By Kevin Robinson Should the Twain Ever Meet? Everybody's got baggage. It's a fact of life. And as long as we avoid serious romantic involvement, all the bags seem to match pretty wellña fashionable ensemble of blacks and, maybe, grays. But add a significant other's luggage to our collection, and things get tricky in a hurry. Love, of course, doesn't Ellie and Kevin, reunited after 28 years. come in your basic gray. Now throw in a disability and the need of one partner for daily personal assistance,and our combined baggage can become truly unruly. Given that situation, we're limited to three basic choices: partner becomes primary caregiver, partner assumes a limited caregiving role, or partner leaves the caregiving role to the "professionals." As a C6-7 quadriplegic who's tried the first and third options, I share the following observations. I was married to a talented and beautiful woman for 25 years. When I injured my spinal cord four years into the marriage, the workers' compensation insurance company offered my wife $80 a week to provide me with 24-hour nursing assistance. Despite having her hands full with our 6-month-old daughter, she accepted without hesitation and never looked back. I have offended several health care professionals through the years by declaring that my ex could out-nurse the best they could produce with her eyes closed. But... On the surface, the problems with our marriage had little or nothing to do with my disability; in fact, one counselor was adamant about that. But as the years went by, and as my wife's dissatisfaction with her life became more apparent, I grew increasingly uncomfortable with her role as my sole caregiver. It just never felt right, and placed me in a dependent position that proved most unpleasant when I finally figured out that I couldn't fix her life. Each time I suggested bringing in outside help, her reaction was a simple and direct no. Her reasons were equally simple: "No one will do as good a job as I do, I don't want strangers in my house, and we need the money." It's hard to argue with that, but I should have forced the issue. It wouldn't have saved the marriage,but I would have felt a lot better about myself when all was said and done. To be fair, I called my ex, told her I was working on this article, and asked if she'd handle the caregiving issue differently today with a new partner. Her answer was still no and her reasons were just the same. I do know that many couples seem to make it work. Yet experience tells me that when both respect and intimacy are at stake, what appears to be workable in the beginning can become a problem in the long run. Whether one gives or receives the assistance,the seeds of reproach are often small and easily buried. But the crop eventually comes in, and we reap what we sow. Also, while accepting personal assistance from a partner can be ego bruising, I suspect it's no easier to surrender the caregiving mantle once it has settled on one's shoulders. There's a certain sainthood conferred on anyone who stays with a disabled partner, let alone someone who helps us go to the bathroom. To turn that duty over to an outsider might call one's sainthood into question. (Generations of Roman Catholics drove around with St. Christopher statues on their dashboards, and then, bingo, the church said he's not a saint anymore. You just never know ... .) But the greatest hurdle to the partner-as-caretaker scenario has to be sexual intimacy. How does one mentally and emotionally go from bowel programs and catheters to mutually satisfying sex? Even though this magazine and others have covered that topic well, I'm still not sure I get it. And even when I'm reading about or talking to couples who say they manage it, I just can't quite bring myself to believe it. Call me a cynic. Human beings have proven historically that they can adapt to almost anything, but there's a big difference between two people adapting and two people enjoying great sex. I spoke to two disabled writer friends about this topic. One woman had let her partner assume only a limited role in providing personal assistance, and the other, a man who had been married twice, utilized his wives as primary caregivers. The first friend said it mostly worked out well for her, but that she experienced emotional discomfort whenever her professional caregivers failed to show up and she was forced to rely more on her partner than she had ever intended. My male friend was candid about the fact that while having his wives provide primary care was great for him, he was slow in realizing how much it might have affected them. All of the above relationships ended, and just how big a factor the caregiving situations were is anybody's guess. My friends, when asked, weren't sure. By the time my marriage failed, I was thoroughly soured on the whole concept of relationships. If my ex and I couldn't manage it, I was convinced that nobody couldñwith or without a disability. Those who said they were making it work had to be either lying or living in total denial. End of story. Holding on to this dim view of Life, the Universe and Everything made it easier for me to deal with my own failure, I suspect. It also helped me push away several wonderful ladies who expressed more than a passing interest. Then something went terribly wrong. I fell in love. I've been in love only twice. The first time was my high school sweetheart. The second time was my wife. And I've spent the last 15 years trying to locate my high school sweetheart. When I was 16 years old and head-over-heels in love the first time, I suddenly realized that other guys in my school would willingly give up body parts to be with my girlfriend. Worse yet, her old boyfriend, then in college, wanted her back. I panicked. My insecurities hit me like a tidal wave, and I didn't even try to swim against the tide. I just walked away without a wordñnot only from an amazing young lady who loved me, but from the best friend I ever had. I was not only dumb; I was cruel. It took me years to figure that out, but when I finally did, I promised myself that I'd find her and apologize. I couldn't change it. I couldn't fix it. All I could do was own up. When I finally dialed Ellie's number and heard her voice again after 28 years, my heart nearly stopped. I stumbled through my apology, wondering why she would even listen. She not only listened, she graciously forgave me. We were both divorced, had children the same age, and had made a lot of the same mistakes along the way. We fell back into step just as if the friendship had never been trashed by an adolescent idiot all those years ago. There was only one significant difference between then and now, and it was a big one. The high school athlete was gone, replaced by a 46-year-old quadriplegic man in a wheelchair. But even after a few months of letters, phone calls and cross-country visits, Ellie showed no signs of being put off by my disability. It was a wonderful second time around for both of us, and neither of us wanted to screw it up. The truest love doesn't eliminate the need for baggage handling, so I put the caregiving issue on the table right up front. Part of my baggage, I told her, was always going to be my nursing assistants. Where I go, they go. I was relieved when Ellie weighed the idea carefully, and then assented. She gets along great with all my caregivers, and the time we share is ours to enjoy as we see fit. I know this is the right decision for me, and while I can never make those particular suitcases disappear, Ellie and I are both happier because they're down the hall. My quadriplegic friend may have said it best when he told me, "There's just no standard approach to love, Kevin. Every couple, like every disability, is unique. What works, works. And what doesn't, never will."