Backdraft

        Every day I expect the juncos to be gone, and every morning I’m delighted to find they’re still here, and making quite a racket. The one in the nest chirps constantly. The parents are still feeding it, but they don’t go into the nest anymore, they just perch outside and a hungry little head pops out. It looks like the parents are trying to pull their child out by its beak. The other chick spends most of its time on the roof above, occasionally trying to get in the nest. When it gets close, the parents attack it, slapping it with its wings, the birds tumbling though the air together and screeching as loud as a junco can screech. It has also learned how to cling to the brick, which is rough and the mortared furrows are deep. There is no sign of the third chick, if there ever was one. It may have flown off, it may be dead.

    A week ago, I saw, caught in the high arched ceiling of one of the corridors, a foil balloon with the words FEEL BETTER on it. It was still there the next day, and every day that week. This morning I’m amazed to see that it is still there, having drifted into the corner but still full of helium. Every time I see it I think about how odd the phrase “feel better” is; does it mean better as in “no longer ill,” or better as in “less bad?” I guess it’s less demanding than “get well;” it doesn’t instruct you to get better, just to feel like you are. It's a lot less pressure.

        A new batch of firemen were at the clinic today. Sally was showing them the facilities as KC pranced around, tossing her ponytail coquettishly and giggling. As she took my vitals, I asked if she wanted me to fake a seizure so she could impress the firemen with her resuscitation skills. She cocked her head and seemed to seriously consider it. I felt a twinge of jealousy, but there’s no point in being jealous of fire fighters. 

        She asked what I wanted to watch and I told her to pick something. She suggested Apollo 13, and we talked about how much we both miss Bill Paxton, but ultimately I didn’t think I could watch something so claustrophobic. 

        “How about Backdraft?”

        “Hmm, firemen are more your thing.”

        She rooted through the movie bin. “Here we go, Blazing Saddles!” 

        I laughed. “Is that, um, appropriate?”

        “Definitely not,” she said, “But we have it, so someone must have said it was okay.” I just hoped Dr. Virginia wouldn’t pass through, but who knows, maybe she loves it. Anyways it’s not like anyone could hear the sound but me; I wouldn’t be subjecting anyone to the repeated use of the n-word. 

        It’s a short film, and when it was over Sally grinned and put on Deep Blue Sea without consulting me. It was another fucking shark movie, and it made The Meg look like Citizen Kane. It was strikingly similar to Rise of Planet of the Apes (which I watched last week; what a depressing film) in that the sharks were becoming super intelligent due to being subjected to experimental drugs to treat Alzheimer’s. I would have rather watched Dodge Ball again.

        As I changed into my street clothes, Jenny was prepping a guy who was about to have his first treatment. He sounded nervous and she was doing her best to reassure him. 

        “Fresh meat?” I asked. 

        “Oh and here is our resident brat,” Jenny said. 

        “Only for two more days.” 

        “Brat.”

        It was strange knowing I was so close to being finished. But I would still be coming to wound care regularly for a while, so it wasn’t like I was really done with this place and these people. In two days I would slide into that tube for the last time, and emerge just as the kids were getting out for summer vacation. 

        A woman in the elevator asked me what floor the sky bridge was on. I didn’t even know there was a sky bridge. The balloon was still hanging suspended above me as I left. I waved goodbye to it like an idiot. I was not yet well, but I did indeed feel a little better.