Yeah I’m wearing sweatpants w/out underwear — got something to say about it?

Sandra Koppel
Jul 25, 2017 · 5 min read

Yeah, so, I’m in the hospital and I’m leaving that day, which was three weeks ago last Saturday. I’m up at 4 a.m. and I’m ready to go. There’s only one small problem. I can’t — no way in hell — get the jeans on that I came in. And I’m up at 4 a.m. because I just had my vitals taken for the third time that night and a shot of something stuck in my arm and blood taken. Who needs coffee with a wake-up call like that?

All right, the important thing is not the fact that the woman next to me has had the TV on 24/7, including all last night, or that the bright overhead lights on her side of the room were glaring also. The important thing is that I’m leaving today. And no act of god or anything else is going to get in my way.

By 7 o’clock I’ve already washed my hair, done the closest thing to taking a shower without taking a shower; I have a shirt on and a bra, and earrings — all this represents a major effort. And that’s when I come to a standstill, sitting on the bed with the hospital gowns wrapped around my waist. I’m also completely exhausted — but undeterred!!

So my son eventually brings a pair of sweatpants up to 98th and 5th at the Mount Sinai Tranplantation Wing on the 9th floor. And no I can’t get underwear on either. I’ve got a little swelling going on around the five-inch incision in the right side of my abdomen from my kidney transplant. But now I’ve got pants on! Yeah, they’re sweatpants but they’re pants. And please note I didn’t own a pair of sweatpants because I don’t wear sweatpants. Except that now I do. And I wear them in public, no less.

I’m sure it mattered a lot when I was toddling around the block on the first Sunday I was home, daring people with a savage look to try coming within 10 feet of me. I felt mighty vulnerable that day, with the anti-rejection drugs coursing through my body, causing mental changes, among other noted side effects. The Percocet blended in nicely to create a lovely, surreal, kind of mini heaven/hell.

A big, tall man is passed out in the door of a bar, supine, with blood running down his head. The EMT’s park their ambulance, blocking traffic and the sidewalk, to aid the fallen soldier. Every single person around me seems compromised, weakened; the delicate nature of man and our so very assailable bodies!

Two blocks the next day and more than once a day. Did that woman just eye me? Did she look at my face and then do one of those eye scans that takes in the whole picture with a little flick of the lid? I meet her gaze and then remember that as the swelling’s gone down the sweatpants have become bigger and they do sag a little. So I check that sh*t out and make sure everything’s in place and by that time it’s a little late for any kind of comeback. But just wait till I see you when I’m doing my rounds the next time — I’m gonna be prepared!!

So we go to the store, my son and I, and that’s an enormous deal. That’s probably on Thursday that week and a couple of entire worlds have already taken place in my special, little life. I’m off Percocet and facing the hard and raw reality of existence — including this crowd at Whole Foods. Let’s make sure I’m not sagging. Let me get a cart. “I haven’t seen you in awhile!” Sh*t! I’m startled out of skin. “I saw your son shopping in here by himself this week.”

Do I say anything? Do I explain myself? One of the clerks and I both had sons around 9/11 and we talk; we’re friendly. She does note my sweatpants; I see her. And I want to say something but I don’t.

The next evening I’m walking down 8th Avenue. I’m on four blocks now and this is my fourth round of the day. A woman blasts up behind me with her teenage daughter. They’re walking at a healthy, carefree pace. She starts speaking in a fusillade of words about teaching and pay and pensions and summer school. I know her from the playground from when my son was little and we had talked about being teachers.

Yes, I was a teacher once and I will be again come September. But now I’m just a sweatpants-w/out- underwear-wearing post-transplant patient on my first week home and my fourth time walking down this street this day. And I can barely follow your conversation. Thank you for not noting my sweatpants as the conversation was clearly too intense, not that I said but two words, plus “Nice seeing you,” as they turn off on 26th Street. And then I fall on the sidewalk in a dead faint out of sheer exhaustion.

Perhaps if I labeled myself in some way. And that idea comes into play in week two when my younger sister (donor), her husband and I go to the Highline. I’m able to take the stairs. This is the farthest I’ve walked yet and I’m doing fine. My gait is also completely normal. Furthermore, I became cognizant of the little tie on the sweatpants and I’ve hiked them up a bit. “You look great,” they both say. My sister’s still hobbling a little since she got more incisions than I. “You can’t tell anything happened to you,” she says. “You’d better tell people.”

I need to, don’t I? People can’t go having expectations of me, can they? I’ve still got marks all up and down my arms from adhesive tape and bruises from shots. I feel like a complete wreck but a hopeful one. And I just don’t want anyone challenging me in any way — especially midway into the next week when I put my baggiest pair of jeans on and walk out in that regalia. And yes I’ve purchased a lovely light blue pair of underwear with nice stretchy lace on them. I’ve taken alcohol pads and rubbed the tape marks off my arms. And I’m looking more normal than ever.

But don’t be fooled, I’ve been through it. And so has this person on the street and that person. That’s one of the biggest things that’s been brought home to me in these recent weeks. Everybody’s hiding a world behind what they present to the public. And we’re so fragile! I’m gonna take that out of this experience and it’s gonna make me stronger in some way. You just watch and see.

The Haven

A Place to Be Funny Without Being a Jerk

Sandra Koppel

Written by

Just another NYC writer looking for an agent and a break.

The Haven

The Haven

A Place to Be Funny Without Being a Jerk

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