What It Feels Like

An essay I revised in December of 2002:


“Gentlemen. Take your mah-ark!”

C’mon Andrew, do this. Just another race.

The pistol discharges a blast of smoke and sends a loud “POP!” across the stark meadow. Right foot first. Step one.

Left foot next. Remember to breathe! Next step.

Step three. Four. Five. Another race—just like any other.

The crowd thins, and I find myself a single unit in a stream of determination. The stream grows thinner and thinner with each stride. Sounds of heavy breathing and trampling feet fade. I am alone in a maze of grass, forest and asphalt. Turn right. Just another race.

My mind begins to spin the thoughts it juggles into images that flash before my eyes.

The sign says, Bay State Hospital Intensive Care Unit. My body is failing me. I can’t even eat. Can’t move. After all the races. . . I’m relegated to a mechanical bed where wires and needles merge with my extremities. No one knows what’s wrong. Not even the doctors.

Step 874. The sounds of people fade away. Just. Another. Race.

The vivid greens and blues of the trees and sky blur into a pastel wallpaper.

They say you can’t remember pain. They’re wrong.

Shins reverberate with the impact of man to earth, sending shocks up my legs. A hushed rustle of dry brush following my man-made breeze is the only dim sound. The trail delves deeper into darkness. So does my mind.

It’s so lonely at night. No one to tell you everything will be fine. No one to tell you you’re getting better. No one to assuage doubts and fears. No one . . . Will I be able to go to college in the fall? Will I walk again? Will the taste of morphine ever leave my lips? Guillan-Barre Syndrome. It must not be a sentence.

The course breaks into two trails. Step 3,425. The mass flocks down the gentle slope. I take Robert Frost’s path—uphill, no footprints. Coach’s words replay in the back of my head like a record someone ran a nickel across, “Use your arms like levers! Pull!”

I can do it. I can beat this. I can eat. I can walk. I can pray. I can hope. I can win.

My lungs seize and desperately beg to fail. It takes all of my might to keep my heart from leaping from my chest. Step 5,537. Hands claw at branches. Just another race. Wintry air prickles on blood-reddened flesh.

“Can you believe he just got up and walked like that? It’s a miracle!”

It sure is.

Step 6,019. Push. This is it. Final straightaway.

It’s time to pursue the dream. I’ve conquered it. Now it’s time to pursue the dream.

For a brief moment, the way the sun shoots out across the treetops in the distance blinds me. I blink once. Again. I see the whole world before me. The amazing view sucks the breath out of my lungs. Just another race. And I’m going to push on.