The weather app said it was breezy.
I checked my laces. No, wait. I swapped them for bungee cords. Easier. And Velcro stopped being cool when I turned ten.
My shoes were stiff on my feet. Well, one of them. I assumed the other was as well.
My right foot's toes wiggled. I pretended the other did, too.
The app repeated today was breezy.
My back spasmed when I stood. My neck locked. My lungs decided oxygen was optional.
I flopped into my chair.
My knees burned, unused to being vertical. Those three seconds were unacceptable to them. My thighs cramped; blood stopped going to my head. The world tittered. My eyes blurred.
My phone was ninety-four now. Maybe I should charge it?
App still droned breezy. My back insisted supine was good. My knees agreed.
My sneakers dangled, one en pointe, the other a listless pendulum. Were they always this heavy?
Lauren used to set them by the foot of my hospital bed. A goal, she liked saying, holding the harness like it was a fucking venti Frappuccino.
My roommate with a bad hip discharged before me. She was eighty and went home in five weeks. I hit my tenth week. Nurses celebrated with a yellow cupcake. I threw it back at them. It looked like piss. It tasted like cough syrup. Later, a therapist with a gummy smile stopped by.
The app sluggishly updated. The phone was hot. It stuck to my palm. Too many unlocks and swipe left-right.
Still breezy.
My chair groaned as I reviewed my steps: flex feet, tighten calves, push up with the hands. Up. Lock the knees—no, don't lock the knees, wait, or should I lock the hips?
The checklist on my phone confirmed I was wrong. I dropped back into my chair.
Five steps to the door. Nine to the elevator. Cane first, weaker leg next, followed by—no, shit, I think that's incorrect, too.
I checked. Wrong again. And it was still breezy.
My cane rested against my thigh. It smelled like rubber since it arrived last month. A warning tag snaked around the handle. I kept it attached. I might return it. I didn't fill the form, though. It didn't offer 'I was wrong' as an option.
My left knee stuttered. I slapped a hand over it. Checked my phone.
Breezy. Eighty-nine percent.
I'd stared at my door for an hour now.
My phone stayed hot; my cane was cool. Its tag itched my arm. I ripped off the tag. It fluttered to the floor. That could be me later. I picked up the tag.
Or not.
I levered out of the wheelchair. My hand curled around the cane's handle. It's sticky from the shrink wrap and my damp palm. The cane shook in my grip. I shoved the tag into my pocket.
Head too heavy, lower back too tight, knees too locked, I took a step. Then another.
Fuck buyer's remorse.
