Boston Karen
I shiver under the covers, shrinking from the natural light worming its way across my bed. A cuddle from Boston Karen is exactly what I need right now.
She knows. She's magic. A healer.
Boston Karen pokes her head under the covers. What must she be thinking about the grown woman before her, teeth chattering, body shaking, cowering from the light, tears streaming down her face? What trauma could have evoked this response?
A warm shower. The most banal of events. In a handicap-accessible, hospital-clean shower, no less.
I tell Karen that Lance will be glad I've let someone else see this. The real me, I guess. The big baby. The melter downer. The girl for whom showers are traumatic.
Boston Karen looks at me with such compassion my heart breaks in two and fuses together again in a single moment.
She knows. She's magic. A healer.
The day before, “What do you do for work?” I hate this part. Blood draw small talk. Landmines everywhere.
I share the tiniest morsel about what's going on with my job. I can't say it without tears. Boston Karen catches my eye. We let the pain and injustice and awfulness of it all sit between us.
There's no fixing it. There is only bearing witness. Boston Karen is my witness.
She knows. She's magic. A healer.
It's time to leave but these newborn-like limbs, quivering like it's amateur hour, say no. The will is there but there's simply no way. The way, it seems, has been lost.
And so now, a new milestone: wheelchairs in a location outside the airport. This time it's an assist to leave the hospital.
I wonder if it's a fluke or the start of a new pattern. I'm angry and ashamed. And angry and ashamed about being angry and ashamed. At least this is a pattern I know.
Boston Karen comes in for one last hug. And, perhaps, to bear witness. Boston Karen is my witness. She sees me.
She knows. She's magic. A healer.