Healing

Healing

Grayson Sword

The breathing contraption is my enemy and my lifeline. The thin blue notches lie in wait, daring me to try to move the piston to the 2000 mark. I’m not ready, I plead with the respiratory therapist. She tells me to try anyway.

Smiling cartoon animals line the incentive spirometer at the 500, 1000, 1500, and 2000 marks, silently cheering for—or jeering at—me. My mom holds the device as I take a shallow breath in, the effort only enough to make the piston lazily glide to the 300 notch. My cheeks turn hot as my mom squeezes my IVpunctured hand in a wordless attempt to mend my broken pride. But I know I am a failure.

I glance down at the six-inch long jagged scar slicing my sternum in half.Blood cakes the edges that peek through layers of gauze. White-hot heatfloods my chest, and I crumple into the stale hospital sheets.

youcantevenbreatherightyourenotstrongenoughyoucantdoityourenevergoingtobeokay

As it turns out, you can’t expect perfection three hours after reentering theland of the living.

-Grayson Sword is a sophomore from Asheville, NC, pursuing a major in Public Policy and minors in Business Administration and Biology.-