Don't Leave Me This Way: Or When I Get Back on My Feet You'll Be Sorry by Julia Fox Garrison Page A
Authors: Julia Fox Garrison
Ads: Link
as the door starts to close, you holler, “MAKE NO MISTAKE. I’M NOT YOUR DEAR.”
Return to Sender
THE CRITICAL CARE DOCTORS establish that you did not have another stroke. You realize that the shooting pains that occur intermittently in your head do not necessarily foretell another stroke. Although the medical staff doesn’t say so, you conclude that you had a panic attack when you were at the rehab hospital. You come to learn that these attacks will plague you. You devise methods to calm yourself when the attacks occur. Breathe. Breathe. Go somewhere pleasant. Snatch a good memory, relive it. Narrow River.
Five days have passed since you were readmitted to the critical care hospital. It’s time to resume rehabilitation. The thought of leaving this safe haven to return to the dismal rehab institution depresses you. Not only is the critical care staff attentive, but the food here is so much better.
The first time you were sent to the rehab hospital you were excited to be moving on, taking the next step in your recovery. You didn’t know what to expect. Now you know what’s ahead of you, and you wish you could skip Go and head for home.
The ambulance attendants hoist you on the bed with wheels, strap you in, and take you on another expensive taxi ride. This isn’t the ride of your life, but the ride for your life, as you are yet again ferried from one hospital to another.
They bring you back to the neurology floor. This time you don’t joke with the attendants that they’ve taken you to the wrong place. You remain quiet. What has happened to your life?
YOU ARE ANNOYED at your own body generally, and at your head specifically.
You like wearing the cool headdresses that people keep bringing you. One aide from Haiti has a talent for doing your headdress, and when she’s working, she sings Haitian songs to you. You like it when she shows up. It makes you feel like another person, which in your current situation is a good thing.
ONE DAY YOU ARE SITTING in bed feeling good, having just been sung to and having just had the scar on your head concealed by an intricate Haitian-wrapped headdress, when a tall woman walks into your room, looks down at you in the bed, and says, “Are you Julia Fox from Andover?”
Stunned, you say, “Yes.” She does look familiar.
“I’m Misty Mouse. I went to high school with you.”
Her face is reassembling itself for you into something familiar—but with two decades layered on top.
Misty. This is weird.
“What are you doing here, Misty?”
Maybe they’re planning some kind of reunion meant to keep your spirits up? What is going on?
“I work here. I’m a physical therapist. I’ll be by to check in on you now and then, okay?”
Misty. Yes. You went to high school together. Math class. Miss Corcoran. But you were in a class of five hundred kids.
“You recognized me?”
“Sure.”
Gentle eyes. Helped you with math homework. She was very popular.
“Did I look this bad in high school, that you could recognize me twenty years later?”
THE FOURTH FLOOR is the neurology floor and there are a lot of brain issues. One particular woman wails and screams constantly. You are fortunate to have a single room so you don’t have to share anyone else’s misery. Your door can shut. Even with your door closed, though, you can hear The Wailer. Two in the morning, ten in the morning, four in the afternoon. Doesn’t matter. The Wailer howls and bellows.
One day you ask a nurse, “Does that woman have a roommate?” Yes, she does. You can’t imagine how the roommate handles it.
Then you ask, “The lady who’s screaming right now, is she aware of what she is doing?” Yes, she is. The nurse explains that she just can’t communicate with words anymore. But yes, she knows what she’s doing.
She knows what she’s doing. She does it anyway.
It surprises you that this fact makes you as angry as it does. But she is affecting everybody on the floor, and she is
Return to Sender
THE CRITICAL CARE DOCTORS establish that you did not have another stroke. You realize that the shooting pains that occur intermittently in your head do not necessarily foretell another stroke. Although the medical staff doesn’t say so, you conclude that you had a panic attack when you were at the rehab hospital. You come to learn that these attacks will plague you. You devise methods to calm yourself when the attacks occur. Breathe. Breathe. Go somewhere pleasant. Snatch a good memory, relive it. Narrow River.
Five days have passed since you were readmitted to the critical care hospital. It’s time to resume rehabilitation. The thought of leaving this safe haven to return to the dismal rehab institution depresses you. Not only is the critical care staff attentive, but the food here is so much better.
The first time you were sent to the rehab hospital you were excited to be moving on, taking the next step in your recovery. You didn’t know what to expect. Now you know what’s ahead of you, and you wish you could skip Go and head for home.
The ambulance attendants hoist you on the bed with wheels, strap you in, and take you on another expensive taxi ride. This isn’t the ride of your life, but the ride for your life, as you are yet again ferried from one hospital to another.
They bring you back to the neurology floor. This time you don’t joke with the attendants that they’ve taken you to the wrong place. You remain quiet. What has happened to your life?
YOU ARE ANNOYED at your own body generally, and at your head specifically.
You like wearing the cool headdresses that people keep bringing you. One aide from Haiti has a talent for doing your headdress, and when she’s working, she sings Haitian songs to you. You like it when she shows up. It makes you feel like another person, which in your current situation is a good thing.
ONE DAY YOU ARE SITTING in bed feeling good, having just been sung to and having just had the scar on your head concealed by an intricate Haitian-wrapped headdress, when a tall woman walks into your room, looks down at you in the bed, and says, “Are you Julia Fox from Andover?”
Stunned, you say, “Yes.” She does look familiar.
“I’m Misty Mouse. I went to high school with you.”
Her face is reassembling itself for you into something familiar—but with two decades layered on top.
Misty. This is weird.
“What are you doing here, Misty?”
Maybe they’re planning some kind of reunion meant to keep your spirits up? What is going on?
“I work here. I’m a physical therapist. I’ll be by to check in on you now and then, okay?”
Misty. Yes. You went to high school together. Math class. Miss Corcoran. But you were in a class of five hundred kids.
“You recognized me?”
“Sure.”
Gentle eyes. Helped you with math homework. She was very popular.
“Did I look this bad in high school, that you could recognize me twenty years later?”
THE FOURTH FLOOR is the neurology floor and there are a lot of brain issues. One particular woman wails and screams constantly. You are fortunate to have a single room so you don’t have to share anyone else’s misery. Your door can shut. Even with your door closed, though, you can hear The Wailer. Two in the morning, ten in the morning, four in the afternoon. Doesn’t matter. The Wailer howls and bellows.
One day you ask a nurse, “Does that woman have a roommate?” Yes, she does. You can’t imagine how the roommate handles it.
Then you ask, “The lady who’s screaming right now, is she aware of what she is doing?” Yes, she is. The nurse explains that she just can’t communicate with words anymore. But yes, she knows what she’s doing.
She knows what she’s doing. She does it anyway.
It surprises you that this fact makes you as angry as it does. But she is affecting everybody on the floor, and she is
Similar Books
