On Sunday, after I moved to the regular ward, I took a walk
around the floor. I had on two hospital gowns so I wouldn’t flash anybody my
backside, I went minimalist with footwear in my special anti-skid socks, and I pushed along my mobile IV unit. Let’s just say I’m not vain
enough to care what I looked like but not enough of an exhibitionist to have
taken a photo to post. Actually I rather enjoyed the thought of how silly I looked
because, you know what? who the fuck cares—I’m walking again.
When I got off the IV drip (yay) because the surgeon needed
to slice into my arm (not so yay), I could walk the halls freely. This was
equal parts liberating and exasperating. I didn’t think anything could be as
boring as the treadmill, but it turns out hospital corridors are far, far
worse. Everything is hospital-colored, everything smells and sounds like
hospital, and all paths lead to another part of the hospital before you have to
turn around and go back to your part of the hospital. When I came to a dead-end
corridor with a “NO EXIT” sign, I wished I had a Sharpie pen so I could scribble
“Sartre was here” on the wall. Or maybe just “No shit.”
On Wednesday, I’d reached the end of my rope. I had heard nothing
all day about the possibility that I could go home, and I was facing yet
another night of bad sleep and blood draws. When I took my walk around the
halls, this time I didn’t smile at people, didn’t make eye contact, couldn’t
manage to mask how utterly miserable I felt right then. I probably looked like
that “Yellow Wallpaper” woman, going ‘round and ‘round in mad, awful circles.
I’m out now, and I’m walking the places where I used to run.
Being mobile again is still a thrill, but I can’t pretend there is only simple
pleasure in my activity. A fellow hard-core runner recently told me she finds
walking far harder and more exhausting than running; it doesn’t really make
sense, yet I understand what she means. Running feels purposeful, even when its
purpose is itself and no more. Walking threatens to feel aimless at times, and
it gives me too much time to think about the aimlessness of my life, about my
complete inability to figure out where the hell I’m supposed to go from here. I
remember how tired I felt before all this happened. Being tired during a run can
be disheartening; being tired while walking threatens to be defeating.
When I came back from my utterly miserable walk around the
corridors that Wednesday, back to the room I thought I’d be staying in yet
another night, a phlebotomist came to see me. I’d recognized him from one of
the previous blood draws, and he me. “Hey! How ya doing?” he said with a
grin. I liked him; he’d told me some good jokes the last time he came for his vial,
but at the moment I couldn’t muster even fake good cheer. I want to go home. He feigned hurt—“How can you say that, don’t you love us no more?” I looked at him. I want to go home.
He stopped what he was doing and peered over at me. I hate it here. I can’t sleep, can’t eat. Nobody
will tell me what’s going to happen to me next. I’m just so…damned…tired…
I looked up at him, and shook my head. Sorry. Sorry for that. Everyone here’s been great, and I know I’m
lucky, there are so many people here a whole lot worse off than I am,
and I’m sorry for complaining to you like this…
He held up his hand. “Hey. You know that expression about
how you got to walk a mile in someone else’s shoes?” I nodded dumbly. “Well,
right now you are walking a mile in your own shoes.”
I smiled, liking what he said even though at the moment I
wasn’t quite sure what it meant. The rest of the blood draw continued as
normal, and he left the room with a quiet nod of encouragement.
Sometime this week I’ll run my first mile since all this
happened. Meanwhile I am still walking that mile in my own shoes, trying to
understand myself as I go.
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