I still remember the doctor’s face when he looked from the test results to my anxious face, biting his lip as he chose his words carefully. I remember everything about that day.
The empty wheelchair outside the room. The scent of dead skin on the linoleum floor. The blindingly white lights that illuminated the ICU. The words that ended my life as I knew it.
“Your test results came back positive. I am so sorry.”
“All right, now let’s try the treadmill, shall we?” My nurse suggested. She always spoke in an obscenely happy tone, as if she was talking to a four year old.
I would be offended if she wasn't so attractive.
She led me over to the bulky, old-fashioned treadmill that sat in the corner of the otherwise deserted physical rehabilitation room and smiled widely, gesturing for me to get on.
I did, and she turned the dial to four mph. The ancient machine creaked as the belt started turning.
My nurse stepped back, clipboard in hand, her shoulder-length blonde hair pulled out of her eyes in a loose ponytail. “Alrighty, Ryan, if it gets to be too much, I can turn it down for you.
Remember, we don’t want to push you to exhaustion; the main goal is to improve your control and the strength in your upper leg.” She smiled encouragingly, genuine kindness shining in her eyes.
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