Page 152 of Learning Curve

I look down toward the ground and note the little outdoor courtyard that sits in the center of the hospital. It’s completely empty, and I decide that maybe, just maybe, I should try to go down there for a little bit.

Technically, I don’t have clearance from Dr. Hurst to leave the premises, but…I’d still be on the premises, right?

Feels like a good enough explanation to me. Plus, now that I’m wearing my own clothes and I’m no longer hooked up to IVs, the only identifying information is my bracelet, and that’s easily hidden beneath my long-sleeved T-shirt.

I grab my wheelchair from its spot on the wall, lock the wheels, and perform the transfer into my wheelchair like it’s part of my routine now. It’s not a struggle physically, mentally, or even emotionally—which is maybe the most shocking. It just is.

When I wheel past the floor-length mirror just outside my en suite bathroom, I realize I’m smiling. It’s a sight that’s becoming more and more frequent these days, and a surge of pride bolsters me as I wheel toward my door.

Slowly, I peer out toward the hallway and the nurses station. When I don’t see anyone in sight, I make a break for it. As quick as my hands will let me, I wheel down the hall and toward the bank of elevators.

Every few seconds, I glance over my shoulder to make sure no one is there to try to stop me, and I’m relieved when I manage to reach the elevators without a single staff member noticing.

If Kimmie were on shift, she might be pissed if she found out I did this, but Amanda is my nurse again this evening. She’s sweeter than pie, and the most I’ll get is a disappointed look on her face if she ends up noticing my absence. The risk is most definitely worth the reward.

Once I’m on the elevator, I hit the button for the ground floor, and the cart whizzes to life. And when I reach the lobby level, I wheel over the threshold without much difficulty and head toward the hallway I’m pretty sure leads toward that courtyard.

I offer a confident smile to the woman working the main desk in the center of the lobby, my expression conveying, I’m just a random girl wheeling around. Nothing to see here.

The woman doesn’t think anything of my presence and goes back to looking at whatever is on her computer screen.

Phew.

When I reach the automatic doors, I stop in my tracks when I realize I’m not heading toward the courtyard. Instead, I’m heading straight out the main entrance of the hospital and right into the busy city.

Shit.

I almost turn around, but then I remember the lady at the desk, and since I don’t want to raise any red flags before I can feel the wind on my face, I keep heading straight, through the automatic doors and toward the sidewalk.

For a Wednesday evening, the sidewalks aren’t that busy, but anxiety has my heart racing at record speeds. I’ve never had to maneuver through pedestrian traffic like this. Hell, I’ve never even navigated anything but smooth hospital floors.

The concrete makes the wheels of my chair vibrate, and I force myself to breathe through the stress. This is no big deal. You can do this. And more than that, you can enjoy it.

Anxiety and fear of the unknown try to wreak havoc on my mind, but I keep reminding myself that I am capable of doing hard things. It’s what Pam always tells me during our therapy sessions. I can do hard things.

I’m a half a block from the hospital entrance at this point, and when I reach a crosswalk, I let myself stop for a long moment, out of the way of foot traffic, just to take it all in. Spring is in the air, and the breeze is lukewarm against my face. Trees and flowers are blooming from planters on the sidewalks. And there’re a lot of people already enjoying outdoor dining at restaurants.

The crosswalk light changes, giving me the go-ahead, and I do my best to navigate the curb as I wheel onto the street. People walk around me, but I keep my eyes forward and focus on maneuvering my wheelchair.

This is good. This is normal. This is…invigorating.

I’m doing this completely on my own, without the assistance or guidance of anyone, and I’m doing it because of my own longing to do it.

I’m living. I’m happy. I’m Scottie.

I get across the street and onto the sidewalk, and a few drops of rain fall onto my face. I can’t believe how good they feel—how good they could feel. And to think, on that first day of class, I was doing a shrieking run to get away from them. I tilt my head up to the sky to savor it, and the pace of their timing picks up, pinging me quickly from the dark storm cloud above.

If it weren’t for getting my chair soaked, I think I’d stay out here forever.

Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I decide that now would be a good time to head back to the hospital. I’ve had my fun, but there’s no need to go overboard. Being a rod for lightning would really put the icing on this year’s cake.

I have to wait again for the crosswalk, and as the seconds tick by, the raindrops come faster and harder. By the time I cross the street and reach the sidewalk, it’s pouring down from the sky. My hands slip against my wheels, the water making it hard to get a good grip, and people on the sidewalk are running around me as I try to head back to the hospital entrance.

I stop in the middle of the sidewalk to try to wipe my hands on my T-shirt, but it’s no use. I’m soaked—my hair, my shirt, my sweats, even my bra and underwear and socks and shoes are drenched. And the rain doesn’t let up or give me a break.

I start to laugh maniacally, the dam of every emotion I never thought I’d feel again bursting inside me.

I don’t have my phone. I don’t have my wallet. I have nothing but myself, my wheelchair, and my hospital bracelet. And I can’t move. It’s not funny, but for some reason, it also is.

---