I woke up on the right side of the bed today…because I couldn’t sleep on my left.
I lost half the use of my left hand at one point in the Amsterdam to LA flight yesterday…. and it never came back.
I returned home yesterday– all exhaustion, hair grease, and African dirt– hoping I could sleep the numbness off, that feeling would return after a good night’s sleep.But as I sit in on my beloved crunchy paper on a new patient bed in Glendora’s Urgent Care, I’m with the doctor’s few words as my only company.
Now I’m finally qualified for international hospital comparisons.
Instead of Olga’s reassuring smiling, I have “Well, I’m not too sure.”
Instead of Debra waiting in the corner, I have only a blank stare at the corner of the room when I hear “All I can say is we have to wait another 24 hours before we can get you to a neurologist.”
Instead of Genevieve squeezing my hand, the the doctor is asking me to squeeze his…. While I am, with all my might.
Instead of Justin acting normal during a scary moment, Dr. SomethingOrOther is telling me “This isn’t normal” while I pretend not to be scared.
This isn’t suffering, not really. I remind myself.
But all alone, when I get back to my car, I type out a WordPress post with my right hand and cry with all the feeling my left one does not have.
But I cannot drive this way, so I summon all the strength of Rwanda and put the keys in the ignition, asking my thoughts to speak with Justin’s voice. We will see, Katrina. We shall see. You can handle anything, I have seen.
And instead of being pushed into the unknown, I wipe my tears and jump into it.
We’ll see. For as I dry the tears that run down my face, I realize the breakdown runs deeper than the issue….
This was the first time I was alone long enough to cry about the world I’d seen. My lamed arm was the perfect opportunity to lose it, to really come undone…
I pop my car into reverse, but I acknowledge that it’s still a move forward.