Читать книгу The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly - Jean-Dominique Bauby - Страница 11

AT EIGHT THIRTY the physiotherapist arrives. Brigitte, a woman with an athletic figure and an imperial Roman profile, has come to exercise my stiffened arms and legs. They call the exercise ‘mobilization’, a term whose martial connotations contrasts ludicrously with the paltry forces thus summoned, for I’ve lost sixty-six pounds in just twenty weeks. When I began a diet a week before my stroke I never dreamed of such a dramatic result. As she works, Brigitte checks for the smallest flicker of improvement. ‘Try to squeeze my hand,’ she asks. Since I sometimes have the illusion that I am moving my fingers, I focus my energy on crushing her knuckles, but nothing stirs and she replaces my inert hand on its foam pad. In fact the only sign of change is in my neck. I can now turn my head ninety degrees, and my field of vision extends from the slate roof of the building next door to the curious tongue-lolling Mickey Mouse drawn by my son Théophile when I was still unable to open my mouth. Now, after regular exercise, we have reached the stage of slipping a lollypop into it. As the neurologist says, ‘We need to be very patient.’ The session with Brigitte ends with a facial massage. Her warm fingers travel all over my face, including the numb zone which seems to me to have the texture of parchment, and the area that still has feeling where I can manage the beginnings of a frown. Since the demarcation line runs across my mouth, I can only half-smile, which fairly faithfully reflects my ups and downs. A domestic event as commonplace as washing can trigger the most varied emotions.

One day, for example, I can find it amusing, in my forty-fifth year, to be cleaned up and turned over, to have my bottom wiped and swaddled like a newborn’s. I even derive a guilty pleasure from this total lapse into infancy. But the next day, the same procedure seems unbearably sad, and a tear rolls down through the lather a nurse’s aide spreads over my cheeks. And my weekly bath plunges me simultaneously into distress and happiness. The delectable moment when I sink into the tub is quickly followed by nostalgia for the protracted wallowings that were the joy of my previous life. Armed with a cup of tea or a Scotch, a good book or a pile of newspapers, I would soak for hours, manoeuvring the taps with my toes. Rarely do I feel my condition so cruelly as when I am recalling such pleasures. Luckily I have no time for gloomy thoughts. Already they are wheeling me back shivering to my room on a trolley as comfortable as a bed of nails. I must be fully dressed by ten thirty and ready to go to the rehabilitation centre. Having turned down the hideous jogging-suit provided by the hospital, I am now attired as I was in my student days. Like the bath, my old clothes could easily bring back poignant, painful memories. But I see in the clothes a symbol of continuing life. And proof that I still want to be myself. If I must drool, I may as well drool on cashmere.