The Path Home by Brian Wilson

HONORABLE MENTION

The Path Home by Brian Wilson

This work is a fictional dramatization based on actual events in the life of the author. The views and opinions expressed in the story are those of the characters only and do not necessarily reflect or represent views or opinions held by the individuals on which their characters are based.

Standing on the two largest pavers of the drive leading from my garage door, I looked up. Morning never seemed to come this early before. Even as a prior orthopedic surgeon, I had always risen early, but not this early. The neighbors still called me “Dr. Samuelson”. I knew my first name was Steve - only because my driver’s license had “Steve” listed as my given name. For over three decades, I had dutifully awakened, slipped into my Lexus, and driven off to the hospital. It had been years since I paused to look up at a night sky. Orion, Gemini, Aquarius, they were all there. February’s waning crescent moon made Venus appear brighter in the eastern sky of the wee morning hours. Taken back to my boyhood days, I remembered first learning what a constellation was. Why I remembered the layout of the stars in the sky, and not the layout of my bedroom - well, I had no idea.

The temperature was dropping. Even with my thick terrycloth bathrobe, the thin hair on my lower legs had begun to stand on end, attempting to warm my body. Rubbing my toes against each other helped lesson the chill of the cool night biting breeze. Why hadn’t I taken time to slip on some moccasins before coming outside to bid my oldest son off? Shivering, I pulled my robe tighter with one hand, and slowly waved goodbye to Nathanael with the other. Nate had been staying with me since my most recent hospitalization.

This time, the doctors told me I had drowned. The physicians in our local emergency room knew me well. Evidently, I had totaled a couple of Lexus, and had drowned once before - all within three years. Maybe I did, and maybe I didn’t. I couldn’t remember. With the type of seizures that plague me, you often don’t remember the few minutes surrounding the fit. You have to rely on the doctors - what the doctors tell you. You have to trust what they say. Being a physician, I knew that sometimes they didn’t tell you everything. This time they wouldn’t let me leave the hospital without a “caretaker” at home to assist me. At least, that’s what they said. But, I knew better. I didn’t need anyone to take care of me. After surviving two ugly divorces, I could take care of myself. It was all just legalities. They just didn’t want to be responsible for anything that might happen to me after I left the hospital. The real reason I was being discharged was my insurance company wouldn’t authorize any rehab, so the doctors had just sent me home.

Transitioning from a twice divorced, self-reliant professional, to someone who was dependent on public transportation was humbling for me. The physicians said it “wasn’t safe” for me to drive anymore. I suppose they were right. My automobile insurance rates had skyrocketed.

But it was my legs that were the real problem. They were spasming rhythmically now in the cool night breeze. Walking had never been a challenge before. Constant muscle jerks had changed all

that. My legs no longer worked like they used to. “Something to do with your nerves” the doctors kept telling me. Then, there was the stabbing pain on the left side of my right knee. It was constant. I vaguely remember having stumbled sometime during the night trying to get to the bathroom since arriving home from the hospital. Surgery hadn’t helped the torn meniscus. Evidently that thin membrane of cartilage between your femur and tibia wears out with the passing of time. It seemed everything was falling apart now. Remembering how confused I was in the hospital when my feet wouldn’t turn flat to the floor while attempting to stand for the first time, was still frustrating - And that was with two physical therapists at my side! To be honest, I was just grateful just to be limping now.

Three weeks in the intensive care unit had taken its toll. I had lost twenty pounds - a pound for each day on the ventilator. Now, none of my clothes fit. Even my favorite jeans wouldn’t stay up without a belt. And I couldn’t find any of my belts. No matter, one would show up. Everything showed up, eventually. Everything I owned was all still in the house - somewhere. I just couldn’t remember where. There were lots of things I couldn’t remember now. Things I should know - my phone number, my ex-wife’s name, and how many children I have. The medicine helped some, when I remembered to take it.

Peering into the distant darkness, the taillights of Nate’s car were barely visible as he rounded the corner onto the main road. It was just me now, alone and barefoot, balancing on two unstable legs in the moonlight. My son had protested leaving. He said I wasn’t ready to live on my own yet. I assured him I was. To prove it, I had placed all eight of my new medicines in separate containers according to the exact time of day I was to take each one. It was his idea.

Turning my ears to the north, I could hear the wind drifting across the treetops. Yet the cool air surrounding me was strangely still. The air’s stillness was a quite a contrast to my rhythmic trembling. And the biting cold made my tremors worse. Looking westward, I wondered if a storm might be approaching. Following the resonance, my head turned slowly all the way around to the south. With eyes wide open, I struggled to visualize what was just over the crest of the hill. I knew it was familiar, but in the dark, I just couldn’t remember.

Waning fall moonlight penetrated the clouds, descended downward, and came to rest upon the trailhead of the neighborhood path. Of course, how could I forget? That’s where the neighborhood path began. Since I couldn’t swim or ride a bike anymore, I had taken to walking the neighborhood path for exercise. Walking was supposed to help the tremors that plagued me now.

Our neighborhood path twisted and turned as it looped its way around the houses. Its sharp turns and differing elevations made the path more challenging now. Most of the footpath meandered through a dense wooded area just behind the neighbors’ properties. That was the most exhausting stretch. It was also the most refreshing. A small babbling brook weaved its way underneath an old wooden bridge. You could always count on experiencing something interesting while walking the path; if you kept your senses attuned to the natural beauty of the surrounding woods. Yesterday, I had heard cardinals courting each other under the pine canopy. The cardinals were always the first to wake up, and always before sunrise. But this morning, it was still far too early for even the cardinals to be awake.

Afternoons were the safest time for me to walk the path. In broad daylight, I had fallen more

than once. Finishing the full mile and a quarter loop was something a man who walked haltingly could be proud of. If I stumbled in the afternoon, there was usually someone who would eventually come by. They would always stop to help me stand up, until I could gain control of my legs again. It was that bum knee of mine - or maybe the constant quivering, that made my legs occasionally just give way. Shaking muscles, no longer controlled by motor nerves, had made an invalid out of a once prominent surgeon. Sometimes the tremors weren’t noticeable, but they always were there. Involuntary tremors were a part of my life now. And any physical activity using your legs was supposed to help the tremors.

But at night, the path was a world of its own. A symphony of natural sounds filled the air - sounds you never heard during the day. The hoooing of owls overhead, piercing chirps from countless crickets, and squirrels scampering across decaying leaves - all sounds of life usually hidden - they filled the woods once the sun descended. I had walked the path at sunset, but never at night. Pausing, I pondered. The temperature had dropped a few more degrees. And the wind - I could feel it on my twitching legs again. A storm was approaching.

Sure, it was cold, but it would only take me 20 minutes to finish the full loop. I’d be able to knock out my physical therapy for the day, before the rain started. If my bare feet became too cold, the dry needles lining the path could provide some relief. And today - today, I wouldn’t have to conceal my limp from the neighbors. I knew they talked about me. What happened to Dr. Samuelson? Why doesn’t Dr. Samuelson drive anymore? Why does Dr. Samuelson always stutter now when he speaks?

Studying the night sky, I accepted it was probably still too early to attempt walking the path. Sunrise wouldn’t come for a couple of hours. There wasn’t even enough light for shadows to form against the blackness. Still, challenges had always breathed new life into me. I could usually finish the entire loop with a couple of Motrin; before, and after. Of course, this morning I hadn’t taken any Motrin before bidding my son goodbye.

Scanning the night sky, only half the stars were visible now. Cloud cover was moving in quickly from the north. With the faint remaining starlight, I could barely make out the old dilapidated sign marking the entrance to the path. Technically, the footpath was only open between the hours of 6 AM to 10 PM. “Use at your own risk” it read. No matter - I wouldn’t actually be breaking the rules. I was more worried about being seen by an unknown neighbor. The last thing I needed was somebody posting a picture of me in my bathrobe at night, on the neighborhood social media site. Glancing back toward my house, I wavered on whether to venture ahead at this early hour.

High-pitched pinging from hidden bats urged me on. Flickering fireflies beckoned, promising to light my way. My breathing quickened for some reason - probably just the residual fluid in my lungs. Before leaving the hospital the pulmonologist had had told me my lungs weren’t quite back to normal yet. He said it would take a few weeks for them to clear. It had already been eight weeks. I thought they should be working better by now.

With a bit of trepidation, I stepped onto the trailhead. The meandering path was fairly easy to follow during the day. But this was different. There was nothing to focus on. Walking in the darkness was like walking with my eyes closed at physical therapy. Oh, I could do it. I had done it several times during my therapy sessions. In fact, I was getting fairly good at it. Taking the first step,

I convinced myself to get going before someone actually did see me. Today I would knock out my assigned therapy before the first rays of daylight.

Following the serpentine path down into the forest, blackness quickly enveloped me. I stopped. Silently, I chastised myself for not bringing a flashlight. Remembering phones were equipped with lights now, I reached into my bathrobe pocket. It was empty. Twisting in the dark, I checked the other pocket. Hmmm, that’s strange. I was sure I had placed my phone into my bathrobe pocket before exiting the garage. Turning once again, I peered into the darkness. From which direction had I come? My feet told me I was standing on pine needles. Somehow I had already strayed from the footpath. Conscience-stricken, I knew it had to be near. Rotating slowly in the dark, my toes felt for an edge. Finding one, I whispered out loud, “Thank God.”

The tree canopy blocked any remaining starlight. It was now pitch black all around me. Which way was forward? Which way was back? I had no idea. Fumbling with my toes, I floundered along the edge of the pine needles, seeking any clue that might guide me back to safety. Suddenly pausing, I silently pondered, “Why head back now? You’ll miss out on whatever thrills the path might reveal at night.” Motionless, I mulled over the pros and cons. Then, inhaling deeply, I choose to advance downward, deeper into the woods. The fact that my feet were bare was actually helping me discern where the path’s edge faded into the forest. The distant sound of water dripping over pebbles assured me the creek was not far ahead. I knew where I was - sort of.

Limping in the dark proved to be more challenging than I had imagined. Unfamiliar pains radiated out from my injured right knee. Why hadn’t I taken a moment to put on my knee brace? If I could just make it a little further, I could support myself on the railing of the old wooden bridge. As I recall, the old wooden bridge was near the beginning of the path. But then again, my memory was still a bit fuzzy.

“Owe!” Something hit me in my right eye. Flailing my arms in the dark, the back of my hand struck what felt like a hanging tree limb. “Humph!” I don’t remember a limb dangling that low over the path. Despite repeated blinking, the sting didn’t go away. Something had scratched my cornea. Or worse - something was stuck between my cornea and upper eyelid! Both my eyes had been dry since leaving the hospital. I had purchased some lubricating drops, but they were at my house - along with the Motrin and my phone.

The night wind was gusting now. Wrapping my robe tighter helped protect against the wind’s unmerciful bite. Cold, clammy air confirmed a storm was near. Should I keep going? Guessing I was probably about halfway, either way would be about the same distance to my house. There was no one was around to ask. There was no one was around to help.

I was beginning to feel something damp on my soles. The faint sound of trickling water was still too distant for the dampness to be creek water. Perhaps the high humidity had coated the ground with an extra covering of dew.

Somehow I needed to lift the bottom of one foot up to my fingers. Perhaps those ridiculous yoga poses I had been learning might help. My physical therapist had strongly suggested I enroll in what was supposed to be a gentle yoga class. “Learning to balance again will help retrain your leg muscles” he said. Being 52 years old, I was the only male in a class of twelve older women. The class was anything but gentle. But I do have to admit; it was helping me to learn to balance again.

Somehow, I needed to lift one foot up to ascertain where the dampness was coming from. Hmmm… was it tree pose, eagle pose, or pigeon pose? I should have paid more attention in class. Increasing confused in the dark, I couldn’t remember the names of the poses, let alone how to do them.

Stork Pose was something I was still struggling with, but I could do it, at least for a few seconds. Balancing on my left leg, I managed to twist my right foot above and in front of my left knee. With two fingers, I wiped along the entire length of my right sole before it fell to the ground. Only then was I able to bring the wet substance to just under my nostrils. I inhaled. Dabbing my tongue on my index and middle finger tips confirmed its origin. Despite a poor memory, this surgeon knew the scent of fresh human blood. Limping haltingly in the dark had rubbed the balls and heals of my feet raw. Now, only a mix of flayed skin, dirt, and sticky blood separated my body from the path that was supposed to provide me with new strength and vigor.

Abruptly, the path made a 90-degree turn to the right, then began ascending again. At last! Soon I would emerge from the woods. It would be only a short, couple of hundred feet until I arrived at the drive leading up to my garage door.

With every other breath, tiny spasms began skipping along my diaphragm - a bad sign. Involuntary tics of my diaphragm muscle often portended an oncoming seizure. Did I take my medicine last night? I couldn’t remember. Yesterday morning, I was sure I had placed the two anticonvulsant pills I take at 9 p.m. into their proper section of my daily pillbox. As for taking them - I just couldn’t remember if I had, or if I hadn’t. Frantically, I floundered deep within my bathrobe pocket, searching for a pill - any pill. I had learned the hard way to keep an extra anticonvulsant in various pockets for times like these. Finding an oblong tablet, I placed it on my tongue and forced it down without any saliva. If it were going to help, it would take several minutes. Meanwhile, the involuntary tics radiating along the entire surface of my diaphragm were increasing in their forcefulness.

My teeth began to chatter. Legs, arms, teeth - they were all shaking. It wasn’t the cold air. Muscle spasms were all too familiar to me. I knew the difference. Overwhelming fear welled up in me, flooding my whole. “Please God. Don’t let me have a seizure out here.” I just wanted to make it home again. Home, where I could get some water, and bandage my bloodied feet. Shallow quick breaths no longer satisfied my hunger for air. No matter how much I attempted to inhale, not enough air managed to go in.

In between each wind gust, I could hear the faint echo of fountain spray hitting a water surface. Wasn’t there a pond with a fountain directly across from my house? I couldn’t remember for sure, but I could conceptualize one. On hands and knees, I inched onward. Agonizing pain gripped the whole of my body. Knees raw from thorns and thistles only added to the torment. Collapsing, I could neither inhale nor exhale. My lungs - my lungs were filling up with some sort of fluid. Propping up on elbows helped some. A drop hit my hand. The fountain! I was close. Bringing the back of my hand to my lips, I licked the water I so desperately needed, immediately spitting it back out. It wasn’t fountain spray water! The taste of more fresh blood was nauseating. Shallow quick breaths had desiccated my lips. Gently opening my mouth I could feel two large fissures separating my lower lip into three separate pieces. Fresh blood flowed freely from each fissure, dripping steadily to the earth, like clockwork.

In the east, the horizon was just beginning to lighten. Directly above, only the North Star was visible through the clouds. Daybreak would come shortly. Soon someone would find me. This section of the path ran parallel to old Rawlinson Road. In the distance, I could make out two headlights approaching. Lifting both my rhythmically spasming arms, I frantically tried to wave in the direction of the oncoming driver. He would stop. Someone had always stopped to help me. An old pickup truck approached, its headlights blinding. Once again, I had been saved by fate. The dark pickup truck slowed down deliberately; then continued on, gradually regained its previous speed, leaving me alone in the night. Bewildered, my arms dropped exhausted - forearms still flapping symmetrically. Why hadn’t they stopped? Someone had always stopped. Someone had always come to my aid when I couldn’t help myself. I needed water. I needed air.

With the dim morning light, I could make out a mailbox between where I lie, and a garage door. Inch by inch, I forced my chest upward, leaning against the mailbox for support. Intense spasms of uncontrolled muscles made breathing arduous. With my chest elevated, I could inhale a bit more. Each gasp encouraging me to press on. It might be my mailbox. It looked like my garage door.

The path had taken its toll. Where skin once protected, raw flesh now lay bare. Leaning against the mailbox post gave my bloodied elbows some relief. With my neck jerking rhythmically, I attempted to focus in the direction of the garage door. Despite open eyes, I couldn’t see. Everything was blurry. Blinking repeatedly, I could make out a faint light - the keypad! If I could just crawl to the large paver under the keypad, I could lift my spasming arm - I could force my flopping wrist towards the dim light of the keypad. My fingers could find the proper keys in the dark and press them in the proper order. The garage door would rise. I vaguely recalled a case of bottled water stored on the floor in the corner, just on the other side of the garage door. I could get some water. I could get some air.

Suddenly, a bright light engulfed me where there was no light before. Confusion shrouded my thinking. Where was I? What was I trying to do? A code - the code! I couldn’t remember the code. Warm fluid welled up in my chest, filling my lungs. Short quick breaths no longer sustained my craving for air.

Exhausted, my arm dropped. Despite the breaking dawn, my eyes could no longer sense any light. Touching my eyes with the back of my trembling fingers, my eyes were open, but no light came in.

Vibrations from a phone echoed through the garage door. “Dad! Dad! Answer the phone!” Leaning on my right elbow, I was able to inch the fingers of my left hand up the painted wallboard where the keypad had to be mounted. Yes! Even though I couldn’t see the keys, I could feel them. Determined, I focused on how I could make my fingers press the correct keys in the correct order. I could answer his cries. He would come back and help me. My son had always come back.

Acting own their own, my fingers fumbled the keypad above. Nothing. They kept fumbling, pressing key after key. Then, slowly... the garage door began to rise. Holding tightly to the keypad with one hand for stability, I extended my other trembling arm along the cold concrete floor of the open garage toward the vibrations. Fingers on my flopping wrist managed to grasp the vibrating phone. It must have dropped out of my bathrobe pocket. Tightly, I held on to the vibrations. Seconds passed… then, abruptly, the vibrations ceased.

Slowly, the fingers of my uplifted arm released their tight grip on the keypad. My high stretched arm began to fall in stages, coming to rest on the cold concrete. Defeated, I lay motionless. One by one, tight tendons released their determined grip on muscles they had once been assigned to control. Gradually, one by one, each muscle surrendered to a stronger power. Lastly, my fingers relinquished their tight grip on the now still phone.

Exhaling what tiny breath remained, I lay immobile. Yielding wholly, I knew I had made it. My path home was complete.