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

  

c. 2026 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(9-26)

 

 

“People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.” – Jim Morrison

 

Speeding through the shared experiences of unemployment and disability was something I had embraced for nearly a decade, after leaving my career as a retail manager. It became commonplace to struggle, cut corners, and jettison old habits when necessity intervened. I did not spend too much time pondering my own condition under a harsh light of introspection. Instead, I simply careened forward, greeting each new challenge with a shrug and a sigh. I rarely sought help from others. And I did not fret over lost joys or surrendered liberties.

 

Pain provided guardrails that were useful in charting this new path. What hurt too much got deleted from my daily routine. What I could bear, retained its importance.

 

This runaway roll was interrupted by the appearance of my leg wound, and its subsequent infection. For the first time since facing an early retirement in 2016, I was confronted by a metaphorical roadblock that could not be avoided or ignored. The medical I faced issue loomed over my head like a gathering storm. It pressed upon me to think, reason, and act in a timely manner. All things that I never did unless prodded by dire circumstances.

 

In the Emergency ward at Geneva Hospital, I had waited throughout the day for some remedy to my worsening condition. But despite a flurry of tests, trials, and tribulations, I was no better. Then, long after the hour of midnight, I was informed that my status as a patient would be updated with an overnight change of venue. The young nurse with whom I had sparred verbally, during this extended period of confinement, posed in the doorway again.

 

“Rodney, your chariot awaits, outside! An ambulance is going to move you to Geauga Hospital, outside of Chardon. Good luck to you!”

 

I was somewhat groggy and very stiff. When the two-man team entered my room, their gurney glistened in a bright shade of industrial yellow. It appeared to be even more minimalist and unforgiving than the foam-lined rack where I had been situated. For a moment, I wondered if it would be suitable for a fellow of 350 pounds, with failed joints, declining agility, and a teetering sense of balance. In addition to carrying a festering hole between my left knee and ankle. But one of the trained duo pointed at a low spot in the middle of his mobile appliance.

 

“That is where your butt will land, sir. Get into position and we will take care of everything else...”

 

I hobbled across the floor, and flopped on cue. There was a metallic groan of stress from the device, but it held my weight with sufficient structural rigidity.

 

Being belted in was necessary, to keep me from bouncing off this wheeled platform, during my after-hours road trip. But once I had been secured in the back of their vehicle, and felt the inertia of motion taking over, a visceral tingle of fear remained about being flipped like a pancake. The boxy carriage shuddered, shook, and swayed, as we departed from Geneva. It proved to be noisy, hot, uncomfortable, and quite surreal.

 

Quietly, I added it to a mental roster of ‘never before have I done this’ experiences.

 

My view out the rear windows was clear enough to recognize a glow of advertising signs and facility illumination, along the way. I was intent on keeping track of our route, as a slight uneasiness over being threatened with a stay in Conneaut still had me rattled. But as our voyage through the darkness continued, I was able to tick off familiar geographical landmarks that bolstered my confidence.

 

While traveling, the fellow who sat with me went through virtual paperwork to document their performance. A cuff constantly kept track of my blood pressure. A finger clip registered my pulse and vital signs. He asked questions of a medical nature, about my family history, recent events at home, and lifestyle choices, But then, began to converse on a personal level. This diversion from his professional duties, to the polite banter of a stranger met by chance, helped to settle my stomach, and evoke a mood of calm.

 

“You’ve got a fireman next door where you live in the country? He sounds like someone I met in the past, probably. That has to be a benefit for the community where you live. We all travel in the same circles, providing mutual aid and rescue, as needed. It’s about helping when we can, and transporting those who have gotten into trouble in a safe and secure manner. Not to mention, drinking lots of coffee at all hours of the day and night!”

 

His comment resonated with authenticity. I recalled that while I was sometimes out with my neighbors, enjoying the warmth and comfort of a summer campfire, the fellow next door would be carrying his mug and staying alert. I confessed that having such individuals present in my rural enclave was a pleasure.

 

“Not everyone could make those sacrifices, willingly. But I salute you for staying strong and vigilant. Thank you for your service!”

 

We arrived around half past one o’clock. I noted that the emergency truck backed into a space at an isolated corner of the building. No entrance was visible as they extracted me from the vehicle. But a keypad glowed from its location by a set of anonymous, metal shields at the side. Upon entering a security code, these doors parted, and I was introduced to a ramp and hallway, which led inside the hospital facility.

 

Suddenly, the environment became crowded, frantic, and boisterous. Everyone had their own unique responsibilities, with a corresponding lane to occupy. This symphony of need played out as I was whisked to my spot on the second floor. The gurney zig-zagged through corridors, up on an elevator, and into a room that already had one guest in place. All without causing a hindrance to the staff, visitors, cleaning crew, or current patients being treated.

 

I had not eaten in more than sixteen hours. Yet my belly resisted the notion of accepting any food, due to the multiple doses of antibiotics that I had already received via an IV drip. Still, when one of the team mentioned that cold, turkey sandwiches were available, with ginger ale, I decided to accept her offer of basic sustenance.

 

As I lay outstretched on the bed, with my left leg tingling, I feasted on the snack until fatigue resonated in my head. Then, I nodded off at last.

 

My first direct encounter with the medical discipline of a care center was now underway.