49

For once, I head to the doctor's with a minimum of dread. I've been walking again for less than four days and so far my foot feels fine and my left leg muscles grow stronger every day.

When he comes into the room and looks at my unwrapped foot, he says, "Oh my God, what did you do?" I'm completely baffled, and tell him I didn't do anything, that I've just been using the walking shoe like he says. "It's all wet. You're not supposed to get it wet. This is a mess." It has been raining pretty much nonstop, so I guess some water got through the bandages. "Well the shoe's not waterproof," I say. "Should I be wrapping it in plastic or something?" He shakes his head and starts peeling away dead skin.

"This was supposed to be better by now," he says. He tells me that the part where he did the surgery looks fine, but the sore I got from wearing that massive boot has apparently gotten much worse in the few days since I was last here. "I'm putting you on antibiotics again. Make sure you wear that boot and get back on the scooter."

"But the boot caused the sore," I remind him. He says he'll see me in two weeks.

As I sit on the streetcar, I stare out the window and fantasize about ignoring the doctor's orders. Maybe if I just wrap my foot up carefully and take things easy, maybe that'll be enough to make it heal. Of course, if it doesn't, it'll just prolong the inevitable. But after five months of being incapacitated, the idea of even another day without being able to walk makes me want to die. I mean, really die. I've been struggling so long and at this point I'm having trouble finding compelling reasons to keep living. My life has been a series of bad decisions, bad luck and bad timing, and I don't see that getting any better. I don't feel strong enough to keep doing this. What do I have to look forward to? An increasingly lonely existence of seeing my loved ones die as my body deteriorates? What is the fucking point of that?

 

I pick up my antibiotics and get my scooter back out of the closer where I've stashed it in a burst of what now seems like pathetic optimism. I've learned my lesson. Every time things seem to be working out, they will inevitably get even worse, without even a full week to enjoy the respite. Of course you never know what amazing thing could happen to you tomorrow, and you have to be grateful for the gift of life, and the world is a magical place that is teeming with wonders. I'm turning 49 today. I will never hope for anything ever again.