Read Online Don't Leave Me This Way: Or When I Get Back on My Feet You'll Be Sorry by Julia Fox Garrison - Free Book Online
Authors: Julia Fox Garrison
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someone you love being in this devastating and uncertain condition. You’re relieved that you’re the patient, and not the visitor.
You spend a lot of time pondering why someone staying in the hospital is called a “patient.” Eventually, you come to a true understanding of the term. You have always had a very impatient personality, whether the problem is sitting in traffic, expecting someone to arrive for an appointment, or waiting for anything. In the hospital, though, you have to learn to be patient for someone to answer the call light, to help you go to the bathroom, to get something for you that is out of your reach.
You learn to be patient about everything.
You also have to be patient for your body to heal.
Your belief is that people who are truly patient live longer. In our society we are taught to do everything expeditiously. When you enter a hospital as a patient, you need to make patience a part of your anatomy.
Who’s Squinting?
Edie made bumpers for Rory’s crib. Edie said, “These are for Rory’s crib, and you can use them for all your children if you want. The color scheme works for a boy and it works for a girl, so you can use it for your next baby, too.”
That’s what Edie said to you.
“I’M STILL GOING TO HAVE A BABY. Right, Jim? Hop on, let’s make one right now.” Your speech is slurred and sarcastic.
Every day, it seems, people arrive and kneel by your bedside. The room is overflowing with flower arrangements. It gives you the feeling that you’re awake at your own wake.
Today Jim and your parents are kneeling at your bedside—Jim on one side, Mom and Dad on the other side.
You think it must be because they like to get eye to eye with you, so it’s okay. You’re all for that. If they want to kneel, let them kneel.
“Stop squinting,” Dad says, as if it was a helpful instruction.
“I’m not squinting,” you bark back.
“Yes, you are.” It’s like two kids bickering.
“Give me a mirror,” you demand.
He does.
“There, see?” He’s defiant.
The face in the mirror looks different than the one you remembered. The shaved scalp has shifted everything, and there are strange new hairs in unbecoming places. Your overall countenance is bloated. The eyes of the reflection are foreign and asymmetrical. The left eye remains wide open with a blank stare. The right eye is in fact squinting. But that’s only because it’s doing what it’s supposed to do—reacting to light and showing expression.
You stare at the eyes in the mirror and notice that tears are welling up in both of them.
You are still going to have a baby, though.
Dr. Neuro has put you on some prenatal vitamins. Jim squeezes your hand through the aluminum bars on the side of the bed, and suddenly it’s okay that your mouth tastes like pennies and your head has a long raw scar and tiny metal ridges along the side of it and they keep telling you that you have something you know you don’t have but you have no idea why you know that.
It’s going to be okay. Everything really is eventually going to be okay.
Time wobbles again and your hand is through the aluminum bars, but Jim’s isn’t holding it anymore and no one is kneeling by your bed now, so it’s later.
Brace Yourself
ON ONE OF YOUR OUTINGS, you meet a little boy about seven years old being escorted around the ward by two therapists. He wears a bicycle helmet that protects his head and a leg brace similar to yours. He looks sad.
You have your therapist wheel you over to him and then ask both the therapists if you can chat with him privately.
HE HAD FALLEN OUT of a window and sustained a head injury that restricted his leg movement. He’s been a patient for several months. You feel for him.
“I understand how hard it is to be in the hospital when it isn’t what you had planned,” you say. “And I know what it’s like to miss your family and your home.” You point to your leg.
“Take a look at my brace.”
He does.
“It’s
You spend a lot of time pondering why someone staying in the hospital is called a “patient.” Eventually, you come to a true understanding of the term. You have always had a very impatient personality, whether the problem is sitting in traffic, expecting someone to arrive for an appointment, or waiting for anything. In the hospital, though, you have to learn to be patient for someone to answer the call light, to help you go to the bathroom, to get something for you that is out of your reach.
You learn to be patient about everything.
You also have to be patient for your body to heal.
Your belief is that people who are truly patient live longer. In our society we are taught to do everything expeditiously. When you enter a hospital as a patient, you need to make patience a part of your anatomy.
Who’s Squinting?
Edie made bumpers for Rory’s crib. Edie said, “These are for Rory’s crib, and you can use them for all your children if you want. The color scheme works for a boy and it works for a girl, so you can use it for your next baby, too.”
That’s what Edie said to you.
“I’M STILL GOING TO HAVE A BABY. Right, Jim? Hop on, let’s make one right now.” Your speech is slurred and sarcastic.
Every day, it seems, people arrive and kneel by your bedside. The room is overflowing with flower arrangements. It gives you the feeling that you’re awake at your own wake.
Today Jim and your parents are kneeling at your bedside—Jim on one side, Mom and Dad on the other side.
You think it must be because they like to get eye to eye with you, so it’s okay. You’re all for that. If they want to kneel, let them kneel.
“Stop squinting,” Dad says, as if it was a helpful instruction.
“I’m not squinting,” you bark back.
“Yes, you are.” It’s like two kids bickering.
“Give me a mirror,” you demand.
He does.
“There, see?” He’s defiant.
The face in the mirror looks different than the one you remembered. The shaved scalp has shifted everything, and there are strange new hairs in unbecoming places. Your overall countenance is bloated. The eyes of the reflection are foreign and asymmetrical. The left eye remains wide open with a blank stare. The right eye is in fact squinting. But that’s only because it’s doing what it’s supposed to do—reacting to light and showing expression.
You stare at the eyes in the mirror and notice that tears are welling up in both of them.
You are still going to have a baby, though.
Dr. Neuro has put you on some prenatal vitamins. Jim squeezes your hand through the aluminum bars on the side of the bed, and suddenly it’s okay that your mouth tastes like pennies and your head has a long raw scar and tiny metal ridges along the side of it and they keep telling you that you have something you know you don’t have but you have no idea why you know that.
It’s going to be okay. Everything really is eventually going to be okay.
Time wobbles again and your hand is through the aluminum bars, but Jim’s isn’t holding it anymore and no one is kneeling by your bed now, so it’s later.
Brace Yourself
ON ONE OF YOUR OUTINGS, you meet a little boy about seven years old being escorted around the ward by two therapists. He wears a bicycle helmet that protects his head and a leg brace similar to yours. He looks sad.
You have your therapist wheel you over to him and then ask both the therapists if you can chat with him privately.
HE HAD FALLEN OUT of a window and sustained a head injury that restricted his leg movement. He’s been a patient for several months. You feel for him.
“I understand how hard it is to be in the hospital when it isn’t what you had planned,” you say. “And I know what it’s like to miss your family and your home.” You point to your leg.
“Take a look at my brace.”
He does.
“It’s
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