Part 59 The 17th floor (not in Florida)


They have managed to ruin even the iced tea. I don’t know how, but they did. If I were obese coming into this place, maybe a case could be made for the bad food as a prescription for weight loss. But I am down to P.O.W. weight here. I am trying to regain my ability to swallow. I need something to work with. The soup isn’t really too bad, some kind of corn chowder, but even Campbell’s canned stuff has no real competition here. There is some semi-frozen iced fruit something for dessert that I attempt; at least it feels good on my throat.

But then again, let’s be fair. I have had my neck irradiated for 39 grueling sessions. My taste buds have been slapped silly worse than a captive by his interrogator. I went months unable to eat at all. I’m not sure at this point a three course dinner around the corner at Charley’s 517 would cut it.

The physical therapists are the main show for awhile here. A curly haired, no-nonsense G.I. type named Audrey comes by my room every once in a while, and I make up excuses for not exercising. She will assist me getting out of bed and trying to hobble around down the hall outside my room. Maybe later today…how about some other time…I was just about to take a bath…She eventually ties some exercise bands to the head of the bed, so I can at least lie there and workout my right arm, which I actually am interested in doing. She is trying hard to tough love me into coming back, and I respect her and eventually enjoy her demeanor.

I am able to walk around, usually holding my limp left arm up with my right. An occupational therapist named Louisa evokes some lateral movement in my left arm. She stimulates my hand with a vibrator, and my middle finger moves. I am thrilled at some visible progress, since for days I have not had any movement in that limb. My left leg has bounced right back – I can walk now almost normally. The physical therapists have had me walking around the floor, stepping side to side or up and down on a stair stepper. One therapist works slowly, deliberately, with me. She sits me on a seat, asks me to put my right arm behind my back, and throws a balloon to me. The idea is that my brain will override my arm’s insistence that it can’t move, and it will reach out to grab the balloon. Great idea. It doesn’t work. She tries again, and again. The arm just lies there.

I realize the importance of the therapies, but I am wrestling with my moods now. The staff and I both know the more effort I expend, the faster I will recover. But I am reluctant to do the exercises because I must face my limitations. Every failure, every setback reminds me that in my present condition I really need to be here. That doesn’t put me in Florida. Let’s face it though, Florida is just a memory now. I would find just going home to be a vacation at this moment.