The Writer 10.2019

4 | The Writer • October 2019

I ONCE WROTE TO LIVE.
Now I walk to write to live.
Those extra words entered my life
after my head exploded from a rup-
tured brain aneurysm. Fourteen hospi-
talizations, 10 ambulance rides, and
four brain surgeries followed.
Such an experience – compressed
into four nightmare years – forces a
complete life reboot. How does New
You practice Old Craft?
I started on the road.
Initially, that pathway involved cir-
cles – small round ones – traveled with
a walker. White knuckles clasped icy
aluminum handlebars. My legs wob-
bled and trembled as my toes and
heels, stuffed inside rubber-soled hos-
pital socks, gripped the wood floor.

Behind me trailed a physical therapist,

her strong hands clutching the gait belt

that encircled my waist.

Every morning and afternoon, we

exercised like this at the rehabilitation

hospital where I relearned how to

walk, talk, eat, bathe, and dress myself.

Afterward, the therapist would guide

me back to my room, settle me into

bed, and ask, “Do you want it?” I

would nod yes, and she would snuggle

my laptop next to me in bed.

And always, I fell asleep within

minutes of trying to write. Some part

of me – buried deep within – knew

these rehab experiences held stories,

needed to come out. Capturing them

fresh was best. But my words labored,

my attention lagged, my eyes fought to

stay open. Still, my fingertips tapped.

My body’s needs demanded another

focus: more physical recovery.

I would wake up sometime later,

laptop dark and tucked against the

bed’s side rails. Good days delivered a

paragraph on a walking memory; bad

days, the revived screen revealed noth-

ing save-able.

Time can heal, and I did, too.

I worked up to a cane, then an exer-

cise bar or my husband’s arm, then,

weeks later, my own two feet. On dis-

charge from rehab, my doctor ordered

strength-building exercises. He sug-

gested walking. The tracheostomy tube

in my throat, combined with Houston’s

humid summer heat, vetoed traversing

neighborhood sidewalks. My husband

By Melanie Ormand

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