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 Page B
Authors: Julia Fox Garrison
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eyebrow moves up and down; the left eyebrow is flatlined. The left side of the mouth is paralyzed and the tongue and gums on that side are numb. When the face in the mirror speaks, half of it is saying, “I’m not really here.” It looks disturbing.
So after the makeup you always exercise in front of the little mirror on your bed tray. You work on forming words, on smiling, and on eye expression.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” you hear yourself say to the little mirror one morning, “who’s the toughest of them all?”
As if in response, the madwoman down the hall wails a long howl, then starts to sob uncontrollably.
WHEN YOU WERE GROWING UP in a household of eight brothers (and two male dogs!), you often joked to your mom that there was too much testosterone in the house and that you needed to inject more estrogen in the atmosphere. Mom would roll her eyes and say, “You’re impossible. Where did you come from?” Now, on a visit to the hospital, your brother Joe reminisces about when you were young and wanted to prove that you were as tough as the boys.
“You sat yourself down in the kitchen,” Joe says, “put your elbow on the table, and said, ‘Okay, wimps, who wants to be embarrassed by being beaten in arm wrestling by a girl?’ And you proceeded to beat two brothers—and came close to beating me! You’re strong, Julia. You’re going to beat this. Only difference is, now you’re wrestling with yourself.”
The Babe
THERE’S A KNOCK ON YOUR DOOR and Mom opens it. It’s Berkeley, clutching a life-size cardboard figure of Babe Ruth. It’s the same Babe you had purchased for the company kickoff meeting…except with a few changes.
This Babe is adorned with tacky dangling earrings, a phone headset, a company logo baseball cap, and (what your mom notices first) a bulging jockstrap. There are signatures from everyone in the department. Berkeley explains that the earrings are because you love jewels, the headset represents what your department does, and the jock strap is a candy holder—for a vast store of Hershey’s Kisses. You always kept a chocolate jar on your desk for anyone who needed a chocolate fix—usually Berkeley. Now he’s returning the favor.
“How did you manage to carry it across the parking lot and up the elevator?” you ask, laughing. “People must have thought you were whacked. Did anyone say anything to you?”
“No, but a lot of people stared. I think they were trying to figure it out. Could I have a piece of chocolate?”
“Sure, help yourself. Maybe people think you’re bringing it to a Red Sox player who’s recuperating. You know—that whole Boston Curse thing. I can’t wait to start offering kisses to the nurses. If they look perplexed, I’ll point to the jockstrap.”
You love the whole idea—and you love Berkeley for making you laugh.
“Put Babe in the corner so when a nurse comes in, she’ll think there’s someone lurking in the room. I can’t wait for the reaction.”
He does. He sits on the side of the bed. You wait there together for your first victim.
“Thanks, Berkeley,” you say. “Now, with the Babe on hand, I’ll always have company!”
Kisses in a jockstrap—pretty perverted. But I wouldn’t expect anything else from him. People are mortified when they walk in the room. It’s the goof that keeps on goofing.
Your Friend Pays a Visit
EVERYTHING IS ABNORMAL after your stroke, but your period, it turns out, is still as regular as clockwork. Lucky you.
The huge black nurse is cleaning you up. She has just placed a call requesting a diaper. Your heart freezes.
So it’s come to this.
She stands and throws a now-crimson washcloth in the plastic hamper.
“Do me a favor,” you say. “Take a look at my chart. Tell me how old I am.”
She stops in place, considers you for a moment, then goes to your chart.
“It says here you’re thirty-seven, honey.”
“That’s what I thought. It doesn’t say I’m eighty-four, does
So after the makeup you always exercise in front of the little mirror on your bed tray. You work on forming words, on smiling, and on eye expression.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall,” you hear yourself say to the little mirror one morning, “who’s the toughest of them all?”
As if in response, the madwoman down the hall wails a long howl, then starts to sob uncontrollably.
WHEN YOU WERE GROWING UP in a household of eight brothers (and two male dogs!), you often joked to your mom that there was too much testosterone in the house and that you needed to inject more estrogen in the atmosphere. Mom would roll her eyes and say, “You’re impossible. Where did you come from?” Now, on a visit to the hospital, your brother Joe reminisces about when you were young and wanted to prove that you were as tough as the boys.
“You sat yourself down in the kitchen,” Joe says, “put your elbow on the table, and said, ‘Okay, wimps, who wants to be embarrassed by being beaten in arm wrestling by a girl?’ And you proceeded to beat two brothers—and came close to beating me! You’re strong, Julia. You’re going to beat this. Only difference is, now you’re wrestling with yourself.”
The Babe
THERE’S A KNOCK ON YOUR DOOR and Mom opens it. It’s Berkeley, clutching a life-size cardboard figure of Babe Ruth. It’s the same Babe you had purchased for the company kickoff meeting…except with a few changes.
This Babe is adorned with tacky dangling earrings, a phone headset, a company logo baseball cap, and (what your mom notices first) a bulging jockstrap. There are signatures from everyone in the department. Berkeley explains that the earrings are because you love jewels, the headset represents what your department does, and the jock strap is a candy holder—for a vast store of Hershey’s Kisses. You always kept a chocolate jar on your desk for anyone who needed a chocolate fix—usually Berkeley. Now he’s returning the favor.
“How did you manage to carry it across the parking lot and up the elevator?” you ask, laughing. “People must have thought you were whacked. Did anyone say anything to you?”
“No, but a lot of people stared. I think they were trying to figure it out. Could I have a piece of chocolate?”
“Sure, help yourself. Maybe people think you’re bringing it to a Red Sox player who’s recuperating. You know—that whole Boston Curse thing. I can’t wait to start offering kisses to the nurses. If they look perplexed, I’ll point to the jockstrap.”
You love the whole idea—and you love Berkeley for making you laugh.
“Put Babe in the corner so when a nurse comes in, she’ll think there’s someone lurking in the room. I can’t wait for the reaction.”
He does. He sits on the side of the bed. You wait there together for your first victim.
“Thanks, Berkeley,” you say. “Now, with the Babe on hand, I’ll always have company!”
Kisses in a jockstrap—pretty perverted. But I wouldn’t expect anything else from him. People are mortified when they walk in the room. It’s the goof that keeps on goofing.
Your Friend Pays a Visit
EVERYTHING IS ABNORMAL after your stroke, but your period, it turns out, is still as regular as clockwork. Lucky you.
The huge black nurse is cleaning you up. She has just placed a call requesting a diaper. Your heart freezes.
So it’s come to this.
She stands and throws a now-crimson washcloth in the plastic hamper.
“Do me a favor,” you say. “Take a look at my chart. Tell me how old I am.”
She stops in place, considers you for a moment, then goes to your chart.
“It says here you’re thirty-seven, honey.”
“That’s what I thought. It doesn’t say I’m eighty-four, does
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