Nobody Reads This Page: “A Journey, Interrupted” (Part One)

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

“Pain and guilt can’t be taken away with the wave of a magic wand. They’re the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are. If we lose them, we lose ourselves. I don’t want my pain taken away. I need my pain!” - William Shatner

 

For nearly a decade after the end of my career in retail management, I have been living a routine best described by evoking the visual image of a speeding train. Rolling forward at a pace unhindered by too much introspection or self-analysis. With conditions of disability mounting, and resources dwindling, I simply tightened my circle and went about the business of existing in the moment. It is a plan executed on the basis of practicality and need, not to attain any personal desire. And for more than nine years, it has worked well enough to celebrate on a regular basis.

 

I have maintained my independence through a blend of determination, and luck.

 

But a recent detour from this journey arrived as I noted that the skin on my lower, left leg had begun to peel. It was a curious sight, to be sure. Almost as if I had suffered a severe sunburn between my knee and ankle. Except that I knew no such injury had occurred. I did not fall, or bruise myself. There was no point of contact with a sharp edge or stubborn piece of household furniture. I had simply manifested some odd sign of circulatory issues, which persisted for several days afterward.

 

I watched this area carefully for about a week, and noted that it had reddened in color, and spread along the axis of my limb. This reminded me of chronic conditions I had witnessed with my mother, brother, and sister over a period of years. That familiarity was troubling, and also, motivational. I immediately contacted my primary-care physician via an online app for University Hospitals, a health provider based in Cleveland with local centers around my region.

 

I had expected to be immediately called in for an exam, but lingered for another seven days before being given a face-to-face appointment. I guessed by the progression of my wound, that there would be some kind of cleaning, followed by a compression wrap for good measure. But when I was able to reveal my issue directly, in a patient room, the reaction of my doctor came swiftly.

 

She sent me to the Emergency Room at Geneva Hospital, without delay.

 

Due to strong genes and the benefit of good habits, I had never needed to seek attention under such drastic conditions. But upon entering the ward as a new guest, I was immediately processed and put in a temporary room where a series of tests and scans began to happen. A portable x-ray machine took images of my lower extremity. It reminded me of a robotic creation intended for use in a science-fiction series. An IV drip of antibiotics was hung and connected to a spike in my left arm. There were checks for blood pressure, oxygen levels, and a lengthy list of questions about how this issue had arisen.

 

As these frantic events transpired, episodes of Spongebob Squarepants played on a flat-screen monitor, overhead. That ironic backdrop kept me amused during my confinement.

 

Assessing the leg ulcer in medical terms was not difficult. I had suffered an opening in my flesh, with an infection resulting which aggravated the limb. I did not have any other symptoms which were related to that kind of problem, however. No chills, fever, dizziness, or trembling. Yet my path, unfortunately, was clear.

 

I was a matter of hours from turning 65, and had never spent the night in a hospital facility. But now, with my fate sealed by happenstance, I was about to meet this experience head-on, much like falling from a cliff into a canyon, below.

 

Instead of channeling the vibe of Patrick Star, I now assumed the demented groove of Wile E. Coyote.

 

The bed on which I had been placed was a minimalist provision. Functional as a necessary appliance, but no more. It quickly chafed my posterior, and caused an ache of discomfort. Eventually, because I had lingered for so long, aides on the staff relocated me to a different space that was slightly larger, but situated next to an elevator used by nurses and other employees. The persistent noise added to my uneasiness, though I remained wholly distracted by the original purpose of my visit.

 

Blood samples had been taken, and were being analyzed as I waited. I managed to find a televised baseball game being played by the Cleveland Guardians, and viewed that lively sporting event from my corner of the room.

 

I had already lost track of the time, but was unaware. A palpable sense of detachment had taken hold. I was sinking deeper into the drama of a tissue inflammation.

 

A scheduler on the team said that I would be sent to Conneaut, for further examinations and treatment. But I reacted immediately to her decision. I knew that the distant facility would be inconvenient for my own family, who all lived in Hambden Township, near the City of Chardon, and Geauga Hospital.

 

“Why can’t I stay in the area instead of being sent so far from home? I have no desire to get shipped out to any random care depot!”

 

I thought that my opinion had been expressed politely, and in diplomatic terms. But after a long interval, the same woman appeared in my doorway, with a plea to accept being trafficked to the spot she had suggested, before.

 

“Mr. Rodney, we are sending you to Conneaut very soon, Your transport will arrive shortly...”

 

Her admonition snapped me out of my lethargic, mental state. It was now long past sunset, and I had become sore, stiff, and decidedly cranky.

 

“Ma’am, I told you before that I need to stay closer to home. Geauga Hospital is my regular destination, when seeking care for friends, relatives or neighbors. I do not want to go anywhere else!”

 

My tone of voice reflected the urgency and irritation that I felt. Before I could continue, the assistant fled in a huff. I attempted to offer a slight apology for being grouchy, but the point had been made. A period of silence and regret followed.

 

During my adventure as a store co-manager for Giant Eagle, employees sometimes observed that I had the ability to morph from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde, on cue. When needed, I could project that alternate personality to achieve goals that were important to the business.

 

After midnight, with a hush of activity having descended on the ward, I finally received notice that my wish to stay local would be granted.

 

Outside, an ambulance was waiting. The two-man crew arrived as I was battling grogginess and fatigue. Their gurney appeared to be even more restrictive, and less hospitable, than the bed I had been occupying. A reality that I found difficult to accept.

 

For the first time, I was struck by an epiphany of woe. When would I ever go home again?