The space heater is gone from its spot in the corner; the borrowed walker was given back to our friends; the insurance documents and get well cards that covered the top of the dresser are missing. I sit again on the bed with the yellow striped duvet, but this time my room looks different. Unoccupied. The remnants of my four-month residence in my old bedroom have mostly been cleared out. A few clothes hang in my closet, a travel mug of mine sits next to a bottle of coconut-scented lotion my sister gave me, and the little silver Christmas tree with the usb plug that my mom gave me when I went into the hospital for monitoring the day after Thanksgiving. The coaster I kept my 2am Percocet on the first month home following the surgeries still sits on my nightstand, though on this trip I left the Percocet in Denver. The biggest memorial is the sign hung above the door that reads: "We Love Our Erica" in patterned block letters strung on a piece of orange ribbon by my sister. I remember looking at that sign again and again while the doctor stimulated each electrode on my brain and twitched as I lay in my hospital bed, hoping to God that I would be eligible for the resection in the second surgery that afternoon. That morning it was a lifeline; now it's a memory.
It's nice to be back in my parents' home. I know it's only been three weeks, but I've missed them. We became a cohesive unit when I lived with them, and in my own home in Denver, I'm a leg missing the rest of its tripod. Seeing my mom and dad isn't like re-forming into a tripod, or even like crawling back inside my cocoon, it's like a chance to see how much of what I learned here I'm able to remember.
No comments:
Post a Comment