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Show 25 It really isn't me, the intern tells me, it's probably the image of me as a much worse herself. I am looking confused (not unlike a few others around the room, I note) and she taps the armrest of my wheelchair. "She probably doesn't want to get worse and be confined to a wheelchair like you," she is saying. I am looking around her squatting there to see if Muriel has possibly also entered the recreation room, in spite of the fact that they have now pharmacologically confined her to her room because of her threats against me. The intern also confides that Muriel has "steroid psychosis," and really isn't herself. Who is, I wonder? And I am not "confined" to this wheelchair, I am wanting to protest, but do not have the energy to bother. So I am now depressed and paranoid. I am watching for Muriel to wake up and break out of her room. Not that it would make much difference if she were to escape her room and search me out. Not that I could even defend myself. Not that I could even yell for help. I am an easy target. I am looking at the teal blue of this custom-made reclining wheelchair. I ordered this color because it reminds me of the Mediterranean Sea in mid-summer. Maybe I am "confined," I am thinking, if not to this wheelchair, then to this disease and its attempted treatment. For now, at least. |