowledge that no one else in the world can know. He speaks slowly and thoughtfully in order to use the best diction possible.

    Earlier that day we went to Whole Foods, I followed closely behind him down the aisles as he told me what to put in the cart I pushed lazily. Most of the things he very politely asked me to put in the cart were breakfast related foods: yogurt, berries, granola, bananas, pancake mix, milk, and eggs. He let me pick out my favorite rose flavored macarons and offered to buy them for me, as per usual. I paid for my own avocado sushi rolls in return. At the deli portion of the store he ordered a veggie wrap and I picked it up for him. I told him to wait outside while I paid for his groceries as I took his wallet out of the little pack attached to the back of his chair.

    Outside, we followed our usual routine. I’d dip an avocado roll in some soy sauce and eat it and then give him a bite of his wrap, then another avocado roll, then another bite of the wrap, and so on. I think he likes having routine to comfort him. It’s one of the few things he can control in his life. We talk about what I’m doing in school, the Dodgers game he went to, the books we’ve both been reading, television shows we’ve watched, cultural and political issues we’ve been thinking about. He has grey hair which happens to be long at the moment even though he typically keeps it cropped short. For being immobile he is unusually tan and worldly.

    He lives a very different life from other people. Not being able to feed himself, clothe himself, move, get in bed, go to the bathroom, take medicine, go to the grocery store, or go anywhere. Everyone in my family and his lifelong friends who have become part of our family all take care of him and support him. At times he contemplates suicide but I encourage him to talk about it with me because then I can cheer him up and take him out to lunch at his favorite places and go to Dodgers games with him whenever he sinks into those thoughts.

    When I was little I would hold onto the back of his wheelchair as he went down the ramp which led to the back entrance to the towering, wooden house him and my grandma shared. I wasn’t supposed to according to my mother, but it always made him happy when I would do so. Each crack in the wood he’d roll over would make a clicking noise, the closer the clicking noises came to one another the faster we were going. As he picked up speed I would always squeal in delight and close my eyes and yell for him to slow down because I was afraid he wouldn’t make the sharp turn at the very end. But he always did.

He’s been paralyzed for 32 years. My uncle can hardly move from the neck down. His name is Henry Queen and when he was 19 he dove into a shallow pool and broke his neck.