Proof

‘I can walk., I can walk. I will walk.’ No matter how many times I recite my mantra, I have doubts it will work.

I turn over, sit up in bed and slide over to the edge, swing my legs to the chilly floor. My slippers aren’t there. Something is wrong. My feet won’t move. It feels like I am frozen to the floor, like I have turned into a marble statue. When I bend a little, I can touch my knee, see my hand on it but can’t feel anything. ‘Mom! Help! Quick!’ In a flash she has taken two steps at a time and opens my door. ‘Mom my legs won’t move. They don’t hurt, don’t burn. Help me. Help me.’

‘Mort, come in Lee’s room, fast.’ ‘What’s wrong? Where’s the fire?’ Dad forces my knees to bend but I cannot take a step. He helps me sit down on the bed, my legs look like broomsticks. We are all terribly frightened, worried. Dad takes charge and gives orders. ‘Bess, I’m calling Dr. Thompson to send an ambulance here for Jayson, PDQ, and to meet us at Forest Glen Hospital. You go in the ambulance with Jay. I’ll drive there and meet you in the lobby.’

Mother leaves me in my p.j.s but brings me a warm button front coat sweater and carefully puts sox on my feet. She sits near the window, tries to make conversation but nothing makes sense. Dr. Thompson worked fast. The ambulance siren turns off as the car stops in front of our house. Mom reaches the door at the same moment as the medics do. In short, clipped sentences she advices the medics, ‘Upstairs. His name is Jay. He can’t walk. I’m going with you.’ At 135 pounds I’m not a big burden to carry down the stairs. The turn is a little tight but I don’t fall off. Mom asks me if she locked the kitchen door, turned off the gas range. ‘I don’t know. Try to calm down. Go check.’

As the men gently lift me into the ambulance, I see several curious neighbors gathering on the sidewalk and wave. At least they will know who’s in trouble and I am not dead. The siren wails. For the 3 mile drive, the 2 medics regale Mom and me with jokes. I laugh politely without having paid attention to any.

Inside Forest Glen Mom has to answer insurance questions, give my ID info while I am being whisked onto the elevator and into a brightly lit diagnostic room. Dr. Thompson, in his white coat with his name embroidered in red on the pocket, is with me before I can catch my breath. I tell him all I know and show him the solidity of my legs. He asks many questions, gives no answers. Mom and Dad are kept waiting inthe hall. Another doctor, Dr. Clinton, comes in for a quick conference on the situation. It is easy to see they have no idea at all of what is wrong with me. Sitting on the side of the cold, uncomfortable examining table, I keep silently reciting my mantra, ‘I can walk, I can walk. I will walk,’ Doubts rumble like storm clouds thru my mind.

‘Pee in here. Lie down, Jay.’ Blood is removed from my too many places to mention. There is much probing, feeling. I need a break. Instead I am wheeled down the hall and put on the elevator. Several visitors have to move to the side to let me get on. I have a lengthy CAT Scan. Tomorrow my intake will be restricted as dye will be put in my arm for the MRI and the next day, more dye, for a brain scan. Even with the insurance, I worry about the cost to my parents of all these tests, the private room.

I seem to be the healthiest sick person in this hospital. Two weeks pass slowly. Mom slept in my room the entire first week and Dad the second week. I take charge and insist they come visit for an hour or two during the late afternoon. I have physical therapy most of the day.That doesn’t do any good but I go, always hoping they will see some improvement, no matter how small. They don’t.

By week four Dr. Thompson tells Dad he is releasing me the next weekend. They have found no reasons, no cause. All they do know is what my trouble is not. ‘Take him home, Mort. I’ll stop by, check on him and you can call me 24/7 if you see the slightest change, one way or the other.’ Why did he give Dad that disillusioning instruction in front of me? All of the doctors, tests, fear and I am still a bedridden prisoner.

My first Saturday home Dad brings a stranger to my room, and leaves us alone. The man is clean, wears a tan belted robe and floppy sandals. His long white hair and beard are a perfect picture of what a guru probably looks like. I’ve lost ten pounds and must make him think of Ghandi. Cross-legged he relaxes on the wooden floor, lowers his head and softly begins his ohms chant. This is silly. I scoff. He bows to me and leaves. Three nights in a row he sits in my room and exudes some kind of peace. There seems to be a little glow around him which starts me silently reciting my mantra again. He rises, leans close to my ear and says, ‘I can walk. I can walk. I will walk,’ the exact words I think over and over but have never said aloud, until now when we say them together. The guru leaves and never returns.

The therapist arrives as usual at 9 a.m., helps me stand, still like the statue I became months ago. Jimmy looks down and yells, ‘You moved a toe. Can you do it again?’ It moves easily. All of the toes on my left foot wiggle. ‘Mom, Mom, come quick!’ By the time she is at my bed all ten toes can move. The therapist makes me sit down, rest, not overdo myself. We are so excited we jabber like kids recess time. I fall silent, concentrate, ‘I can walk, I can walk. I will walk.’ My order to my leg, Step forward,’ is obeyed. It is slow but I am moving. Mom grabs my cell phone from the bedside and calls Dad. She has to repeat the story 3 times. Dad doesn’t believe her.’ Then she calls Dr. Thompson and leaves a message. ‘Mort will give you the name of the guru who did for Jay what you and your staff could not do. Jay walked today. He was Jay’s savior.’
And I believe she is right. Somehow my correct thinking, with Buddha’s help, my soul must have reached Nirvana that made my body pain and sorrow fly away. Thank you, Mr. Guru, wherever you are.