A few days after my visit to Urgent Care my phone rang. It was a man from the Center of Disease Control telling me that the lab had called him with my test results, as they are required to do when they come across any fairly uncommon pathogens. He explained that the bacteria in my foot is the same which causes diphtheria, though he assured me I was in no danger of contracting that. Shortly afterwards my GP, whose name I can never remember, called me. I’ve never met him in person, we’ve only had a few video appointments, in which his face shimmered like a phantom against a wall of light. He told me he was talking to the infectious disease department to figure out a course of treatment. That night I picked up my new script and he said he’d try to find a foot doctor who had an opening. I asked if he knew anyone good and he said no.
That weekend I got nervous and went to Urgent Care again. The same jockey-sized physician’s assistant saw me and took more photos of my foot and said I should just keep taking the antibiotics. I asked if he knew any good foot doctors and he said no.
The following Tuesday we had first aid/CPR training at work. We spent the afternoon breathing into the parted rubbery lips and clicking the chests of the limbless torso. “Be prepared to do this for hours if you need to,” our instructor warned. “And remember, you’re going to break some ribs.”
The following day my GP managed to get me a last-minute appointment at a foot clinic. As I rode the bus across town I braced myself for the worst, prepared myself for the news that the infection had entered the bone and my misshapen foot would, at long last, need to be completely amputated.
My new doctor was young and lovely and met my gaze with huge brown eyes as I gave her the basics of what I was going through. She carefully unwrapped everything and scraped and hacked at my foot, then took x-rays and sat and went over them with me. The infection was serious, but had not reached the bone. She said I should stay off it and come back in a week. My terror of amputation evaporated but was replaced by a wave of lesser but still powerful anxiety about what would happen next and how it would affect my job. There is always more fear waiting in the wings.
She sent me to the hospital to get a bunch of blood work done. In the waiting room I emailed my bosses to let them know that I was happy to keep working but would not be able to be on my feet. On the way home the head of the department called me to tell me not to come in to work the next day, that HR would be contacting me. I was surprised –when I’ve had foot issues in the past, my old bosses always found sit-down work for me to do. These were not my old bosses though, and I felt myself overcome with dread and paranoia. This is how they are going to get rid of me, I thought.
HR sent me a terse email the next day with instructions on filling out forms for a new state medical leave program that just happened to be starting in a few days. I didn’t really understand it but in the meantime I would use up what sick and vacation time I had. After that I had no idea what would happen.
Saturday Mich once again picked me up so we could visit Lee, who was still in the hospital. He was supposed to leave last week but instead they’d had to operate again. It had not gone well, and they were sending him home as soon as they could get hospice care set up. I walked on my crutches past the office where I had seen one of my many useless foot doctors to the ICU. The visit was awkward. I didn’t know what to say, and then felt bad for not knowing what to say. My humor –the tool I reach for most in awkward situations- remained out of reach. Mich was also subdued. Lee was quiet as well; I couldn’t tell if he even knew or cared if we were there. What can one possibly say in the face of death? What good can words possibly accomplish? It seems like language is the least accessible when we need it the most.
Another of his friends arrived during our visit, and she immediately went up to the bed and warmly grasped Lee's hand and held it as she smiled sadly down at him. I felt humbled by the eloquence in this single gesture, and saw in this woman a compassion I did not feel capable of.
I had a ticket to see a play later that evening. I wasn’t about to let my limited mobility stop me from going, so I hopped on my scooter and got onto the train to head across the river. A tiny local theater company was putting on a production of Beckett’s Happy Days in the abandoned Victoria’s Secret store at the mall. Most of the mall stores have closed, but they’ve been trying to revitalize the place by lowering the rents to allow smaller local businesses move in. My favorite comic book store is there, and a nice little record store, and a bunch of other shops. And the ice rink is still operating, though it was closed for the night. A very widewoman was driving a Zamboni around, leaving the ice shiny and reflective in its wake.
A few flyers pointed the way to the old lingerie store. A woman sat taking tickets just inside the entrance. Sheets of plastic hung everywhere, corralling you to the middle of the store, where thirty folding chairs set on the floor or on risers in front of a pair of red sheets that looked like shower curtains. I sat of to the side so my scooter wouldn’t be in the way. A young woman sat behind the old check out counter which had been converted into a makeshift sound and light booth.
The play consists of a woman buried up to her waist in the ground, or in this case a cloth-covered mound. Beside her is a bag filled with belongings that she occasionally rifles through. Her husband or partner sits just out of sight behind her; you can sometimes see his arm or back of his head when he moves around. It is unclear how their situation came to be but it is apparent that it has been going on for some time, and their provisions seem to be dwindling. The woman prattles on cheerily to the audience, to the man, to herself, insisting on how wonderful everything is. It would be unbearable –and it almost is- if it wasn’t so comical and strange, and while the woman’s acting was a little broad, I really loved the show in all its hysterical bleakness. I thought of Lee in the hospital, I thought of my parents, I thought of all the people I know who seem to be inexplicably sinking into the earth.
When it was over, they led us toward one of the staff exits, since the mall was closed for the evening. As we filed past a security officer he smiled and said hello and I recognized him. He used to work downtown and would come to the museum’s coffee shop. I hadn’t seen him since the beginning of the pandemic. We chatted as he walked alongside us across the mall, then left us as as we filed through a set of double doors into a long, narrow corridor. I was last in line and as I heard the doors slam shut behind me I saw up ahead a steep set of concrete stairs leading up. There was no way I could drag my scooter up that many steps. I called out to the people ahead of me but no one turned around or stopped, they were all focused on escaping the buidling. I wheeled back to the double doors and tugged at the handle but they were locked. I banged on them and called the name of the guard, the sound echoing along the dimly-lit corridor.
I pounded and pounded.
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