In my medical memoir, "Blue Water, White Water," I recount my epic struggle with my nurse after being stricken with Guillain-Barre syndrome in 1981. One of the first people to stand up to her was an occupational therapist, Mrs. Haber. The following is an excerpt:

It’s my third session in the chair. Mrs. Haber is here with tools and equipment. She quickly attaches two L-shaped metal rods to the back of the chair and hangs leather slings from them. Then she puts my arms in the slings. I feel like a puppet.

"Try moving your arms," she says. I try and much to my amazement, my arms swing free. All the power is coming from my shoulders and none from my arms, but still my arms are in motion and I’m in control. I’m elated.

"That’s not good," Mrs. Haber says, noticing my hands limply dangling. She puts leather wrist supports on me. Mrs. Haber knows her stuff. "I’ll be back in a while to see how you’re doing," she promises.

"Swing your arms, Robert," Clare Ann says each time she brings another nurse to the room. She’s showing me off like a proud mother, but I know her joy won’t last. She’ll soon be angry because I’m going to ask her to put my arms down. I’ve had them up only a few minutes, and the slings feel as if they’re cutting into my flesh. It’s depressing. Everything I try is painful.

I flash at Clare Ann, complaining about my arms. "You want to go back to bed now?" she asks, pretending to be incredulous. No, I answer, but of course, I want that, too. I just don’t dare tell her. Instead, I stare at my arms. "You want them down?" Yes.

No chance of that happening. "You just got them up," she says, shutting off the discussion.

I’m clicking in protest. It feels as if the slings are rubbing my arms raw. "You don’t want to get better, do you Robert?" Oh, God, she’s starting that again. "Most people in your position would be happy just to move their arms, but not you. All you care about is your own comfort."

"How’s he doing?" asks Mrs. Haber, interrupting as Clare Ann is hitting her stride.

"Robert’s not happy," Clare Ann tells her with exaggerated sympathy. "He says his arms hurt. He wants them down."

"Well, let’s see," says Mrs. Haber, slipping my arms from the slings. "Oh, my, look at this. These straps are hurting him. See how they cut into him. It must be very painful," she adds. I want to cheer.

"Just a little redness," Clare Ann shrugs.

"You may call that a little redness," Mrs. Haber replies angrily, "but if his arms were up much longer it could have caused a skin breakdown."

Clare Ann stares in speechless amazement. No one ever openly contradicts her. "Excuse me," she finally manages, walking out. I love it! I love it!

"I guess you don’t care for your nurse much, do you?" Mrs. Haber asks when we’re alone. No, I flash. "Well, I don’t blame you," she says. Please tell me what to do. Tell me how to get rid of her. I plead with my eyes but she says nothing more. She’s padding the splints and wrist supports with adhesive-backed sponge rubber.

"You mentioned about arranging it so the patient can read?" a stony-faced Clare Ann asks, returning to the room as Mrs. Haber repositions my arms. Clare Ann, still stung by Mrs. Haber’s anger, is trying to show her up. She doesn’t believe it will be possible for me to turn pages on my own. Nor do I.

"We’ll give it a try," says Mrs. Haber, taping a cheap, wire bookstand to my hospital table and sliding an occupational therapy textbook into it.

"Now, just how does he turn pages?" asks Clare Ann, hoping Mrs. Haber will look like a fool.

"I’m getting to that." Mrs. Haber replies coolly. She takes an ordinary yellow pencil and pushes the point end into a pocket on my right wrist support. Then she sticks some putty on the eraser end of the pencil. Now she grabs my arm and guides it so the putty catches the page and carries it to the other side of the book holder. It’s a complicated maneuver. "You try it," she tells me.

I want it to work. I want her to show up Clare Ann. I try repeatedly, but I can’t even touch the page with the pencil. I don’t have the strength or the coordination. "Don’t worry," Mrs. Haber says. "You’ll soon be able to manage it." Clare Ann looks smug. I’m sure she’s glad I failed.

Robert C. Samuels is a journalist and travel editor of New Mobility magazine.