It didn’t ever suck to be his sister. Not as a little girl, when he ran interference with the middle brother, who worshiped him and hated me. Not as a teenager, when he was an adult still living at home and I never passed up a chance to remind him of that in a typical, bratty, little sister way.

The night in July 1979 that he dove into a pond and broke his neck, paralyzing him from the shoulders down, I was at the movies with friends and our mom was at the bar where she worked. Typical Friday night; he was going out with his friends. Neither of us knew, when we said goodbye, that it would be eight months before he would again see the inside of our house. And the last time he would walk out of it. The last time he would walk.

He came home from the NYU rehab hospital, for the first time, for his 21st birthday in March 1980. More than 200 people crammed themselves into the neighborhood Clubhouse to welcome him home. It was a shock, I’m sure, for almost everyone there, to see him in a wheelchair. Scotty was tall and not fat but built. Now he was staring at your nether-regions when you stood next to him, and he’d shed a ton of weight. Still. He had that beautiful smile.

I was jealous. I’ll admit it. It was my birthday too; there were two cakes for Scott, including one really ugly one with frosting pot leaves. I didn’t get a cake. And okay I was pissed, because it was my birthday too. So I did what every pissed-off 15-year-old does: snuck drinks from everyone, and seethed. Until I saw what he was doing.

Scott did his best to make everyone feel comfortable with the chair. He had so many friends, and he wanted them to know that he was still him: still the funny, ball-busting, kind, empathetic, Little Feat-loving, blue jeans wearing, hippie, that he always was.

I saw that. Saw him try to get people to laugh when they’d start tearing up at the reality of his new life. Don’t worry, I’m still me. I’m still here. And I’m fucking great.

He would joke when anyone would get that awful pity look on their face; he didn’t want pity: He wanted to PARTY. He was still a 21-year-old guy, who loved women and weed, boobs and booze, especially Jack Daniels. The 21-year-old who still blasted Lynyrd Skynyrd, Hot Tuna, the Feat, Santana, Bonnie Raitt, Springsteen, and his favorite, Thin Lizzy, whenever he could. Who still thought about getting his own place and getting married someday, maybe even having kids; who had dreams for his life. Different dreams, altered dreams, but still: he wasn’t dead, he was just paralyzed. As he would assure alllll the dudes who were wondering (and prolly some of the bolder girls): My dick still works and my tongue is just fine. I’m getting some tonight.

And he did.

I didn’t. I was 15. What I got was a fucking hangover from drinking creme de menth in the form of Grasshoppers because that was all that was left.

Scott had a big head. No, not the ‘Ain’t I grand’ kind of big head. I mean an actual big head. We called him Buoy as a kid. But maybe that giant, thick, Irish noggin housed his huge heart. Because even when people shat on him? He didn’t hold a grudge. Not even against our father, a natural-born sadist.

Once, we were visiting our father after the divorce. Scott was down the street shooting hoops: he was good, and he loved it. He had a bone disease in his knees that made kneeling or any direct pressure excruciating. Our father knew it. One night Scott stayed out late playing ball and came back to the apartment. Our father the sadist was enraged.

He put rice on the floor in a corner and made Scott kneel on it. Scott tried not to cry. I did not. I begged him to let Scott up. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t hurt our mother anymore. So he hurt her children.

Scott still couldn’t bring himself to hate the old man. That’s okay. I’ve enough hate for both of us. Especially after what he said about Scott when we saw him for the first time after the accident.

By then, that day in 1979, we hadn’t seen the sadist in years. He ghosted his children because our mother sued him for an increase in child support. Missed Scott’s graduation from high school; didn’t come when Scott shattered his ankle and broke all his top teeth in a car accident when he was 16. He sent us a typewritten letter informing us of our grandfather’s death, and signed it, Sincerely, Ken.

Two days after Scott’s dive into the pond, I walked into his hospital room. The fucker was there. He looked at me then looked at his paralyzed son who had four screws piercing his skull to immobilize his broken neck, and asked about our other brother:

“Is K. as big as you two?”

Later, in the hallway, talking with our mother, the monster looked hard at her and said,

“He won’t live to be forty.”

He said that. About his own child. So smug, so matter-of-factly. As if he knew any fucking thing about anything.

Well you dumb piece of shit. He did. He lived another 20 years. Making people laugh.

Just in case you don’t know, being paralyzed sucks. A quadriplegic’s body has been severely damaged; the central nervous system is a high-maintenance bit of science. Damaged, it likes to play tricks. Like spasms.The first time I saw Scott’s legs move, I was shocked: OH MY GOD!! YOUR LEGS ARE MOVING!!

Oh FUCK, Sis!! All those prayers finally worked!!!! I’m…I’m…I’m HEALED! THANK YOU, JESUS!!

Me, crying: YES YES YES!! You’re going to WALK!!!!!

Scott: Yeah. Nah. That was just a spasm. Still a quad.

Me: WHAT? WHAT? Oh my god. I swear, I HATE YOU RIGHT NOW.

Scott: I know. I love you too. And I’m still better looking.

In case you’re feeling bad for Scott? Don’t. He always got the last laugh.

For instance, when he came home from the hospital, our house wasn’t yet equipped for him to bathe inside. So, he was wheeled onto the back porch, and showered via a little hose hooked up to the kitchen sink. He didn’t shower much in the winter months.

And where I would’ve rather died than be seen naked by our neighbors? Scott gave neither two shits nor a fuck. How could he? He lost all sense of modesty having been seen naked and vulnerable by his mother, sister, friends, hundreds of doctors, nurses, therapists, orderlies, nursing assistants, and girls he liked. He would sit buck naked in his shower chair and wave like the goddamned Queen of England to the hood.

He hadn’t been home all that long when we all learned the hard way that pressure sores are real AF and not to be taken lightly. Scott’s personal care assistant would get him up during the day and then we — well, okay, usually me but sometimes with friends of his — would get him in bed.

Imagine laying down and not moving. Blood pools. Circulation is poor. Skin breaks down. And by breaks down I mean splits open. And when you can’t move? The wound gets worse. On a hip, a foot, a shoulder, an ass. Especially an ass.

The first time, it started off as a red spot that kept getting worse. One of the doctors told us that it was critical that the area be kept dry. Use a blowdryer, he advised.

So, for a few days we would turn Scott on his side and blowdry his ass. Yes. You read that right.

Unfortunately, in our zeal to make sure the red spot was good and dry, someone got a little carried away and gave his ass a full-on blowout.

Oops.

The red spot was gone and in its place was a blister. An oozing gigantic ass blister. That turned in to a bigger ass sore. And then it got ugly: you could see the flesh and it wasn’t pretty. It was red and angry and then grossly green and purple and pus. It wasn’t healing. It spread. By the time the visiting nurse got to see it, the red spot had developed into an ass hole. No, I mean a literal hole, a tunnel, that went from his butt cheek damn near to the bone.

How did this happen? she asked, horrified.

My mother and sister were blowing me and uh, I guess they carried away, he said.

I felt horrible. And guilty. But I was mortified at that image and was not amused. I HATE YOU! I told him.

Scott laughed. I know. I love you too. Now get me to the hospital.

He ended up spending more than two months in a Boston hospital. And he told everyone who asked that his sister tried to kill him with a blowdryer to the ass.

Good one, Bro. Well played.