Crabwalk

When I leave for work Monday morning, I’m amazed at how crystal clear the skyline is. It’s a little tricky to ride on my scooter with one eye; I didn’t use it at all this weekend, and I’m nervous that I will have developed a blister under my cast. I knew it was foolish but I’m just so, so tired of this thing and there’s a part of me that just doesn’t care anymore.

I carry my reading glasses with me but find it irritating to constantly be taking them on and off. And many things fall in that hazy middle ground that’s not covered by either my readers or my regular glasses. By the time I leave work for my appointment I’m already exhausted by the effort of just trying to see.

As I’m waiting outside the wound care office, I notice a sign I’ve never seen before that reads CLINICAL DECISION UNIT, rooms 425-439. I’m confused; it might make a good band name, but isn’t everything decided at the hospital by definition a clinical decision? I resolve to ask about it when I’m inside but just then KC throws open the door and my mind is wiped clean. Her flowing red hair and glowing skin make it look she stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting. 

“Oh my gosh, look at you, what… oh, you had your thing,” she says when she sees my eye patch. She leads me to room one and everyone gathers around to see. “You look great!” “You look like a badass!” “And all in black! You look like a Peruvian drug lord!” (Peruvian?) I feel overwhelmed by all the attention. Kaitlin hangs a tiny wreath on the handlebars of my scooter before wheeling it away. 

They all look strange, and I realize that, aside from the fact that I can actually see them clearly, none of them aside from KC are wearing masks. I had noticed that  the “masks required” sign was missing from the door. Most people in the rest of the hospital gave up masking long ago; has wound care finally surrendered as well?

Sjon looks the strangest with his lower face exposed to the world. He has a short rectangular mustache, which I did not expect. He looks like a teenager growing his first facial hair. The impression is only strengthened when he says that over the weekend he got severely drunk on red wine and came to the hospital to get some sort of cocktail for his hangover. “Our insurance covers it,” he says, which gets the two of them bitching about the recent changes to their plan. “Our insurance sucks,” he says.

“Let’s hope shooting that CEO in New York was just the beginning,” KC snarls. 

She cuts off my cast and shakes her wrists and says, “Whoo, that thing’s heavy.” 

Sjon says he finally brought the old saw back down to the ER, where it belongs. “They were like, oh my god where did you find this, we’ve been looking everywhere,” he says. “Needless to say I didn’t tell them we’ve had it for like two years.”

He finally leaves us alone so we can talk and flirt. I always assume that the others probably think it’s pathetic that we are both so hungry for attention, but why do I care? She’s cute, she’s chatty, she’s kind. And I haven’t so much as held hands with a woman in years. Why shouldn’t I flirt? It’s harmless. I think. 

“I haven’t seen you in weeks,” I say. “How was Thanksgiving?”

“Oh, you know, mostly quiet,” she says. “Though I did get in a screaming match with my mom. It’s totally my fault, I started it. I guess I just needed to pick a fight with someone.” 

She asks me about my Thanksgiving and we talk about our exes and our families. Not for the first time, I wonder if it’s wrong to write about the doctors and nurses and what they talk about. None of it is overly sensitive information; no deep dark secrets are being divulged, no skeletons are tumbling out of any closets. Besides, the entire office can hear everything, especially Shelley with her sharp ears. But I still wonder if I am somehow betraying their confidence by writing about them. Am I a creep for doing so? I can’t imagine they would be pleased if they knew.

And this is by far the longest, most personal conversation KC and I ever had. The things she tells me about her upbringing, while not tragic, feel like important clues as to how she got to be the way she is –a brassy shell surrounding a gooey center. I suddenly feel the urge to protect her, to take care of her, though she obviously doesn’t need to be taken care of, and certainly not by me. I can’t even take care of myself. She would probably find the very idea insulting. 

It’s then I realize that we’re on a date. I mean, obviously we’re not. But it feels like it. I feel that same excitement you get when someone you’re attracted to opens up and really allows themselves to be vulnerable. I want to know more and more, to find out who’s really in there.

Dr. Taggert arrives, followed by Shelley, who also looks like a different person without her mask. Taggert is still wearing hers, but as she looks at my foot I notice she is heavily made up. When she lowers her eyes I see that her eyelids are painted a not very flattering shade of brown.

Unsurprisingly, the foot looks red and raw, like it wants to break into blisters at any second. But it hasn’t yet, and Taggert tells KC to just put extra cushioning on the sensitive area. I’m relieved by my close call, and promise myself to take it easy for a while. 

The wound itself measures slightly larger, which is depressing. 

“It’s subcutaneous, though,” Shelley says brightly.

“Is subcutaneous good?” I ask. 

“Subcutaneous is very good. It’s the layer right under the skin.”

“Good, because this whole thing is going to be healed up in a few weeks. I’ve decided to start using the power of magical thinking to heal myself.”

“Um, okay,” says Taggert. “But how about using the power of the magical wheelchair? You know what, I’m going to come down to the museum and cause a scene so they call for security, and when you walk up to me I’ll be like, BUSTED!” I laugh but I feel the pit reopen in my stomach.

KC helps to apply my final patch of umbilical tissue, and then Taggert finally leaves us alone to continue our date. I watch her face carefully as she puts on my undercast. How many more visits do I have left with her? This could be the last one, the last time I see her this close.

When Taggert comes back to do the cast she says, “You need to think of this foot as being for positioning, not for walking on,” she says. “Positioning’s important.”  It’s a variation on her “stand and pivot” speech and I see the familiar tentacles of fear and shame reach up from the pit. 

“And when you’re finally done with us, remember to keep using your scooter. Don’t go walking around right away like last time.” 

She’s right, of course. I rushed back into walking as if everything was normal because I desperately wanted that to be true. Look at how reckless I was just this weekend. For someone who knows magical thinking is bullshit, I indulge in an awful lot of it.

Shelley has stuck around to work on the computer. KC asks if she’s doing her work for her, and she smiles in response. I ask if her kids are excited about Christmas. 

“Are you kidding? They’re insane,” she says. “We have this weird crawl space above the kitchen that’s only accessible by a ladder. Anyways they were both playing up there and the eight year old was doing this crabwalk on all fours and it bothered the three year old for some reason so she started hitting her and screaming. It went on for an hour and because that space is so tiny, I couldn’t get up there.” It’s not one of her better anecdotes, but at least it has stopped the talk about that fucking wheelchair.

“No singing today?” I ask Dr. Taggert.

“I’m saving it all up to sing you Christmas songs next week!” she says. “I bet you love that one by Wham!” I don’t, but mercifully she doesn’t sing it. Not yet.

“That’ll be a great birthday present,” I say.

“Monday is your birthday?” she asks, as the woman I want so desperately to take care of puts my shoes on.

“The big five two,” I say. “And there isn’t anyone I’d rather spend it with than all of you.” Of course I’m really only talking about one of them, the one who now brings my hat and coat then gets my scooter, riding it in circles around the room. 

“Pretty smooth ride,” she says, tripping over herself as she hops off. I mount my trusty steed and they all yell goodbye and I smash the door button, suddenly worn out by the game, sick of the dance, tired of all this sideways scuttling around the truth.