Twenty minutes by van means it could be more like an hour in a wheelchair. What if I get left behind? What if someone forgets about me? Adas isn’t here, and I’m sure he’d hate to have to come back and get me when he’s in the middle of an important mission.
Above all, I do wish he was here more than anything.
For the entire ride to the hospital, I stare out the window imagining myself running alongside the van. I’d give anything to be able to run like that, keeping up with the speed of a van without faltering. Maybe when I can walk fully again, that will be a goal of mine. I’ll never reach it, but I’ll keep chasing it.
Arriving at the hospital feels surreal. I know I’ve been here before; this is where I stayed for two weeks after the accident. I wasn’t awake for it, but I stillfeelit. Returning with all of my progress made feels bittersweet.
I take an elevator to the thirteenth floor after following at least ten signs leading me to the proper department. This place is so huge that I’m willing to bet that patients get lost all the time and miss their appointments.
When I reach the thirteenth floor, the neurology clinic, I can’t help but gaze over the view of the water from this high up. I have weird flashbacks, almost like déjà vu, as I look out at the water.
Was I here before?
Have I ever seen the water like this?
I wheel myself over to the registration desk, feeling self-conscious about how short my chair makes me. Now that I’ve stood up straight and carried my own weight, I’m annoyed by how much shorter I am when I’m sitting down. I don’t want people looking down at me constantly.
The woman at the desk is friendly, but I can tell that she’s clearly irritated with my accommodation. How can someone be like that in a medical setting? Doesn’t she see patients like me every day?
As I sit in the waiting area, I observe the other patients, trying to figure out what’s brought them here. I see an old woman with staples in her head, which grips my heart so tight that I want to cry as soon as she looks at me. I want to quickly turn my head away, but I can’t. I meet eyes with her, and we exchange a silent glance of solidarity and empathy.
There’s a woman with three kids, one of which sits in an electric wheelchair. He seems to be conscious of his surroundings, but he’s also just a little bit far away as if the world around him is just an echo of its reality.
I wonder to myself if anyone else here had been shot in the head. Would I be able to tell?
I want to meet more people like me, to really connect and bond with a community of others who have endured this particular brand of pain and loss. I would love to have friends who share my troubles, people who would be nothing but empathetic to me. They would ask nothing of me, and that’s all I would need from them.
When I’m called into the room, the nurse at the door quickly rushes me into the corridor of offices and exam rooms. I try my best to keep up with her, and I just barely lose her right before we reach the exam room I’ll be seen in.
She quickly sits down, badging into the computer a few times before it actually logs her in. She’s in a huge hurry, I can already tell. But I’d hate for my visit to be rushed as well. I have so much to talk to the doctor about. I’ve been reading a lot about athletes who used to be paralyzed, and I need to know what sets me apart from them.
“Uh, what’s your name?” she asks, chewing gum a bit too loudly.
“River Poltorak,” I reply, starting to feel anxious. She’s asking me these simple questions like they’re on a test I didn’t study for.
She narrows her eyes at the computer screen, pointing out the first instance of my full name. “Poltorak, is that Polish?”
“Um, no, it’s Russian,” I reply. My voice is stilted and unnatural, but it’s been so long since I spoke to anyone who didn’t live in my house.
“Russian,” says the nurse with a note of suspicion.
I ignore her, answering all of her questions the best I can as she glares menacingly at me.
“Is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
I sit up straighter, taking a deep breath. “I guess that’s possible. I wouldn’t know.”
A pregnancy isn’t something I’ve even thought about. Adas and I have had sex twice without a condom since I got hurt, and how many times before that? He seemed totally fine not using one, so it must be common for us.
She continues typing away at the computer, scanning me up and down once or twice just to make sure she’sreallygot the right person. Her intrusive staring is annoying to me, but I don’t feel confident enough to speak up.
If Adas were here, he’d never let anyone talk to me like that.
Being stared at by the nurse just makes me miss him even more. I’ve felt so alone since he left, but I don’t want to bother him while he’s gone. I’d feel like such a clingy little bitch if I did that.
The nurse leaves, informing me that the doctor will be with me shortly.
Sitting alone in the exam room makes my stomach hurt. I feel like I was never really exposed to medical environments before this, and the sterility of the white floors and walls makes me feel like it’s going to close in on me. If I wanted to really scare myself, I’m sure I could convince myself that this was an underground human organ trafficking operation.