Born to Run

 I feel like I’m sleepwalking -or sleeprolling, rather; trapped in this rigid routine, getting through the day one revolution of these chipped and brittle scooter wheels at a time. I’m only paying as much attention to the world around me as is necessary to keep from getting creamed by a truck. Where is my mind through all of this? What am I thinking about? Even I don’t know. It’s like I’ve locked my consciousness in a kind of purgatory to protect it from becoming damaged. More damaged.

Monday morning rolls around and once again I don’t die in my sleep –my record is perfect so far. I guess I must make it to the bus on time, because I suddenly find myself at the hospital. The metal detector in the lobby is once again roped off. I scoot upstairs to find the waiting area empty aside from some cleaning workers. Eight o’clock comes and goes with no morning prayer. I was looking forward to finally deciphering its mumbled incantation.

Jenny calls me in and leads me to room two, where she takes my vitals then sits at the computer while Vicki removes my cast. We exchange the usual banal chitchat about our cats and how we spent our weekends. Vicki starts talking about an episode of Sixty Minutes about gender affirming care for children. “It’s all too woke for me,” she says. This isn’t something I feel like exploring this early in the morning, but I don’t have the energy to change the subject so I just let her drone on. Jenny says she doesn’t care what gender her kid wants to be, she would love them no matter what. Vicki has trouble cutting through the thick layers of the Thompson cast.

 I hear Shelley announce that Michael, the bedraggled man from the past two Mondays, is here. "Who wants Michael?" she calls. I don’t hear his cries of agony so hopefully he’s in better shape this week. I say “hopefully” but right now I don’t care about him or anyone else. Certainly not myself. I look around the room but I don’t really see any of it. The curtain, the whiteboard, the cabinets, the sink; they’re all still there, presumably; solid objects occupying space. I have no more interest in them than I do in Michael’s pain or Jenny's kitties or Vicki’s ideas about what constitutes "wokeness." 

Taggert comes in but for the first time doesn’t do the weekly debridement. She doesn’t even look at the wound, though Vicki tells her it doesn’t look too bad, with only moderate drainage. “Pretty soon you’ll be down to once a week,” she says. This should register as good news but I don't buy it. She sounds more low key than usual as she does the casting. I don't see her do it, don't feel a thing. I just look down and my leg is suddenly encased in Fiberglas. 

It all takes less than an hour, and I realize that if I hurry I can catch the earlier bus downtown. I race up the hill as fast as I can,  and make it with minutes to spare. I wheel aboard and close my eyes, and when I open them it’s Thursday afternoon and we’re heading in the other direction, back toward the hospital that I left just a few minutes ago.

The woman at the counter remembers my first name but not my last. She laughs and says she should know them both by now. I tell her not to worry, that she’ll be seeing me for a long time to come. 

I’m not late, but feeling a sudden surge of energy, I dash upstairs as fast as I can, speeding along the carpet of the first floor to the tiles of the fourth. Shelley opens the door before I can even sit down and ushers me into room one. Bridget joins her to do the data entry. 

Shelley takes my vitals and is excited by the results. “One forty-seven over seventy-seven,” she says. “And your temperature is ninety-seven. All these sevens!” She sounds delighted by this. 

"I should go to the casino," I say.

“What’s your pain level?” asks Bridget.

“Seven.” 

Shelley saws my cast in one go, then congratulates herself for doing such a clean job. Her tone immediately changes when she sees the inside of the cast.

“Oh no! It’s all wet. What happened? Did this seep all the way through?” She unwraps the cotton dressings, which are totally dry. “This makes no sense. Did something drip into your cast from outside?” 

She untapes the bandages on my wound. 

“Oh my gosh, this looks wonderful,” she says. "Look how nice and pink that is."

 “But it looked so bad last week,” I say, dazed by the whiplash.

“That’s how it is sometimes,” Shelley says. “Sometimes it just all of a sudden decides to get better… look, this is a bridge of healthy skin right here.” Bridget leans in to look and coos in admiration. She takes the measurements and sure enough, the wound, while still not small, has shrunk significantly.

“I didn’t do anything differently,” I say. 

Shelley shrugs and leaves and New Karen takes her place. Dr. Thompson comes in, followed by yet another young doctor. 

“This is all really good skin,” she says. “I like this a lot. What was the drainage like?” Bridget tells her it was barely moderate, and she says, “I think we’re ready to go down to once a week.”

“Wow, really?” I say. “So just Thursdays from now on?”

“Just Thursdays,” she says. 

Just Thursdays means that I will no longer have to bear the hectoring of Doctor Taggert. Of course, I also won’t get the chance to pretend I’m not flirting with KC, who has off Thursdays.  

The doctor also surprises me by having the young doctor do the slicing and scraping. It only takes a minute or two. Thompson watches him but not very closely. 

She leaves and Vicki and Jenny come in to congratulate me. Jenny talks about wanting to see the new Bruce Springsteen biopic coming out. “My husband’s the biggest Springsteen fan, and he got to see him live for the first time this year. He played three hours, it was incredible. Seventy-five and he’s jumping all over the stage.” 

“Shit, I’m only fifty-two and I can barely walk. But then again, I’m not The Boss.”

"No, and you can't afford the drugs The Boss can afford."

New Karen -I suppose it's time to stop calling her that, I rarely see Old Karen- materliaizes. As Bridget wraps my leg back up she asks her questions every step of the way, even though it’s clear that she knows what she’s doing. I almost make a joke about being afraid of being at the mercy of the two newbies, but instead I say, “You’re such pros, it’s like you’ve both been here for years.” They both look pleased. Everyone hseems pleased with themselves today. 

And I admit, my own mood feels lighter in the face of the surprisingly good news. Unlike Disassociation Monday, today I find myself trying to focus on every word and every action the nurses make. Bridget’s hair glows more burgundy than ever, and Karen’s dark eyes shine with a kindly attentiveness. The cast prep materials seem as carefully arranged as a Dutch still life. I hear a patient’s voice droning on about a recipe for chicken pilaf. Through the crack in the curtain, I watch the dry erase marker in Shelley’s hand as she crosses out a name on the daily patient board. I want to take in everything, the good, the bad, and the boring. I want to carry the entire fucking world inside me. 

I watch Dr. Thompson closely as she applies the cast, her legs splayed wide on the low stool. I look at the tight black and gray curls poking from beneath her cap, her blue-gloved hands sticking out of her yellow paper gown as she slops and splashes and rubs the cast vigorously. When she’s done, she examines her handiwork and says, “I’m pretty happy with that.” As I roll out of the office, she looks at my scooter and says, “I need to bring you a bell for that thing.”

I once again miss the earlier bus by a few moments, but it’s a nice day and I’m not in any hurry to get anywhere. The lovely woman with the long hair from last week has been replaced by a girl in a black skin-tight bodysuit decorated with a skeleton of pink sequins. It’s extremely low-cut but I am strong and do not stare too long. Life and death, fecundity and decay. The creator and destroyer encapsulated in one curvaceous figure, holding a cigarette and never once looking up from her phone.