Trapped Inside

The squeaky wheel on Nurse Betty’s medicine cart always sent a chill down my spine. It indicated the beginning of another day trapped inside my own body, wanting to scream out, unable to.

The noise intensified as it rounded the corner to my room. The bright fluorescent lights burst to life as she flicked the switch, me unable to shield my eyes, forced to tolerate the discomfort.

I blinked several times, the white haziness slowly being replaced by this well-known space, which consisted of not much more than a dresser, a bed, and my wheelchair.

The walls were a dirty off-white and nearly empty except for a single painting hanging directly across from me. It was a grim setting with no colours, just various tones of grey depicting a train with black smoke billowing out of its top, driving straight at the onlooker.

How I hated that painting.

“Good morning, Mr. Appleton,” Nurse Betty said as she started her routine of crushing up my medication.

I didn’t respond, as usual, continuing to lie in my hard bed, my arms and legs fixed in the exact same contorted position they had been left in the night before.

Betty leaned over me, sniffing. “Do you need a change?” she asked, continuing to stand there with a displeased expression. “I’ll call the team.”

She walked out, leaving me all alone again, staring at the locomotive constantly hurtling toward me.

Five years ago, when the doctors diagnosed me with multiple sclerosis, I assumed it was a mistake. I was having some numbness in my hands and thought it was from the stress of managing a mechanic shop and having three young children. I remember laughing about it at work.

It was less humorous when I returned home.

My wife Angela’s eyes were red and swollen from crying, our computer screen open to a Google search on the debilitating disease.

“It says your body is slowly destroying itself,” she said. “Until you won’t be able to move.”

I didn’t answer.

“What are we going to do?” Angela asked. “The kids are so young and—”

“We’ll get through this together,” I interrupted, holding her hand.

“How?” she cried out.

After our conversation, I went straight to my art studio to paint, my hands throwing a fresh piece of canvas up on my easel as I squeezed tube after tube onto my palette. I stopped, the tip of my brush hovering in front of the blank sheet.

I didn't know what I wanted to paint, which wasn't uncommon. Sometimes I felt as if the art created itself and I was merely a spectator, witnessing a miracle.

After my first date with Angela, I returned home to paint her from memory. The colours flowed from my brush—pinks, yellows, and oranges that never seemed to stop. Her smile ignited in a sea of hues.

It was my favourite painting, and later we hung it proudly in our living room.

But that evening after my diagnosis, the colours didn’t leave my bristle. Only greys. I would splash some blue on my tip, only to add black until it was all gone.

When I finally stood back to see my creation, I was horrified.

Staring down the path of an oncoming runaway train. I was frozen, my eyes locked on it, unable to move.

I removed it from my easel, turning it around in the corner of the room.

But the painting couldn't stay hidden forever.

Nurse Betty's footsteps crept closer. She entered the room with Christina and Leslie, two support workers. They continued their conversation like I wasn't there.

I knew all the gossip in their lives: Betty was having an affair with a caretaker, Christina’s son had recently been diagnosed with autism, and Leslie had lost a small fortune to an online gambling addiction.

Guess it’s easier to share when the story ends with the person listening.

“Your wife is going to swing by today,” Christina said to me while she rolled me over in bed, pulling my briefs off and starting to clean me up.

“I can’t remember the last time I saw her,” Leslie responded, laughing while assisting Christina.

I couldn’t get angry at their comments.

They were right.

Angela and the boys were visiting less frequently.

It had been hard on the family, and I now required full-time care. Angela moved me to Sandy Acorn, a sad little long-term-care home on the outskirts of town.

My fellow residents, consisting mainly of low-income elders, always seemed stunned to see someone as young as myself in here.

At first, my condition was manageable with some minor changes. The numbness in my hands progressed to cramping, and I was no longer able to help out in the shop on busy days. My assistant needed to do more typing for me.

Everyone was supportive and picked up where they could.

I never told Angela, but what bothered me the most was that I could no longer paint.

My fingertips, which used to bend and twist the fine tip of my brush, had been replaced with a claw that could only glob on rough chunks of colour.

Sometimes I would stand back, holding a knot in my throat as my work looked like finger painting from a kindergartner.

The next year, shortly after Christmas, my legs became too weak for me to stand.

Angela purchased an electric wheelchair, and her father built a ramp to our front door. My oldest son was strong enough now to help me in and out of our van.

Two years later, the locomotive crashed through our front door as I was unable to get out of bed one morning.

I remember Angela sitting next to me on our bed, leaflets spread across the sheets.

“They’re so expensive,” she said, her sweaty palm holding one up. “And I don't want you far from home.”

The day they pushed me into this room, something inside me changed. This was not a second chance, but the beginning of a prison sentence.

“We can spruce it up,” Angela said, trying to stay positive.

“No,” Nurse Betty interjected. “We have strict rules.”

“Can we add some paintings? My husband is an artist.”

Betty rolled her eyes. “Sure, but nothing with too much colour. We like to keep a professional look around here.”

The next day Angela showed up with the train painting.

I had completely forgotten about it.

She brushed the dust off the canvas, its bleak demeanour showing no life as she hung it.

After that, my days were spent confined.

My body had failed me, my mind unharmed.

I passed the time imagining paintings I would create: beautiful sunrises, families having picnics, fields of green that never seemed to end.

At first, the family visited often. The boys would show off their schoolwork as Angela sat beside me, holding my hand.

But it didn't take long before daily visits turned to weekly, and then monthly.

When Angela did show up, she no longer held my hand, sitting beside my bed; instead, she chose the hard chair in the corner.

Our visits seemed routine, as she had one-sided conversations, me watching from across the room as she stared back, wanting to hear anything.

Money was tight now, and Angela had to take on a second job.

On more than one occasion, she would lash out at me in frustration, only to regret it immediately, realizing no one was going to argue back.

My marrage was falling apart, and all I could do was watch.

Nurse Betty entered my room again. “You have a guest,” she said.

Angela walked in.

“Hi, honey,” she sounded tired. “I can’t stay long today; my shift starts in an hour.”

I lay there, unable to thank her for coming.

The glow in Angela’s eyes had faded, replaced by a darkness resting behind a forced smile.

“It’s so dark in here.” Angela began to open the blinds when she stopped herself. “I forgot, you don’t like the lights in your eyes.”

She sat down across the room from me, trying to get comfortable in the hard chair, her emotionless gaze wandering around the room until it found me.

“How are you doing?”

I didn’t respond.

If I could make only one last painting, it would be of Angela smiling.

Her natural glow before all the doctor appointments and diagnoses that derailed our lives.

Her face igniting the canvas in a sea of joyful colours—bright blues, yellows, and pinks with a swirl of green.

My paintbrush touching every pigment God allowed on Earth.

It would be the greatest piece of art I have ever produced.

“The kids can’t make it,” Angela’s monotone voice interrupted my daydream.

She looked at me, half expecting a response.

“They send their love.”

She glanced down at the floor, a tear creeping down her cheek as she brushed it away, her eyes turning to the train.

“I always hated that painting,” she said. “Why did you create something so depressing?”

She stood, a small smile on her face.

“I’m taking it down.”

Angela grabbed the large wooden frame with both hands, attempting to lift it.

“It won’t move.”

She tried harder, the frame showing no sign of giving.

“Why?” she screamed at it. “Why did you have to ruin our lives? Everything was so perfect!”

I lay there.

She continued to pull on it.

“I hate you!”

It jolted upward, slipping from her grip, falling to the floor and smashing as wood and glass flew into the air, slicing a hole through the middle.

Angela stood there, her mouth wide open.

“I ruined your painting.”

She was silent for a moment, followed by a low chuckle that grew into laughter.

She glanced over at me, smiling.

“Let’s get some more light in here.”

She walked over to the window, opening the curtains.

Warm daylight drifted in as sunlight settled on my face.

“That’s better. It was so depressing in here.”

Angela slid the chair up beside my bed and sat down, finding my hand hidden under the covers.

We stayed there together, our palms intertwined.

“We’ll get through this together,” she said, giving me a kiss. “Like we promised ourselves.”

Her eyes made their way back to the empty off-white wall.

“Tomorrow I’ll bring the painting you made for me after our first date. I don't care what Betty says."

She leaned back.

“I always loved the colours in that one.”