The Great Unpacking Of Love
Part 3

Walking, let’s talk about it! One evening, I had just finished my prescription industrial meal, my sister left my room recently. I head to the bathroom, finally I try, and against all odds, my legs give way and seem to be made of cotton. I start again, again and again, but nothing works. I have the impression that the cotton turns into real chewing gum. Not admitting defeat, I reiterate with force, but I crash on the ground like a disjointed puppet. Impossible to get up despite my superhuman efforts. I bite the dust. What to do ? Trying to catch the little providential alarm at all costs while crawling, except that I am far from being a rattlesnake. What a nightmare ! I increase my strength tenfold, hoping that a providential Indiana Jones will come and help me. With what tenacity I have left, in an impulse from elsewhere, I manage to reach the savior button! It’s funny how in tragic moments, we realize the totally random notion of time passing.

My Savior finally arrives, a clever mix of Indiana Jones, Aladdin and Prince Charming. He lifts me in his arms to place me delicately on my bed like a Princess straight out of an imaginary fairy tale. But there is no imagination for me, the reality is indeed blatantly true. My legs still don’t respond. What’s going on again? What blow of fate befalls me again?

My Prince, who I find much less charming, notices that not only do my legs no longer work, but that my hands seem affected too. Impossible to grab the glass he hands me or the cutlery left on my meal tray. I feel totally helpless. He asks me to write my first name on a sheet of paper. I have the impression of being on the benches of Grande section in the beginnings of writing.

The nurse who has lost all his Aladdin aura tells me that we will have to wait until the next day for the team to look into my case. With that, he turns on his heel and leaves my wavering raft, ready to sink into the movements of anguish and morbid gloom. He bids me good evening, a good night and flies away on his carpet of impassivity.

A good night ? Is he laughing or what? How can I get a good night’s sleep when a hundred thousand questions are rushing through my head, imagining the worst? I don’t know why, at night, my brain runs at a hundred miles an hour, magnifying things like a pathetic magnifying glass and events take on a tragic turn tenfold.

Suddenly the door opens. My oncologist appears, the expression on his face does not bode well. I know him by heart, like old couples, he can’t hide anything from me!

It seems that I am the victim of an extremely rare side effect from a component of the last chemo. Obviously, it’s still for my apple! It’s not possible to be so unlucky, to attract bad luck to this extent. For sure, Maleficent is my godmother and cast a spell at my birth.

Tomorrow morning, Doctor Ice, a renowned neurologist, will perform an electromyogram to establish a diagnosis, a prognosis and consider a treatment.

What else is this thing that I haven’t yet tasted in the range of the most enjoyable medical examinations? My oncologist explains to me that it involves inserting small needles into the muscles of the legs and arms and sending a small electrical impulse to test reflexes. Great, here I am on death row! My oncologist, always calming when it comes to medical examinations, explains to me that it is not painful strictly speaking, but rather surprising and disturbing. I still admit to being somewhat suspicious! I am beginning to experience the joy of these exams of all kinds. In any case, I don’t really have a choice if I want to regain my mobility, my dexterity, my life… so, Doctor Ice’s EMG is my turn!

The next day, taken in a wheelchair by a fangio from the inhospitable corridors, I go to see Doctor Ice. I walked through the door of his office with a lump in my stomach. The reception is cold, not a word, he seems busy and I stay in the middle of the room without being able to move. I realize the state of dependence in which I find myself. I, so in love with freedom and independence, feel very bad. My funometer is going to explode. To relax a little, I tell myself that this Doctor Ice really lives up to his name.

Finally, he sees me. On tiptoe, I dare to ask him how the exam will go. After a thousand technical explanations, I understand that I am going to transform into a fakir under electrical impulses. I admit that this doesn’t enchant me at all.

After half an hour of Engie acupuncture of my peripheral nervous system, to speak French, at the level of my legs and my arms, I feel global warming rising within me and it is not the melting ice that I feel flow down my cheeks, but my tears. The pain is so intense that I feel wobbly. I cannot help but have a united thought for the American death row prisoners in their electric chair. Fortunately, in my case, the outcome will not be fatal.