A rainy morning. Coffee's hot, staff's on rounds, iPod's docked, and I'm looking over my playlists.

Seems like I've been doing this a lot lately, ever since Cuddy woke me up from the ketamine sleep. (Now why couldn't she have done it with a kiss instead of just a word to her anesthesia guy?)

That was weird: realizing in a detached way that I was flying, wondering how long I'd been flying, wondering if I was dreaming, wondering if I wasn't dreaming and flying was the reality, enjoying the sensation and then feeling the ground rushing up at me, faster and faster, and then Cuddy standing over my bed, her eyes huge and swimming in hope and anxiety...

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Like crap," I croaked. And then I thought about it. Yes, I felt tired and spent and sore, but I slowly realized I felt not so much sore but more the memory of having been sore, like the wrung-out relief you feel when you wake up the morning after a hard workout.

And then it occurred to me that it had been a long time since I'd felt that kind of exhausted relief -- a very long time -- and only then did it hit me.

My leg didn't hurt.

I checked myself mentally, hip to toe. No joint pain, no muscle soreness or cramping, none of that sciatic pain I was starting to get now and then from supination....

No nerve pain.

I "listened" again: nothing. No buzzing, no burning, no pinpricks.... nothing. My leg felt quiet. It felt normal.

I caught Cuddy's eyes again. "Ketamine?"

She nodded.

"How long?" I asked.

"Five days," she said. "So tell me. How do you feel?" And as she saw the answer on my face, she started to beam.

And then it was a flurry: my mother, smiling wearily as Cuddy whispered something in her ear and then covering her face with her hands as she started to cry; my brother Mark; Wilson, his arms crossed and a cautiously elated look in his eyes; the team fluttering in and out. Getting up for the first time, moving slowly because of my belly wound, realizing that even though my leg was still weak I could put a little weight on it without pain. Turning down Percocet when the nurses offered it to me, and laughing at looks on their faces when I told them that the pain from the wounds was no big deal. Walking out to the car on the day of discharge. Going home and getting the first good night's sleep I've had in years. Going to rehab and being able to do every exercise the physical therapist gave me -- and more -- and seeing the improvement every day.

First the little changes: being able to lift my leg over the threshold of the shower door without thinking about it, or to tie my shoes without gritting my teeth. Being able to undress without using my hands to lift my leg out of the pants leg. Catching sight of myself in a mirror and seeing myself walking instead of limping. Even things like being truly hungry, because I was active and didn't have any Vicodin slowing my gut and dulling my appetite.

Then the big changes. Like stairs. Just being able to take them without clinging to the banister for dear life, hoping with each step I could haul myself up with my left leg before my right gave out and I fell on my face, knowing I could go to the movies and sit where I wanted without being stared at.... oh, that was great. And then being able to take the stairs one after the other? Being able to run?

I pushed myself as hard as I could, and when I wasn't at rehab I was thinking about rehab. I went to a store to buy shorts instead of ordering long sweats online -- no more worries about the dressing room and about carrying the shopping bag. I pored over maps of Princeton looking for places to jog and then to run. I started logging my mileage.

And I made new playlists for my iPod, with running in mind. Every day or two, as my endurance increased, I added a few more songs. And I was happy. Nothing else mattered, not even that some guy had tried to blow me away in my own office and had gotten away with it. I was alive. I was more alive than I'd been in years. And I was having to make playlists ninety minutes long to cover my runs.

And now I'm sitting in my office, looking over my playlists, looking at the one I'd intended for my run this morning -- the one I'd had to skip. And every so often I have to stop clicking and just clench the mouse as a burning, stabbing sensation burrows through my right thigh.


I know what it is.



I know what it means.