Nov. 5, 2016 — John

John filled the large black rolling desk chair. Wearing a black shirt and black shorts, he seemed as one with the chair as he maneuvered through his cramped room without standing up.

He pulled himself along with his left foot, covered in a white sock.

His right foot, however, was elephantine, and the enormous foot slid around the floor, covered in a large bandage.

John, a 300 hundred pound diabetic, was waiting for his appointment later in the month to have the foot amputated. Actually, it would be more than the foot. Doctors weren’t sure whether it would be below or above the knee.

My friend has been in virtual solitary confinement, not having left his room for months. The last time he went to a doctor’s appointment, he fell down the three or four steps in the front of his apartment house as he tried to negotiate them on his distorted foot.

That foot, and what was going to happen to it, was a spectre that John lived with. And he did it in a very small space.

There was a bed, a large screen computer, and a small couch that was covered with stuff. That took up most of the room. John and his rolling chair had a runway maybe seven yards long and little more than a yard wide. And there was a cat dish and litter box for Soul Man.

There was only one window and that was covered by blinds which John wouldn’t open, even on this gloriously sunny autumn day. At times, he admitted he couldn’t tell whether it’s early morning or the evening.

This is where he waits to have a significant part of his body cut away.

What a spectre to have to confront all alone. Friends have come through with legal and financial help, but other than the daily phone call from his mother, John’s primary contact with people is the government bureaucracy as he fends off eviction, deals with Medicaid, arranges visit by medical and psychological helpers.

Maybe that is why we talked for five hours. Mostly he talked. About his freelance editing, the state of journalism, his foot, his laundry, the loneliness, the anger at himself for lifestyle decisions have brought him to this. He has a large face like a bulldog. It’s one I like to watch when he talks because it’s so expressive.

When he told me that he’s been weepy at times, I said that I was marveling at him. When my wife got hit by a car, she was surrounded almost immediately and around the clock by family and friends. And I am with my family every day. I said I thought he was some kind of superman to be able to handle this alone.

On my way to John’s that day, I passed a man on the sidewalk on crutches and wearing a black knee brace. Having once worn one, I asked if the problem was a torn ACL. As soon as he began speaking I realized that he was homeless or on the cusp. He was answering me by saying, more to himself than to me, that he had broken his knee.

“Hurts like hell,” he said in a voice that carried hints of anger, frustration and hopelessness. “But everything in life hurts.”

Here was another person handling a tormented life alone. I remembered him when I left John’s apartment and passed the spot where I had walked a little faster to not have to listen to this semi-crazy’s scary philosophy: “Everything in life hurts.”

But then I thought of John, powering through his bleak crisis, looking forward to something of an ending nine months from now when he expects to be fitted with a permanent prosthesis. And will be able to walk out of his apartment — his chrysalis — again without tumbling down the steps.