OCR Text |
Show 343 "You want to go now?" she is asking, rising to her feet, and I am confused. The Versed drip is still too high to just discontinue. An abrupt discontinuation could kill me, Dr. Chappie has said. I have wanted to leave long before this moment, but the drug must be tapered gradually. "Not out of here," and she gestures largely, indicating the whole hospital. "Just out of here." She means this room. "You're OK with that?" I ask. "I'll race you," she is saying, and I am transferring into my wheelchair for the first time in months. It is late enough that the visitors have gone home and the housekeeping staff is mopping the long hallways with smooth and shining strokes. Most other patients are sleeping, though a few rooms are casting the dim flickerings of late-night TV into our pathway as we pass by. "Have you ever done 'the quarter mile?'" she is asking. I have not heard the quotation marks around her phrase and shake my head, not sure if I have ever even been on a track since college. |