Chapter 4 bath

At 8:30, the physical therapist came.Brigitte, the therapist, with an athletic build and a profile of her face that resembled a Roman coin, came early in the morning to help me move my joint-hardened arms and thighs.This kind of physical therapy is called "mobilization," a military term that feels funny when applied to me, because my army is broken: thirty kilos in twenty weeks.Before the onset of the disease, I ate diet for eight days. At that time, how dare I expect the results like today.Brigitte also checked to see if I was shivering, for signs of improvement. "Try it, hold my hand," she said.I occasionally hallucinate that I can move my fingers, so with all my might I try to crush her phalanx, but she doesn't even move, and she puts my still hand back on the foam pad superior.In fact, the only thing that has progressed is the head.I can turn my head ninety degrees from side to side, and my field of vision can see the stone tiles on the roof of the building next door, and when I can't open my mouth, I can see a strange rice ball drawn by my son Theofi. The mouse sticks out its long tongue.Because of continuous practice, my mouth can be opened slightly.As a physical therapist says, "You have to be very patient." The final step in this rehab routine is a facial massage.Brigitte's warm hands pressed down on my entire face, including the skinny part that I thought was as hard as parchment, and also the part that still had neuropathy and could frown one eyebrow.The dividing line between the two parts just passed through the mouth, and I could only move one corner of the mouth to show a half smile, but it was enough for me to express the ups and downs of my mood.In addition, an episode related to my home life - grooming, always brings me various mixed feelings.

One day, I suddenly felt that it was ridiculous that I was forty-four years old, and I still looked like a baby, and I needed someone to help me wash, turn, wipe, and wrap diapers.There is a vague pleasure in being completely regressed to infancy.But after a while, all these things made me sad, and the tears dripped into the shaving foam that the attendant rubbed on my cheeks. Taking a bath once a week will allow me to immerse myself in pain and suffering and blissful bliss at the same time.A moment of nostalgia rushes over the wonderful moments of soaking in the bathtub, which used to be the greatest joy in my life.With a cup of tea, or a glass of whiskey, and a good book, or a stack of newspapers, I stay in the bathtub for a long time, turning the tap with my toes.There will be a moment when I feel that, in my current situation, it is cruel to recall that happy time.Luckily, I don't have time to dig into corners.They put me trembling on the push bed and sent me back to the ward. To be honest, this push bed is as comfortable as the bed of nails that Islamic ascetics sleep on.

At ten thirty, I was dressed from head to toe and ready to go downstairs to the rehabilitation center.I refused to wear the ugly jogging shirts the hospital suggested, so I stuck with my old school clothes.Like the shower, my old tank top reminds me of every painful step along the way.But I would rather see these clothes as a symbol of the continuation of life, proof that I still have to be myself.Even if I have to suffer, I still insist on being myself in Cashmere.