by Brent Runyon
The floor is so much farther away than I remember it.
“Look at me. Don't look at the floor. Look at me.”
It reminds me of the time my family and I went to the top of the World Trade Center and I looked down and got so dizzy.
“Take a step toward me.”
I remember this. I remember how this is done. It's done by putting the weight on one foot and moving the other foot forward. It's basic. Simple to do. With one foot on the ground at all times and the other one moving very gently across the floor to match the first one.
“You're doing great. Nice and easy.”
I remember this very clearly. Walking. I remember doing this my whole life. Although it might not look like it.
“Okay, let's turn around and go back to the chair now.”
Turning, okay, turning is done by placing the right foot at an angle and then moving the left so that it's at the same angle as the right and then moving the right again at an angle and again following with the left. “The chair's just a few steps away. Can you make it?”
“Yes.” I can make it, from here to there, to the chair, which is actually quite a bit farther than it looks. The blueness of it, that's probably what makes it look so far away, that and the fact that everything tends to be farther than it first appears.
“You made it. Okay, I'll help you sit down.”
She puts her arms around my waist and lowers me into the chair, slowly. I've never really noticed how gentle she is when she wants to be.
Mom and Dad are shocked when they walk into my room and see me sitting in the chair already. I smile and say, “Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Runyon. Welcome to my lair,” in my best Dracula impression. I know that it wasn't very funny, but they laugh enough to make me feel good about myself. Mom comes over and gives me a kiss on top of my head and I bend my elbow so I can kind of get my arm around her. She hugs me back, gently, like she's afraid I'm going to break. Her eyes are wet when she pulls away and she looks like she's going to cry.
I say, “Mom, you don't have to cry.” I probably sound a little more annoyed than I mean to, but she's already crying and trying to stop herself at the same time.
Dad leans down for a hug, but he doesn't cry. He just looks happy.
I say, “Mom, you really don't have to cry. It's okay.”
“I know. I know. I'm just crying a little bit out of happiness.” The last word cracks and she can barely get the last syllable out. She's smiling with her lips turned down and her eyes tipped up to keep the tears from rolling out.
I say, “You don't look happy.” My voice did that thing again where it sounded more annoyed than I really am.
“I am. I am happy. It's just that . . .”
“What?” She's really starting to annoy me now. She should be happy.
“I just didn't know if I was going to be able to hug you again.” And the tears all pour out in a stream down her cheeks. My dad goes over and puts his hand on the back of her neck and whispers something in her ear. She pulls an old tissue out of her purse and starts wiping away the tears and laughing at herself. “I'm sorry. I'm okay. I feel better.”
“Hey, Mom”—I decide to cheer her up—“guess who walked today?”
“What?”
“I walked today. With Dawn.”
They both look at me like they've never seen me before and then like they've known me all my life. And now they're both smiling and crying, and I've never seen them look so proud of me.
They've got me walking every day now. Today Mom and Dad are both here to watch me. I walk with Dad and Dawn out into the hallway, one on each side so they can catch me if I fall. I thought for sure there'd be some nurses in the hallway, but nobody is here, so I yell for them to come out and see me. Janice, Mary, Amy, and Calvin all come. They clap and make a big deal out of it and Amy gets the Polaroid camera and takes a picture. They hand it to me, and when I'm back in bed, I look at it, and I can't believe how skinny I look, with nothing but bones in my arms.
It's early, but I'm out of bed and sitting in the blue chair, drinking a second carton of milk and waiting for Mom. She's bringing her brother, Tom, because he and his family are in town for a few days.
After a few minutes my stomach starts rumbling from all the milk I drank. It sounds like someone is opening an ancient tomb. God, that's loud. Mom and Uncle Tom walk in just as I let out an enormous fart. Mom smiles, pretends not to notice, and gives me a kiss on the forehead. Tom's not sure whether to kiss me or shake my hand, so he leans over and pats me gently on the forehead. It's probably the only part of my body that looks normal.
They pull up some chairs and start talking about everyone in the family and how they all wish me well and how they're so sad they can't be here all the time.
I let out another fart that starts out high and tight and goes lower and lower until there's no sound at all, just air.
I say, “Excuse me.”
Mom and Tom keep talking. Tom tells some stories about his kids, Jared, Nathan, and Amara. I guess the boys are both playing soccer and Amara is thinking about becoming a ballerina like her mom. Tom says Gayle and Amara might come see me tomorrow, on Easter. That'll be nice. The boys are too busy roughhousing.
Tom starts telling the story about how when he was in college, he got drunk and stole a plate from a fancy restaurant. Just as he gets to the punch line where he's walking out of the restaurant with the plate under his shirt and the maître d' comes up and puts his hand on Tom's shoulder and says, “Excuse me, sir, you forgot your wallet,” I let out another huge fart that goes on for at least fifteen seconds.
It goes on so long that Tom starts talking again before it's over. “I'm sorry,” I say. This goes on for another ten minutes, him talking, me farting, until I can't take it anymore and ask my mom to have the nurses put me back in bed.
Aunt Gayle is coming today, and she's bringing my cousin Amara, who is maybe four or something. I know Amara loves pink, so I hope she likes my purple bandages that Barbara dyed for me for Easter. God, what if she asks to unwrap them?
Barbara tells me that my aunt and cousin are outside. While they're lifting me out of bed and into the blue chair, I start my little bit about why there's no word in English for female cousin, like cousina, or cousinette, or something. Barbara is smiling at me. She thinks I'm clever.
“Hi, Gayle,” I say, cheerful as can be, and then, “Hi, Amara.” I make my voice go up and down, how some people talk to small animals. Gayle leans over and gives me a kiss on the forehead. My mom must have told her to do that. She says, “You look great, Brent.” She's from Maryland, so she's got kind of a weird accent.
“Thanks,” I say.
“You look really great.”
“Thanks.”
“Moving around and everything. That's so great.”
I'm trying to make eye contact with Amara, who's hiding behind her mom's very long legs.
“Hi, Amara,” I say again. This time making my voice sound even funnier.
“She's shy,” says Gayle.
“Oh.” I don't remember her being shy. I try again.
“Hey, Amara.”
She peeks out from behind her mom's knees but doesn't say anything.
“Hey, Amara, how do you like my bandages? We made them purple for Easter. Do you like purple? I know you like pink.”
She's still hiding.
“Do you like purple, Amara?”
No response.
“Amara, do you like purple?”
Gayle gets my attention with her eyes and I get the feeling she's trying to distract me. “Brent, you look really great. Really great.” Amara mumbles something from behind her mom's legs and Gayle says, “Amara, what do you think of Brent's bandages?”
Amara's still whispering and Gayle leans down to talk to her. “Okay, we can go, but say good-bye to your cousin.” Amara looks up and says, “Bye.”
Gayle says, “I'm sorry, we're just feeling a little shy. I guess we should go.”
“Okay
, bye, Amara, thanks for coming. Bye, Gayle, thanks for coming.”
“Okay, get well soon, Brent. We're all pulling for you.”
They walk down the hallway and around the corner, and Barbara comes out and wheels me back to my room. “How did that go?” she says.
“Fine.”
I didn't realize I was such a monster. I don't know why, but I didn't.
Mom's birthday is tomorrow, April 8, and Dad and I are going to have a surprise party for her. We'll decorate the playroom with streamers, and when she comes in the afternoon, we'll have a big party with presents and everything. Dad's going to work on getting some paint and paper to make a sign.
I have these new bandages for my hands. They're called Jobst garments, which are very tight elastic gloves made especially to fit me. They came in a few days ago to measure me for them, but I didn't know what they were doing. They're supposed to keep the scars from getting too thick and also to keep my circulation flowing. Barbara helps me put them on, but they're very tight and it's hard work to get them over my fingers. And now that they're on, I just want to figure out a way to take them off. I think it'll be hard to paint in them.
Dad comes in with the party supplies and starts putting up a canvas on the wall so I can paint it for Mom's party. They let me take off the stupid Jobst garments, and I paint a blue balloon and a red balloon, a yellow one and a green one. Then I dip my brush in the black and paint a big black balloon above the other ones. I paint Happy Birthday in red at the top and To You right below in blue, and I try to make the letter O look like it's a balloon too. And then I paint Love, Brent G. at the very bottom in yellow. I think it's artistic to leave off your last name so nobody really knows who you are. Everybody says it looks great and Carol, the nice social worker, says, “I didn't know you were so talented.”
Dad tapes some blue ribbon to the bottom of my balloons so it looks like the strings to the balloons are coming out of the picture. I say, “Looks good, DF.”
He says, “DF?”
“Designated Father.”
I can tell he doesn't quite know what to make of that, that I called him Designated Father instead of Dad or whatever. It's just something I came up with on the spur of the moment. I hope he doesn't think it means I'm angry at him. That is so stupid. I hope he doesn't tell the stupid psychologist that I called him that and then she'll want to talk to me all about it. God, I hope that doesn't happen.
Mom's coming down the hall. I can hear her footsteps and her talking to the nurses at the nurses' station. They're telling her we're in the playroom, and here she comes. “Surprise!” She actually looks surprised, maybe even shocked. Then she looks so happy.
She's going to hug me. I hope she doesn't start to cry.
“Did you make this sign?”
“Yup. Me. And Dad helped.”
“Thank you so much, honey, this is such a wonderful surprise.” Dad brings out the cake and the presents and everything and everybody is having such a good time. Mom loves all her presents. Dad didn't tell me what they were going to be.
All the nurses come in and get some cake and ice cream, and Carol gets out the Polaroid and takes a bunch of pictures of Mom and Dad and me. Mom rests her hand on top of mine while Carol's taking the picture and I want to pull my hand away because I'm afraid that it's going to get hurt, but I don't.
Mom tells me over and over again how much she loves the poster and all the presents and everything and how much she loves me.
They're going to cover the holes on my back and butt with skin from my hips and stomach. The good thing about surgery is that it means I don't have to have a burn care for that day. The bad thing is that they're going to have to keep me on my stomach for ten days afterward so that I don't screw up the new skin by lying on it. They say this will be the last big surgery. I might have to have a few more, but they won't be that big of a deal.
Becky's here for my daily stretching. She's got such a great sense of humor and such a nice face. And best of all when she comes to stretch me, she doesn't wear gloves. So it feels like I'm a real person and she's a real person and we're just hanging out.
They haven't let me have anything to eat since midnight and I'm starving. I tried to get Lisa to get me some ice chips, but she refused. Why can't I get a break in this place? The guys in the blue scrubs are here to wheel me down to the OR. I ask them if they know the way, just to be funny, and they say, “Yes, we know the way.” And I ask them if they're sure, and they say, yes, they're sure. I think they know I'm joking.
I'm in the OR waiting room. They put a hairnet on me and tell me it'll just be a minute. I think they've already started giving me something because I'm feeling light-headed and tired, but not really good like from the drugs they sometimes give me.
The one thing I have to remember is not to wake up during the surgery. That's all I have to do. If I wake up, I'll be screwed. I'll see all the skin all cut up and stretched and stapled all over me. So, I've got to remember not to wake up this time, not that I've ever woken up before in the middle of a surgery, but really, wouldn't that just be the worst?
They're taking me into the OR, with all the lights and the cold air. So much cold air. Maybe they'll put one of those warm blankets over me. A nurse is putting a warm blanket on me. She's wearing a hairnet, a mask, and glasses and I can barely see her eyes. They're putting the mask over my face and telling me to breathe. I've got to remember to stay awake, no, stay asleep, I have to stay asleep, not awake. They're telling me to breathe deeply. I can do that. I can breathe deeply. It's hard to see with these eyes how they are, they get so heavy and blurry and hard to see with when they make the breathing of the oxygen with the mask, and the breathing and the mask, and the breathing.
I'm waking up, this is bad. I'm supposed to be asleep, maybe if I close my eyes, I can stay asleep while they finish the surgery. Okay, just go back to sleep.
I'm lying on my stomach and I've got the tubes in my mouth, does that mean they're done with the surgery or am I waking up too early again? I'm probably waking up too early. I should go back to sleep.
Mom and Dad are looking at me, smiling, and I'm trying to look at them, but I'm on my stomach, like they said I would be, and I can barely open my eye. The tubes are gone and I'm breathing like I should be, but I just feel so sick all over. I try to tell Mom and Dad that I feel bad, but my throat is so sore and my voice is so hoarse from the tubes they put down there that I can only get out the words, “I feel bad.” They say it's the anesthesia wearing off and I'll feel better in a couple of hours. They tell me to go back to sleep.
I close my eye and listen to the sounds around me. The steady beeping is my heart rate, the constant humming is the IV pushing the meds into my bloodstream. There are feet in the hallway outside, tennis shoes by the way they squeak on the linoleum, a sound like a grocery cart, that must be a gurney with a patient going by, so I'm not back in the Burn Unit yet, I'm still downstairs in Recovery. Oh yeah, and I saw a cloth curtain when I opened my eye, so I am in Recovery. I wonder if I should ask Mom to read to me but I don't think I'd be able to pay attention.
I can see a red light and a black light, or no light at all. The red is on my right side and the blackness is on my left and the red light means that my eye is closed and I should try to open it to see what I can see, but it just seems like so much work to open my eye.
I can hear some whispering. That's Dad's voice, what's he whispering? He's got his concerned voice on. Mom says something, but I can't hear any of the words. She's being positive, she's got her positive voice on. I keep my eye closed.
When I was really little, I used to have this brown wallpaper in my room and my bed was pushed right up against the wall and when I was going to sleep I'd stare at the brown wallpaper instead of closing my eyes. Sometimes I'd fall asleep and start dreaming and I'd still see the dark brown wallpaper in my mind, like I was still awake with my eyes open. And sometimes I'd see these olive green silhouettes against the brown background. There was a big one
and a medium-sized one and a small one. The big one had a voice like my dad's, deep and gruff, and the medium-sized one had a voice like my mom's, smoother but very serious, and they always started out calm and in hushed voices, but as the dream went on, they got louder and louder and angrier and angrier. There were never any words, just the sounds of their voices. Sometimes the little one would try to interrupt and say something, but then the two bigger ones would just start talking at the same time and the combination of the low gruff voice and the higher serious one would just be too scary and I'd wake up and I'd be staring at the same brown wall I'd been dreaming about, and the voices would still be there.
They must know that I'm awake because they're talking to me, asking if I need anything, if I want to listen to a tape, or watch a movie, or listen to a book. I don't want to do any of that, I just want to go back to sleep.
I'm hungry. I open my eye and see Mom sitting in the chair, reading. She looks up as soon as I do and asks me if I want anything. I say, “Ice.”
She scoops a little bit onto a plastic spoon and angles it into my mouth. My mouth was so dry. I love the taste of ice.
Maybe when I get older, I can work in an ice factory, pulling ice out of the lake in the winter and storing it in little log cabins filled with sawdust.
I'm listening to a comedy tape that my mom got me by Billy Crystal and it's got that funny “I hate when that happens” bit. The one where these two guys trade stories about when they hit their tongues with ball-peen hammers over and over again, and then one says, “That really smarts.” And the other one says, “I hate when that happens.” And the first one says, “I know what you mean.”
Stephen and I should do that bit together. We could be funny at that.
Mom's not coming today because she's going to North Carolina with Craig to look at colleges. I'm glad I'm not going with them. I used to hate that. We'd drive for about five hours and then get out and play Nerf football in the quad of some school for forty-five minutes and then get back in the car and go home. I don't even know why they made me go.