Food became my favorite mind-game as my stomach gradually healed. We pursued the canteen route quite frequently throughout the day, and each time I would gaze at the treats, yearning for a taste of something. . . anything. . .besides the mint of my toothpaste.
I was not allowed to swallow food or liquid of any kind; even water was forbidden. My throat became dry, despite its occasional rinsing, and the tube which ran from my nose to my stomach only hindered the situation. I decided to test my luck and ask for ice, reasoning that the excessive coldness might aid my throat to a degree, even though I could not actually swallow any of it. Since my saliva would become frigid through the presence of the ice, perhaps the throat would benefit from the slight trickling of cold moisture. To my amazement, they agreed to give me a glass of ice chips at various intervals through the day providing I would only chew the ice, and then spit it into a metal bowl for that specific purpose; I shook my head "yes" in vigorous excitement at the proposal. In time, I was even allowed to swallow one or two teaspoonsful of ice each time. It was a small, but significant favor, for which I was exceedingly grateful.
As I improved, I sought other forms of entertainment aside from watching television, which included the use of my hands. In my opinion, the hospital craft room was an ingenious installment. I had always loved art, and in that room, one could purchase various kits which were self-contained, having all the necessary tools and materials, for a minimal price. It took no time at all before I had selected two kits, and dispatched myself to my room to begin the projects. I also enjoyed drawing, and having remembered my sketch book from home, I made several drawings from the items in my room and the objects I saw in magazines. When I was not involved with drawing, however, I lusted at the food photographs and greedily read each mouth-watering recipe. It must have seemed a curious endeavor, for my parents would watch me in good-natured humor as I sat enthralled, a mere twig propped between numerous pillows, lingering over pictures as if I was haunted by food's memory.
Mom and Dad would eat lunch outside of the hospital, and often walked about afterward to exercise their stiff limbs. Neither of them were idle folk, and the long, exhaustive hours spent with me were difficult for that reason, as well as many, more obvious ones. It was fortunate that I happened to be hospitalized during August, for the weather was fine and conducive to jaunts through a park or the city streets. A shopping mall was located in the area, and they would often stop there to buy a small gift, which they would present to me upon their return. As the weeks progressed I had collected a menagerie of small clay animals which I displayed on a nearby nightstand; it was affection made visible. When my parents were gone, the treasures were a reminder of their love throughout the night; staring vacantly out the window, I knew that despite the impersonal glare of the city lights below, two of the people out there cared for me.
Mail delivery was an exalted highlight of the day, arriving sometime after the lunch hour. I had always loved mail, yet this lavish assortment of cards and letters was a recipe for happiness, and helped to alleviate the disappointment of not having received a lunch tray. The opening of mail was a tremendous pastime, bringing rhyme and laughter to the afternoon. After reading the cards, I would reread them, picturing the individual or family who took the time to send the cards. The familiar names written at the bottom of a card or note conjured images of home… and of friends, which instilled my parent's day with warmth, even as it had enlightened my own.
Two weeks had passed since Dr. A. had started my IV in the ICU when it began to infiltrate. Hating to remove it, the nurses would fiddle with the needle's position, pushing or pulling, and try to ignore the fact that it, like all good things, must come to an end. I tried to bear up to its failure, but also hoped wildly that the IV would function for one. . .more. . .day. The trials I had endured before Dr. A.'s success were still fresh in my memory.
Despite repeated attempts to save my two week old ally, its rapid failure demanded attention as my hand swelled like a balloon and the vein in which the needle resided stung intensely; it could no longer remain unnoticed in my distorted hand. The needle was pulled, and the nurses went in search of a willing person to "install" another.
As a replacement for my duo-purpose IV, which dripped nourishment as well as an anti-infection drug into my system, I somehow found myself with an IV in both arms, one for each purpose, leaving my hands virtually immobile and completely useless for any sort of craft that I might have desired to undertake. This certainly was a lousy state of affairs, I thought, contemplating the television rather sullenly amid my twisted array of tubes. Dr. W. entered the room holding his clipboard and beheld the new entanglement which extended into both arms. "Well, looks like you won't be putting in your contacts tomorrow." I thought I detected a note of triumphant glee in his voice. "I don't know. . ." I answered, my voice trailing off into nothingness; the new day would reveal what I could and could not do.
With the dawn I found that many things were considerably more difficult to accomplish. After bathing, with Mom's assistance, I succeeded in the insertion of my contacts, however, even though the process required more time and effort than it had previously. Shortly thereafter Dr. W. pranced into the room. "Hi!" I said cheerfully, eyeing him with obvious mirth and unaccountably good spirits. He looked at me from behind his clipboard. "I put 'em in!" He gazed at me with dumbfounded astonishment and self-consciously adjusted his glasses. "I didn't think you could possibly do it with IV's in both arms. . ." he said, his voice shedding its tone of superiority and knowledge. I grinned at him widely from my bed.
The following day, Dr. W. wore his contacts.