Adobe Photoshop PDFCarefully, with the aid of the walker, I stepped out of the narrow shower, towel dried my sagging shell of a body, and then, steeling myself against the lingering pain, I moved to sit at the edge of the bed. I had been able to dress myself since yesterday morning, almost twenty-four hours ago, after my last shower. I opened the drawer to the nightstand beside the bed and took out the last fresh pair of Jockey underwear. Gingerly, as if lassoing a steer, I reached down in a tossing motion to loop the left leg hole of the garment over the left foot. Once I had the foot corralled above the ankle, I was able to reach down far enough to dip my right foot inside the right leg hole. With a grunt, I worked the underwear up to my saggy waist. The simple act of dressing to this point still had me breathing heavily, as if I had run in an all-out sprint to the nurse’s station and back. I rested for a minute and then managed to dress in the khaki slacks that had been laid out on the bed beside me. Fortunately, I had brought Topsiders to wear home. I had also sprinkled talcum powder inside the shoes. My feet easily slipped in.

My beard was still soft and moist from the shower. With the walker, I pulled myself back onto my feet and shuffled my way to the sink and mirror a short distance away. I could stand and balance myself without the aid of walls, furniture, or the walking device now. I folded and then leaned the walker against the wall beside me. My toiletries were packed in the black shaving kit next to the sink. I took out the shaving cream and applied a mound to my fingertips. While waiting for hot water to flow from the faucet, I studied the image in the mirror. The puffy face of middle age had given way to a thinner look, the bone structure of a younger man ironically displayed behind the droopy cheeks. What once had been a beard of dark reddish stubble was now completely white, and what once had been a smooth, lightly tanned neck was now a ruddy accordion of wrinkles. Tiny veins wiggled just under the skin of my nose and chin. The ravages of a full life were already telling. Even my best feature, the blue eyes, were washed out and cloudy where they peered out from heavy lids. How strange, it seemed, that something so gradual as the physical transformation from aging would so abruptly manifest itself as it lately had. It was as though the subconscious could no longer hold back the facts that had been so apparent to everyone else.

My face came alive with the menthol of the shaving cream. The new sharp, double-bladed razor felt good raking across my jaw for the first time in days. I was thinking how nice it would be to get back home when the nurse walked into the room. She was a tall, big-boned woman with strong yet gentle hands. I had seen her for the first time just an hour or so ago, when she massaged away a cramp in my right foot. I dreaded her reappearance. She had worked hard to strike up a conversation.

“Am I pronouncing your name right?” she asked, picking up the hospital gown I had tossed on the tile floor before showering. “Mr. St—is it a long ‘I’ sound or a short ‘I’?”

“Long,” I said. “Like you see with your eye.”

“Mr. Stiler,” she said, dropping the gown onto the bed. “Right?”

“Right. Jack Stiler.” I finished shaving the left side of my face and started on my right.

She nodded with a smile. “I’m Hilda. I think I told you that earlier. Hilda Heinsohn. It’s German. My family’s from New Braunfels. They were some of the first settlers to come here from Germany. From the old country.”

I smiled back through the mirror and then guided the double blades beneath the right side of my nose. “Where’s Mark?”

Hilda began gathering my personal belongings in a plastic bag she had discovered in the tiny closet. “He ran down to grab your paperwork from the front desk. And to get a wheelchair so you can leave. You did arrange for a ride home this morning, right? You told me that earlier, didn’t you?”

“They should be getting here before too long.” I rinsed stubble down the sink drain, rinsed the razor under running water, and placed it inside the shaving kit. After rinsing the excess shaving cream off my face and neck, I located my blue knit shirt hanging across the towel bar and slipped it on. I rummaged through the shaving kit until I found my brush. Before giving up on the unruly, thinning gray hair, I attempted several times to comb it in place. “I don’t need a wheelchair,” I then said, and I shuffled back to sit on the bed, leaving the folded walker behind.

“Look at you,” Hilda said as if she were admiring the first steps of a child. “But you know it’s policy, Mr. Stiler.”

“Oh I know. Fine.”
“Stiler,” she said, thinking. “That rings a bell.”
“Just one?”
“What?”
“Never mind.”
“Are you the one they’ve been talking about in the paper and on the news lately?” “Well—”

“You’re the one they’ve been calling the Wall Street cowboy, aren’t you?”

I had to chuckle at the thought. “Wall Street cowboy might be a stretch.”

“But you’re him, aren’t you, Mr. Stiler?”

“Well, some people on Wall Street used to say I was too much of a cowboy, and some people around here say I’m too much of a Wall Streeter.” I chuckled again. “Actually, I’m not much of either.”

“Wow,” the nurse said, “I’ve been trying to keep up with all the things that have been happening. You’ve had quite an interesting few months recently, haven’t you?”

“You’d have to know a good chunk of my life to put the past few months into context,” I said.

“That’s always the case, isn’t it?” When I didn’t answer, she added, “Well, sit tight, Mr. Stiler. May be awhile before Mark gets back with the chair and your ride gets here.”

I watched Hilda walk out of the room as I moved into the vinyl recliner with the flowery pattern next to the bed. I settled into the chair, leaning it back as far as it would go, and closed my eyes. It felt good to be out of bed yet off my feet. Hilda was right. The past few months had been interesting indeed.