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quite the model patient you were. They did an awful lot of comparing her with you. I’m Betty—Betty Jackson. The girl in the bed over there is Denise Walters.”
    “Hi. Pardon me if I don’t get up.”
    “Yeah, I know the un -feeling,” I wisecracked, adding, “Nice to meet you, Denise.”
    “And this is Betty too,” said Betty Jackson, pointing with a flop of a useless arm, “Betty Glover. They call me B.J. to tell us apart.” Betty Glover was a pretty, petite black girl who looked much younger than the rest of us.
    “Hi, Betty,” I smiled.
    Betty looked up and nodded slightly.
    “I’m here because of a broken neck—like you,” B.J. explained. “Betty has a blood clot on her spine. They’re working on her to see why she’s paralyzed. And Denise is here because she has M.S.”
    “M.S.?” I asked ignorantly.
    “Multiple sclerosis.”
    I regretted asking. I recalled hearing about M.S. in the hospital. It’s a fatal disease. Denise will probably be dead before she reaches her twentieth birthday, I thought, shivering inwardly, and wondered how she maintained her gracious and open attitude.
    “And in this cor-nah,” clowned B.J., “is Ann Wilson, whose mouth you’ve already met. Ann is in charge of b _ _ _ _ _ _ _.”
    “Aw, go—” Ann cursed. She took a cigarette from her lips and threw it at Denise. It landed harmlessly on the tile floor.
    “Well, now you’ve met us. You ready for this marriage?” asked B.J.
    “I—I guess so, yeah,” I stammered. Except for Ann and that smoke, I thought to myself.
    Ann had lit up another cigarette. In the hospital, I had discouraged people from smoking around me. In Greenoaks, many of thepatients smoked. To me, smoking was ugly, smelly, and something I wanted other people to do only in their own homes or rooms—not around me. I hated the choking smoke and acrid smell. But now I could claim only one-fifth of this room. There wasn’t anything to do but get used to the smoke and make the best of the situation.
    I tried the one ploy I knew and said to Ann, “You know, that stuff causes lung cancer. It’ll kill you.
    She looked squarely at me and replied in even tones, “Why do you think I’m doing it?”
    But Ann wasn’t nearly as difficult and contrary as my first impressions of her. I could see a lot of my own attitudes of bitterness and resentment in her. A few weeks ago, I was going through the same depression and despondency, I remembered. I wanted to kill myself too. Ann was more confused than anything else. She used anger to lash out because she didn’t know what else to do. I decided to try and get to know her better.
    During the next few days, I got an even closer look at Greenoaks. Patients from every age, economic, occupational, and racial background were housed in the four wings of the institution. They consisted of amputees, paraplegics, quadriplegics, polio victims, and those suffering from muscular dystrophy, multiple sclerosis, and other diseases affecting the motor and nervous systems.
    “How come there are so many new people—mostly guys our age?” I asked B.J.
    “Broken necks. Most broken necks happen in summer with swimming and diving accidents. They usually spend a couple months in city hospitals and then come here for rehab,” B.J. explained.
    I made a mental note of the way she abbreviated the word rehabilitation. I listened for other such “inside” or slang terms used by the girls so I would not sound so much like a greenhorn.
    “How many broken neck cases are new?” I asked.
    “Oh, maybe ten, fifteen.”
    “How long have you been here, B.J.?”
    “Two years,” she answered.
    Two years! I recoiled inwardly at the thought. Two years—and she’s still paralyzed and in bed like me! The fact that I might be here that long really depressed me. I was silent for a long while.
    That night as I lay in my Stryker frame trying to sleep, I was troubled by the old attitudes and bitterness that had made me so despondent at the