The Portal as Metaphor

 203.

Like most, my PCS, permanent change of station, is bittersweet. I am being discharged from the facility that has been my home for the last eight months. True, I entered as an urgent care patient with gun shot wounds, my life literally hanging by a thread, and spent 90% of the time in a coma, but the relationships established and transformation from 'unresponsive' to leaving today under my own power, I find a borderline miracle. I will clarify my usage of 'under my own power' to the more precise, 'in a wheelchair'. My farewell is somewhat formal as the specialists, nurses and aides are all lined up like stage actors about to open the Nutcracker. Present also are Davis, Drysdale, Hank and Julie. The paperwork done, I stroll past them for the final time wondering if a salute or a handshake is the appropriate gesture.

The Neurologist who has literally been by my side since her job description changed from life support to ambulatory assistance, steps forward from the line, wraps her arms around my neck and places a card in my lap. She is fighting back tears, ones I trust are of joy. I return her gratitude and sentiment with equal sincerity. Hank is pushing me slowly out the door and as we pass through the portal I sense the metaphor of one closing while another opens as a spine tingling jolt. I am suddenly vulnerable. Exposed. Wounded. No longer the alias Mr. Larson.

My team has established a temporary station for me in what used to be our office. The small space converted from a war room to a halfway house, an apartment with good access and a security staff. Julie introduces me to my full-time aide, a short haired Filipina named Mina. She has been busy it appears cleaning the room as the dustbroom she carries looks well used.

"Magandang hapon, kamusta ka?" I ask.

"Mabuti naman, salamat po, at ikaw?"

"Walang problema, salamat."

Julie interrupts our introduction to guide the tour, showing me the work station, computer, TRX system for physical training and the lock box that she opens to reveal my Glock. She has set up a cell phone and we go over the associated user names and passwords. She has, I assume it was her, delivered a small wardrobe from my cabin to the apartment. I wonder if anything will still fit after my dramatic loss of muscle mass.

We move to the kitchen and I see it is well stocked with my favorites.

Davis has pulled back the protective lid of the serving tray on the island countertop. I can smell rice and vegetables, hoping that it might be vegetable sinagag. Mina smiles as I recognize the dish from its intoxicating aroma.

Indoctrination complete, they prepare to leave, Julie reminding me that they will be back at 0900 tomorrow for final prep and the 1030 meeting with Hartaugh.

I nod in affirmation.

I look at Drysdale.

"We need to talk."