“The hospital just doesn’t supply tampons. We don’t have napkins either.”
“Well, I’m not in a coma. I’m coherent. I may lose track of time, and I may not be able to read very well, but I’m not wearing a fucking diaper, and I guarantee you anybody who tries to make me wear one is going to have a bad day. Please call my husband and ask him to bring me tampons. He’ll help me. You won’t have to do a thing.”
She does.
ON THE WEEKEND, they suggest that you get out for a “walk” with Jim. This means dressing and being wheeled outside. This is part of your therapy, to get dressed with minimal assistance.
It’s a real challenge. You have to become Houdini escaping the straitjacket. You have never put on socks one-handed, and putting them on a foot you can’t raise or feel is a test. Your bra has hooks, which are impossible for you to do yourself, so the aide helps. Then the shirt goes over your head with your dead arm threaded through the sleeve. Your legs are threaded into loose pants.
Now Jim takes over from the aide. He wraps a scarf around your head turban style, and the aide wheels you out the door and into the elevator, and you and Jim go outside for your “walk.”
But there’s really no walking involved. You go outside to sit by the water and watch the ducks. Jim rests his hands on your shoulders. Tears are flowing down your cheeks. Your makeup is probably ruined now. Doesn’t matter.
Jim doesn’t say anything, you don’t say anything, but the not saying anything says something. Something about being in the wheelchair staring at the innocent ducks with the hospital building looming over you both. The water reflects the ducks, two sets of them, up and down, ducks that didn’t do a damned thing to anyone. You wonder what the hell you are doing in this dream. You wonder when someone is going to wake you.
Let Me Give You a Hand
YOU CAN’T STOP TALKING about having your nails painted.
Mom doesn’t understand and asks, “Why are you so obsessed with your nails?” You realize she’s looking at you from her side; her big picture didn’t include fingernails. But it seems perfectly logical to you.
“It’s the only thing I have control over right now,” you explain. “I’m constantly staring at this lifeless hand, so it may as well look nice. I’ll take the bubble gum pink polish please.”
James locates a nail salon close to the rehab hospital. They don’t offer services outside the salon, but Jim insists and money talks. Once Jim agrees to pay the highway robbery fee, it’s scheduled.
You: an impaired body, paralyzed left side with a face that sags, making it difficult to form clear words.
The manicurist: a young Vietnamese girl who can’t speak a word of English. She timidly enters the room with her tiny suitcase of manicure tools and a small foot tub.
She looks terrified.
Ever so mindful of your recovery goals, you pick a bright red nail polish, thinking the bright shade will help you keep track of your left hand. She starts painting the left hand first, but it won’t lie flat. The fingers curl and become gnarly and clawlike. Every time she tries to paint, the evil hand curls and she lets fly a torrent of Vietnamese words. If she tries forcing the hand flat, it slides off the table and dangles on the side of the wheelchair.
She has on a yellow T-shirt. When she finishes the nails, it looks like she was the loser in a bloody battle.
Once the polish is applied, you stand up. Mom is lying on the bed reading a magazine. She looks up, astonished, and says, “What are you doing?”
She means, “Why are you standing up? You can’t do that.”
You thought you would just get up and walk over to the fan to dry the polish. So you did. Suddenly brought back to reality, you fall back into the wheelchair and slump over the young Vietnamese girl. Mom struggles with her to get you into a sitting position while at the same time wrestling with the unstable wheelchair.
Pretty weird mind games. To think you can stand and then do it—but once you’re reminded of your paralysis, to collapse.
The Vietnamese manicurist has had enough. She gathers her beauty supplies and bolts from the room, leaving her jacket and a few other items. Mom has to chase after her to give her the things she’s left behind.
part TWO
Judge Judy Gets Hammered
YOUR DECISION TO REFUSE more chemotherapy treatment in the rehab hospital made Dr. Jerk madder than a hornet on the inside of a window. He sent his friend and associate Dr. Panic in to see you, in an attempt to convince you.
Dr. Panic is hovering over your bed now clutching a large manila envelope.
“Hi, I’m Dr. Panic. Dr. Jerk asked me to review these CAT scans and angiograms. I haven’t yet, but what you have is incurable. You may die from this disease if it goes untreated.”
You’re caught off guard. You had been relaxing, watching Judge Judy with your mother after a long day of therapies. Judge Judy has become your secret addiction in the rehab hospital. She puts everyone in his place. Before this conversation, you had decided that you wanted to become Judge Judy. Setting the rules and enforcing them.
Now you have to put Judge Judy in the background. Someone in a white coat, with authority, is saying you will die if you don’t do as he says.
Die.
The word has black tentacles. You burst into tears.
Dr. Panic leaves and sends for the on-staff neurologist. She steps into your room and asks how you’re feeling.
In between sobs, you say, “How am I supposed to feel? He just told me I’m going to die. I know we’re all going to die, it’s inevitable, but I’m not ready. I still have so many things to do. I need to raise my little boy. The way everyone keeps talking, I feel like I can’t even cry, because I’m afraid my head may explode.”
She stares at you intently but says nothing to comfort you. Her only response is to shrug her shoulders. She vanishes as suddenly as she appeared.
The phone is ringing. You are crying hard. Mom has witnessed the whole exchange and is fighting back tears, too. She answers the phone and hands it to you.
“It’s your brother. John wants to talk with you.”
“Hi, Johnny, I’m a little upset, I’ve just been told I’m going to die.” You say it all between sobs.
“Okay, listen to me, Julia.” John tends to get animated when he’s trying to convince you. That’s why he makes a great trial lawyer.
“You’re upset, but LISTEN TO ME, I’M COMING OVER THERE RIGHT NOW TO UN-UPSET YOU. I’LL BE RIGHT THERE!” he screams into the phone to get his point across. You can tell he’s mad—or is that fear in his voice?
You hang up the phone and continue crying with Mom. “I feel like I can’t blow my nose too hard, or cry, or laugh. Any strain and my head is liable to go.”
John must have used some kind of superhero method to arrive as quickly as he does. He is pacing by your bed.
“YOU ARE NOT GOING TO DIE,” he continues, as though he had never put down the phone. “We’re going to find out what happened and how to get well. You’re not going anywhere but home to recover. You’re a fighter, Julia. You’re going to beat this. You’re tough. Do you hear me? You are not going to die. How did that asshole doctor come to his conclusion?”
“He said he consulted with Dr. Jerk. The surprising thing is, he has not reviewed my films.”
“Obviously, these are not the right doctors to listen to. Stick with Dr. Neuro—he hasn’t said you’re going to die.”
“Yeah, but he hasn’t exactly said I’m going to live, either. Nobody will say I’m going to live.”
“But you feel secure with Dr. Neuro, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why don’t you call him, for Christ’s sake?”
Johnny always has a way of calming you down. Even when he’s hollering at you.
YOU CALL DR. NEURO, right then and there. By the end of the call things are not quite so black and white. You’re in one piece again, you’re so grateful to Johnny that you make him give you a long hug, and you’r
e wondering whether you should have given a Judge Judy response during that encounter with Dr. Panic. You imagine you’re in her chair peering down at this nobody doctor: “Well, I don’t believe you. Case closed. You’re dismissed.”
You Can Keep the Dime
THERE IS AN UNSPOKEN RULE you are learning: Nurses never answer call lights. Pushing the button by your bed will never produce a nurse, only a nurse’s aide. The aides are responsible for initial contact.
You have been waiting for over fifty minutes to urinate. You can’t do it yourself; you need to be helped. And you have a bladder infection. And no one is materializing. Must be the aide’s lunch hour.
You keep pushing the call button, but no one responds.
What’s the worst that could happen? You pee in the bed and soak everything. But what if you were choking on something? What if you fell? What if the volcano in your head went off again?
You pick up the phone and call the main switchboard from the outside line.
“How may I direct your call?” an official-sounding voice queries. “Hi, I’m sorry to bother you but no one is answering the call button on my floor.”
“Is this a joke?”
Like you’re in the middle of some juvenile telephone prank. (“Is your refrigerator running? You’d better go catch it.”)
“If so,” the voice continues, scolding you, “it’s not a very good joke. This is a hospital, and pranks like this can have serious consequences.”
“My name is Julia Garrison, I’m in room 417. Please look it up. I have to be lifted to the potty chair and I’ve been waiting a really long time. It hurts.” You sound panicked; you’re extremely eager for her to take you seriously.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
As if you were in a joking frame of mind. You’re not.
If you’d been willing to joke, you’d have said, “Ahhh, relief. Never mind. Could you send someone from housekeeping?”
The tiny Hawaiian nurse who shows up a few minutes later with her hair in a tight bun is not so approving of your resourcefulness.
“It’s against procedure for patients to call the front desk,” she says as she pulls the covers back and hoists you up.
“Is it against procedure to make a patient with a bladder infection wait nearly an hour to pee?” you ask.
“Just don’t call the operator again.”
While you’re perched over the toilet, you consider singing her the old Jim Croce song “Operator” as you relieve yourself. But she’s holding you up, so you think better of it.
You sing it silently inside your head, though, and when you start cackling with laughter, she doesn’t seem to understand what’s so funny.
Coming to Terms with Shoe Envy
Before your stroke. Sitting at home. When your body still worked…
Jim walks in the room and says he’s going to watch a video. He brings you a video and asks whether you want to watch it with him. He holds up the video case and shows you the title. And you look at the case, and it has the title written in big black letters and the title of the video is…
The title of the video Jim asks whether you want to watch is…
Big black letters and you can read them and the title of the video he wants to watch with you is…
See a woman’s face, see a woman’s face, see a woman’s face, who is it?
HOPE IS A POWERFUL MOTIVATOR. Hope is always what gets you to the next goal; once achieved, there’s the goal after that. Anyone who tries to kill the hope in your heart is the one you have to be prepared to battle. You tell yourself to remember that.
Jim walks into your hospital room and puts a box on the bed. Inside it is a pair of sneakers. Funky Converse high-tops. No support. No room for a brace.
He says, “You are going to walk.”
YOU ARE SITTING IN A WAITING ROOM in a hospital and it is afternoon and there is rain falling outside. Jim is sitting next to you holding your hand. Across the hall is another woman with dark hair and birdlike features. You are both waiting for some kind of treatment. She seems to be ahead of you in line.
She has on shoes that you think are cool, but you can tell she is wearing a brace, just as you are beneath the Velcro-sealed sneakers you’re wearing. She has on shoes that look fairly normal even though a leg brace is inserted in one of the shoes. You are dealing with shoe envy because wearing this clunky brace beneath your ugly geriatric shoes has you feeling just a little nostalgic. You love buying new shoes. Now you have to wear these special shoes for old people.
So many cute shoes out there—and not a pair of working feet in sight. You can never wear stylish shoes again—it’s ugly flats for the rest of your life. And you’re feeling a little sorry for yourself when the birdlike woman starts weeping.
And you ask her what’s wrong and she doesn’t want to say at first and you ask again and she explains her operation and how it went wrong and her husband left her before the accident and how there is no one to help her care for her children. She has no network of support, no family to help care for her or her kids, and she’s going to lose custody.
And then there’s Jim right next to you waiting with you so you won’t be lonely. And all the people in your family who keep materializing by the side of your bed and asking you what you need and how they can get it for you.
She does not even have family. You wish you could help her in some way.
The nurse comes and tells her it’s her turn.
“You’re going to get your kids back,” you tell her as the nurse leads her away. You have no idea why you would say such a thing, or if it’s true. It just comes out of you.
“No, I’m not,” she says. She doesn’t even look back at you.
“WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR?”
Your walls say, “Hi, remember us?” Same walls, same window, same bed. You’re not in the hall. You’re back in your own room.
Jim is there in the room with you and the two of you are waiting for something. You just can’t recall what it is. You’re lying down in the bed, so you must be finished with whatever therapy the bird lady had. You’re clearly waiting, and Jim’s helping you wait for it. Whatever it is.
“Your brother Joe is bringing pizza for dinner,” Jim says. “Designer pizza. You’re going to love it.”
“Oh.”
“Are you okay? You sound funny.”
You should probably tell him about this face thing. Or did you? “Jim?”
“Yeah?”
“Did I tell you about the face thing?”
“What face thing?”
“I can’t feel my face anymore. It’s like I’m talking through plaster.”
It does take quite a bit of effort to get the words out.
“Okay.”
“Plus my head hurts like hell.”
“Okay. I’ll get the nurse.”
“I feel different, Jim.”
“Okay. I’ll be right back.”
He’s gone.
THEY ARE STRAPPING YOU to a gurney. They are putting you in an ambulance.
“Honey, they’re going to take you back to the critical care hospital. It’s about thirty minutes away. You’re going to go in an ambulance.”
You’re confused. Why are you going back there? Weren’t you already in a hospital?
“No. I want Jim to drive me.”
Jim above you, a familiar face amid the strangers.
“You’re still an inpatient, ma’am. It’s not an option.”
Who the hell said that?
“What is happening to me, Jim? Am I having another stroke?”
“We’re going to find out, that’s why we’re taking the little trip to critical care. Don’t worry. Let’s go.”
Not Jim’s voice. Sky changes, noise level drops, interior roof of the ambulance slides into place.
“I want Jim to drive me. I don’t want you to drive me. I want Jim driving me.”
Sound of an engine gunning to life.
“Why can’t Jim just drive the amb
ulance then?”
Sound of gears shifting, ambulance moving backward, then pivoting, then rocketing forward. Siren goes on.
You hear yourself say: “I do not give my permission for this.”
Tires screech and you are moving and the straps are holding you in place and you are being violated and your face is gone.
Before your stroke. Sitting at home. When your body still worked…
Jim walks in the room and he’s going to watch a video. Holds up the video case and shows the title to you. Can’t make out the title. Big black letters.
See a woman’s face see a woman’s face see a woman’s face on the cover of the videocassette. Who is it?
Reflections from a Metal Cage
SIREN. Ambulance moving fast. Staring at its steel-girdered ceiling, which is now vibrating like one of those big paint-can shakers at a hardware store. Out of control.
“Is Jim still behind us?”
“Yes. I can see him.”
Time collapsing. Face all gone. Head hurts even worse now. Like the first time. It occurs to you that you may die. It occurs to you that you are not really here anymore. You’re suspended somehow inside the metal cage they’ve shoved you into, and it’s hurtling with a high whine, and you can see yourself locked inside it.
Can’t move.
You’re suffocating.
You heard yourself say, “No.”
Overpowered.
Jesus.
Violated.
BEFORE YOUR STROKE. Sitting at home. When your body still worked.
Jim walks in the room and he’s going to watch a video. See a woman’s face.
Jodie Foster.
Jim walks in the room and he wants to watch a video and he says, “I checked out a good video for us to watch. The Accused, with Jodie Foster.”
Don't Leave Me This Way: Or When I Get Back on My Feet You'll Be Sorry Page 7
