Now That I Look Back On It, I Probably Should Have Done My Physical Therapy

I was the last one in line. Everybody around me was talking, joking. Okay, I need to get my goggles, apron, tongs…. I reached into the box and pulled out a pair of latex gloves. People were snapping their gloves on all around me, and the smell of latex hovered strongly in the air.

That smell…

One second I was in a bright chemistry lab on a Tuesday morning, the next I was back in that dreary hospital room on a snowy day in February three years ago, watching my doctor pull on some latex gloves.

“How does it feel?” he asked. He prodded my shoulder, but not too hard. He knew by now.

I winced at his touch. “It feels a lot better.” I glanced up at the bag hanging above my head.

…drip…drip…drip…

I sighed and leaned back in the bed. If only things could go back to normal…

---

One Friday morning, I woke up with a sore shoulder. A few days later, the pain in my shoulder had progressed to the point where I could no longer move it; indeed, I could lie perfectly still and the pain would still be unbearable. After nearly a week of doctors, pain, more doctors, about twelve vials of blood, no food, and subsequently, no pain killers, my pediatrician ordered my parents to take me to the ER. Immediately, he said.

I spent one week in the hospital. During my stay I was diagnosed with osteomyelitis. The word sounded so foreign on my tongue… osteomyelitis…. I had a PICC line inserted in my arm (I still have the scar), and was finally discharged, armed with a prescription for a month’s worth intravenous antibiotics.

Really, my hospital stay did not end when I was discharged. PICC line, clindamycin, acromion, vancomycin, neutrophils, physical therapy (usually accompanied by the words you, should, be, and doing), osteomyelitis… osteomyelitis... There were so many words and terms that I had never known or had reason to use that became a part of my daily vocabulary. And each and every single day brought some reminder that I was sick. osteomyelitis…

For six weeks I complained bitterly about the PICC line, the pills, the weekly blood drawings, my still immobile shoulder, and the medicine infused into my veins over the course of an hour twice (or later, when my medicine was changed because the vancomycin killed off nearly all my white blood cells, three times) a day. I never realized how close to death I’d come, how these things had saved my life. Try as it might, osteomyelitis could not, would not, kill me.

---

“I think you should be able to go home soon, maybe on Thursday.” I suddenly felt weak, but not that crippling exhaustion from my slow, haltering 15-minute walk around the fifth floor of the hospital.

…drip…drip…drip…

Dr. Keim stripped off his gloves and dropped them into a waste basket on his way out the door.