Take a Load Off, Mona Jamborski

by Joanna Franklin Bell

  I look at Doctor Selnick blankly. "I'm sorry. I got nothing. I give up."

  She looks unsure of herself, for the first time since she entered. "I'm sorry … I couldn't possibly have confused my patients." She opens her flat, neat, leather planner and flips through some papers, then walks to the foot of my bed and grabs my chart. I watch her eyes flit back and forth, like dark hummingbirds. "Yes, this is you. Mona Jamborski." She looks up at me. "You're not friends with Doctor Feigenbaum's son?"

  "Friends?" I say. I crunch what's left of the ice and swallow it. Ouch. "I don't have 'friends.'" I give her the air quotes right back, one-handed. "Which part of me being a shut-in have you missed, during your debriefing?"

  "Mona, Moises Feigenbaum has been your delivery boy and, according to his father who spoke with him at some length when you were hospitalized, became your friend." She looks at me. "Is this not true?"

  "Oh my god," I breathe. "Moises." Moises Feigenbaum. No wonder the little shit never told me his last name. "Yes," I say. "I didn't make the connection. I never, actually, learned his last name. Yes, Moises is, well kind of, my 'friend.'"

  "Well then," She smiles, genuinely, reassured that she's not mistaken. "And he mentioned to you that his father is a surgeon here."

  "He did, well, not specifically in this hospital. He had, already, once, encouraged me to try to make an appointment, once I was able to leave my apartment. It was something I had mentally tabled for, well, at least a year. I'm…." I trailed off, trying to decide what to think.

  She looks at me closer. "Are you pleasantly surprised to find your time table hurried up, or, is it overwhelming?"

  I wonder. I do not feel overwhelmed, right now, but that could come later once I allow my brain to do what it does best: dwell. "So far it's okay," I say. "It seems to be a …. pleasant surprise, all things considered. Moises was the first person to make me feel like I was part of the world again, to use your phrase, in quite some time, so it seems to be almost no coincidence at all that this would happen now, in a way that involves him. But…."

  "Yes?"

  "Did his father, did Doctor Feigenbaum, actually think he could perform surgery on me? With everything else going on? That I would have a chance of making it work? I mean, has he been in here reading my chart while I was sleeping, or what?"

  Doctor Selnick laughs, and the sound rings throughout the entire room. "No conspiracies here, Mona!" she says. "He'll swing by to meet you sometime later – right now, you are a splenectomy recovery, not a gastric bypass candidate. All in good time. Oh, and you're also a psych consult case, but, we're working through that." She lifts her eyebrows up and down to indicate she's joking.

  But, she's not, really. I am a psych case. I am a crazy lady who was taken against her will out of her isolated apartment where she was slowly eating herself to death. Her only friends were a delivery boy and his strangely fearless girlfriend, and a caring mailman who left her a note once.

  That's not a statement in favor of my normalcy.

  Chapter 20

  Tina is back on duty today, she of the capable hands and pink lip gloss and homemade highlights. She fusses gruffly with my pillow, the angle of my bed, the equipment I am attached to, and, thankfully, a bit of sponge bathing.

  "When will I be able to stand up?" I ask her almost shyly, as she's wiping down the underside of my right arm. No one has had such intimate physical contact with me since Danny, and even he would cringe to see me like this.

  "Tomorrow," she responds. "If all goes well today and tonight, tomorrow you'll spend some time standing and walking. Blood clots are always a potential complication – we need to get you moving. Still in the ICU though, but that's normal with splenectomies."

  "Is it," I say.

  "You'll have a series of vaccinations this week as well," she says. "You are more susceptible to infection now without a spleen. You are also getting antibiotics through your IV—" she nods at one of the drip bags—"but once you're off those, you'll need to take them orally for a while as well."

  "Ok," I say. I am good at this role – the obedient patient. I will take my medicine and submit myself to their care. And once I'm home, I will probably eat a few boxes of Twinkies and undo all the good that has happened.

  Home. I wonder when that will be. A couple weeks, it sounds like. I wonder what I will weigh by the time I am out of here. I could be down to an even 400 by then. I might be able to climb my stairs. I wonder if I made trips up and down my stairs, every day, for a half hour or so, if that would be the equivalent of three hours at a gym for a normal person. I wonder how much I would have to eat to undo all that. I know I am capable of eating enough to undo all that.

  I wonder if gastric bypass would actually curb my horrible need, or if only therapy would do that. I wonder if there is medication that takes away compulsivity. I don't feel any of that need right now – maybe antibiotics take it away. Maybe it's the glucose drip. Maybe it's the gigantic gash in my abdomen. Maybe it's constant attention from a rotating staff. Maybe it's these talk shows. I have a lot of questions.

  I could also just forget all this and go right back to the way I was living. But, I realize, I really don't want to. I had been fairly content and even happy, but always so uncomfortable. Everything was an ordeal. Dropping an oven mitt was a catastrophe, when it took me ten minutes to pick it back up. Going into the bathroom, whether to shower or otherwise, was something I had begun to dread like it was a crucifixion waiting for me in there. Dusting and vacuuming was becoming harder and harder. Cloroxing the toilet bowl and the tub was requiring acrobatics that I was nearly incapable of. I don't want to go back to all that.

  Maybe this really is it. Maybe this is where I change. Maybe this is when I change. Maybe this is how I change.

  I look at Tina.

  "Do you think I could do some walking today?"

  *

  Walking might have been a mistake, but I don't care. My sweat-soaked hospital gown smells of victory this time. The searing, knife-like pain straight down my body, slightly to the left, only spurred me to do more laps. I wasn't thinking about how hard my legs were working to heft my weight, when I was too busy thinking about popping my stitches. Tina is as sturdy as she looks, and she let me cling to her arm as hard as I needed to, while I gripped the IV pole with my other hand. The nurses cheered every time I rounded their station, and I stopped to rest when we ended at the security door at the end of the hallway. I wondered if my ass was hanging in the wind – I know how hospital gowns work – but whatever kind of XXXXXL gown it is I am wearing must be configured differently.

  Now I am back in my super-wide bed, giddy, smiling, and lifting my hair off my neck to dry the sweat. I am sucking on an ice chip like it's the Gatorade of champions, and feeling my cheeks flush with the exertion. I used the bathroom while I was up like a real person, too. Doctor Hargest has visited and given me his blessing, and Doctor Selnick dropped her leather planner to give me a double thumbs up when I passed her in the hallway. I feel like a celebrity, but I also feel ridiculous that they're cheering me on like I am a toddler.

  Well. If the shoe fits.

  The rest of the week passes in this fashion. I walk, I am cheered, I am popular, I collapse into bed. My drip bags are changed, I am vaccinated, I am squeezed by my blood pressure cuff. I use the bathroom, I attempt to take a sort of shower, I watch a lot of television. My condo management team faxes over a copy of my insurance card that the maintenance man retrieved from my desk. Apparently he also adjusted my thermostat and checked on my appliances. Well, that was handy. I am grateful. I chat with Doctor Selnick about all my greatest insecurities and have a few visits from a nutritionist who reviews the food pyramid and caloric requirements. Thanks. My pain lights my abdomen on fire and I hit the morphine button as often as I can. My voice returns to normal, but my shoulder still throbs. I spoon weak chicken broth into my mouth, become intimate with all the flavors of jello, and drink small cups of apple juice with the peel-back foil lids. I have i
ce chips going all the time. I think I am addicted to ice chips. The nurses keep offering to bring me large Styrofoam cups of water, with a lid and a straw like it's from a soda from a drive-through, but I decline – I've gotten attached to my small cups of ice chips. Maybe that's my new weight loss secret. I should alert the media.

  Doctor Hargest gives the green light for a solid food diet, and I am also transferred into a regular hospital room, away from the ICU. I try to come to grips with this new room – so big, with real walls and no curtains. I have my own bathroom. The television is much larger, looming from the ceiling, and a nurse only checks on me once an hour. A medical assistant takes my temperature and blood pressure every four hours – that's a welcome change from the automatic cuff. I am bored and antsy and I want to walk down my new hallway. I feel a little neglected. There is no one ready to cheer for me here.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed and grab my IV pole for support. I am down to one IV in my right arm – everything else is gone. It's just antibiotics I think – my pain meds are oral now and my diet doesn't require the glucose and the saline. I stand up and use my free arm to swat the layers of cloth that hang behind me, making sure I am not about to moon anybody, and I take a few steps. I don't need a nurse – this is just walking. I get to the door of my room and look outside. What a boring hallway. No bustle of the ICU. This could be an abandoned hotel, for all I would know.

  So I start. The hallway is like my own personal shining racetrack. I have some kind of terry cloth socks on, with rubber grips on the bottom – hospital socks are my new favorite thing. I walk carefully, making sure not to shuffle my feet. I swat at the gown again to make sure I can feel it swishing behind my legs. I pass a door, and another door. There are some beautiful pieces of artwork on the hallway walls, drawn by city elementary schoolers, according to the plaques. What a cute idea. Monique Jefferson drew a large tree growing in a playground. She took as much care coloring in the grass as she did the entire rest of the drawing put together – her attention to detail waned by the time she scrawled in some blue sky. But she has serious talent. The proportions are amazing, for a child's drawing – the playground has depth. I can clearly see the swings are in the background, and the climbing gym is in the foreground, with the tree encircled by a mulch barrier.

  Xiomara Alvarez drew a happy-looking puffer fish, surrounded by snaky seaweed and a treasure chest in the sand. Esperanza Quinto drew a series of snails and worms, entirely with her fingerprints pressed in colored ink. Jacob Allende-Cameron made some kind of construction paper design that looks like it was from an art lesson in how to achieve symmetry – I can see the crease down the middle where the shape of a vase was folded as he cut his details into the double layer of tan paper. Opened, it was mounted on a finger-painted background, and accented with glitter, it seems. Nice. I wonder who paid for all the framing – every piece of work is behind glass, with a wooden frame, and a brass plaque.

  I reach the end of the hallway, turn around, letting the wheels on my IV cart set the speed, and start back. So many doors – some are half-opened, some are completely closed. I don't know if patients are in all of them. I don't hear anything, except sometimes the murmur of a television. At the far end of the hallway, double doors swing open and a man in scrubs and a lab coat walks through. A doctor. Not one of mine. I sigh. I keep going, wondering how many hallways are in this unit, or if I will just be walking up and down this one. Hi Jacob's vase again. Hi Esperanza's fingerprints. Hi Xiomara's fish and Monique's playground. And I am at my door again.

  I sigh again.

  The doctor is still approaching. He raises one hand like he's waving. I glance behind me, then back at him. My hand raises of its own accord to wave back. He gets smaller as he nears me – the man can't be more than 5'6", with a slight build but heavy features, and curly salt and pepper hair.

  "Ms. Jamborski!" he greets me.

  "Doctor Feigenbaum," I answer, smiling. I know those cheekbones, that nose, and the build, too. His walk is different, but, his kneecaps are both intact from what I can tell.

  "Aha, you've found me out!" he says. I am charmed by his accent, and his inflections. He is as effusive as is son is monotone. "Shall we have a seat in your room? Did I catch you while you were out for your jog?"

  "Yes, you did. My first one on my own. I just kind of went. There are fewer jailers here than in the ICU. I almost don't know what to do with myself."

  "Well, I applaud you, Ms. Jamborski. Always tell a nurse, though, when you're going. Balance and blood pressure are both tricky things and I don't want you fainting without someone knowing you're out of bed. Now, after you."

  He holds my door open as I go in. I don't know if it's the type of hospital bed, or if I've gotten surer on my feet, but I manage to hop into bed with minimal straining and no grunting. I feel almost ladylike.

  "You're looking well," he says, which sounds romantic in his accent. "I didn't see you before, but you don't look like someone, right now, who cannot do for herself. You're getting around, you're clearly healing quickly, and Doctor Selnick tells me she is very positive about your prognosis. What do you think?"

  He looks at me steadily with Moises's eyes, and I have trouble, for a moment, reconciling this chatty man with his son.

  "I think I am doing just fine, in here," I say. "Returning to my real life is where the challenge will lay, isn't it."

  "You are so right!" he says. "So good to hear you say that now, because so many people find that as a … rude awakening, as they say, when they get back to things."

  "How's Moises doing?" I ask.

  "Very well," he says. "He asks after you often. I wanted to thank you, for being such a good friend to him. He has had a … difficult time, sometimes, fitting in with friends, and he really took to you, it seems."

  "He's the one who's been a good friend to me, not the other way around," I say. "I mean, he went after a bad guy for me. He's my hero." I grin ruefully and shrug my shoulders. "He's very gallant. If I were a generation younger, I might have been his princess stuck in a tower."

  Doctor Feigenbaum slaps his thigh and roars out a laugh. "Indeed you are!" he cries. "Yes, he does do best when he is caretaking, you have that right. Our dog, his pet rat from several years ago, his little sister, everyone except his mother and I! There is a protective streak. I am glad to see it. It seems to take the place of any … social inclinations."

  "I think we understood each other's … lack of social inclinations," I said. "But I was happy to meet Hallie. He might be taking care of her too, but, I think she will draw him very firmly out into the world."

  He looks at me and draws his eyebrows together. "Hallie?"

  "Oops, I'm sorry." Shit, was this a secret? Is Moises one of those guys who keeps everything under such tight wraps? Of course he is. "Just a friend, of his, who he brought to see me."

  "A girl?"

  "Well, yes, but please don't tell him I told you, I certainly didn't mean to blow any confidences. I thought they were becoming quite close so I just assumed—"

  Doctor Feigenbaum is studying something on my opposite wall. "The past couple weeks suddenly make sense now," he says, as if to himself. He looks sad, I think at first, when a smile starts to play at the corner of his mouth. I smile too.

  "Her name is Halleluiah," I tell him, "and she is the answer to a prayer, maybe."

  His eyes shift suddenly back to me, and he smiles. "I need to learn to stop being surprised by life," he says. "We become old, we become cynical. We live through so much, we think we know where every turn leads. But we don't. And we must not be so arrogant as to assume we do. The future," he says, spreading his hands wide, "is unknown, and I am so glad to be reminded of that now."

  Chapter 21

  Moises and Hallie come visit me the next day, too. Moises must have reshaved his head, because there is no sign of dark stubble and plenty of red razor burn. Hallie, I heard coming from all the way down the hall. Her boots must add ten pounds to her weight. Her
voice echoed off the empty corridor and I had time to try to pat my hair into place and adjust my blanket.

  "…getting some kind of spasm in my ear, so maybe I'll switch to lifesavers or something," she says as they reach my door. "Mrs. Jam! So glad to see you!"

  She swoops into me with a hug, smelling of minty gum and coconut oil, with an underlying wake of unwashed hair in her breeze. When she pulls back she's smiling big, her beautiful face alight with glinting rouge powder on her cheeks and caked dirt and oil in the creases of her nose. Her eye makeup is black and dramatic and less runny than before, and she's chomping noisily on her gum.

  "How are you feeling?" she asks. "We've been dying to come see you. But, no can do in the ICU, you know? When are you coming home?"

  She grabs the extra chair and settles into it. Her shorts bite into the tops of her thighs and her small roll of a tummy hangs over top. One of her heavy boots is coming unlaced. She's such a gorgeous girl, I think, with a banging figure if she wanted it to be, but everything she wears is too small, and I wish I could take a baby wipe to her face and lend her my shampoo.

  "Soon, I think," I say. Her smile is infectious. "Couple days. How are you guys?"

  "Great," she says. "We freaked out when you didn't answer your door so we went to the condo offices to try to get them to, like, break us in. But they had a record of the ambulance picking you up, so Moises called his dad and we've been, like, stalking you via this doctor network. Ha! Ha ha!"

  "You're both so sweet. Moises, I met your dad yesterday, actually," I say. "What a kind man."

  He nods curtly. "He is," he says. "He's a good doctor too. He gets cards from his patients years later." Moises's eyes are characteristically skipping all over the room, looking at everything but Hallie and me. "Splenectomies take between four and six weeks to heal fully," he says.