Chapter 2 wheelchair

I have never seen so many people in white robes in my little room.Several nurses, several nursing staff, as well as physiotherapists, occupational therapists, psychoanalysts, neurologists, interns, and even specialist directors, the entire hospital was dispatched at this time.When they pushed the wheelchair into the ward and came to my bedside, I thought they wanted me to vacate the bed for the new inpatients.In the weeks since I lived in Belk, I have been swimming closer to the shore of my mind little by little every day, and my consciousness is gradually clearing up, but I still can't imagine that the wheelchair has anything to do with me.

No one has given me a picture of my exact situation, but from the bits and pieces I have put together here and there, I have interpreted it myself as being optimistic that I must soon regain my freedom of movement and my ability to speak. My thoughts were flying around and I even made a thousand plans: a novel, a few trips, a script, and the commercialization of my invented fruit cocktail to the market.Don't ask me how to deploy it, I've forgotten it.They dressed me right away. "It'll lift your spirits a little bit more," the neurologist said instructively.In fact, after wearing the hospital yellow nylon smock, I really wish I could wear plaid shirts, old trousers, and out-of-shape chunky sweaters, but I am afraid that wearing these clothes will turn into another nightmare for me ──seeing these clothes twist and turn with my severely deformed, achingly flabby body.

After the smock is put on, the "ceremony" begins.Two rough-handed men grabbed my shoulders and feet, lifted me a little roughly from the bed, and put me on the wheelchair.A simple illness disabled me, as if a matador who was originally fighting a calf had been upgraded to fight a bull.No one applauds for me, but almost everyone agrees.My caretaker pushed me around the floor to check whether my sitting position might trigger sudden cramps.But I didn't respond to their manipulation, I just thought about my future being ruined like this.They put a special cushion on the back of my head, because my head would dangle a little, as if African women were stretched after they took off the strings of gold rings that were worn around their necks year after year. The neck also shakes like this. "You will be in a wheelchair from now on." An occupational therapist added a comment with a smile.He tried to make what he said sound like good news, but it echoed in my ears like a verdict.For a moment of bang, I suddenly realized this panic-stricken established fact, which was as dizzying as the mushroom cloud of the atomic bomb, and sharper than the guillotine on the guillotine.

They all left, leaving only three attendants to help carry me back to bed.Looking at their strenuous looks, I couldn't help but remind me of the scene in the police movie: several gangsters tried their best to stuff the body of an obstructive person who had just been knocked down into the trunk of the back seat of the car.The wheelchair was abandoned in a corner, my clothes draped over its dark blue plastic back.Before the last man in a white robe leaves, I motion for him to flick the TV on."Numbers and Letters" is on right now, a show my dad likes.Since morning, raindrops have been hitting the stone slabs.