I’ve recounted the complications I experienced, my subsequent symptoms, and my final discharge. Since I came home, I’ve been confined to my bed, surrounded by the walls of our erstwhile living room that serves as my bedroom. The wall to my right has a window, which provides light and entertainment – I watch people come and go on the sidewalk, with or without dogs on a leash and with or without children of all ages. While I’ve made quite a lot of progress walking, I’m unable to go places unmonitored (in case I fall), and since I still have a bad arm, I can’t wheel myself on my wheelchair – my good arm isn’t strong enough to approach a sidewalk that goes uphill. That means help, and help isn’t always available. Now that the days are getting warmer, at least I can go out on the deck and work and read on the computer and on the Kindle: the Kindle has been a solution for my bad arm (as I tell in another chapter). And when I’m tired, I come back inside, meditate in my bed, and go back to reading and writing.
When my brain started healing, I didn’t want to take up sending the manuscript to presses – I didn’t want to go back to that place that had meant so much to me. But finally, I recalled that one of my grad school friends – an old, close friend who meant a lot to me, both he and his wife – was a publisher. So, I asked him if he could read my manuscript and give me some editorial advice. He said yes, and made some great suggestions that I’m following. Rereading it has entirely changed my views on my “offspring”; I’ve discovered how much I’d idealized it. Besides revising the manuscript, I’m continuing to write my poems (the two latest books and this one are in Spanish, as are all my books), bit by bit. And I keep adding chapters to this blog and writing essays (also in Spanish) for an e-journal and a future book.
I keep doing my exercises with my nurse aid, but progress is slow: the door to the street has barely opened. In any case, the sole idea of getting to the coffee shop on my own, buying a cup of coffee, and sipping it for a few hours fills me with anxiety. So, I continue to lie in my bed, surrounded by four walls. But when I’m lying there, I read and write. Writing means building myself a world to travel and explore; a world where to seek shelter. Writing helps me resist falling into a bottomless pit. I can find pleasure in reading, revising, and rereading; reading to draw a path and traveling the path into the unknown, where the unknown is exciting because it creates a sense of expectancy. I’m confined to my bed, but my mind is free.