Gnadenhutten

Carefully roll off the bus thank you driver crosswalk button down the steep hill smokers’ bench drop off/pick up only sliding doors stanchioned off metal detector I gotchoo McCullen (close enough) water fountain green elevator waiting area eyelids droop 

“Hey stranger.” 

It’s Sally, wearing her coat and a child size backpack. 

“Hey stranger yourself. I hear you and Jenny don’t have to strike because you’re higher level nurses.”

“Lower, actually. But yeah, we’ll be here with the docs.”

Jenny pops her head out the door. 

“It’s a hyperbaric reunion!” I cry.

“You can come back anytime, you know,” says Sally. “We have lots of openings.”

She heads to the elevator and Jenny leads me to room one. Her scrubs are bright green and look brand new. I marvel at how young she looks. She has ten years on me but her hands are smooth and barely veined.  

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” I say. “How were the holidays?”

“Quiet,” she says. “No drama. Mother-in-law behaved herself.”

Shelley comes in and hands me the doctor’s note. 

Seann McCollum (SOB 12/23/1972) is a patient under my care. He currently has a diabetic ulcer on his left foot. In order to heal his ulcer, he is unable to bear any weight  on the left foot. He may use a knee scooter or wheelchair, but he is unable to go up or down stairs, or take any steps on the left foot anticipate that he will not be able to walk on the left foot for at least 60 more days. We are assessing his condition weekly. 

“Goddamnit,” I say. 

“What’s wrong?” asks Shelley.

Sixty days from the 7th, when she wrote the note, is March eighth. The anniversary of the Gnadenhutten Massacre, the start of the Battle of Guadalajara. The birthday of Cyd Charisse and Mickey Dolenz. I remember Dr. Richmond saying I would be healed up by Christmas. Sixty days from now will practically be Spring. My bosses and HR seemed okay with me continuing to work using my scooter, but I had only told them it would be until the end of the strike. And of course while the strike is on, no one will be assessing my condition, weekly or otherwise. 

“Nothing,” I say. 

I don’t have a choice. I’ll have to just get through this, like I’ve gotten through so much already.

Shelley switches on the saw. “I hate this thing,” she yells over the roar. “It’s so heavy.”

“Also loud,” I yell. 

“What?” she yells. 

It takes her a surprisingly long time to cut the cast off, and even then she has to use the pliers. When the saw is off the office is very quiet. No one takes my vitals, and the doctor doesn’t come in to check my wound, but both Shelley and Jenny say it looks good. 

“It didn’t look great Monday,” I grumble. Shelley insists it looks better. She cleans my leg and dresses the wound while Jenny and I chat. No matter what we talk about we keep coming back to the strike, even though there’s nothing new to say about it. No one wants it to happen. Everyone wants it to be over with quickly. We all wish we lived in a country that believed in socialized medicine. I almost say I’m ready to burn it all down, then I think of the fires ravaging Los Angeles and realize I don’t really mean that.

With no doctor and no new cast, I’m done before four; my shortest visit ever. Shelly puts on my sock and hands me my shoe and asks, “You have the instructions for changing your dressing, right?”

“I didn’t get any,” I say. 

“I gave them to you Monday, didn’t I?” 

She prints them out and brings my scooter and I wish everyone good luck and hit the door open button and roll out to the green elevator water fountain St. Joseph sculpture two nurses on their phones blocking the hallway security guards suddenly everywhere metal detector open again patient transport parked by the Starbucks old guy with a handlebar mustache behind the wheel says “You really speed along on that thing” I tell him I’ve had a lot of practice all the appointments all the days the weeks the months the soaked bandages the split Fiberglas the ulcers the callouses the antibiotics the little knives the skin grafts all the false starts and steps backward all the foolish hopes and unrealistic dreams and most of all the fear the fear the fear I feel it all rising behind me like a boiling wave a blast of infernal wind a panicking mob a stampeding herd shoving me forward propelling me through the automatic doors and into the cold winter sunlight.