There is no way my coworkers can forget about my appointment again today, but I remind them anyways, and they say yes we know, we won’t forget you, and then they forget me and I speed through the pounding rain and make it to the bus stop with two minutes to spare.
It’s been dusk all day, and the bus windows are fogged over, making the world outside look like a Whistler painting. I carry that gray fog with me into the hospital, up to the fourth floor. I tell them I’m here and Bridget comes out the moment I sit down. I don’t feel able to pay attention, it feels that my mind isn’t there at all. I’m not really preoccupied with anything. It’s like I’m not there at all.
Room two. Curtain. Bridget’s crimson hair. “First things first, birth date?” I tell her. “Why, that’s next week!” Moderate drainage. Wound is no larger but no smaller. Of course I had secretly hoped it had healed up again. It looks exactly the same. Progress is an illusion, a beautiful dream. In reality I remain frozen in place as the world bustles around me. The office full of voices. Shelley, Karen, Bree. I hear Jenny ask, “Isn’t Gil coming in?” Gil had started hyperbaric treatment shortly after I did, nearly two years ago. I’m not the only poor slob stuck here in limbo.
Bridget keeps saying how busy they’ve been all day. She looks exhausted. She asks what I’m doing for Christmas and I tell her I’m not doing anything, which is not completely true, but I don’t feel up for small talk. She tells me what her and her boyfriend are up to, which is also nothing. “Two of my daughters are nurses so they’ll be working that day.”
I was going to make a Christmas card for the office, but I kept putting it off. I figure I’ll make it this weekend and bring it in next week. I’ve written the whole thing out, I just need to draw the damn thing.
On the first day of wound care, my doctor gave to me
A partial amputee.
I usually hate Christmas music, but this year I’ve been listening to it nonstop.
Bridget takes my blood pressure and measurements and pictures. “Despite the drainage it actually looks pretty good,” she says. “You probably think I’m just blowing smoke, but it does.” She asks if I want to see and I say not really.
She leaves but returns almost immediately, followed by Vicki, Dr. Thompson, and a new nurse they’re showing around.
“I’m one of their problem cases,” I warn the new nurse.
“Don’t listen to him,” says Dr. Thompson. “I think I’ll take a number two this time.” I snicker as Bridget hands her the knife.
On the second day of wound care, my doctor gave to me
Two nitrile gloves
and a partial amputee.
It’s crowded in here. The doctor slices, the new nurse asks questions, Vicki types and Bridget stands by looking lost. I’m in that gray place, neither happy nor unhappy, just existing.
“So you were approved for the hard cast but we’re still waiting on the skin graft. Next week’s the holiday, why don’t we wait until the following week for the hard cast?” I say that will be fine. “If I put a football on you for now, will you be able to change it yourself after a week?” I say I did it before, and in fact when I did, it healed up. “Are you casting doubts on our abilities here?” the doctor asks. I tell her I wouldn’t dream of it, especially since she’s still holding that number two scalpel.
On the fifth day of wound care, my doctor gave to me
Five! Rolls of! Gauze
They all leave but Vicki, who shows me a sheet of paper with all their available appointments written on it, and Bridget, who puts a sheet of Optilock on my wound and binds it in the football. Since I won’t see them next week, I won’t have a chance to give them my Christmas card. But it’ll be nice to have a week off.
On the twelfth day of wound care, my doctor gave to me
Twelve nurses striking
Eleven wheelchairs rolling
Ten scalpels slicing
Nine wound vacs slurping
And so on. It doesn’t matter. It wasn’t that clever anyways. And I’m not really up to drawing all those wheelchairs.
The whole appointment only takes a half hour. I call my ride to say I’m done early, and go downstairs to wait in the lobby. “Code gray in the ER,” screeches the radio of one of the guards. “Code gray in the ER.”A couple of little girls run through the metal detector over and over until their mother tells them to stop. I sit and stare into space. The changing lights of the tree don’t penetrate the fog.
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