Came back today after a stay in the hospital. Still heavy with meds and the prospect of readjustment. Bumped my chair into the hallway wall. Gonna take a minute here. Let things clear up.
Three or four days after my last entry I was in the bathroom boosting myself out of my chair and onto the toilet. It was taking some time. Because I’m in a motorized chair now I use my arms less and less, weakening them further. I pushed myself up using the silver bar and got mostly out of the chair, but I faltered. My elbow bent. I let go and fell sideways and smashed my head into the edge of the bathtub. Wasn’t completely knocked out. Just knocked into simplicity. I stared at the floor like it was the most interesting thing in the world to me. I thought to myself that the corner where the bathtub meets the wall needs to be cleaned out. I fell into a mesmerizing stillness. No pain. Just a soft emptiness. Maggie found me and scrambled. Called the ambulance. I mumbled to her. Moved my head. My forehead flared with pain. My first thought was Maggie had taken the branding iron and seared the cow with wings into my skin. I groaned. Felt dizzy. Bitch, I said to the linoleum. I laughed. Asked Maggie to get me a drink. She came into the bathroom. Oh Dexter, she said. Your head. I rolled over a little and touched my forehead. It’d swollen to a hard lump. It appears I’m growing horns, I said, chortling. Ambulance is on the way, she said. What for? I feel more glorious than I have in years. It was true. My tremors seemed to have calmed. My back didn’t bother me. Even my arches had cooled. I worked to sit up straight. Maggie helped me. Wow, I said. I am totally in the juice. Not even Vicodin can do this. Look at me, Maggie said. Can you see straight? God! I said. You should really wax your eyebrows. She frowned. Just stay still, she said. You might have a concussion. Ah, I said. I’ve always wanted to ride in an ambulance. You think they’ll play Twisted Sister as they drive?
Ambulance arrived within minutes. A paramedic shined a light in my eyes (a rudeness for which I swatted at his arm) and checked my vitals and asked me a few questions, to which I gave some wise answers. Then I was put on a stretcher and wheeled out, during which I cautioned them to watch for the narrow walls, and we were away. The ambulance, all steel and drawers and tubes, rattled like a toolbox. I thought one of the defibrillators would fall on my head. By the time we got to the hospital I was completely caustic. The pain in my head had ballooned to a swift raking pulse, allowing the pains in my feet and back to reassert themselves. My body was a furnace, and my mouth was the vent. I shut my eyes against the hospital’s whiteness. Why’re the walls so white? I said as I was wheeled down the corridor. I clamped my eyes. Eck! Goddammit! They assault my eyes even when they’re closed! Why can’t you paint the walls green? And get some orange lights in here! Juice! Sugar! I need sugar! I gripped my temples. Hold on, Mr. Ripley. It’s Doctor Ripley! Doctor! Get it right or I’ll shit on your glasses! One of the nurses chuckled. Shut up! I said. I clapped my hands over my ears to stifle the infuriating squeaking of the gurney’s wheels.
The swelling on my forehead had hardened into a sort of callus, so it had to be opened and drained. After a two-hour wait I was checked for concussion symptoms. Though I was still angry, in retrospect the exam was hilarious. Primary symptoms of a concussion include difficulty balancing, altered motor coordination, incoherent or slurring speech, irritability, and difficulty reasoning. I just tilt my head back and laugh at this exam now. Wishing I’d just relaxed and enjoyed the whole damn thing.
Because of my medical history (meaning my Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease), the doctors decided to keep me in the hospital. I was put in a room with a young boy and an older man. I questioned everything the nurses did. Why are you adjusting that? What kind of medicine is that? What do the doctors say? May I see my chart? Although I was still lightheaded, I still possessed my faculties, and I didn’t want them to use my concussion as an excuse to correct my body. I’d already been questioned by two doctors that day regarding my faltering arm strength. I told them it was an accident and that my arm strength is sufficient.
At night, listening to the young boy draw breaths through his ragged throat (he’d had his tonsils removed), I was reminded of the Residence. Even though the hospital was considerably drier in tone and cuisine, it gave off a similar taste. And I saw that I miss the Residence terribly. I thought of Jeeves and Esmeralda and Dante and Gertrude and Stefan. Across the room the boy woke up and started crying and hit the button to call the nurse. I swallowed against crying.
I had an MRI the next day. Because of my disease, the doctors were unable to correctly see whether I had a concussion. They put me on a white plastic tongue and slid me into the machine’s circular mouth. I couldn’t help feeling like an hors d’oeuvre. When it was turned on it made a noise like a robot choking. I tried to remain as still as I could. My tremors and the hilarity of their request—Please try to stay still, Dr. Ripley—made it difficult.
Two doctors spoke to me about my head injury and my disease. Said they’d looked over my medical history and were concerned at the frequent refusals for treatment. I said I had a good reason to refuse the surgeries and the therapies. They asked me the reason. I told them. Their expressions softened. They were confused. They asked about my current living situation, my occupation, my lifestyle. I told them. They asked if I’d been mentally evaluated. I asked why. They said that my multiple refusals for treatment formed a strange, even alarming pattern. I told them I wasn’t deranged. They wanted to refer me to a mental health practitioner who would evaluate me and determine the soundness of my mind. I laughed and told them no. I’m here because of a concussion, I said. Other than that, I have a perfectly working mind and I’m not letting you pick and prod. I wiped my mouth before any drool could escape. They said they’d speak with my GP and get her opinion. I told them they’d hear the same thing from her.
I spent that night in the hospital, too. As a precaution, I was told. Maggie brought me some food. I asked her not to talk to the doctors. She asked why. I said to trust me.
The boy was gone but the older man was still there. He lay there quietly. I didn’t see his face. He was turned away from me. White beard. Cobbled skin. Might’ve been Aboriginal.
Had a mantis dream that night. A full-on, raging, Mantiszilla dream. I leapt and hissed, spat and stomped. Saskatoon was my playground. A broad and elaborate sandcastle just waiting to be kicked apart. I mashed tall men into the concrete. I tore up the Bessborough Hotel. Threw a Lays potato-chip truck at the Royal University Hospital. Tipped over four cows at the same time. People clapped and jumped and hollered for me. And as I gleefully spurred through my destructive tirade, I felt a roaring sense of gratitude. I drew a clicking, elative breath. My hard green chest creaked as it swelled. I giggled. I laughed. Out of pure euphoria I clipped off the head of a bodybuilder. Knocked down the Kinesiology building on campus pillar by pillar, corner by corner. Jumped a hundred feet in the air and slammed down on top of the magnificent wreckage. Toward the end I stretched my body and my claws up to the sky and let out a supplicating roar.
Diagnosed the next day with a mild, Grade 1 concussion. Given the name and number of a mental health specialist with the hospital. Maggie and Randal, who’d been with his dad the last few days, came and got me. Left in one of the hospital’s wheelchairs, as mine was still at Maggie’s. Maggie asked if I was going to call the specialist. I said I couldn’t. She asked why. I said, Because I threw his number away.
Days like this remind me of the difference between mind and body. With each passing day, that difference becomes more pronounced and more crucial. I become clearer in my mind, and in my clarity I become more alone.