suffocatingly hot, she would have stayed back in the room, waiting for the line to dwindle, but she likes the fog. It reminds her of being underwater, how the sea allows only a little of itself at a time to be exposed; even the sound—where it is coming from, how far away it is—doesn’t wholly reveal itself.
Knowing that it is much too early to be doing so, but still, to help pass the time, she begins studying the patients, checking for those favoring their left legs. This morning, because of the fog, she can see only fifteen patients in front of her. She, along with them, all take a couple of steps every minute. It is the stops and starts and all the standing that makes her infected right leg throb. The thought of another needle in that leg is unbearable. She feels the pus oozing through the antiseptic gauze, reminding her that she must stop by the school before beginning her rounds of massages and bathroom cleaning.
The infection in her thigh, the chills, the uncomfortable sleeping position left her with another restless night of sleep. She likes sleeping on her right side, cradling her arms around the pillow, but the pain in that thigh forces her to sleep on her back. This is the second infection she has had in the past six months, but this one she endures, recalling the first time and how the nurse sliced open the infected area without using anesthesia. She daubs it each night with cream and wraps it in the reused gauze.
The trees have nearly undressed themselves of the fog by the time she reaches the entrance of the building. Behind her are another five, six hundred patients. She has spotted a woman favoring her left leg and she keeps an eye on her until they enter the building. She steps out of line, checks where the nurses are positioned, walks over to the woman, asks her if she would like to switch sides. They do, and now she waits on the far left side of the four lines.
The air is stuffy, full of the familiar smell of medicine. Four nurses, a line for each, two patients per nurse, per minute. They scrape, scrape the needles over the whetstone, plunge them into the bottle of liquid Promin, patients expose their thighs, needles inserted, pulled out, the patients move on, scrape, scrape the needles over the whetstone, plunge them into the bottle of liquid Promin, patients expose their thighs, needles inserted, pulled out, the patients move on, scrape, scrape the needles over the whetstone. She is nearly put to sleep by the repetition, but she moves step by step, and when it is her turn, she lowers the left side of her loose cotton pants, hears the scrape, scrape of the needle against the whetstone, sees it plunge into the bottle of liquid Promin, feels the pinch as it goes in, comes out of her thigh, and she moves on.
There is little reminder of the fog when she goes outside; all but the very top of Key of the Hand Island is once again visible. She walks toward the schoolroom to get some clean gauze and knows that, for yet another couple of days, her future is frozen, while at the same time another day is about to pass her by.
Before entering the school building, she stands off to the side of the path, in a patch of bushes, and starts to unravel the bandage on her right leg. It is wet and sticky with pus and a little blood. She knows that without the bandage, the pus will stain her pants, but it is the privacy—not so much needing to be alone while exposing her leg, but the need to be alone with her pain—that she seeks. The much-used bandage sticks to her thigh more and more with each lap that she unravels. She wants to scream, to cry, but she concentrates on a bird she has spotted in a tree, bores into it for strength. When the bandage is finally off, she gives her body a little time to relax. She is sweating a cold sweat, wants to sit down. The day has hardly begun, she tells herself, way too early to think about resting. She forces herself toward the school building.
Most are sitting on the floor of the
Knowing that it is much too early to be doing so, but still, to help pass the time, she begins studying the patients, checking for those favoring their left legs. This morning, because of the fog, she can see only fifteen patients in front of her. She, along with them, all take a couple of steps every minute. It is the stops and starts and all the standing that makes her infected right leg throb. The thought of another needle in that leg is unbearable. She feels the pus oozing through the antiseptic gauze, reminding her that she must stop by the school before beginning her rounds of massages and bathroom cleaning.
The infection in her thigh, the chills, the uncomfortable sleeping position left her with another restless night of sleep. She likes sleeping on her right side, cradling her arms around the pillow, but the pain in that thigh forces her to sleep on her back. This is the second infection she has had in the past six months, but this one she endures, recalling the first time and how the nurse sliced open the infected area without using anesthesia. She daubs it each night with cream and wraps it in the reused gauze.
The trees have nearly undressed themselves of the fog by the time she reaches the entrance of the building. Behind her are another five, six hundred patients. She has spotted a woman favoring her left leg and she keeps an eye on her until they enter the building. She steps out of line, checks where the nurses are positioned, walks over to the woman, asks her if she would like to switch sides. They do, and now she waits on the far left side of the four lines.
The air is stuffy, full of the familiar smell of medicine. Four nurses, a line for each, two patients per nurse, per minute. They scrape, scrape the needles over the whetstone, plunge them into the bottle of liquid Promin, patients expose their thighs, needles inserted, pulled out, the patients move on, scrape, scrape the needles over the whetstone, plunge them into the bottle of liquid Promin, patients expose their thighs, needles inserted, pulled out, the patients move on, scrape, scrape the needles over the whetstone. She is nearly put to sleep by the repetition, but she moves step by step, and when it is her turn, she lowers the left side of her loose cotton pants, hears the scrape, scrape of the needle against the whetstone, sees it plunge into the bottle of liquid Promin, feels the pinch as it goes in, comes out of her thigh, and she moves on.
There is little reminder of the fog when she goes outside; all but the very top of Key of the Hand Island is once again visible. She walks toward the schoolroom to get some clean gauze and knows that, for yet another couple of days, her future is frozen, while at the same time another day is about to pass her by.
Before entering the school building, she stands off to the side of the path, in a patch of bushes, and starts to unravel the bandage on her right leg. It is wet and sticky with pus and a little blood. She knows that without the bandage, the pus will stain her pants, but it is the privacy—not so much needing to be alone while exposing her leg, but the need to be alone with her pain—that she seeks. The much-used bandage sticks to her thigh more and more with each lap that she unravels. She wants to scream, to cry, but she concentrates on a bird she has spotted in a tree, bores into it for strength. When the bandage is finally off, she gives her body a little time to relax. She is sweating a cold sweat, wants to sit down. The day has hardly begun, she tells herself, way too early to think about resting. She forces herself toward the school building.
Most are sitting on the floor of the
Similar Books
