Clandestine Confessions

It was January 2011.
A little less than three weeks into my hospital stay.
Closing out the first few days on the floor I was transferred to after the ICU.
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I was still in a wheelchair.
Still relearning how to walk.
Still practicing handling my body weight.
Which meant that any incident that required sitting down or standing up, a nurse had to assist – including when using the bathroom.
The anger at my survival ever growing each time.
“I stayed alive for this…..?!?! Just take me home God.”
The great irony of it all was having reached that state of complete physical helplessness because of a pursuit to feel in control.
And yet never had I ever had less control over my life…
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On this particular day while the nurse was lifting me, her elbow got caught on the feeding tube.
And as my body moved upright, the tube yanked out.
The jolt shocked me physically.
The removal shocked the nurse emotionally – sending her into a panic to fix it.
I pleaded to not have it placed back, making bargains with the treatment team.
I could not undergo the trauma a second time of having it inserted in me.
The doctors agreed to give me a three day trial run without it.
If I could orally eat every morsel of my snacks and meals, it could stay out.
I signed the contract they made for me right before dinner.
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My first meal without it was a veggie burger.
I vividly remember lifting the burgundy lid of the hot plate to see it.
Wondering how I was ever going to be able to complete it.
The most food I had eaten in one sitting in over a year.
I remember the song playing – “I Gotta Feeling” by The Black Eyed Peas
I remember the nurse cheerfully singing along to it.
I remember thinking of the irony of the lyrics – how nothing about this was going to make for a good night.
I remember the girl across from me refusing to eat her pizza – arms crossed, eyes looking straight ahead, giving everyone the silent treatment.
I remember the girl next to me furiously shaking her leg as she took bites of her sandwich – tears slowly falling, hands trembling, gaze fixated on the food, sharing a story about her dog in an effort to distract her mind.
I remember the can of Ensure with the empty plastic cup beside it on the blue countertop ready for whoever could not complete their meal.
I remember looking at the clock watching the hands rapidly move yet my life feeling in slow motion.
I remember the numerous pieces of construction paper decorated by past patients trying to add color to the stark white walls, an attempt to counteract the harshness of the fluorescent lighting.
Each one signed and dated. All of them relics but wondering if this life actually remained a part of those people’s pasts…
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Fear filled my body – simultaneous fright.
Scared to not be able to finish and have the tube be placed back in.
Scared to be able to finish and break my loyalty to the thoughts I made a home.
Either way, I was going to fail.
A harder truth to swallow than my first bite of the burger.
A bite, that once taken, put 30 minutes on the clock.
And so began the long walk home…
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Ten years and one month later I would be out to dinner with a friend.
It was a celebration of two milestone moments.
One of which only he knew at that time – a sacred secret I trusted him to keep.
And then also me fulfilling my promise to treat him to a couple dinners to make up for him paying entirely for the one in Park City.
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Upon arriving at his house, after introducing me to his roommates, he asked me what I was in the mood for.
“A burger.” I so assuredly said.
I had been craving one for weeks.
“Then I know the perfect place. And you can get your peanut butter fix while at it.”