The Running Dream: Part I

I glance at the monstrosity below my knee.

“I’ll order a shrinker sock to control the swelling. Your residual limb will be very tender for a while, and applying the shrinker sock may be uncomfortable at first, but it’s important to get you into one. Reducing the swelling and shaping your limb is the first step in your rehabilitation.”

“I’ll order a shrinker sock to control the swelling. Your residual limb will be very tender for a while, and applying the shrinker sock may be uncomfortable at first, but it’s important to get you into one. Reducing the swelling and shaping your limb is the first step in your rehabilitation.”

“And considering everything, you’re actually very lucky. You’re alive, and you still have your knee, which makes a huge difference in your future mobility. BK amputees have it much easier than AK amputees.”

The prosthetist is stocky and bald, and he tells me to call him Hank.

“Pooling with blood. The shrinker sock will help reduce the swelling and speed your recovery. Once the wound is healed and the volume of your leg is reduced, we can fit you with a preparatory prosthesis.”

“So what is their expected recovery time?” my mother asks, and she’s sounding testy.

We crest at the 300, then face Rigor Mortis Bend.

Your lungs ache for air. Your quads turn to cement.

Dr. Wells visits every morning and leaves with a cheery prognosis.

Learn to massage it and desensitize it.

“Not as bad as me,” I quip.

We ease out of the house, then bound down the porch steps, turning right when we hit the street to head toward the river.

On the porch again, he kisses me and pants as I tousle his ears.

She nods. Solemnly. And now I see that her eyes are rimmed red.

“No! She totally snubbed her!”

“But...Gavin? Talk about switching party affiliations.”

“I’m sorry! I’m just telling you because it’s so Merryl, and so ridiculous. Like he’s going to fall for her manipulations?”

He hands my mother a couple of brochures and a smallstack of papers, and after some pleasantries to me about keeping up the good work, he’s gone.

He’s holding the handles of a smaller wheelchair, one that is, apparently, all mine.

I open the passenger door defiantly, then look down at the curb.

I push open the front door and cross the threshold.

“It’s a narcotic, honey. It’s very addictive. You don’t want to get dependent on it.”

I spend a lot of time noticing how my purple paisley bedspread clashes with the oriental rug.

She’s the business end of Dad’s handyman service, and since Dad has an aversion to paperwork, things would be completely disorganized without her.