Green Grass Shoes
May 2013
These shoes will never set foot in a hospital. They won’t know the harsh, unforgiving pounding of beige linoleum antiseptic floors where my other shoes have gone “clip, clap” down hallways to await the fate of my son and my mother. They won’t be exposed to waiting rooms or ERs or surgical wards.
These shoes won’t melt into a mauve waiting room carpet witnessing me sputter admittedly ineffective prayers to an estranged God attempting to barter and beg for my son’s life. Nor will they press the gas pedal following a red ambulance transferring him to yet another hospital where infectious disease experts and surgeons await us.
These shoes won’t take up residence on the children’s wing where desperate parents attend to IV alarms and flag down nurses to inform them that pain meds have worn off. They won’t awake to mornings where children are dying and they won’t gaze at the fading figure of my roommate as she slowly leaves the hospital in the shoes that will carry her off to plan her 3-year old’s funeral.
These shoes won’t understand how to tend to PICC lines or wrap surgical wounds in Press n’Seal prior to a shower. They won’t be able to translate the language of blood tests, CT and MRI scans.
These shoes won’t hear an oncologist say they’ve found “something” in my mother’s pancreas. They won’t become part of the cancer tribe. They will remain utterly ignorant of the terrain of the hospital and won’t know the button to press to unlock the doors to the ICU. They won’t know which enclave has the best view during 3-hour chemo infusions. They would get lost trying to find oncologists, genetic counselors and phlebotomists. They won’t have memorized which cupboards house warm blankets nor where a cup of tea and saltine crackers can be found in the hospital hallways. They won’t be privy to the secret push that can convert a waiting room chair into a bed.
These shoes won’t have to look Death in the eye as she bends her crooked finger to summon those I love nor will they witness the way she is beckoning so many others to join her each day.
These shoes won’t have to save a life. They will just be for living life. They will know the simple pleasure of standing next to our bed and folding laundry. They will drive me to yoga rather than the ER. They will go out on dates with my husband. They will walk with me into a future and cradle feet that yearn to walk on green grass again.
December 2014
These shoes are now getting close to retirement. Their soles are showing signs of wear and creases have settled into the formerly crisp patent leather. For over a year they have guided me across plenty of green grass and down some wonderful new sidewalks and alleys. Better yet, they have witnessed friends, family, and a surprising number of strangers show up to help my son and my mom on their slow march back to health.
The oddest thing happened last month though. My daughter went for a rebound during a basketball game. She won the ball but fell to the ground and hit her head hard. As her eyes rolled back in her head and she blacked out it became instantly clear that we needed to get her to the hospital. My husband and I are now pros at the ER. We know how to gently remind the staff that the CT scans are done and request pain meds early enough to get ahead of breakthrough pain. We are comfortable pushing the buttons on the oxygen alarm to keep the room more quiet. However, at one point while a nurse was checking in on our daughter’s concussion status, I looked down at the floor and discovered that my green grass shoes had indeed set foot in a hospital. At first I laughed at the irony of it all. Next I began to wonder how to rename my trusted companions now that they weren’t just for green grass anymore. I’m thinking that, when they are ready to retire, they deserve either a dignified burial or perhaps I’ll cast them in bronze and offer them a place of honor on the mantel in our living room. They’ve guided me to the other side of grief. That’s more than most shoes can say.
If you were to rename my shoes, what would you call them?
