Page 12 of This I Know
She kissed me, then took my face in her hands. “Let’s work on getting you home. Okay?”
I did my best to smile. “Okay.”
Meanwhile, in the back of my mind, all that remained was:I don’t have to do anything? Did youreallyjust say that? Because yes, I do.Hell yes I do.
That, and:They caught him.
If I had to make a list of all the things I actually have to do, getting better would be, of course, number one. But there are so many other things on my plate besides just get better. So many things on the road to Better, and I can’t get there without visiting each of the rest stops.
Physical therapy would be number two. That’s my first stop. Despite its importance, it’s far from easy. It hurts. I’m being pushed in ways I hate and in ways I never thought were possible for me, and after a night or two of horrible, noisy, hospital-quality sleep (not to mention weeks of horrible, hospital-quality food – never eating Jello again after this), my strength is wearing thin. Too bad I’m only on my second session.
Luckily, today Mara’s coming to visit before my session. Her parents actually allowed her to take a half day off of school to come and see me before I get discharged, and I’m glad she’s coming. I don’t know where I’d be without that girl, and it hurts that I’ve only gotten to see her one other time in the two months I’ve been in here.
My therapist, Amy, is young. That surprised me. She can’t be much older than me, and I figured this job required lots of schooling and stuff. But maybe I’m wrong. She’s nice, and she lets me take a break every fifteen minutes, but every exercise she has me do hurts so bad. But I’ll be the first to admit I’ve never been the most patient or pain-tolerant person, so keeping that in the back of my mind, I’ve pushed on. As if I’ve had a choice.
One thing we’ve been working on is getting myself dressed around my injuries. Specifically, my leg injury. That’s the thing that causes me the most problems. Go figure … a dancer, struggling with her leg. I’m a walking, talking cliché, a cheesy soon-to-be inspirational story that everyone will hear about and look up to, and then thank God it wasn’t them.
Getting dressed is an even bigger challenge than I thought it would be. Most days, my leg doesn’t cooperate, and I specifically told the nurse I didn’t want help today. If I’m getting out of here soon, I need to do this on my own.
I lay out my clothes for the day and peel my pajamas off, letting them fall to the floor. I sit on the edge of the bed and extend my leg as far as it will go, straight out in front of me. That hurts. It’s tricky negotiating the fabric over certain areas, but after some slow work I manage to pull on my favorite top (easy) and my most comfortable, loose sweat pants (hard).
I lean back on the bed, exhausted and resting my weight on my arms, but I’m glad I got that done on my own. Yesterday I ended up having to call a nurse in to help me with the press of a button. She came, and I felt embarrassed as hell getting stripped and re-dressed in front of her … just like all the other times I’ve had to give in to the help.
I’m not going to lie to myself – it was because my sweats were so loose and easy to manipulate that it worked out today. I know that, and I don’t care. Now, more than ever, I love my sweatpants. I love their bagginess, the way they hang so imperfectly around my lower body. In recovery, it feels better to hide my leg in whatever way possible.
I lift the bottom of the wide pant leg and run my fingers over one of my remaining scars. It’s about four inches long and comes to an end with a good-sized dent in my skin where I’m forever missing a chunk of flesh. Most of this is the result of the emergency surgery they rushed me into when I first arrived. They tried to make it look as “normal” as possible, I was told, but their focus was on restoring health and function first, beauty second. I touch it, caressing it back and forth as though it’ll help me get a better picture of New Me. It looks pretty bad, but the scar itself doesn’t hurt.
The pain is another beast altogether. That comes from down deep, somewhere invisible within my leg. It’s a combination of stiffness, pain, and flat-out injury, as I’m still on the cusp of full surgery recovery.
My mom was the first to bring up the idea of reconstructive surgery. She did it delicately, as though I was a fragile bird, but it really isn’t that bad. She was just trying to put my mind at ease, and now I know there’s an option out there if I decide I need it later on. She’ll pay for it, she said. She didn’t need to bother, though – I’m still at that point where the shock and I’m just grateful to be alive.
I re-cover my leg. Then I pick up the latest book I’m reading, a love story by one of my favorite authors, and I bundle myself with the thin hospital covers. By the time Mara arrives, I’m well into the fourth chapter.
“Knock, knock,” she hums as she appears in the doorway.
I love that she doesn’t wait for an invitation; she just walks in. I close my book and jump up as well as I can and make my way over to her. She hugs me, balancing something in one hand. It feels good to hug her. She’s warm, and the feel of her reminds me of home. Whenever I get visitors, they always bring with them the feeling that my life is slowly but surely returning to normal.
To make matters even better, she holds out a plate stuffed full of homemade cookies, wrapped carefully in Saran and topped with a bow.
And the fact that my visitors usually bring something tasty always helps.
“Oh, my God,” I say. “These look amazing,” I take the heavy thing in my hands. It has to weigh four pounds. Only Mara would bring me four pounds of cookies. I place it on the dresser, recognizing the square white plate as one from her familiar home.
Normalcy.
I love it.
Mara hops up onto my bed, making herself at home.
“This won’t be my home much longer,” I say, thinking out loud.
“Of course it won’t,” she says. “You’re almost ready to leave, right?”
I nod. “Eat some of these with me.”
“They’re for you.” She touches her stomach. “I had a few while they were cooking.”
I peel back the plastic wrap and take two, holding one out for her. “There’s no way I can eat all these.”
