Today my legs wouldn’t work. They shrugged, made a face, and simply refused to operate. Naturally, I stared at them most menacingly, cursing loud enough that my neighbor’s kid stopped bouncing on his trampoline to tell his mommy that I said bad words. I suppose one should never underestimate the determination of a kid looking for an extra cookie. So, there it was. Grassed up by a kid and it was only 9 a.m. If this wasn’t the gangster life that I had always dreamt of, tell me, what is?
Back to my legs: they wouldn’t fucking work. I wiggled my toes, rotated my ankles, turned to bend my knees, and massaged myself from foot to thigh. Still, there was nothing. Not a twinge of hope. I thought about limping to the bathroom, using my crutches instead of a cane, but after trying to put my feet on the floor and becoming accosted by immense nerve pain, I quickly changed my mind. In bed, I remained. A full bladder and all.
I spent the next part of my morning as James Stewart’s counterpart in Rear Window; stuck facing outwards, gazing through a winter frame. I watched with melancholy as leaves plummeted from receding trees. I noted the deer that grazed on thistles and then I observed rain tumble into water reserve buckets. The world beyond my bed appeared exceptionally tedious. Usually, the strength of my introversion prevents all things gloomy and leaden. My inwardness is that of a spirited Las Vegas strip, you see, redirecting me from all spectrums of boredom. However, that wasn’t the case this morning. My inner self – the supposed Las Vegas woolgathering – must’ve been closed for maintenance because all I could summon was a pendulum that swung between monotony and disappointment. Everything was just so blah.
The next few hours were spent being massaged – which feels more like a Medieval punishment than an act of self-care – before being wrapped into a mummified zombie. I also exercised and did my Bambi just born walk to remind my legs that they have a duty, which is to transport me places. Once I’m able to hobble around the house on crutches, I begin to feel more like myself. It’s funny what people will say to those of us who are disabled. It seems there’s this misunderstanding that able-bodied people have permission – no, scratch that – that they have the right – to interrogate those of us with disabilities. They operate the same way Karens do, except instead of targeting, insulting, and being bigoted towards people of color, they choose disabled people to pick on. It’s a weird flex.
Even my doctor has made some bizarre comments about my disability. The most memorable one is how on good days she sees me walking somewhat normally, unrestricted by my illness. Then, rather contrary, bad days mean she sees something completely different. On those dreadful days, which I hate to admit are the majority of my life, I’m unable to walk. Unable to move. Unable to live within such terrifying and gripping pain. My disability is always with me, as is my diagnosis, my illness, and my physical afflictions, as is the immeasurable pain and suffering that my body undergoes every single day. Even on good days, it’s all still there, ridiculing me from beneath the surface. Yet, to have a few good days here and there, where perhaps my limbs are willing to cooperate, seems to leave people confused as to how I can go from bedbound to walking on crutches, to walking with canes, to just plain walking. Isn’t it strange that disabled people should have constant assessments taken of their disabilities? So very fucking strange.
I saw my doctor yesterday. It was quite a taxing experience, although, rather entertaining, too. It served as an impromptu adventure that featured the first decent sleep that I’d had in over a month, a vague conversation with a peculiar health assistant - who couldn’t decide what her nationality was - and the greeting of a small beige mouse. I suppose peculiar escapades are expected once you’ve signed up for budget health.
My scheduled appointment with the budget doctors went as expected. First, they lost me in the system, which is something of a regular occurrence. I strolled next door to the café and ordered me something delightfully delicious to eat. Sure, Doctor Budget wouldn’t be thrilled that her prediabetic patient was rather enthusiastically shoveling cherry-filled pastries down her gob, but that’s exactly what happened. Once I returned, the receptionist zealously informed me that I had been squeezed into a new appointment. She seemed rather impressed with the level of care I was receiving as if budget health had done me a favor. Not one to moan, I forced a smile before being ushered into a small room where I lingered for another fifty minutes. I had now been at the doctor’s surgery for a little over two hours.
Sitting in the private room, anticipating Doctor Budget’s arrival, I recollected my last doctor’s visit from two weeks ago; she had strolled into the room nonchalantly, her gemstone earrings hanging from her lobes like elongated icicles. Without speaking to me, she shuffled papers and furiously tapped away at her computer. Eventually, after what felt like a decade passed, she acknowledged me as if I had just walked into the room. The mere memory gives me my very first yawn of the day.
Is it just me or is there something excruciatingly tiring about doctors, hospitals, and medical centers of various descriptions? The unventilated air with noxious odors of chemicals and sickness combined, the insipid print-art canvases that are as banal as the rest of the ambiance, the Antarctic-cold temperatures that leave you trembling with frostbite, the rigid chairs, and out-of-date magazines, and that one person who’s constantly coughing without covering their mouth. It’s just a horrendously long-winded hub of weariness.
Yawning, for the second time that morning, there was a quick knock at the door before a figure walked into the dimly lit room. Complaining about the lack of light within the room, she found a second light switch beneath a cabinet, suddenly lifting the room into a glorious yellow beam. This was something that caused me great curiosity: why would someone put two light switches in one small cubicle-sized room, and why would one be hidden in such an obscure place? These are the types of inane questions you get to ponder when waiting for an entire lifespan to see a doctor who only intends to see you for ten minutes. If that.
The nurse introduced herself as Gretchen, and immediately, I detected an Eastern European accent. Excited to be meeting another European, I gasped, enthusiastically asking where she was from. Philadelphia, she answered. I looked at her perplexed. Registering my expression, Gretchen released a sigh that was both exasperated and scolding. I decided not to ask any more questions because she was right; I had no right to ask where she was from, and just because we’re both Europeans didn’t mean that we were about to sit down and watch Eurovision together. I used the awkward moment to yawn my third yawn.
“British?” Gretchen asked after a few minutes had passed.
“I am,” I replied, smiling as if I had won something. My Britishness made the nurse shudder, so I dimmed my smile.
“I’m from Hungary,” Gretchen said begrudgingly. “I was born in Estonia, though. Moved to Moldavia when I was a teenager. That’s where I met my first husband: a German from Bulgaria.” That was a lot of information to receive. The suddenly talkative nurse, who was from Philadelphia, Hungary, Estonia, and Moldavia, and who married a German from Bulgaria, offered me an ambiguous smile. “And Poland. Did I mention I moved to Poland when I was thirty? That was before I came here, to America.”
“What a wonderful road map you’ve lived,” I said before being interrupted.
“I take your vitals now,” Gretchen responded, her smile replaced with a stern glare. She took my vitals in silence. Apart from the preliminary questions asked and answered, Gretchen and I said nothing else. On her way out of the room, she turned back to me and said, “Or maybe I’m not from any of those countries. Maybe I lied. But you’ll never know!” And with that, the door shut, and the motion-action lights timed out, throwing me into complete darkness. What. The. Actual. Fuck.
Getting up to turn the lights back on, I decided that Gretchen was really a KGB spy who was posing as a healthcare professional in a sleepy Georgian town for reasons yet to be determined. My imagination started inventing stories for Gretchen. Before I knew it, I was carving out backstories too, mentally writing a whole novella of KGB Gretchen and her spy lies. I even created a chapter for her German-Bulgarian husband, naming him Ludvig, after a Swedish friend that I once roomed with in Vienna. So lost in the plot I was that I hadn’t realized the lights had once again timed out. Nor had I realized that I had fallen asleep. A deep lullaby of slumber.
Beyonce woke me up. More accurately, Beyonce’s Dangerously in Love woke me up. It’s the assigned ringer that I use when Erika calls me. Groggily, I answered. Within minutes I was fully conscious and fully aware that I had been asleep for forty minutes, wondering whether anyone had checked in on me. Oddly enough, I felt refreshed by my unexpected nap. After all, I haven’t been sleeping well lately, and when I’m fortunate enough to dwell in slumber, it has been plagued with monstrous realities that cause me nothing but terror. Supposedly, children grow out of nightmares once they’ve successfully reached midlife, although, that hasn’t been the case for me. Understandably, Erika wanted to know where I was. After all, a ninety-minute appointment – at best – had turned into a whole day affair. I relayed the events as they had happened, soothing Erika’s angst with anecdotes about KGB Nurse Gretchen.
After hanging up, I leaped down from the chair-bed-convertible-thingy and switched the lights back on. The room was dull, sealed within the kind of glow that made me think of funeral homes and other somber places. What happened to that buttery golden light from before, I wondered. Was it only reserved for indecisive Europeans who didn’t know which nationality they belonged to? Another ten minutes passed before another knock arrived at the door. Doctor Budget entered the room with apologies rolling from her tongue; she apologized for the system losing my appointment, apologized for the horrendous delay, apologized that my test results weren’t yet ready (despite the surgery informing me they were, hence my appointment), and apologized for everything else that has ever happened to me. It was quite the speech. Activating my utmost British Britishness, I simply recounted Doctor Budget’s every apology with one of my own.
You’d be surprised how accommodating the British apology can be, and how people are instantly disarmed by it. I apologized for being an inconvenience to their disastrous system, for taking up so much time and space while waiting to be seen, and for assuming I would have my test results on the very day that the receptionist told me that they would be ready. Most importantly, I apologized to Doctor Budget and her fluster for having to apologize to me. It worked a treat, as I knew it would. All went suddenly calm. That’s a superpower that the British have over other English speakers. Our language, and in particular the way in which we converse, is entrenched with irony, sarcasm, self-deprecation, and my personal favorite, mockery. It’s good ole humorous British banter: nothing, and I quite literally mean nothing, is quite what it seems nor quite what is meant. Deciphering the British code, which is usually spoken with an impeccably deadpan expression, is the bane of America’s existence when exchanging words with a Brit.
My appointment with Doctor Budget went well. Sure, I didn’t receive the urgent test results needed to see whether my organ functions were in any better shape, and no, I didn’t receive a repeat prescription for my blood pressure meds because those test results weren’t available either, and no, I didn’t get my scheduled EKG exam because the machine was broken. Yet again. Doctor Budget then referred her attention to my mummified legs. “How many bandages do you wear on each leg?” She asked, clearly not remembering my answer from the last three times she’s asked. “Forty per leg, which is less than the PTs recommend as standard care, but this works for me just fine,” I patiently answered for the fourth time. She nodded a sharp nod and then closed her folder. Other than that, I was informed that I’m still alive. Probably. Go to the checkout and pay $60 for your visit. And most importantly, don’t forget to have a good day!
Before I left, I needed to use the restroom. I must say, I absolutely loathe public restrooms. Despite them being the breeding ground for virulent plagues, public toilets don’t cater to people of my height. Which, for reference, is 5 ft 2. To successfully use the toilet without sitting down takes some maneuvering, a lot of tiptoeing, and sometimes prayers are required too. It’s a lot of things to do simultaneously, especially for someone like me, who isn’t able-bodied. Before a genius suggests that I only stick to using disabled loos, they’re also included in this rant. They’re terribly inconvenient, even if that inconvenience comes with a handrail. The point is that all public restrooms suck arse. Of course, I could be excessive and fill the toilet seat with sheets upon sheets of scratchy loo paper, but apart from that being anything but eco-friendly, I wouldn’t sit my bare flesh on public toilets even if the Messiah himself came and blessed it with his holy hands. Capiche?
Hovering over the toilet seat utmost inelegantly, desperately trying not to touch anything around me, I saw a flash of something from the corner of my eye. With the speed of light, I spun in the direction of that flash, but there was nothing there. All was as it should be. Convinced I was imagining things – after all, I was dehydrated and ravenous, and delirium wasn’t too far off – I once again concentrated on what I was doing. When at the sink washing my hands, I caught another glimpse of movement within the reflection of the mirror. Again, I turned to face the back wall, circling an inquisitive eye across the plaster and tile. Nothing. I shrugged the day’s tension off my shoulders and unlocked the bathroom door when suddenly, another glint of movement caught my eye. This time the movement stopped inches ahead of my shoe. Two brown eyes stared into mine, a nose twitched, and then the four-legged creature departed behind the toilet into a hole where several tiles had come loose. It was a beige mouse, not quite Mickey, but definitely a relation. As someone sick with both interesting and uninteresting illnesses, afflictions, and syndromes, I often require specialist care. I also require medical environments to be rodent free. On very special occasions when the planets have aligned and my crystals are radiant with extra potency, and when destiny decides today would be a great day to cut me some slack, I receive great healthcare at Doctor Budget’s: the healthcare service that offers a no-frills price tag but does throw in rodents for free. However, it seemed that yesterday the planets were broken, and my crystals were slumbering because Doctor Budget was heavily hitting on that no-frills part.
Lying on my couch like a Grecian aristocrat from some ancient dynasty, surrounded by fruit, I quietly thank my few lucky stars that I didn’t have to deal with Doctor Budget today. Today hasn’t been a good day and I highly doubt I would have had enough restraint to not let everyone within the surgery know of my catalog of complaints. As for poor Mickey, I’m not sure he’d escape my wrath either. I can quite easily picture myself screaming abuse at a mouse for being so impolite as to spy on me whilst I try to position myself over a toilet that’s two sizes too tall for me, suspended by collapsible legs that offer no reliability, just to try and pee in peace. No, today isn’t about movement or being present within negative spaces. Nor is it about being lost within medical systems and not receiving critical test results. Today is about rest and I’m getting plenty of that whilst watching British comedies from the 90s. Life and its absurdities will surely resume tomorrow. Until then…
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