misunderstood for a difference I was born with.
Sometimes, I just want to give up on it all. Sometimes, I wish for it all to just disappear. And sometimes … I just know that I don’t belong in this world.
***
Now
It’s been a few days since the surgery, and I’m so glad they’re finally taking off the bandage.
My leg hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt, and it’s so swollen that it looks like someone inserted a balloon. When the nurse removes the bandage, and I see what’s become of my leg, I feel queasy.
“Looks good,” she says.
I gag a little at the sight of my bloody skin sewn together by a blue wire across the entire length of the incision that runs along my knee and shin.
“I can’t look at it,” I say, looking away as she gently swabs it with a cotton pad.
“It’s fine,” she muses. “It healed nicely.”
“Is it closed yet?” I ask, already feeling queasy just from the thought of it still being open.
“Yes but not completely yet. You can’t put it under water.” She lowers my pajama pants.
“Wait, what?” I mutter. “So no showering?”
She cocks her head. “No, sorry.”
I frown. “But how am I supposed to wash my hair? It’s getting all greasy.” I don’t want people to see me when my hair is greasy; it looks yuck.
She pauses. “Well, if you really want to, I could ask one of the nurses to help you.”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Can I maybe eat lunch somewhere else today?” I ask before she’s gone.
She stops in her tracks. “Like where?”
“I don’t know. I’m just tired of this bed,” I say, putting on the best smile I can muster right now.
“Sure, I can set you down at the table near the end of the hall.” She grabs the wheelchair and puts it in front of me. “You’ve placed your order already?”
“Yeah, a few minutes ago.”
“Perfect. I’ll tell them to bring it to you there.” She picks up my leg and carefully helps me lift it off the bed so I can shift from the bed into the wheelchair. The whole thing takes a while, but at least, it doesn’t take as long as it did before they bolted my bones together.
In my robe, I’m driven down the hall to a table with a stack of magazines.
“There you go,” she says. “I’ll return in about an hour. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“If you need something, just call out.”
I nod and thank her then she leaves.
I sigh as I pick up a magazine from the stack and randomly flip through it, not really interested in what it has to say. I see the words, but they don’t register. The only words that do filter through are the ones mentioning a life-shattering change. Something I can identify with.
Because I’ve never been through anything this big … And if I have to be honest, all that talk about clothing and makeup and decorating just doesn’t cut it anymore. Not when all I can think about is when I’ll be able to move my leg without feeling pain, when I’ll be able to stop taking these meds, when I’m finally allowed to start putting weight on it, and if I’ll ever be able to walk without pain again. If I can jump or run. Or even bend over or sit on my knees.
All simple things I took for granted.
All things that seem so normal but really aren’t.
Our bodies are precious and fragile, and I realized that too late.
“Hello,” a woman says as she holds out a tray. “You ordered this, right? The nurse down the hall told me you were sitting here.”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” I say, suddenly aware of my growling stomach.
“You’re welcome. Enjoy.” She sashays off to the other rooms up ahead, while I unwrap the quesadillas and take the plastic off the sauce. I dip it in and lick my lips, my mouth already watering and opening widely at the thought of tasting all that goodness.
Suddenly, a guy plops down beside me on the bench.
My sauce drips off my quesadilla as I gape at him.
“Hi,” he says, a simple grin
Sometimes, I just want to give up on it all. Sometimes, I wish for it all to just disappear. And sometimes … I just know that I don’t belong in this world.
***
Now
It’s been a few days since the surgery, and I’m so glad they’re finally taking off the bandage.
My leg hurts like nothing I’ve ever felt, and it’s so swollen that it looks like someone inserted a balloon. When the nurse removes the bandage, and I see what’s become of my leg, I feel queasy.
“Looks good,” she says.
I gag a little at the sight of my bloody skin sewn together by a blue wire across the entire length of the incision that runs along my knee and shin.
“I can’t look at it,” I say, looking away as she gently swabs it with a cotton pad.
“It’s fine,” she muses. “It healed nicely.”
“Is it closed yet?” I ask, already feeling queasy just from the thought of it still being open.
“Yes but not completely yet. You can’t put it under water.” She lowers my pajama pants.
“Wait, what?” I mutter. “So no showering?”
She cocks her head. “No, sorry.”
I frown. “But how am I supposed to wash my hair? It’s getting all greasy.” I don’t want people to see me when my hair is greasy; it looks yuck.
She pauses. “Well, if you really want to, I could ask one of the nurses to help you.”
“Yes, please,” I say.
“All right. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Can I maybe eat lunch somewhere else today?” I ask before she’s gone.
She stops in her tracks. “Like where?”
“I don’t know. I’m just tired of this bed,” I say, putting on the best smile I can muster right now.
“Sure, I can set you down at the table near the end of the hall.” She grabs the wheelchair and puts it in front of me. “You’ve placed your order already?”
“Yeah, a few minutes ago.”
“Perfect. I’ll tell them to bring it to you there.” She picks up my leg and carefully helps me lift it off the bed so I can shift from the bed into the wheelchair. The whole thing takes a while, but at least, it doesn’t take as long as it did before they bolted my bones together.
In my robe, I’m driven down the hall to a table with a stack of magazines.
“There you go,” she says. “I’ll return in about an hour. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“If you need something, just call out.”
I nod and thank her then she leaves.
I sigh as I pick up a magazine from the stack and randomly flip through it, not really interested in what it has to say. I see the words, but they don’t register. The only words that do filter through are the ones mentioning a life-shattering change. Something I can identify with.
Because I’ve never been through anything this big … And if I have to be honest, all that talk about clothing and makeup and decorating just doesn’t cut it anymore. Not when all I can think about is when I’ll be able to move my leg without feeling pain, when I’ll be able to stop taking these meds, when I’m finally allowed to start putting weight on it, and if I’ll ever be able to walk without pain again. If I can jump or run. Or even bend over or sit on my knees.
All simple things I took for granted.
All things that seem so normal but really aren’t.
Our bodies are precious and fragile, and I realized that too late.
“Hello,” a woman says as she holds out a tray. “You ordered this, right? The nurse down the hall told me you were sitting here.”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” I say, suddenly aware of my growling stomach.
“You’re welcome. Enjoy.” She sashays off to the other rooms up ahead, while I unwrap the quesadillas and take the plastic off the sauce. I dip it in and lick my lips, my mouth already watering and opening widely at the thought of tasting all that goodness.
Suddenly, a guy plops down beside me on the bench.
My sauce drips off my quesadilla as I gape at him.
“Hi,” he says, a simple grin
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