wheelchair. This was progress. I couldn’t see well out of the medical center windows, and at the old Spaulding… forget it. I heard they’d originally designed the windows at “standing person” height at the new Spaulding, too, meaning you couldn’t look directly out the window if you were sitting down. Your line of sight was too low. A guy in a wheelchair pointed out the problem. It cost $300,000 to lower the windowsills.
Best of all, each patient room had a bathroom, and I could roll to the sink and into the shower with ease. The bathrooms at Boston Medical were supposedly wheelchair friendly, but they were small. It was like being in an airplane bathroom. I was always banging into things, feeling trapped, and forgetting which little compartment served what purpose. New Spaulding was like going from a Boeing 747 to the USS Enterprise .
The building was better for my family, too. Much better. There was a nice visitors’ lounge at the end of my hall, with views of the river. There was a decent cafeteria on the first floor, and space in my room for five or six guests. That night, Erin slept on the sofa at the foot of my bed, the first time in two weeks she was able to stretch out. Not that she got a good night’s sleep. I was still in pain whenever I rolled over, and more than once Erin climbed into bed and comforted me, talking and rubbing my singed afro hair.
The next day, Erin’s roommate, Michele, moved into the room next to mine. As I was being evacuated from the bombing site, Michele had been rushed to the marathon medical tent. Shrapnel had shredded the lower part of her right leg. The EMT didn’t think they could save it. At Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, they planned to amputate her foot. Two emergency surgeries saved her leg and foot, but her Achilles tendon was so damaged she couldn’t walk. The first time she tried, on Thursday, she managed only two steps. Erin had been back and forth all week to see her at Beth Israel Deaconess, including for her skin-graft surgery on Friday.
Having both of us at Spaulding made things easier for Erin. Her life, or at least this part of it, was finally manageable. She could be there for both her best friend and her boyfriend without driving across town.
It made it easier on Michele and me, too. We hadn’t seen each other since locking eyes after the bombing; I was so happy she was alive. She felt the same about me, considering she’d seen me lying in a pool of blood. Early in the morning, when neither of us could sleep, we’d sit together and talk about what had happened. I told her about seeing bone through the hole in her leg. She told me about realizing my legs were gone.
“I had a bad feeling about the guy,” I told her. “I was about to say we should move.” She hadn’t known that. It made me feel guilty again.
“I still smell it,” I told her one morning. “People were on fire.”
“I know,” she said. And she did. Only someone who was there could understand the horror of the smell. That was what was great about having Michele next door.
In the afternoon, we’d usually hang out with Erin. Sometimes we’d watch television. Sometimes I’d play my mandolin. Or I’d do wheelies, which always impress girls. We talked more than we ever had before. Michele is a talker, and I am quiet by nature. I don’t think she really knew me until we sat with Erin in her room.
Late in the week, Remy came for a visit. She had an ugly shrapnel wound in her thigh, and the doctors had surgically implanted a valve in her leg to drain the pus. She had spent time at Spaulding, but was now home with her parents in Amesbury.
Remy had deeply conflicted feelings. Because of her wound, she was often in pain. Like the rest of us, she had trouble sleeping. And she felt guilty about leaving Michele and me behind when she went toward the finish line. She felt she should have been there with us, although if she had been, nothing would have been better. It would have
Best of all, each patient room had a bathroom, and I could roll to the sink and into the shower with ease. The bathrooms at Boston Medical were supposedly wheelchair friendly, but they were small. It was like being in an airplane bathroom. I was always banging into things, feeling trapped, and forgetting which little compartment served what purpose. New Spaulding was like going from a Boeing 747 to the USS Enterprise .
The building was better for my family, too. Much better. There was a nice visitors’ lounge at the end of my hall, with views of the river. There was a decent cafeteria on the first floor, and space in my room for five or six guests. That night, Erin slept on the sofa at the foot of my bed, the first time in two weeks she was able to stretch out. Not that she got a good night’s sleep. I was still in pain whenever I rolled over, and more than once Erin climbed into bed and comforted me, talking and rubbing my singed afro hair.
The next day, Erin’s roommate, Michele, moved into the room next to mine. As I was being evacuated from the bombing site, Michele had been rushed to the marathon medical tent. Shrapnel had shredded the lower part of her right leg. The EMT didn’t think they could save it. At Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center, they planned to amputate her foot. Two emergency surgeries saved her leg and foot, but her Achilles tendon was so damaged she couldn’t walk. The first time she tried, on Thursday, she managed only two steps. Erin had been back and forth all week to see her at Beth Israel Deaconess, including for her skin-graft surgery on Friday.
Having both of us at Spaulding made things easier for Erin. Her life, or at least this part of it, was finally manageable. She could be there for both her best friend and her boyfriend without driving across town.
It made it easier on Michele and me, too. We hadn’t seen each other since locking eyes after the bombing; I was so happy she was alive. She felt the same about me, considering she’d seen me lying in a pool of blood. Early in the morning, when neither of us could sleep, we’d sit together and talk about what had happened. I told her about seeing bone through the hole in her leg. She told me about realizing my legs were gone.
“I had a bad feeling about the guy,” I told her. “I was about to say we should move.” She hadn’t known that. It made me feel guilty again.
“I still smell it,” I told her one morning. “People were on fire.”
“I know,” she said. And she did. Only someone who was there could understand the horror of the smell. That was what was great about having Michele next door.
In the afternoon, we’d usually hang out with Erin. Sometimes we’d watch television. Sometimes I’d play my mandolin. Or I’d do wheelies, which always impress girls. We talked more than we ever had before. Michele is a talker, and I am quiet by nature. I don’t think she really knew me until we sat with Erin in her room.
Late in the week, Remy came for a visit. She had an ugly shrapnel wound in her thigh, and the doctors had surgically implanted a valve in her leg to drain the pus. She had spent time at Spaulding, but was now home with her parents in Amesbury.
Remy had deeply conflicted feelings. Because of her wound, she was often in pain. Like the rest of us, she had trouble sleeping. And she felt guilty about leaving Michele and me behind when she went toward the finish line. She felt she should have been there with us, although if she had been, nothing would have been better. It would have
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