Waking up.

I woke up in the strange bed, covered in the foreign, almost fake feeling clothing they'd dressed me in. I guess they were easy to move in, but hardly comfortable. Rather, hardly comforting. They reminded me of where I was, and why I was there. The lights were on, and no window was nearby to inform me of whether or not it was night or day. I attempted to sit up and turn to get myself out of the bed, but was snagged on the tube inserted into my arm. I had forgotten it was there, so the sudden jolt stung briefly. So the right of the bed was a bright red button, in case I needed any help. I begrudgingly reached for it, hating the fact that I needed to. Within minutes, a strangely cheerful woman in pink scrubs came over and helped me out of bed, placing me into the wheelchair, with the IV in a holder attached to it. How was it that the people here were always so smiley, I wondered? Were they faking it, or just so genuinely excited by the fact that most of the people here were likely to die, and knew they could do nothing about it? Her big smile sickened me now, and I tuned out the sound of her voice.

After the awkward task of assisting me in using the bathroom, I asked that we go outside for a few minutes. It was morning after all, it seems, as the early sun's rays swathed over my toes, or at least the ones still there. It was a strange sensation, the warmth moving over the left foot, but not the right. I attempted to wiggle my toes, and for a brief moment I swear I could feel them all. But looking down and only seeing five brought that illusion crashing down. I asked that I be returned to my bed, and we wheeled down the hall again.

I dosed in an out as the morning passed, not having any real reason for being awake, or asleep, or alive. Later on in the day, someone came in and took measurements of what remained of my leg, so that I could be given some sort of replacement. This upset me, as it made me think of sitting out in the sun. Just because I would look more complete doesn't mean I would feel it. That new foot wouldn't be able to feel the tingle of cold lake water on a hot summer's day, dipping it in to test the temperature. Could I even swim with a fake leg? I hadn't thought as to what limitations I would have to endure now, how much things were going to change. The doctor came back with an eerily looking realistic foot, which he proceeded to attach to the remaining bit of my leg. I didn't protest, I didn't even look as he did it. I just sat there, thinking. I could feel my ankle flailing, toes spreading and contracting. But I looked down and just saw the hunk of what I assumed to be plastic, stationary, like a limb off a mannequin.

After a few days of practice, I could hobble around with the new piece of my body, but it felt every bit unnatural as it looked. Still, I could walk at a pace enough to keep up with my nurse, assuming she wasn't walking slowly to compensate for me. That big smile of hers seemed more and more genuine every day, however. We would talk, and she would tell me stories of her daughters and son, the good times they had together before she lost him, how beautiful her daughters had grown up to be, and how she would be so proud of him if he had too. It was a tragic tale laced with bits of happiness, and it somehow made me feel better. Seeing that someone could face so much hardship, and still lead every day with such a bright look in their eye. Now I understood why the people here seemed so cheerful all the time. They weren't faking it for our sake. They were faking it for their own.

After another two days, I was up and walking on my own with no help. I was still a bit shaky, but was feeling much more confident on both feet. Accompanied by the nurse, the hospital even let us take a walk to the local coffee shop in the morning. No one stared at me funny, or questioned my leg or unusual gait. Everyone just went about their business as usual, sipping their coffee, chatting, living life. I wobbled up to the register and placed my order. The boy behind the counter looked at me with a smile. While he was preparing my coffee, he looked past the machine, right into my eyes.

"How long have you had it for?"
"Huh? Oh... I haven't really be keeping track. It feels like forever."
He rolled down his sleeve, and I realized his left hand was in the same condition of my right foot, yet he managed to work his post behind the counter with so much ease. "Yeah, it'll feel that way at first. But after the first month or so, you stop even noticing it." he gave me a big smile, and I couldn't help return it. He seemed so content, so normal. If he hadn't brought it to my attention, I doubt I would have even noticed he was handicapped. He gave the nurse and I our coffees, and we returned to the hospital.

It was strange. The walk felt shorter this time around, easier.

As I approached my final days in the hospital, I became a regular at the coffee shop. I learned the boy's schedule and we quickly became friends, spending his breaks sitting in the store together, talking, learning about how we became the way we were. He seemed to really love the beverages there, too, despite being surrounded by them every day. He told me that working so close to the hospital could be depressing, as not everyone was as lucky as us. It was an odd thought, regarding myself as "lucky". But then again, I could walk, no one stopped to stare, and with more and more practice, I myself began to feel normal as I went along. Lucky. Huh.

After what seemed like mere days, I was admitted to go home. Me and my new friend exchanged cell numbers, although I had no idea if he could even send a text message. I was almost sad to leave. The nurse gave me her number and said to call her if I never needed to chat. Someone who at first disgusted me with a seemingly forced sense of optimism had grown on me as a sense of hope and friendship. After the intensely gratifying notion of using the bathroom unattended, I was informed that I would have to leave the hospital by wheelchair, as per some strange protocol. As I sat down, it felt foreign again, despite spending so much time in one when I first arrived. I smiled at this, knowing that I wouldn't need to sit in one of these again, at least for a while.

I stepped out into the sunlight, in my own clothes, on my own two feet, and as I was about to enter my parents' car, I took one last look at the hospital. A place that seemed like a house for death and depression was given new meaning in my mind, as the birthplace of hope and kindness. Maybe I would come back here one day. Not as a patient, but as one of those people, walking around with the patients, smiling at them, reminding them that things would turn out ok.

I guess we'll see where my path of life takes me, even if I can only feel half of my toes hitting the ground.