(no subject)
I don't want to be here. I eye the doorway like a prisoner dreaming of busting the joint, imagine walking out of it. I could just stand up and drift out of here like a ghost and confound the poor nurse who will walk into the room at any moment, carrying the drugs I despise.
What happened? Where did she go?
A mystery.
My feet itch now. The image intensifies. I'll stand up, all cool and calm, and set those feet in motion. Once I'm out the door, I will rip the iv from my port and keep on walking--into what? My vision of the world in that hypothetical carries more beauty and clarity of purpose than the real world. I will walk into a trip to Namibia. I'll walk into all sorts of wonderful things, whereas in reality, I'll just get scorched by family. And then, tail between legs, I'll come loping back to the scene of my demise. This damned treatment room.
I stay in my chair.
The nurse comes. They hook me up and by then it is too late to flee. The man next to me sleeps and emits a sour odor when he coughs--which is often.
A bright-eyed old woman sits on the far side of the room and peers over various obstacles at me. All I can make out is nose up. She has a halo of white hair and blue, unblinking eyes.
A woman comes in and settles down next to my chair. She's not here for chemo, but rather a vitamin infusion. One of the lucky ones who comes here and doesn't grapple with cancer. Early into her stay she receives a call on her cell phone from her husband.
Her 57 year old brother died in his truck from a heart-attack.
By now the decadron hits my system--slams into my bloodstream and engulfs me in a violent wave of energy. I rock heavily in my chair, slapping my feet in rapid taps on the floor like I'd rock myself straight to Jupiter if only I had a clear shot through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I try not to listen too closely, but I am helpless. I am right next to her and I cannot help but bear mute witness, first to her grief and then to her restrained and polite fury.
Her cell phone rings again and she answers, at first voice watery with tears.
"Hello? Hello?"
"Whom am I speaking with?"
Silence. "Where are you Richard?"
"What are you doing there? Why are you in the house? Well, you need to--oh. We have arrangements at Bradshaw's in Missouri. He needs to be taken to Bradshaw's."
"You call them right now and tell them they need to take him to Bradshaw's. It doesn't matter. I'm the one responsible for him. Call them right now and then you need to lock up the house. I don't want one thing taken from it until I get there."
"I should be there tomorrow."
Well, it turns out that Richard and his sister Misty are both in her dead brother's house--though they have no business being there. I take it Misty is the ex-wife and the sister later confesses to 'Dougie' (the husband) that she's afraid they'll try and empty the place out so she has him call the police to lock the place down. She sighs and says "This is going to be such a mess."
I can tell she wants to unleash it--she is crying, but very softly. The urge to grieve and the need to go on the warpath battle inside her.
To show her that I am not spying I open my book and stare blindly, yet intently, at the page. I'm rocking with inhuman vigor in my chair. I even go one step further and on occasion laugh and engage in short conversations with nurses or other patients, but always I've got one ear tilted to the sister and her cell phone that has begun ringing so busily.
I get her a box of tissues finally and tell her I am very sorry for her loss, and I am. Any death nowadays devastates me, brings me to my knees in tears that clog my throat in hot, salty knots. Yet I am also a fascinated observer to the tale that unfolds to my left, while the periodic cougher to my right offers a continual source of frustration--poor, sick man obscures vital portions of the talks I'm eavesdropping in on.
It's time for me to go, but I haven't noticed the passage of minutes or hours. I realize, with a certain dim shock, that I don't want to leave. This sister in her sorrow, has evolved into an enaging story--I want to know what happens.
What will happen when she arrives at her brother's house? How will she deal with her grief? Will she maintain that firm, yet dignified manner when dealing with the crooked ex-in-laws?
All questions that must remain unanswered.
What happened? Where did she go?
A mystery.
My feet itch now. The image intensifies. I'll stand up, all cool and calm, and set those feet in motion. Once I'm out the door, I will rip the iv from my port and keep on walking--into what? My vision of the world in that hypothetical carries more beauty and clarity of purpose than the real world. I will walk into a trip to Namibia. I'll walk into all sorts of wonderful things, whereas in reality, I'll just get scorched by family. And then, tail between legs, I'll come loping back to the scene of my demise. This damned treatment room.
I stay in my chair.
The nurse comes. They hook me up and by then it is too late to flee. The man next to me sleeps and emits a sour odor when he coughs--which is often.
A bright-eyed old woman sits on the far side of the room and peers over various obstacles at me. All I can make out is nose up. She has a halo of white hair and blue, unblinking eyes.
A woman comes in and settles down next to my chair. She's not here for chemo, but rather a vitamin infusion. One of the lucky ones who comes here and doesn't grapple with cancer. Early into her stay she receives a call on her cell phone from her husband.
Her 57 year old brother died in his truck from a heart-attack.
By now the decadron hits my system--slams into my bloodstream and engulfs me in a violent wave of energy. I rock heavily in my chair, slapping my feet in rapid taps on the floor like I'd rock myself straight to Jupiter if only I had a clear shot through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I try not to listen too closely, but I am helpless. I am right next to her and I cannot help but bear mute witness, first to her grief and then to her restrained and polite fury.
Her cell phone rings again and she answers, at first voice watery with tears.
"Hello? Hello?"
"Whom am I speaking with?"
Silence. "Where are you Richard?"
"What are you doing there? Why are you in the house? Well, you need to--oh. We have arrangements at Bradshaw's in Missouri. He needs to be taken to Bradshaw's."
"You call them right now and tell them they need to take him to Bradshaw's. It doesn't matter. I'm the one responsible for him. Call them right now and then you need to lock up the house. I don't want one thing taken from it until I get there."
"I should be there tomorrow."
Well, it turns out that Richard and his sister Misty are both in her dead brother's house--though they have no business being there. I take it Misty is the ex-wife and the sister later confesses to 'Dougie' (the husband) that she's afraid they'll try and empty the place out so she has him call the police to lock the place down. She sighs and says "This is going to be such a mess."
I can tell she wants to unleash it--she is crying, but very softly. The urge to grieve and the need to go on the warpath battle inside her.
To show her that I am not spying I open my book and stare blindly, yet intently, at the page. I'm rocking with inhuman vigor in my chair. I even go one step further and on occasion laugh and engage in short conversations with nurses or other patients, but always I've got one ear tilted to the sister and her cell phone that has begun ringing so busily.
I get her a box of tissues finally and tell her I am very sorry for her loss, and I am. Any death nowadays devastates me, brings me to my knees in tears that clog my throat in hot, salty knots. Yet I am also a fascinated observer to the tale that unfolds to my left, while the periodic cougher to my right offers a continual source of frustration--poor, sick man obscures vital portions of the talks I'm eavesdropping in on.
It's time for me to go, but I haven't noticed the passage of minutes or hours. I realize, with a certain dim shock, that I don't want to leave. This sister in her sorrow, has evolved into an enaging story--I want to know what happens.
What will happen when she arrives at her brother's house? How will she deal with her grief? Will she maintain that firm, yet dignified manner when dealing with the crooked ex-in-laws?
All questions that must remain unanswered.