Because the doctors offered no clues as to the cause of the "sticking" I managed to concoct several of my own; one possibility was that the valve between the esophagus and stomach, known as the cardiac sphincter, sustained damage in the operation or through the long-term presence of the stomach to nose tube; or, I thought, the muscles within the esophagus, which push food toward the stomach in swallowing, were not functioning properly. The actual reason was never drawn from my inquiries, and to the present, the sensation creates some difficulty; yet it, like the other questions, shall always remain a mystery.
With each day I was given more freedoms; the IV was removed, and the cumbersome pole escorted to the supply room; walks increased in number and duration as they were now unhampered by either tube or pole. My diet improved rapidly, from liquids to strained liquids, to soft foods, and finally to a regular diet, and albeit the fact that food was no longer a blissful thought, the small and frequent meals were a source of entertainment and added sparkle to my day.
Despite gastro-intestinal difficulties, I endured the final days in the hospital with a new strength; because I was eating and sustaining nourishment through my natural means, I knew the heavy burden of a long recovery was loosing itself from my shoulders; I had nearly reached the summit of self-restoration after physical toil and mental strain.
My personality was refreshed by the small delights which seemed to grow unchecked in my miniature world; I loved to sit outside on the roof-top "patio" of the hospital and feel the warm sun and summer breeze touch my face, while at night the distant lights of Rochester glittered and shed their baleful remorse before my eyes; they were tempting jewels no more, but sweet reminders that at the week's end, I could stand beneath their steady glow. I no longer felt imprisoned, an outsider to the stream of life. I was a part of humanity, an element of nature, a working vessel of creation. I was not constrained. If I so desired, I could dress in my civilian clothes and disappear through the yawning doors of the elevator, to be lost in a sea of unknown personalities, and unfamiliar faces. The idea of freedom was a comfort to my last days of hospital existence, for it was attainable; I had but to discard my gown, don my clothes, and flee. . . and it would be mine. True bondage, I found, existed only in the mind and the way in which one perceived his world; for whether restricted under lock and key or lack of health, the mind is still capable of limitless meanderings if one but remains open to himself and is aware of his dreams.
On the day of my departure, Dr. T. dropped in to remove my stitches. Perhaps because he was the primary surgeon, this finalization was reserved for himself as the ultimate service and last detail of the operation. I watched while he snipped the threads, and tugged them from their month-long residency, some willing to give up their hold, others wrestling rebelliously with my skin. Here and there, pinprick points of blood surfaced along the scar, active protests of dislodged threads, which shined conspicuously beside the ruddy incision. Though alarming in its appearance, the skin would one day recover from its trauma and time would fade the scar; already it showed signs of rapid healing, itching uncontrollably, as with a vengeance; the soreness diminished, and I could stand upright with little pain or stiffness.
Dr. T. always appeared to share in one's concerns as well as one's joys; it was evident that my departure and good progress pleased him. Other than a slight loss of weight after returning to food, which was to be expected, given the side effect of nausea, I demonstrated every sign which indicated a splendid recovery was well underway.
Later in the morning, Dr. M. arrived to remove the drain in my side. The procedure was little more than a strange tugging and the length of flexible rubber was discarded. A stitch was also removed, and the business was finished with the placement of a gauze patch.
I was quite satisfied and ready to leave. The doctors I would see the following day at the consultation in the Mayo building, but to the nurses, I gave a word of farewell. In my own way, I would miss them, for I had grown to know their various personalities; but though I was grateful for their services, I would not pine my station in the pediatrics ward. . . even the stale, smoky scent of a motel room was a better place to spend the night. Gathering my belongings, I began the walk to the elevator with my father, beaming happily at my long-awaited descent into the real world. "Come back and see us!" shouted the nurses. I smiled. "Okay!" I said mechanically; although I was not intentionally insincere, I knew that I would never return. Once I quitted an institution or a segment on life's chain of events, I never retraced my steps. I looked not so much to the future as to the present, and in the present, I wished to live.
As I stepped into the morning sun, I tried to inhale the freshness, gaze upon the beauty and listen to the sounds; life swelled about me, too immense to take in at one moment. My spirits were frothing with excitement at each successive stride along the pavement as we paced toward our motel; it was a Big Day.
I rested briefly in the motel room and then we decided to drive around Rochester so I could see for myself some of the places Dad had visited on his afternoon strolls. Many of the streets were lovely, bordered with trees which grew from scrupulously trimmed lawns. The houses behind the green lawns and sculptured shrubs loomed with magnificence and grandeur; some displayed vast entry-ways while others boasted fine masonry and stonework. I had little doubt but that these were the homes of surgeons, businessmen and prominent city personnel. The outward appearance of the homes showed nothing but orderliness and tranquility, yet for all of the pervasive greenery, the scene lacked a sense of life; no one peered through the windows, no boy clad in cut-off jeans mowed the grass, no children played on the clean-swept-steps, nothing moved but the trees in the wind. I reflected on the sight dismally. Perhaps it was considered improper to be "seen" outdoors; I lamented the plight of some people, for whom natural beauty seemed not a thing to be enjoyed, but merely a device by which one's wealth could be measured, something tangible, something which could be had. I had once heard that through riches one might be free; yet that which I saw in these streets was bondage of the most pitiable sort, for it was entirely self-imposed. Restrictions and social codes made by and for the elite were gladly followed, and those who bent under their weight, stooped willingly. Conformity can eventually overshadow the individual, rendering his former joys meaningless, if he desires to exist amid prefabricated expectations as determined by status rather than true values. Such are the hazards of social living; personally, however, I would rather sit on my front steps and wave at passersby.