I took out my notebooks then, curious to revisit the past. I flipped to a random page—sometime in April, six months earlier. At that point the doctors were baffled by my symptoms. My eyes scanned the page and landed on one sentence.
“I think I have a tumor.”
I didn’t tell Rich or the doctors, not my friends or my family. In fact, I had no memory of writing that line. Such was the power of my denial and fear that when I was finally diagnosed, I was as shocked as everyone else.
I turned out my lights. I wasn’t preoccupied with my IMDb page or my acting career or my notebooks anymore. All I could think was: What would my life look like now if I had just said something then?
•
Sometime around mid-October, three things happened.
First, while I was on my nightly walk around the halls of unit 2B, I stopped Rumy to ask her what she thought of my fancy footwork.
“Don’t you think I look good?” I asked, walking and then coming to an unsteady halt like a slightly drunk army sergeant.
“I can tell that you can’t feel your feet.”
This was like being told by a director, in front of the entire cast and crew, that she knew I was faking it.
“Anyway,” I said, and I hobbled away.
I completed my rounds of the unit, slapping the ground with my seal flipper feet. I didn’t know then that Rumy’s honesty, as much as it stung, would turn out to be the best thing she could have said.
The second event happened when my agent told me that Degrassi wanted to book me for an upcoming episode. They were aware of my situation and had been understanding and patient. Now they wanted me back. But how? I wasn’t ready. I couldn’t walk—not well, anyhow. Working was impossible. I waited as long as I could and then said no.
It was the third event, however, that stirred up the most drama: A movie star sent me flowers.
At the beginning of my Lyndhurst stay, the movie star and his famous director wife sent me a stunning bouquet of pink roses. All the nurses clamored around to sniff them, chirping when they saw the signed names on the card. Rich was proud to know that such a famous client of his had been so thoughtful, and I agreed, even though my past feelings about this client and his famous director wife differed somewhat. Rich enjoyed this couple on a pure “they’re so talented and so nice” level, while I enjoyed them on more of an anthropological level. I watched him like I might watch the chimpanzees at the zoo. I liked the way his hands moved and the way his eyes darted over to his wife after she said something cute and how the famous director’s eyes darted back at him and they both laughed, right on cue. They seemed to not need anybody else to make them happy, which was both lovely and off-putting and why sometimes I drank a little too much when I was with them.
The last dinner we had had together, I wore a short black dress and my favorite gray heels. After dinner, Rich put his hand on my back and helped guide me out of the restaurant. My feet wouldn’t stop wobbling. It was August, soon after our trip to Peru but before I knew I had a tumor. Wearing heels (and downing a vodka martini with a red wine chaser) was my way of saying there was nothing wrong with me.
Once I was at Lyndhurst, I felt so open to the world and its multiple kindnesses. Rich was right: The movie star and his director wife were among the nicest famous people I had ever met, and his roses were beautiful. I sent the movie star a heartfelt thank-you note. A few weeks later, the second bouquet arrived.
“What’s this?” I asked the nurse who delivered them.
The flowers were red. I hate red flowers.
“Do you want me to take the wrapping off?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “Can I see the card, please?”
I was lying in bed, before dinner, something I swore I would never do. It had been a bad day. I was a miserable, vibrating, buzzing, burning, static-electric lady of leisure—a sad, lonely woman who spent huge swaths of her day in bed trying to fart.
The nurse passed me the card.
Wishing you a speedy recovery. Love, Movie Star and Famous Director.
Anger suddenly propelled me out of bed. I transferred into my wheelchair and put the fat box of horrible red flowers onto my lap and wheeled over to the nurse’s station.
“Take them, just take them,” I said to the nurse there.
“But they’re so pretty! Why don’t you want to keep them?”
“I just don’t.”
I wheeled back to my room before she could say anything else. I leaned my elbows on my stupid buzzing legs and pushed my palms into my stupid graying hair. Did the movie star completely forget that he’d already sent me flowers with the exact same card and the exact same words? Did he think I just sat in my room all day waiting for moments like this to feel grateful for his kindnesses? Did he think I didn’t have any friends, for fuck’s sake? I finished an entire bag of jujubes while my heart thumped restlessly.
I always believed that a heavy dose of charm and confidence would take me wherever I wanted to go, no matter the situation. But stripped of the ability to stride in and out of a room, to make decisions on my feet, to take corners without hesitation, I was lost. It seemed that all the emotional and psychological strength I had built up over the years had somehow pooled in my legs, and without them, I was making false moves, inexplicable moves, wrong moves. I was all over the place and yet moving nowhere at all. In the absence of knowing for sure, I made up what others thought of me, and the stories I told myself weren’t particularly nice. I had decided that the movie star saw me as a sad, incapable, pathetic woman in need of gifts. And that’s when I realized: Oh, for fuck’s sake. They’re JUST FLOWERS.
I took a deep breath, opened my computer, and tapped out a thank-you note. It didn’t say much, but it was one of the most heartfelt I have ever sent.
Really, I wrote. Thank you.
•
It felt like overnight the intensity of my care dropped from a Code Blue to a Code She Can Wait. The dynamic with those around me, mostly my nurses, changed. Because I was more open to their preoccupations, my room became a kind of confessional. I loved my nurses with their finely tuned observational skills and tactfulness. My more relaxed body language must have spoken to them and the words they heard were: Tell me everything.
One night nurse was funny and scattered and loved a good laugh. She would stop by my room for last call to drop off my pills, then hang around, fussing over things that didn’t need fussing. We mostly talked about our kids and our plans for their futures. Her partner’s name came up occasionally, mostly in terms of his being a good father. But one night, she told me that she didn’t love him—had never loved him. I nodded sympathetically as she spoke.
“I met someone else, though. Someone from my twins’ school.” She looked behind her, then lowered her voice. “Someone married.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes. I love this man so much. One day, I saw his wife eating at McDonald’s.” She plumped up my pillow and readjusted my call button. “If I had a knife, I would have stabbed her.”
I stayed very still.
“I mean it. I really wanted to stab her.”
“But you, but you wouldn’t, right?”
“You know, I’ve been thinking about you a lot,” she said. “I think you can really benefit from acupuncture.”
This sounded like an interesting idea, although coming from possibly a crazy person, I decided not to pursue it.
The following morning, Sonja came in with my pills. She was Russian, just a couple years older than me.
“You look so young,” she told me in her Russian accent that seemed to be swiped from Joey’s small but hilarious Slavic repertoire. “I not only look older than you, I look like I can be your grandmother!”
Sonja had beautiful blue eyes with heavy bags underneath. Her hair was short, bright red and slicked back behind her ears. She also liked to come to my room and tell me stories about her existentialist children. It was Sonja who took my pulse and told me I wasn’t pregnant when I
thought that maybe (hoped that maybe, feared that maybe) I was. She held my wrist between her fingers and she said, “My first husband was oh, OH, a great kisser, but not much else good. My second husband—nyet. But this one, my third, every department good.”
“Lucky lady.” I said.
“About you,” she said, and paused.
Uh-oh. Was it my turn to share?
“I hear you no longer need touches.”
Oh. That.
“This is very good news,” she said.
“I probably should still have them, but I stopped it.”
“I understand.”
“I’ve got to start figuring that shit out on my own—pun fully intended—don’t you think?” I really did want to know what she thought. I talked tough, but I was afraid. What if I was never able to generate a bowel movement again without the use of pills?
“I think it’s important that you direct your care. Didn’t Rumy tell you that?”
I nodded my head. “Rumy knows everything.”
“She is very smart lady.”
“She sure is.”
Rumy was no longer a primary part of my day, even though she was still considered my primary nurse. I saw her most mornings, but our time together was significantly reduced. By Lyndhurst standards, I had been deemed “independent.” I no longer needed someone to turn on the tub for me or wheel me in my commode. I no longer needed touches or help getting dressed or transferring to my bed or washing my back or reaching for my hair dryer. I was moving around so much, it had been days since a nurse had stabbed me in the stomach with the blood thinner Heparin so I wouldn’t get a blood clot from insufficient movement. I didn’t need someone to give me ICs and, at the end of dinner, I no longer needed a nurse to take my tray to the kitchenette for me. All I seemed to need now was friendly banter and someone to make my bed.
But I missed Rumy, even though I still saw her and we still traded information and stories. She kept me up to date on her son’s studies and new cashier job. But my days were filling up in different ways now, ways that didn’t include her. I was only a couple of weeks away from my discharge date of November 8. We didn’t talk about it, just in case it got pushed for some unforeseen reason, but together we were working toward the same goal—to see me leave. There would be other nurses, but no one like Rumy, my primary sweetheart.
15
These Feet Were Made for Walking
Rich and I were the only people who knew my discharge date.
My dad kept asking. “So dear, have they given you any sense of when you might leave?”
He was the one person I would not tell. I simply couldn’t—I knew my dad. He would take all his hats and hang them on that hook. He would buy a pick and stone and start carving the date. He would invest his last dollars in that day and tell everyone they could not lose.
“I’m pretty sure it’ll be before Christmas, Dad.”
“So they haven’t said anything exact yet?”
By “they,” I think he meant God.
In the meantime, I was making progress on transitioning out of Lyndhurst. For my next new step, I was to go out for lunch instead of dining in. Sheryl offered to take me first.
“You’re not in any kind of a rush today, are you?” I asked, as I made my way to the lobby using both my sticks.
“Not at all!”
“Is your car close?”
“So close!”
“Maybe I’ll have a drink at lunch.”
“Let’s drink!”
Sheryl was more nervous than I was.
Getting to the car was relatively easy, and since we were still on Lyndhurst grounds, I wasn’t feeling self-conscious. Once we parked outside the restaurant, however, the world felt full of eyes, all of them trained on me.
“You look so good!” Sheryl said. “It must be so nice to be outside! Just take your time. Be careful not to hit the parking meter! Maybe I should hold your elbow. We’re almost there! Am I walking too fast for you? You look so pretty!”
I was hyperaware of every change in the pavement, every crack, every stone, every stray piece of litter. My eyes needed to see what my feet might not be able to detect. I felt shy and embarrassed. I was not nearly as smooth and graceful as I had convinced myself I was while in the cozy, supportive atmosphere of Lyndhurst. I was galumphy and tentative. My coordination lacked rhythm; I was still unsure how much space to leave between each step. Sometimes I forgot it was heel before toe. Wearing shoes while walking was now foreign to me. I was used to doing everything barefoot except riding in my wheelchair. With my running shoes on, I was amazed at how many layers there were between my feet and the ground, not to mention how horrible it felt wearing socks.
Once we were settled inside the restaurant and I had run my hand around the chair to discern the edges for my permanently out-to-lunch bum, I plopped down.
“Oh no.”
“What?” Sheryl said.
“I need to pee.”
The restroom was down a steep flight of stairs. I tried to figure out the best course of action.
“I’ll go with you,” Sheryl said, already getting out of her seat and slinging both our purses, messenger style, over her shoulders. “There’s not enough room for you to use your sticks. Hold my hand.”
I let her lead the way. We stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at the long way down. The restaurant owner appeared next to me, carrying a plate of pad Thai.
“This is going to be really hard for you,” she said, and then left to deliver her order.
“That was helpful,” I said, once she was out of earshot.
“We can do this,” Sheryl said. “I’ll go down in front of you. Don’t fall on me.”
“But I might.”
“Well, don’t!”
I went down side step—like coming down a snowy mountain in skis. When we successfully made it to the bottom, I almost wept with joy. When we made it back to our seats, I started laughing.
“Hey!” I said. “We did it!”
“We did.” She took a long gulp of water.
“You’re not going to barf, are you?”
“Uh-uh.” She pressed her napkin to her forehead. “I’m good.”
“That was actually kind of fun!” I said. Another hurdle cleared: being out in the world on my own two feet. “I’m starving!”
•
I was lying in bed thinking about shoes when I heard Dr. Zimcik clicking toward my room.
“Ruth? Can I come in?”
My curtain was closed.
“Of course.”
I turned over to greet her.
“What’s the matter?” she asked. “You never lie down in the morning.”
She was wearing a fitted gray dress, two long beaded necklaces, and pretty, flat black shoes. I wondered if those kinds of shoes might look good on me.
“My husband wanted me to eat one of his muffins,” I said. “They’re his favorite. Packed with fiber and, I’m pretty sure, sawdust. He’s convinced they’re the key to turning my digestive system around. I told him they make me nauseous. He told me not to insult his muffins.”
She laughed.
“How was your trip to New York? Did you buy those pretty shoes there?”
She had gone only for the weekend, but still, I missed her. She told me where she ate, how late she and her girlfriends slept in, and where she shopped. I told her that I had had an appointment with the Lyndhurst urologist, Dr. Aitch.
“I did something stupid after we finished all the bladder business. I asked him if he thought my numb bum would improve and he said that if, after six months, there had been no change, then I couldn’t expect any further changes after that.” I shrugged, pretending his words didn’t affect me.
“That’s not necessarily true,” Dr. Zimcik said. “It could very possibly take more than six months to change. It could change over the course of years. Everyone is different.”
She stayed with me a long time, long enough for me to start talking about
my sex life again. “Do you think that doing Kegel exercises will help stir things up down there?”
“I do,” she said. “You’re probably doing them right now, aren’t you?”
She knew everything. “Yes!” I said.
“So am I,” she said, and we both laughed.
“Now,” I said, “back to your shoes . . .”
•
As my friend Liza had predicted, my life was slowly opening up to more shallow desires. Although clothes sent shivers of discomfort—quite literally—up and down my spine and along my legs, and under my feet, and over my entire bum, I had no interest in living out the rest of my days in leggings and sneakers. I would start at the bottom and work my way up. First, I needed shoes.
Other than my sneakers, I had nothing even remotely appropriate to put on my new feet. My next weekend pass home, Rich drove us all downtown so I could shop. It was pouring, so he pulled up right next to the shoe store and waited in the car with Joey while Henry went in with me. I was using a walker that day instead of my sticks. The walker was incredibly useful for these kinds of outings, although discouraged for use in the long term. I had to bend down to hold on to the arms, which compromised my posture and made walking unnaturally easy. I also used it to practice deep knee bends. My kids would point out—not unkindly—that I looked like a crazy person when I did this, but it was one of the few times, while out in the real world, that I didn’t mind if my actions invited curious stares. If I was dying, I hoped my body language said, do you think I’d waste my time doing deep knee bends?
Henry scooted ahead so he could hold the door open for me. The sales staff were unfazed by my condition. One salesman approached me and I made an ostentatious deal of how I could wear only a certain type of shoe at the moment.
“Trust me,” I said, even before he had spoken. “This situation right here is temporary. Completely temporary.”
I knew what people were thinking when they saw me: Both her legs seem fine, she obviously didn’t break them, she looks so normal, not horrible looking, she has at least one kid, she probably has a husband, must have had sex a few times, she must have taste because she’s shopping here, does she have MS?
Walk It Off Page 16
