The Wheelchair in the Hall

When I saw the taxicab pull away at 3 AM I felt relief that it had found us and then, unexpectedly, I fell into a pit of loneliness. My brother was on his way back to Montreal. 

Si tu vois mon pays,
Mon pays malheureux,
Va, dis à mes amis
Que je me souviens d'eux.

Nulli had stayed a week, but it felt like a weekend at most. The hours flashed by, even though we were both working half the time. Two or three times, Nulli was the one who broke off, went downstairs to the shed, got out the ramp and went to meet Benedict Ambrose and his electric wheelchair at the street. He put the ramp and the wheelchair away and watched his brother-in-law's uncertain steps up the staircase. He stood by as B.A. shakingly twisted himself around and dropped into his house wheelchair. I hope Nulli wasn't too distressed. I am constantly distressed. 

B.A. doesn't feel great about it either. 

The flat was affordable to buy and cheap to run and has lovely views and neighbours. But it is crammed with books and furniture, the relics of pre-cancer days, and I trip over the wheelchair in the hall. When it comes to real estate, the FIRE (Financial Independence Retire Early) movement fights over "Rent or Buy?" It's a gamble either way. But when we bought a first floor flat, we hadn't had the slightest indication Benedict Ambrose would develop spinal tumours. It's like having bet on a horse who, mid-race, was beamed aboard an alien spacecraft. 

Do we sell? 

It's a question I try not to dwell on, as moving house is famously one of the most stressful activities there is, and we have enough stress to be getting on with. If the tumours are shrinking, why is B.A. so tired? Will he recover from coming off steroids? Will he ever walk again? What will my own blood test reveal? And then there's work. How has Pope Francis betrayed the faith this morning? In what manner has Donald Trump now thrown social conservatives under the bus? Should we actually publish this particular essay? And then there's B.A.'s work. Will he make it through probation when he feels so sick? 

Do we sell? 

Asked if I had any questions for B.A.'s oncologist, I asked her if we should sell. She took this in her stride, and it occurs to me that many of her patients, lacking family ties, probably turn to her as we would turn to B.A.'s siblings or cousins, if he had had any. 

She said in short that we should not hurry to sell but that we should not hesitate to buy something that we liked, should it be on the/have a ground floor. 

The subtext is that Benedict Ambrose may never balance/stand/walk any better than he does now, or he may balance/stand/walk better than he does now, but medical science cannot say. Recovery from nerve damage is still one of the great unknowns, etc. 

I think about the horrid gimcrack new builds in our area, which we might afford (until they fell apart), and the lovely well-constructed old bungalows, which we couldn't. A ground floor flat would put us at the mercy of the noise of People Upstairs, which B.A. really hates and I have never experienced. I think about the solid Toronto houses I have lived in and mentally follow B.A.'s electric wheelchair. Nope--steps. Nope--steps. 

Do we sell? 

Update: It occurs to me that we could just rent it out and take a lease on something suitable. There's actually no good reason to go through the agony of selling-and-mortgage-finding-and-buying. Except that rentals are unlikely to have grab bars in the loo. Maybe this could be negotiated with the landlord.