It’s my first day back.
I was in the hospital for the past week, a combination of a 105f (about 40.5C) and virtually no immune system sent panic through the doctors and the parents as they tried to settle it all down.
It was a terrifying experience because the temperature had left my brain garbled, which normally would mean light-headedness and maybe some weakness, but all of that also meant for me is that my brain wasn’t able to give the right signals to my feet. Considering the massive amount of nerve damage from the beginning of the ordeal, not being able to walk again was distressing me more than I would like to admit.
I was found on the floor, collapsed ’cause my bedroom chair slipped and couldn’t hold me as I flailed to grab it before I hit the tiled floor. I was out of my mind confused trying to figure out where to put my legs and hands to try and at least crawl back to the bed and surrender to the confusion, like a drunken newly born deer.
I am back home now, the hospital was reluctant in letting me go, but I needed to come back home, to recharge the right way (the hospital is…fucking incompetent really, I can’t wait for robots to be in charge of my health), and to try and regain the strength that I had managed to achieve until now.
But until then, I find myself reluctantly grasping at the black rubber grip of my four-point cane, a stable anchor – and hated reminder that I seem to have gone backwards in my progress towards normalcy.