Suellis's Blog

Much like Ellen-Out-Loud was saying, when I was a youngin' I was surrounded with folks who were regularly bickering too!

And I agree, they seemed to be arguing about everything; pot, whether a women should work or not, gain an higher education or remain in the kitchen and civil rights, rights for our disabled and the Vietnam War and whether we would become the Police of the world or focus on Educating all of our citizens...and that's not all. Yes, they seemed to be arguing about everything.

Yet, when we attempted to speak up, we were informed that we were "too young" to understand; however, it seemed pretty clear to us... all the bickering was stunting our growth, slowing our progress and injuring our families.

And now that our American Family is finally coming back together and joining hands, it seems that "they" are arguing for us... bickering about us.

About whether America's Children deserve solid quality Educations.

About whether our workers are worthy of a strong-living-wage with benefits and pensions in trade for the many years of work that our family members do to create fortunes for other citizens.

About whether our grandparents and parents, 50 to 60 years of labor is enough to have earned them food to eat, secure shelter and winter heat... when they have become to old to work and depend on a walker to get around.

About our young adults, who are now looking at their daily lives and the current choices that they have and are wondering about the futures that they were promised; when we told them ourselves, that when they grow up that they could go to college and be whatever they wanted to be and earn a strong income, build a great standard of living and provide a good life for their families and themselves.

And even our soldiers and their families are having to stand in food lines monthly, our military men and women regularly aren't supplied with the equipment that is required, and they have had to pay for the food they receive, when they are hospitalized and recovering from their injuries.

So, while we, the people of the United States, are busily searching for our Safety-Net and the programs that our own relatives developed -- a small group of our current citizen elected leaders are claiming that it is all a "Game" -- this is because they might actually think that the rules that they are creating for us, won't eventually apply to their families and themselves. They have forgotten is that when folks advocate for the "survival of the fittest" Ideology; one day they, themselves, are inevitably viewed as "unfit" as well.

Yes, it is time for us to combine our efforts, stand up as one and speak with a unified voice; just as our own relatives had done, when the Stock Market Crashed in 1929. We learned two huge lessons, during those times... when our citizens are made stronger, our country becomes stronger as well and when we join hands from coast to coast... There Is Nothing More Powerful than America's People!

So, speak up, speak up proud, and speak up regularly. And remember to speak from your hearts and minds and stand up for what you believe in. Yes, compromise is healthy and tends to create pathways for further growth; however, compromise, indicates that both sides are giving, to receive something great. And our students, elders and workers have already participated in “Shared Sacrifice” – our pocket books reveal this. So remember, when you raise your voice to speak, and do so daily and often, remember to speak for what you believe in and know; and realize, there are plenty of us speaking with a unified voice and backing you up.

Brave Hearted Sisters Unite!
...

In our American culture, we are frequently asked to answer questions. Yet, all to often, we are directed to search for the "right answer" -- instead of extracting the "rightness within the answers" available; and then organizing and combining those insights and observations to secure a variety of solutions for all to benefit.

When I was a young adult, my mentor Dr. Elizabeth Weldon Keating, Ph.D., had an ingenious way to teach this lesson. She started the first class during each college semester, with a simple request of her students, whose numbers were so plentiful, the classroom was often filled, spilling over with students, who stood on every area of the floor that was available along the walls and in the aisles, as well.

She would immediately focus her full attention on a three hole notebook, and then begin with a discussion about the beauty of journaling. Talking about how a simple notebook was great for detailing ones daily adventures and being a fantastic place for students to keep inspirational quotes that they discovered and cherished. Dr. Keating also pointed out how the notebooks could even be used for saving the treasures that students thought up themselves that could be utilized later to educate the masses or progress their own personal projects.

Then she would do something that was so displeasing to the senses of her students that their spontaneous reaction was audible. She simply turned the notebook over, then flipped it upside down, and then proceeded to insist that those who decided to remain with her during the semester, write in the notebook backwards, as she had just showed them. "You'll love it, you'll see. Writing this way really does have its advantages," she'd say, assuring the room full of gawking young adults; who for many, this was the first time that they were on their own and in charge of their lives.

Then, when the next class was in session, the classroom was no longer “standing room only,” brimming full of students. In fact, every individual had a seat with a desk to begin and learn the essential lessons. Yet, every class that was taught, one student or another would passionately complain about having to write in their notebooks "that way." Then as the weeks continued into to months, the young adults remained acutely focused on this one topic, even forming small groups in the Cafeteria to discuss at length what would motivate a Professor, of her stature, to demand this of those she taught.

Never-mind that many of the other subjects discussed within the context of literature and mythology were more bazaar and the requests for what would be examined in the realms of the universal human condition and our mutually shared life-experiences far exceeded the odd request of writing in a notebook upside down. However, those who remained in the class, during the whole semester, were served a large variety of insights and observations that delighted the senses of every student and could be utilized to uplift the wide array of events and circumstances that naturally occur, during each person's lifetime.

Then as the first semester was beginning to conclude and final examinations were clearly in view; one day while sitting outside the classroom, waiting for Professor Keating to appear, open the door and then begin ushering us inside… I saw her approaching from the distance, carrying her usual basketful of flowers and other items that she obviously cherished and would inevitably share with her students, during that days lesson… I suddenly realized that she was walking straight toward me. Initially, I couldn’t understand what I had done to draw the attention of a woman of such amazing capacity… and anytime I saw her focus on a particular student before; well, it wasn’t the best news in the world.

Then she abruptly halted her step, stood directly in front of me, and asked, “I’ve noticed that of all my students this semester, you are the only one that didn’t come to me about writing in your journal so differently. Could you tell me why you chose to remain silent and what do you think is the reason I ask students to do this?”

I felt my whole being contract and my mind started racing; and although I wanted to answer her correctly, I wasn’t sure what to say… so, I just did what I knew I could do… I stammered and told the truth, as I knew it. “Well, I’m a dyslexic, so writing upside down and backwards in a notebook is something I very well could have done on my own. So your request didn’t seem like that big of an imposition to me.”

“And what was the lesson that I was teaching…” she prodded, while staring intensely into my eyes… evaluating me closely.

“err…” I began, not sure how to respond. Not sure what answer she was searching for or her expectation; the pressure was building, increasing, as my cognitive-intellectual sphere began to rapidly ebb and weave, presenting a variety of things I could or shouldn’t say. So, ignoring all of that; in a rush, instinct took-over and I stated, or did I ask? I guessed! Blurting out one word... “Flexibility!”

As a smile slowly appeared on her face, I noticed her shoulders relax as well. Then she leaned gently toward me… in almost a friendly gesture, and simply whispered, “I’ll see you in my honors class, next semester.”

And then, as she stood up straight, while briefly organizing her basket of treasures, I saw her seemingly automatically return to her former regal posture. Then, I quietly watched as she deliberately opened the door and entered her classroom, as if she hadn’t said anything at all.

Yet, I found myself smiling ear to ear, as I realized that somehow, I’m not entirely sure how, I had inevitably absorbed the lesson that she had committed her life to teach. That the answer was, there isn’t an exact or absolute answer; however, remaining flexible often provides opportunities for us that we never knew existed and are a pleasure to receive.

***

Our great grandparent's form of Capitalism was American; and they believed American Capitalism is based on discovery and continually evolving resources. You see, they knew that we would invent amazing products, new technologies and Industry's in the future, just as their own generation had done for themselves.

So, extrapolating from their own experience, they well understood that as we and each generation of America's children continued progressing the Sciences and other fields forward, (combined with our strengths in innovation and our ability to utilize the new knowledge that we gain from our own research, work and inventions), that we would also develop new resources too. And because invention has a miraculous way of leading to greater discovery and the next cycle of even more unique inventions and discovery's, these new resources would naturally provide us with the new paths required to continue building new paradigms of living, while improving the life-styles of America's citizens and the people around the world.

Many of us remember our relatives proudly declaring, "Each generation get's stronger and improves." They also referred to this as, "working ones way out of a job." And when asked about that, they responded that since we are researching to find answers and develop solutions, that once we accomplish those initial goals; we would be free to move forward to a new innovative project or even select a different career that sustains our interest, enthusiasm, and expectation of good things to come. In other words, they were certain that folks wouldn't mind changing their job focus or the project that they were working on, because there would be the satisfaction of their personal success in developing a real solution that improved things for all of us.

And of course, they would also take the knowledge they gained, during the initial project with them, and those capabilities would naturally make them stronger, as they immersed in their new project or selected a new career or area in the same field to advance their position and status. And since each project moved us further along, as a people and society, folks would enjoy the changes that their jobs required, as their work branched into different directions; just as we all enjoy the benefits that are created, when new Industry's, products and services become available and then are developed and provided to the consumer market.

Keep in mind, our relatives were the people that had seen with their own eyes, the creation and continuing modifications of the automobile and the discovery of Oil and learning about what all it could do, (replacing the expensive Kerosene that our families had previously depended on for night lighting and their other energy needs). Then they participated in the steady growth of our communication systems, once we figured out that air-waves exist.

They also recognized that just because we had invented the Telegraph and Morse-Code, this didn't preclude the invention of the Radio, then the Telephone and eventually, Televisions for every home. And they were sure to instill within each of their children and grandchildren, the value of American "Can Do Spirit" and an optimistic approach to life that proclaims; "an American can do anything that they set their minds on and then assert their efforts to achieve."

They knew that earth's resources were finite; however, they also celebrated the infinite capacity of the American imagination and our citizen's innovative capabilities! And with that kind of gift, our traditional strength in innovation, they were certain that we, as their children and grandchildren, would create and then develop plentiful supply's and resources for our own children and grandchildren; thus preparing a pathway for them to continue advancing forward, just as our own grandparents and relatives had done for us.

So, as we reach this point in our nation's growth and maturity, it has become clear to the majority of the people in our country, (and the world), that a new paradigm needs to be built to ensure a comfortable standard-of-living and to sustain a quality life-style for all of our citizen's; including, the rich and the poor, and all those in-between. Yet, we are assured from the History of our own Legacy, boldly entering the "Age of Innovation" has everything we need and the ability to provide us with all that we require to continue advancing and living happy and fruitful lives.

***

Investing In Our Citizens Is the Most Profitable Thing To Do!

When we support the health and well-being of our citizens, our country's people are strong, filled with enthusiasm, and have the energy to fully focus on building up our nation. And since America is the first governing system in the world that is developed to benefit the people, and it has long been recognized that our new nation was created to provide greater and greater freedoms for all human-beings – “…government of the people, by the people and for the people” – It has become apparent that forming a "Citizen Investment Policy," as an addition to our American Legacy, provides a way to ensure that our citizens always remain foremost in our elected leaders thoughts. It is the citizens that make a country what it is, and when our citizens are healthy and strong; so is our nation, as this directly reflects the peoples ambitions and goals, our honor and values, and reveals our character and dreams to the world.

As a remaining Super-Power, it is within our interest to reclaim, as a Tradition, the belief that our elder's held as true and turned into a reality for both me and you. They decided as a whole population to reach for their highest potential, encourage their children to do the same, and provided the resources to make it all happen. Then our relatives acted as role-models to show the world what is indeed possible, when citizens embrace and form Democratic Nations for themselves; and make sure that their elected leaders recognize them as adults, who make the decisions about the rules that are applied to their lives.

They joined their efforts and in a unified spirit shined their light as best as they could, and the world took notice. Even now, we witness what our own relatives have accomplished, as the similar industrialized nations that they directly challenged to be more like us, have surpassed us; and the citizens of the foreign nations that never had known personal freedom, are now standing up to obtain their voice.

We have the power, the ability, and the knowledge to regain our standing, revitalize our American Standards and to rebuild our nation to care about its citizens; when we stand unified, as our own relatives did, we have the American spirit within us to achieve this goal, for our children, ourselves, and all future generations.

As our Elders used to tell us, when we asked how America is so different than other nations, they simply said, "Because, We live in a country that cares about its people." And yes, my fellow Brave Heart Sisters and our Brothers of courage, this promise includes Us!

***

As We are aware, for years many have been strong advocates for our society's good men, whose efforts to uplift and improve our world, too often go unrecognized. Men of grace and class – each serving as reliable members of our communities, as valued role-models for their and our children, and also act as devoted and faithful husbands toward their wives – deserves our attention.

Many men are like this in our country; yet, their influence and voice is often a whisper and I think that this is because Men of grace, tend to be fairly isolated from one another. And typically, they aren't the kind of personality that is boastful or outwardly brags about themselves and their accomplishments. Yet, we occasionally hear them ask, 'How come the nice guys don't win?' And in response to their question, I think, but you have already won, look at the quality of your life, your family and friends and a community that adores you. However, I also recognize that we, as a people, would do ourselves well to directly support Men of class and rally behind them, so they can be recognized, appreciated, and seen.

And, while they do sometimes venture out with other men, who are much like themselves, for an afternoon of fishing, a few holes of golf or even a hike in the mountains to explore the natural habitats that flourish in our nations canyons; gathering without being noticed is common, almost the expectation. However, regularly gathering together to hang out and relax or even to drink a couple of brewski's, while discussing their belief-systems and loudly advocating for their points of view about family and life in general; isn't an activity that Men of grace usually do.

Yet, for a group of men, who cherish their spouses, spends time with their children and then makes certain that each feels special and loved; for a group of men that shares these sensibilities to join and then organize to make an impact on our culture, would create many benefits for all of us. And these kind of associations would do much to reshape and increase the standard for our society's culture and rejuvenate our public discourse, while uplifting our home environments.

In fact, during the recent decades, Men of grace and class are rarely directly thanked or shown outward appreciation for the healthy choices that they make; and increasing our society’s awareness of their commendable actions has the potential of highlighting what they do to make our communities healthier and vital. Rallying behind our nations Men of Honor, and offering direct support and encouraging them to become vocal about their beliefs, has the ability to reshape our country; as the words they say, how they describe their children and refer to their spouses, naturally influences other men.

Then when they discuss the personal satisfaction that they feel in their lives and reveal the impact that they have had on the world around us, this shifts our society’s perception about what we are indeed capable of becoming, and doing for one another. Paying attention to the Good Men in our nation, raises our countries standards, and motivates like-minded men to come forward to assert themselves as well.

And fortunately for us, there are many Good Men in our society, Decent Men, Honorable Men! And when we shine a light and positively reinforce what our Good Men do, we are giving a great gift to our children and our country too.

This next weekend is Fathers Day; and then, the following weekend, is the "Great American Backyard Campout." As you know, Fathers Day is a holiday to honor our fathers, and the Great American Backyard Campout provides an additional opportunity for us to thank and recognize the strong men in our lives that have stood with us and made a difference for us. And because the Great American Backyard Campout occurs the weekend following Fathers Day, and many men love those kind of backyard gatherings that include barbeque and other restful activities; combining our efforts with others, gives us the ability to develop a week-long “Appreciation of Good Men” activity for our Nation that could continue into the rest of our lives.

And although, embracing and promoting this activity will provide recognition for the good men in our lives, we are actually doing ourselves an enormous favor, as supporting the development of a cultural foundation that forms life-affirming attitudes toward one another is beneficial for all of us.

You are encouraged to invite your Dad, families and the other exceptional men in your life to participate in the Great America Backyard Campout. Gather at your homes, have a barbecue and do all those family and friend orientated things that create great memories that last a life-time; as this is a healthy way to accentuate the importance of our country’s family’s and give our Good Men the attention they deserve.

Plus, it let’s the nice guys know that we appreciate their influence, guidance, and of course, the dedication that they have provided for us during the years.

***

Dear Brave Hearted Sisters,

Apparently, Chapter Five of the Literature Book, contains some information that is recognized as opposing the Policy that has been developed for the Brave Heart Women Community. I reviewed the writing and didn't see one dirty word, so I don't know what aspect of the writing is objectionable. However, this is a large community website, being managed with a group of sincere women; so, it is obvious that they have a reason for this decision.

This book is currently being provided to readers for free -- so it wouldn't be considered a solicitation; so if you are interested in reading the whole chapter -- and the chapter's that follow; feel free to send a message here in our Brave Heart Women email area.

Again, I thank all yall that have offered so much support for this writing and to those of you who have been inspired to share your stories and reach out to those within our neighborhoods, who have disabilities. Yes, disabled folks are like us; in fact, they are us, before we become sick, get injured or grow old. It does us all well to advocate for receiving the promises that were given to our own relatives, when they invented the treatments and medications that we now have available and provide for our world. To collaborate for the mutual goal of enriching one another's life in a way that ensures each and everyone of us the ability to gain and maintain great health is a gift of huge proportions and a state of being that each and every one of our families deserves.

Again thank you for being, who you are and joining in the efforts of the Brave Heart Women Community!

Your Brave Hearted Sister,
Suellis

Chapter Five -- Section Four

The girl below me looked prettier than the reflection I saw in the mirror, and even though she wasn’t a raving beauty, she was not the wallflower I imagined when I shared her life. From my vantage point, she was still separate from me. She looked like a perfect stranger, but I knew her inside out, and I liked her.

“She’s a sweet kid, you know -- quite the jokester,” I stated, pointing in her direction.

The matronly angel nodded toward me, agreeing.

I was struck by how naïve the girl was, lying there, trusting everything in her life to go a certain way if she followed the rules. “She had plans, you know. She was going to take on the world someday, but first she was going to teach thousands of students how to believe in themselves by believing in them. She finally figured out what her mission was, how she fit in.”

Still absorbing what was happening, I silently pondered my circumstance while staring at the body. I struggled to explain this surreal experience to myself. Everything had to make sense again if I ever wanted to go back -- or maybe everything made too much sense already.

Pulling the angel’s hand closer to me, I clasped it gently next to my heart. I knew I was going to need her support. “She’s a mom, you know.”

Of course, she knew. She knew everything.

Looking down from the palm, I realized if I went back I would have to shoulder the responsibility of my body’s aches and pains, plus I wouldn’t be able to stay very long because there was no hope for recovery. I recognized that pain was just my body’s way of informing my soul that something was terribly off balance and needed immediate correction. I also understood that under normal circumstances this message system would help me preserve myself -- but in this case, there was no way to circumvent my body’s affliction without compounding the pain problem; the medications were toxic.

My thoughts instantly turned to Diana and Violet again. I couldn’t just leave them, especially now -- considering what I just witnessed -- and until I was certain that my children were safe and secure, my job wasn't finished and I knew it. Gathering determination, I started to examine the body more closely.

“Geesh, how could I handle all of this?” I pointed toward Wendy, discouraged. However, she did look pretty relaxed down there, laid out in the ‘King’s Position.’

“Hmm… what if I went down for a little while, just accepted what I have left of my body and instead of this idea of recovery, what if I decided to work with what I have left?” I suggested, turning toward the angel. I didn’t want my parental influence to end.

She nodded, squeezing my hand.

Looking down again, I realized that even though what remained was broken and frail, I could learn how to get along with my injured body. It was the only body I owned, and if I wanted to go back, I had to not only accept that reality, I had to embrace that existence. We had to be friends.

Nodding toward Wendy, accepting our shared condition, I noticed something sparkling from my peripheral vision. The matronly angel was presenting a pink orb to me with her free hand, but before I could even decline her offer, I realized she knew I had made my decision.

***

∞ Chapter Four ∞

Something sharp was stabbing through my flesh. Awakened by my own howling, my eyes focused directly on my arm; the needle that was penetrating into my flesh appeared magnified. Stunned, I instinctively jerked my forearm away to protect myself, but the petite female lab technician firmly grasped my elbow, overpowering me. She forced my arm to remain straight as she continued digging for a vein. My energies already expended, I sank away, losing consciousness.

************

I woke up flat on my back, raised up in a slanted position, and saw machines all around me. Beeping and suctioning noises echoed everywhere. There were small machines, large machines and even one painted red. Long, clear tubes and several gray cables came out from under my blanket, attaching me to the equipment.

When did this happen? I wondered. Confused, I drifted away again.

************

I opened my eyes. Angie was standing over me, injecting something into my IV line.

“What’s happening?” I gasped out, desperate to find out why I couldn’t stay awake.

“Honey, hold on with all your might, you’re crashing.”

“Crashing?”

She nodded sadly. “Your important organs aren’t doing very well right now, but we’re going to turn this all around.” She was flicking the plastic tubing.

“I’m so weak.”

“I know you are,” she patted me. “I’m gong to take care of everything out here. Don’t worry about anything.” She tucked the covers around me, leaning closer. “While you’re in there, no matter what, don’t let go,” she looked directly into my eyes, coaching me.

I stared at her. Oh my god, she’s serious. The machines were still surrounding me, and tubes were everywhere. It struck me that I was really dying. I had no choice; I would do whatever she said. I nodded.

“Promise me you’ll hang on. Don’t make me do all this work for nothing.” She was smiling confidently.

“I promise,” I vowed voicelessly and looked into her eyes. She had hope.

“Good girl,” she patted my shoulder again, turned and went back to work.

I fell asleep, visualizing that I was hanging onto a branch of a tree.

************

The sounds of quiet breathing stirred me. Opening my eyes, I saw the moon reflected against the night sky and realized someone was sitting in the chair beside me.

“Who’s there?” I called out, alarmed, but my voice didn’t engage itself.

Angie leaned into the moonlight. “I’m just resting, sweetie.” I felt a hand reach out and pat mine.

Confused, I looked toward the dark corner where she sat.

“I’m keeping watch over you. I’m not leaving until you are stabilized,” she declared protectively.

“Okay.” I relaxed my head back into the pillow. If I had the ability, I would have celebrated.

************

I heard rumbling. People were in my room. I wasn’t strong enough to open my eyes to see what they were doing.

************

I felt a continual tapping on my shoulder, someone who wouldn’t go away. Although part of me resisted waking, I looked up to see who it was. Robbie was standing next to me.

“I’m not allowed to feed you breakfast, but I thought I would drop by to see you anyhow.”

I was touched and tried to smile at her.

“Don’t worry, I’m keepin’ in mind the Jell-o’s you like and I already tol’ the cook. Though I don’t think I’ll be givin’ you anymore red Jell-o anytime soon,” she teased me.

I laughed inside, but my laughter didn’t physically manifest itself. It’s not that it hurt to laugh; I was too frail, and didn’t have any breath to laugh. I was limp, unmoving.

“I heard ‘bout what happened yesterday, and I’m real sorry. If they’d of called down, I could of tol’ ‘em I gave you that red Jell-o myself,” she ran her fingertips gently across my forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” I breathed out. “They’re crazy. They wore suits,” I added as proof, projecting more vitality than I had left. Feeling vacant, emptied of all my physical resources, my voice oddly disconnected from my body.

She chuckled, then leaned closer, put her hand on my shoulder, and whispered in my ear. “I wanted you to know, I’m gonna pray for you at the chapel downstairs during my lunch break. That is, if you don’t mind,” she looked nervous.

“Please do,” I whispered with a sense of urgency that surprised me. Having grown up in a secular family, although I had a profound respect for religion, I only had an intellectual understanding. I found myself mystified by my sudden craving for spiritual assistance. I also felt deeply moved that a woman I hardly knew, knew me better than I knew myself. Robbie cared and understood enough about what I was facing to be capable of really helping me; she offered a tender touch, humor and hope.

Using all of my strength, I fought against gravity so I could turn my mouth upwards and smile at her.

“I knew you were needin’ me,” she responded happily, taking my hand in hers. She stood there for awhile, just holding my hand, being close.

************

I was prodded, poked, scraped, and inspected from head to toe by our medical community. I knew I must endure these medical tests if I wanted any chance of survival. Without sleep or even rest, my mind deserted me. Watching from a far-off place, I saw what they did to me. Some of the time, when my mind was particularly kind, I was unaware of my surroundings.

************

My pillow felt soggy under my cheek, and my mind alerted me to wake up. Half dreaming, I wondered what got my pillow so wet. Lazily I opened my eyes, and a rush of pain saturated me upon gaining consciousness. Caught completely off guard, I began shrieking uncontrollably.

The pain was severe, the stinging sharp, the burning intense, the aching acute, my stomach in knots, hurting itself, layer upon layer. It was too much to take. I was going out of my mind. I had to escape. I realized the only place I was safe was in the darkness. I deliberately buried myself in that unconscious state, deeply meditating, visualizing my own healing. If I cried in my sleep, so be it.

************

I woke up howling. The sound was so guttural, animalistic and primitive; I could hardly believe the sound was coming from me. It felt like someone had stabbed both of my calves and then set my skeleton on fire.

************

Springing forward, eyes opening, I discovered Angie’s shirt gripped tightly in my hands. I was pulling her on top of me. Angie’s surprise, though quite profound, was nothing compared to mine. Automatically releasing her, I collapsed in a heap, greeted by the pain that consumed me.

Unfazed, Angie moved away, smoothing her hair back in place and then tenderly tucked the covers around me. When she was done, she took a step back. “I know you hurt,” she informed me, acknowledging what I could not verbally express.

I looked up at her, my eyes pleading.

“Hurting is actually a good thing. It’s a sign that you’re trying to stay here with us. Where there is pain, there is life. Where there is life, there is hope,” she rattled off, as if she were reciting a commercial slogan.

She must have recognized the irritated look on my face.

“I’ll talk with your doctor,” she promised.

I closed my eyes, thankful that someone was trying to help me.

************

Curled tightly into myself, I woke up, rocking back and forth in the fetal position. I stared out into pitch dark, hearing the echo of silence, and realized it was late night or early morning. Trying to ease the tension, I released my body, forcing my legs to straighten. The onslaught of pain that surged through me instantly enveloped me, and reflexively my legs retracted inward, pulling me back into a ball. I lay there, rocking helplessly, whimpering involuntarily -- I was a prisoner in my own body.

************

A silhouette of Angie was standing, leaning over, and lifting up something. I watched her silently until she turned, and saw she had picked up an over-sized purse, getting ready to leave.

“Angie?” I softly cried out, rocking.

“I know, honey. I’ve been talking with your doctor, and I’m not giving up.”

I knew this meant the doctor refused to treat my pain.

“Don’t worry. I’ll eventually wear her down,” she declared, placing her hand on my back, reassuring me. “But right now, I’m going to go home and take a quick shower and change before the breakfast shift starts. I should be back in about two hours.”

“Did you sleep?” I asked, suddenly worried. I knew if she overextended herself, she would burnout and I would lose her support and protection. Without her, I didn’t know what I’d do, and I didn’t want to die alone.

“I got plenty of rest, sweetie. This old chair is a good friend of mine,” she enthused, dismissing my concern as frivolous.

I nodded, but I didn’t believe her.

“Try to get some more rest yourself. Once the morning shift starts, I’m certain they are going to set up a bunch more tests.”

“No-o-o…,” I groaned involuntarily. My body cried out in protest, not me.

“Shh…,” she gently rubbed my back. “These tests will help us save your life. We need to keep close track of what’s going on for awhile,” she explained.

I nodded, not feeling very brave, but the warmth of her hand felt soothing..

“Don’t worry about any hi-jinx either. I’m going to keep my eyes on everyone,” she promised. Standing up straight, Angie hung the strap of the purse from her shoulder. “I’ll be back before you know I’m gone, and I’ll go another round with your doctor then,” she said, patting my foot as she walked past the end of my bed, and then she was on her way.

************

The stinging and burning in my legs kept me awake as I watched the dawn settle in. The sun was about to rise and the chair next to my bed was still empty. Lying there, listening to the sounds of a country August morning, I realized how much I was going to miss life. Life is rarely predictable, but usually forgiving, and I couldn’t understand why this had to happen. What was the point? My life lay in rubble, dust all around me, and nothing made sense anymore.

************

Opening my eyes, I realized that my forehead was resting in the bottom of a large pink basin, and what was left of my hair was floating on top of the dark, greenish-brown bile. I didn’t remember throwing up, nor did I remember how I got the plastic tub. Lifting my head out of the mess, I collapsed backward into the pillow. As I reached out to push the nurse’s call button, the basin, balanced tenuously on the blanket beside me, fell to the ground with a loud clatter. Looking toward the bile on the floor, silent tears formed in my eyes and, praying I wouldn’t be punished, I drifted away again.

************

I heard mumbling and muttering in the background -- it sounded almost like Charlie Brown’s teacher talking. After awhile I grew curious and peeked one eye open to see. Angie was standing next to my bed, talking animatedly into the phone, and the basin was gone. I looked up at her, puzzled.

“It’s your dad. I was hoping you would wake up. He’s been trying to reach you for quite awhile now,” she said, smiling brightly, and then talked into the phone again.

“Nathan, here she is now.” She handed me the receiver, but its weight overwhelmed me, forcing my hand down to the mattress. I looked at her, shocked and frightened.

“Here, let me help you,” she volunteered, swooping the receiver into her hand. She held the receiver next to my ear and then picked up my hand, positioning it on top.

Bewildered, I followed her lead; as she laid the receiver along the side of my cheek, I balanced it in place, and when I was ready, I nodded toward her.

Angie let go and smiled down at me, allowing me to take over.

I tried to say “hi” as best I could, but only voicelessly whispered.

“I’ve talked with Angie and explained that I’m your father,” his voice exploded into my ear. “She told me they have put you on some very strong medicine, and right now it’s hard for you to talk. I say that’s good. To beat this, you’re going to need something strong,” he declared enthusiastically.

I noticed his attitude had changed, and he seemed much too cheerful.

“I know you’re going to feel run down for awhile, but fight your hardest,” he continued cheer-leading.

“The doctor…,” I started to say.

My dad’s voice boomed, interrupting me. “Yeah, I checked out that doctor of yours, and it’s true what they say about her. She’s very well known. Doug has even heard of her.”

“Really?” I breathed out. I was surprised Dr. Killjoy was so well known that she was evidently a household name, and I was glad that my dad had someone to talk to, someone to support him. Doug had been Dad’s friend for over thirty years, and they were a lot alike. They both came from estrogen-driven households -- sisters, daughters, female grandchildren, and not another male in sight. They were both fierce protectors of their flock, and a natural inclination to take their commitment to their families seriously held their friendship together.

“She’s not number one; that distinction goes to a doctor out here in San Diego. But she’s close, Wendy. Doug said she’s definitely in the top ten, if not in the top three.” Dad’s excitement was bubbling over.

Bracing myself, I knew what was coming.

“Hon, you’re going to have to get along with her. She’s the best shot we’ve got right now. Angie says you are still too sick to be moved,” he explained logically.

Seeing the machines around me, I realized he didn’t know the half of it.

“Okay,” I managed to say, and then reverted to the little girl I was. “Dad, I’m scared,” I panted out, starting to cry.

“I know you are. But remember, you are a survivor,” he stated optimistically.

I wanted him to make everything okay, but the adult in me knew he couldn’t.

“You’re going to beat this thing.” He was bound and determined.

No one has survived AIDS, I thought. I was torn; I wanted him to save me, yet sparing him was more important. “Yeah,” I whispered instead.

“Actually, we’re pretty lucky. Wendy, you could be in Timbuktu with an unqualified doctor; at least there, you have one of the best. Please, work with her and let her do her magic,” he advised me, almost pleading.

“Okay,” I promised. My father’s marching orders burned into my brain. The idea that this ego-maniacal woman would be in charge of my very survival bothered me, but certain death bothered me more.

“Angie promised she would take good care of you for me, and I believe she will. I talked to her off and on during the last few days and she understands our situation. You were right. I like her, too.”

Few days?

“Meanwhile, all I want you to do is concentrate on getting better. That is your job now, twenty-four/seven. I know you won’t be able to speak clearly for awhile, so I will keep up with what’s going on through Angie, okay?”

“Okay,” was all I said. The intense surges of emotion had already used up what little energy I had recovered during my rest.

“I love you, honey, and I’ll talk to you later,” he said, sounding calm and certain. “Now, let me finish talking with Angie.”

“I love you too,” I whispered, realizing how much I valued him, and in truth always did. He was my dad.

I almost said goodbye, like the doctor had advised me to do, but I just couldn’t. Instead, I nodded toward Angie, who was fidgeting with the tubes on the saline bags, pretending not to listen, and let the phone drop from my ear.

Angie looked up, blushing, picked up the receiver as if on cue, and as they started their conversation where they left off, I fell back into the dark comfortable place.

************

A whirlwind of medical tests, bright lights and gurney rides monopolized the day. I no longer had control of my body. Trapped in the constant aching, I just stared into space, unable to function. The various technicians and attendants took turns arranging my body to whatever position they needed in order to perform their specific procedure. I felt like a rag doll, but Angie was true to her word, and no one deliberately hurt me.

************

Staring straight ahead, looking at nothing, the aching became seamless and unending, gnawing at my very being. Not only was I trapped, I was confined in a tight ball, so fatigued I couldn’t even sway anymore. Helpless, the pain just kept coming. In an effort to survive, I started to internalize, examining my whole existence and its meaning. Disappearing somewhere inside myself, I didn’t realize I was leaving.

************

Pulling myself out of the fog, I saw Angie standing at the foot of the bed, shaking my foot. I was glad to see her.

“You have a visitor,” she announced.

I glanced in the direction of the door, where Brian stood just inside the threshold, staring at the floor. He had a small paper sack in his hand.

“She’s having some problems today, so she is pretty weak,” Angie explained.

He stood still, immobilized.

My heart started rapidly beating.

“She can’t say much, but she understands everything you say,” Angie assured him, moving a large machine back and an IV pole away. “Hey, why don’t you move that chair over there -- over here, closer,” she instructed him, pointing toward the corner and stepping away. “So you two can look at each other.”

Brian obediently moved the chair and without a word sat down right in front of me.

I looked at his frozen face; he appeared shell-shocked.

“I’ll give you twenty minutes tops. Then I’m going to run you out of here. She needs her rest. Have a good visit,” Angie ordered cheerfully, waving as she left.

We looked at each other silently, uncomfortable. “Hi,” I finally whispered.

“Err, hi,” he responded uneasily, shifting his weight in the chair.

I didn’t know what to say, and he started staring at the wall behind me, avoiding looking at me.

“What do you want me to do about the kids?” he suddenly burst out. Fear and panic rushed across his face.

“Just… get them… home… to my… dad.” Attempting to be audible, I vocalized uncontrollably, air exploding from my lungs as each word came out of my mouth. Gasping to regain control of the pain and my breathing, I became lightheaded.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” Brian shouted out helplessly. He looked like he had been struck.

I wanted to reach out and make it all go away, but I couldn’t.

He appeared dazed, watching the night sky through the window behind me and quietly sitting for the longest time, he fidgeted. When Brian finally looked down, he realized he was picking at the brown paper sack in his hands. Shooting straight to his feet, he opened the sack and pulled something out. Then he stood beside me, leaned over and desperately shoved three packs of cigarettes toward my hands, expecting me to take them.

“Here, I thought you might need these...ah, err, for when you start getting around again. I mean, when you feel better, you might want one,” he stumbled over his words as he stared at me and then froze, speechless.

I knew what he was panicking for, I just didn’t know why. Shouldn’t we at least say our goodbyes? “It’s okay,” I mouthed to him, nodding my head.

His eyes misted, tearing up. “I can’t do this!” he screamed toward the ceiling, then he turned on his heels and fled out the door. As I heard his footsteps pounding down the hall, I felt sorry for him.

************

Angie came in a short while later and was surprised to find an empty chair. She shook her head, disappointed, then picked up the chair and put it back into the corner. “Are you okay?” she asked as she stepped toward me.

“Everyone… grieves… differently,” I whispered.

“Well, that’s one way to look at it,” she said and without skipping a beat, picked up the cigarettes that lay on the mattress by my hands. I could tell she wasn’t happy. “He’s your best friend, and he brought you cigarettes? You’re not even a smoker.”

“Yes… I am,” I breathed out, nodding.

She was stunned. “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” she demanded with alarm.

I looked at her, confused. I was so ill; a cigarette was the last thing on my mind.

“You can’t go through withdrawal when you are this sick. We’ve found that quitting at a time like this just aggravates the patient’s problems. I’m going to have to tell your doctor.”

I was baffled. Of all the horrible things publicized about what smoking does to smokers, I never knew that quitting, eliminating nicotine when one was critically ill, could cause insurmountable problems. Now, even as I faced death, I was still getting tattled on, but this time for going cold turkey.

She walked over to the bed stand, pulled out the tray underneath and placed the cigarettes inside. “We’re going to have to put a patch on you.”

I nodded. I didn’t see myself going anywhere to have a smoke anytime soon. My mind felt scrambled, and as I struggled against the tides of unconsciousness, everything started spinning rapidly, pulling me into a reservoir of black nothingness.

************

Gradually emerging back to the surface, I became acutely aware that instead of getting stronger, my whole physical being had been permeated by weakness while I slept. My physical resources were so depleted that it took tremendous energy just to take in shallow breaths -- there was nothing left. Lying there on the edge of life, I noticed a solid void forming between my physical and spiritual selves. As an agnostic, I was delighted to see there was a life after death after all. The void was alluring, calling me in, and curious, I examined it closer.

Cautiously receding back into the dark place, I separated from my own body, and the pain automatically distanced itself. Instantaneous relief made me weightless, lifting me up, spiraling me forward. The relief that surged through me, soothed me and, caught up in the sensation of comfort, I inadvertently began crossing a boundary, a bright fog pulling on me. Panicking, I quickly reached out, grabbing hold of the void’s dark edge.

Clinging tightly, I stopped myself from being sucked away into the white light. Hoisting myself back inside the abyss, I welcomed the familiar darkness around me.

As I hovered in place, scrutinizing the strange new environment, I recognized that the part that separated from my body -- this hologram I became -- was me. Then, an epiphany; I realized I had the power to hide inside the dark mass, tucked safely away from the pain while remaining alert -- a conscious, thinking entity. I finally understood, and in truth, I had been naturally retreating to this dark sanctuary all along. I just hadn’t been aware of what I was doing.

Learning that I could control the conditions I lingered in empowered me. To test my perception, I deliberately merged back into my body, encountering the pain; then cautiously bracing myself, I intentionally disappeared again, falling backward into the bliss. As I eased innately into the security of the dark mass, I discovered I could actually see a clear boundary line glowing between my soul and my body.

Fascinated by the bright line, I crept up to the edge for a closer look. Reaching out to examine the border, I breathed a sigh of relief when I realized the boundary was nothing but a dividing line between the different parts of my spiritual being. Then it hit me all at once -- just as scientists divide a person into intellectual, emotional and physical categories, the triangle model could represent the spiritual self as well. The body, soul and spirit were singular aspects that created a whole human, too. Aristotle and Jung would be proud.

While the body can decline and the spirit can tire, the soul remains the same -- the constant, unending. And as it is with all systems, when the key aspects are allowed to maintain a balance, the human experience is greatly enhanced. With appreciation, I embraced a concept I had never before understood. I recognized that this apparition that I had become, that was hovering between life and death, was my soul.

************

Grateful to learn death didn’t mean I would vanish, I grew confident that “me” would continue to exist. I would not have to lose my “self.” Thrilled, energy poured through me and freedom enveloped all of my being. My soul took off, spiritually dancing -- celebrating -- and I absorbed the peace, comfort and joy that surrounded me. Euphoria. I was my soul and the soul was me.

Awed and amazed, this aspect of me basked in the serenity of my new surroundings. I was emancipated -- unchained from my body. I had never felt so alive. All fear disappeared, replaced with love. My soul was everything I represented, consolidated into a weightless mass of being, the core of me -- the part that made me who I was.

Looking up toward the light fog emanating from the ceiling, I knew “up there” was the spiritual world, and I was not sure I was ready to go. I was perfectly content in my current surroundings and deliberately, stubbornly planted my “self” next to the boundary line between my soul and my body. Adjusting to the different state I was in, hiding in suspended animation, bought me some time to make this important decision.

************

As I relaxed, my life began to flash before my eyes. Everything was coming together for me, being explained for me, just as my elders always said it would be, when one nears the end of life. Viewing the images without the constraints of my own preconceived notions, the truth was delivered in doses both big and small -- exposing how it really was, from beginning to end. My thinking unhindered, I experienced numerous moments of epiphany and understood how the events in my life motivated me to make the decisions and choices I did. The truth felt soothing, and I was healing.

Revealed to me was the key factor that caused most of the mistakes that I made -- inaccurate perceptions and beliefs. I noticed that I goofed up the most when I relied on previous conclusions I presumed to be true, but were not, and what made things worse was once the false perceptions took root, they frequently transformed miraculously, as if guided by some invisible hand, into “the truth.” Then some of these truths became chiseled in granite, and once set in stone, these beliefs were often acted upon as if they were real or, worse still, sacred. I saw how one misunderstood event inevitably led to others, producing a cascading domino effect.

At last I understood what was really important and what was just extraneous crap -- the stuff that works day and night to muddle up priorities, making the little irritants between souls look like insurmountable differences. And although my mistakes were plenty, my heart was consistently in the right place, and the few times it wasn’t, the calamity that followed resulted in karmic self-sabotage and other perverse forms of poetic justice.

However, when I failed, I learned, and when the next chance came, I was intent on doing better. I realized that no matter how tough my life had been, no matter what obstacles I faced, even when I felt isolated and abandoned, I had always been the person I could depend on. I was my most enthusiastic advocate. A wave of appreciation enveloped my being as I discovered I truly loved the soul I was -- despite all the bumps in my life there was one aspect that remained constant -- I grew.

************

Relieved and wallowing in the “self” that I was, I was delighted that I had chosen to follow a decent path during my visit here, and I understood why helping others was so important. The primary question when life concludes is, how much love did this soul share with everyone? Because the love that I extended to others during life, is ultimately the same love that I would receive in death.

I learned that who we are on earth, is who we face in heaven. Would my eternity be a hell? Nah, I liked myself. I liked the rules I maintained. I respected the boundaries I set, and though I didn’t cross over many, I regretted the ones that I did. I also noticed that every time I intentionally crossed a line, it was me who paid the karmic debt. The negative and positive firmly equalized.

The difference between right and wrong became abundantly clear, and lucky for me, I was taught at a young age that there are many points in a person’s life when one can choose to turn it all around. We can choose not to inflict pain on others. We can choose to do the right thing. Proud that I hadn’t developed a habit of allowing my base nature to rule, I finally knew with certainty that when all has been said and done, when the end actually has come, the good guys do win.

************

While absorbing my own self-acceptance, one truth kept rebounding back. The only important thing is family. This phrase, said so often, has become a cliché and lost most of its meaning, along with “Have a nice day,” and “I’ll call you in the morning.”

Even though I discovered I really liked the person I had made here on earth, one regret grew deeper, becoming despair. I wanted more time with my family -- the souls that I helped place here on earth and the souls that helped place me. I wanted them to know how much I loved their beings and how sorry I was for the countless times I chose to do things that didn’t include them. At last, I understood the vast significance of family -- a core group with a shared mission of loving each other. So simple, yet we humans make it so hard.

I was raised in the generation that was suffering the repercussions of the feminist movement -- I was expected to be Super Mom, while a large segment of the male population responded to the request for women’s equal rights by abandoning their daughters and sons. “If they want to do it all, let them,” became the general attitude; and then over time, the rule.

Despite this generational flaw, I was blessed; I could spend time with my kids.

I cleverly manipulated my schedule so I could pose as a stay-at-home mom, when in actuality I crammed two other lives into the time they attended school. When the clock struck three in the afternoon, my pen transformed into a frying pan. Then in the late evening, when my children slept, my day began again. Realizing the depth of regret I was experiencing, when in fact I had been there for my children, I felt sorry for the men, because the majority of dads -- raised to remain distant from their families -- would eventually face this consequence.

************

Feeling more secure, centered and whole than I ever had on earth, I looked toward the billowing fog that emanated from the ceiling behind me. I realized I no longer feared dying. I didn’t know where the light would take me, but I knew I would be okay. Leaving would offer me gains, while staying, racked by all-consuming pain, would cause inevitable losses. As I looked toward the welcoming light, the answer became abundantly clear. I couldn’t go anywhere. I wasn’t even sure if my children had been safely transported to California yet. Then it dawned on me that to find out what was going on with my kids, I’d have to reconnect with my body.

Scared of the pain, careful not to cross over or accidentally merge with my physical self, I examined the parameters around me. I cautiously moved closer to the boundary line, leaned toward the edge and discovered the solution. I could hear. The pain was still present, but it was only a numb ache, like background noise -- unimportant. Testing the limits, I discovered I could hide inside and listen at will.

My ears acted like radar, honing in precisely on sounds and extracting information. I discovered without opening my eyes that I could monitor and discern what was happening around me through the inflection of voices, the sound of noises and the energy of motion. Hearing became my most valuable asset. I figured that as long as I kept my ears on high alert and stayed hidden, I would be okay -- the pain would stay away. And that was top priority, because the pain was much more than I could bear.

The riddle solved, I relaxed. Basking in the luxury of peace and leaning against the edge of the boundary, I listened, patiently waiting for the opportunity to find out about my children. I knew Angie would eventually show up, and meanwhile, I was content that I wasn’t suffering.

************

Though safely hidden and distanced from the pain, the gnawing in my legs became the focus of my subconscious, tapping me, reminding me, alerting me that something was seriously wrong. This soreness, whatever it was, was getting worse instead of better.

************

Perched on the boundary line, I heard rattling and a loud banging.

I couldn’t discern what was happening, but the noise sounded like someone was moving furniture. I didn’t want to reenter the physical plane completely just to see what was going on, so I moved cautiously in small increments over the boundary line, pushing myself slowly forward until I was close enough to the border to see outside of me.

I struggled to look past the fleshy edge of my bottom eyelids. I felt hollow, disconnected, and the pain transformed into a blunted, throbbing sensation. Peeking out over the fleshy rims to see, I felt like I was viewing the world through eyes I no longer owned. And there he was, an older man, a janitor, desperately attempting to shove a dust mop under one of the machines. I calmly retreated, settling back into the comfort and safety of the void. But, then I became acutely aware that my eyes were stuck open. They forgot how to close.

I had to consciously instruct my eyelids how to shut again. Re-teaching the muscles around my eyes how to move was incredibly surreal but presented me with fresh understanding. The body is the temple because it houses the soul. With a flash, I realized that everything my elders had told me about my body, and even the scriptures agreed, was true.

Without human form, I would be only an energy, an angel. My body had in fact provided my soul the privilege of motion -- a way to connect with our world -- the chief mechanism that allowed my soul the ability to function and pursue its spiritual mission. With profound appreciation, I realized my body was the vehicle that allowed me to have form on earth.

The body is the temple, my elders often warned me. Before, I could never understand how a body was like a church or a beautiful building. I got it now.

************

A loud eruption interrupted my thoughts, pulling me back to the surface.

“Damn it! How do you expect me to save her?” I heard Angie yelling.

Save her? They’re talking about me! Instantly alert, I crept up to the boundary line as close as I could and listened carefully.

“I am not going to give an addict narcotics,” Dr. Killjoy announced condescendingly, as if the mere suggestion were insane.

“I doubt very strongly that she is an addict,” Angie protested.

Afraid of the pain, I hesitated to defend myself.

“She has demonstrated no drug-seeking behavior. If she were an addict, wouldn’t she have asked for narcotics the minute you diagnosed her?” Angie asked, inserting the logic of my past conduct.

Wanting to back Angie up, I tried to engage but couldn’t. I had been gone so long, I had forgotten how.

“Not yet, she hasn’t,” the doctor scoffed, making a hissing noise.

Everything was happening too fast. Stuck... I just watched helplessly, overhearing the fight around me.

“I can’t tell how she is doing when she is in this much pain. She has locked in, and I am afraid we’re going to lose her.”

“We are going to lose her, regardless.”

My doctor’s lack of hope echoed through my ears, and my spiritual energy started rapidly draining from me. Her negativity sliced away at my core, so I quickly backtracked, desperate to escape the toxic effect of her words on my psyche. I began to sink.

“Doctor, you must relieve her pain,” Angie demanded.

“Narcotics are not going to help her.”

Mired in the muck, I concentrated on extracting myself as their battle continued.

“I believe she will come back. We need to at least give her that opportunity.”

“I’m not convinced,” the doctor muttered. I heard a loud, familiar snap and footsteps walking away. The poison was leaving.

“What has to happen to convince you, doctor?” Angie hollered, chasing after her, advocating persistently for me. I had to do something.

************

I surveyed my physical condition immediately. My mouth dry, my lips cracked and my tongue scattered with sores, I knew speaking would just end up hurting again. I wasn’t crazy about interacting directly if I didn’t have to. I figured that with minimal physical investment, I could eventually catch Angie’s attention by blinking to restore our line of communication. Needing practice, I concentrated on moving my eyelids.

At first, the motion was severely delayed -- lifting my eyelids was like bench-pressing a ton. The strength this slight action took was startling, but as I drilled repetitively, my dexterity improved. Blinking, would allow me to empower myself. After some training, I gained confidence and stared straight ahead waiting for Angie’s return. While I maintained surveillance, I unexpectedly discovered that my instinctive movement was gone. My eyes kept getting dry, and I had to remind myself repeatedly to blink to keep them moist.

************

“Wendy. Look at me,” Angie demanded, leaning forward, lifting my chin with the tips of her fingers.

Her face that close to mine, I could not help but look at her.

“Good. Now, listen up,” she ordered, holding my head in place. “Wendy, you’ve got to start participating. The doctor thinks we’ve lost you.”

I heard Angie’s voice loud and clear and saw light brown circles under her eyes. She looked exhausted. I blinked.

“Now, I realize you are inside there. The problem is they are not going to take my word for it. I need you to show the doctor that you are still with us.” She was pleading.

Yes, I’m here. Watching from the boundary, I mechanically instructed my eyelids to move again.

“I need you to help me, help you. Understand?”

Yes, I understand. I blinked again, listening intently.

Halting abruptly and doing a double take, Angie’s expression became hopeful. She transferred my head into the palms of her hands and focused excitedly on my face. “You can blink?!” she accused and asked at the same time.

I blinked twice and giggled inside.

“Hot damn, now we’re getting somewhere.”

I blinked again, agreeing.

She pulled my face closer to hers. “Wendy, I’m having trouble convincing your doctor that you are in pain. I am going to have to enlist your dad.” Enunciating each syllable precisely as she spoke, her fresh mint breath blew across my face. “Sweetie, I haven’t told your father everything yet, but now I think I should.” She looked at me eye-to-eye, serious.

Peering directly back into Angie’s eyes, I blinked repeatedly: open, close, open, close… telling her it was okay.

“Whoa! Blink once for yes -- twice for no. Okay? Go.”

I closed my eyes completely, resting them; then I stared directly into hers and blinked once.

Energized, Angie quickly lay my head down, positioning it gently onto the pillow so I was facing her. “Once again,” she instructed, taking a step back, watching.

I blinked, thrilled by the interaction.

“Yes it is, then! I’ll call right away,” she announced, heading straight for the exit.

Staring through vacant eyes, I saw her turn back toward me.

“You know, this is going to make things so much easier,” she rambled, giggling.

“I don’t think the doctor will continue to refuse you painkiller if she has to confront your father,” she declared enthusiastically and flew out the door.

A victory.

************

Wanting to help Angie and myself, I hid regrouping, lying in wait for the doctor. But as I watched diligently for my chance to blink at the expert, the effort became a chore. The day dragged on and on, the minutes seemingly extending into hours, protracting the wait. I wasn’t exerting much energy, but I had only limited energy to expend. Becoming weary by the tedious wait, I closed my eyes, setting my ears to warn me of Dr. Killjoy’s arrival.

************

The rustling outside my room stirred me, and I instantly ordered my eyes to open so I could see. Dr. Killjoy was outside my door, picking out students. Interns were lined up obediently against the hall wall, waiting, hoping to be selected. Flamboyantly, she pointed out her favorites, the ones she would allow to come in.

Geesh, I wish I could miss this, I thought, preparing myself for the intrusion. I stared as the few preferred students walked in and scattered throughout the room among the machines. The doctor followed on their heels, walked to the middle of the bed opposite from me and sat down. My back was to her. I could blink from now until next year, and she never would have seen. Not sure what to do, my plan unraveling, I panicked as I heard my chart opening with the familiar crack, and the doctor began to lecture.

“As you have probably heard by now,” the doctor sighed dramatically, “our patient here,” she patted my bottom, “hastened her own death several days ago by roaming around the hospital. They eventually found her sleeping, parked in a wheelchair outside the cafeteria.”

Jarred emotionally, I recoiled with no hint of movement. Trying to keep my promise to Angie, I struggled to pull my thoughts back together, reminding myself that I just wanted to blink.

“Did anyone find out what she was doing over there?” I heard a voice ask.

“I guess she got hungry,” a voice from across the room responded.

The students laughed.

I was angry. I wanted to scream. I felt the pain increase. Alarmed, I attempted to detach emotionally, hanging onto my father’s words as they sounded in my mind. “In the top ten if not in the top three, in the top ten…”

“The dishwasher found her and repeated some wild story she got him to believe. He’s just a teenager,” she sighed wearily, her voice overriding my mantra. “The girls down at x-ray had to write up a report on her. Apparently she was really out of control.” “Work with her and let her do her magic.” Despite hearing Dad’s words of encouragement and the hopeful way he sounded, the doctor’s lesson still came through.

“Sometimes you will get a patient like this, and no matter how much you try there is just no helping them. But yet, students, we continue,” she instructed, teaching them. “Best shot we’ve got … we want her on our side.” Both Dad’s and Angie’s words overlapped each other in my mind, desperately trying to restrain me.

“This here -- is what it is all about,” she patted my rear end again.

“Get along, get along, get along…” Hoping to ignore the thoughtless assault, I internally chanted louder, finally canceling out Dr. Killjoy’s voice and the students’ questions. Caught in the struggle, I lost sight of planning, and after awhile the monotonous mental exercise grew tiring.

“How long will she be unconscious?” A high-pitched voice crept in, annoying me.

“After that stunt she pulled, I don’t know. We’ll try, but I doubt she’s going to improve.”

I was glad I hadn’t heard more. Realizing I had no choice but to speak, I reentered my body and, barely inside -- tenuously linked -- I floated near the edges. The pain, though very close to the surface, was still just far enough away.

“Students, when we deal with drug addicts we have to take a careful approach. We don’t want to re-addict them.”

Re-addict? I’m dying. Her illogical mind appalled me.

“Did the blood tests tell us what she was addicted to?”

“Apparently she has been clean for some time now. Probably too sick to use.”

What nonsense. Wasn’t a clean test proof that her accusations weren’t true?

“Is she in pain?” a male voice in front of me inquired.

“I doubt if she feels much of anything.”

“I hurt.” Minimally intact and fed up, I blew the words out over the boundary as fast as I could and, looking directly at the kid standing by the machine across from me, I realized that I recognized him. He was the brave one who had made eye contact with me before -- the tip-toe boy.

Startled, the doctor jumped back, physically sideswiping me, causing the links in the chain to hook together spontaneously, making me solid. My soul and body, creatures of habit, merged into a whole. Being thrust headlong into full consciousness caused my nervous system to come alive. The pain bored in, crashing down in waves, engulfing me. I stiffened, overwhelmed. I could feel my eyes widening, then protruding as the pain surged. As I began to howl uncontrollably, my mouth cracked, and the creases of my lips tore open. I could taste blood.

“Yes students, AIDS is quite painful,” the doctor yelled over me.

The fact that a woman who had so much power to do good, chose to display her immaturity instead, nauseated me. Looking toward the boy in front of me, I groveled, powerless. “Please help me!” I cried out, reaching toward him, the pain lifting my body up off the mattress.

“What are we giving her now?” The young man stepped forward, staring at me.

I heard fumbling and a few papers rustling.

The physical shock of merging with my body created an uncontrollable chain of events. An invader skilled in the art of torment overtook my senses, replacing everything I was with just one weapon -- agony. Though a crafty opponent, I knew how to escape.

“Hmm, nothing since she fell into this vegetative state,” the doctor finally replied.

Vegetative state? I started to ask, but it was too late. I was already rebounding backwards, trying to gain distance from the damaging toxins. Rushing inside myself too quickly, I lost control, getting sucked toward the ceiling. I spiraled backward, careening over the first boundary so fast that it was gone before I realized I’d passed it. Seeing the light fog just ahead of me, I knew I’d have only one chance. Twisting, arching and reaching out, I tried to grab hold of the second boundary line as I crossed over, but I was caught up in the whirling wind.

The powerful suction pulled me along the wall, and I rose straight toward the billowing fog near the ceiling. I was flying. I tried to slow down but did not understand how to control the new state I was in. The bright mist enveloped me, absorbing the pain, as I progressed forward, lifting away. The light was blinding. Unable to stop the forward momentum, I figured I had already traveled too far and became heartsick that I was leaving. Suddenly a large hand snatched me out of the air, stopping my forward motion. I was rescued, cradled securely inside the warm palm.

Then the hand opened. Dazed, down on my hands and knees in the center of the palm, breathing heavily, I was stopped just in time, white mist all around me. I pulled myself to a kneeling position and gazed upward, toward the piercing light above. Relief flowed through me. This gigantic hand -- or whatever this spiritual energy was -- saved me. Leaning back on my calves, I marveled at the environment, incredibly grateful for the reprieve.

I knew instinctively that I was between heaven and earth, the bright fog everywhere. Angels were scattered at the back and sides of the palm. The angels looked like they were made of a whiter mist than the fog that surrounded me. At first, I thought they were there to take me somewhere, but then I noticed they were just patiently waiting, watching over me protectively. Happy to see that so many cared about me, I waved appreciatively, inadvertently seeing my hand out in front of me. It was made of the same mist.

Amazed, I turned my hand back and forth, examining my fingers closely, trying to understand -- if I was only a soul energy, why did I still maintain a human shape? Despite being freed of all physical constraints, my soul continued to move as if it were a body, borrowing the prototype it was familiar with by copying the human form. Then it dawned on me -- despite all the classroom debate, it turned out the rationalists Plato and Descartes were on the right path. My soul continued to move, replicating what it was accustomed to out of habit.

Looking at the blazing light above me, I imagined if I went up there, I would eventually forget this form and any other earthly ones. Without the burdens of human existence, I knew I could easily call the angels over to me and be escorted away. But I felt no rush to make this enormous decision and relaxed, accepting my current condition.

I sat down in the center of the palm, crossed my legs beneath me and looking out toward the horizon, I could magically see outside the boundaries of the gigantic hand. I knew I was up in the air, but I didn’t know what was below me. Assured the angels were in no hurry, I confidently decided to explore the territory.

I got on my hands and knees and began crawling on my stomach, across the palm’s soft, squishy skin, heading toward the flat surface between the thumb and forefinger. As I crossed the fleshy mounds, nearing an edge of the gigantic hand, I could hear muffled voices below me. Curious, I continued to crawl forward until I reached a place where no angels sat and lay down in the military prone position. I grabbed hold of some of the skin on the palm, and pulled myself up, peeking out over the periphery to see down below me.

Dr. Killjoy was teaching her students, and Angie was sitting on the hospital bed cradling a little girl in her arms. Everyone was moving about animatedly -- students shuffling their feet and shifting in place, the doctor frantically flipping through the chart’s pages -- and Angie’s face was bright red. It looked like she was yelling. I hung my head over the edge so I could hear what they were saying.

“You got a reaction out of her, didn’t you? What more do you want?” Angie demanded as she protectively rocked the child back and forth in a steady rhythm. I felt sorry for the young girl, curled up so tightly like that; I knew she must be hurting.

“Well, of course. But clearly, she is completely out of it, and now she is unconscious again. Hey, you!” the expert screamed, clapping her hands together in front of the little girl’s face, intruding into Angie’s physical space.

Elevated so high up, I felt like I was in the balcony observing a bunch of actors performing a theatrical production. As I grew relaxed in my surroundings, I pulled myself to a sitting position and dangled my legs over the ledge, continuing to watch.

“See,” the doctor proclaimed triumphantly.

“Doctor, I believe she is locked in,” Angie argued.

“What do you expect me to do about that?”

“Relieve her pain.” The octave range of Angie’s voice rose, her frustration apparent.

“Doctor, don’t we usually proceed in terminal cases by…” the young male intern from before spoke up again. I applauded, cheering his courage.

“I know how to proceed, damn it!” Dr. Killjoy screamed, turning on him, glaring. I knew he would pay later, but I did see and hear angry scribbling.

Then silence. Except for the sounds of rocking, the room was paralyzed.

“I’ll give you one day,” the doctor finally snapped. She popped the chart shut and stomped out of the room. The students hurriedly filed out the door, following dutifully after her.

“Did you hear?” Angie asked, excitedly pulling the small girl closer to her chest. “Help is coming!” I looked on as Angie was left alone, rocking and tenderly stroking her patient’s forehead.

Surveying the scene below me, I looked at the girl more closely. She was a lovely child. It struck me how young she was, so vulnerable and delicate; I felt sad about the youth that was obviously wasted, and affection poured from my heart toward the young lady. I was thankful to be released from her pain … then it hit me like a ton of bricks -- that girl trapped in the fetal position below wasn’t some indiscriminate stranger. She was me.

************

This Chapter, along with Chapter's Four, Five, and the first section of Chapter Six, when read in rapid session, offer individuals the opportunity to learn what being in a Coma is like and to experience the sensations that many patients mention and discuss when returning to consciousness.

There were many focus groups that gathered, during the writing of these Chapter's to create the affect, so that we have the ability to develop greater understanding about what is happening and gain knowledge about what our own relatives experience and what we can do to add to their comfort and woo them back to life -- when and if a family member becomes comatose as the result of a health condition or accident.

This was developed to further expand our knowledge and to empower us to pro-actively interact with our loved ones in beneficial ways.

Enjoy!

********

∞ Chapter Three ∞

The new attendant put me in the elevator facing in the right direction, and for that reason alone I liked her better immediately. I felt rested and rejuvenated, so in a jovial mood I told her about the whole Jell-o fiasco. By this time, I was just riding along, accepting that I was stuck in this crazy predicament and beginning to appreciate the humor, I started to laugh. I knew I wouldn’t convince anyone not to take the x-ray, so I wasn’t even trying to persuade the attendant -- she had her orders. Turned facing the opposite way, just gabbing along, I didn’t see her expression.

She took me into a large room that looked like a high school cafeteria that had been stripped of all its tables and chairs. The room was filled nearly to capacity with patients. Some people were standing, lined up against two walls, and others were like me, sitting in wheelchairs. Several nurses’ aides were assisting the patients, taking paperwork and handing out blankets.

Standing across the room, pushed up against the wall, was a wire mesh bookcase on wheels, and on the shelves were a bunch of blankets stacked in tight rows. A portable white Formica countertop, which supported an industrial sized microwave oven, sat next to the bookcase. I could hardly believe my eyes. I wanted a baked blanket, too. I could have listed a bunch of pseudo reasons why -- like how the warmth would feel really good against my aching muscles or that I was modest, wearing only two thin hospital gowns, one facing each way -- but the truth is, those warmed blankets looked fun and I wanted one.

“Can I have one of those blankets, please?” I asked my attendant, pointing hopefully toward the far wall.

She reached down and touched my skin. “You’re not cold,” she informed me.

I blinked, not knowing how to respond.

“Don’t you try any funny business either,” she scolded me as she came into view, setting the brakes on the wheelchair. “I heard what you did earlier today,” she admonished me, crossing her arms over her chest.

I really didn’t know what to say.

Turning on her heels, she stomped away, leaving through a set of double doors.

Sitting there bewildered, it didn’t take long to decide that she had confused me with somebody else; so I blew off the whole scenario and set my sights on the immediate goal. Somehow, I had to convince a nurse’s aide to warm up a blanket for me. I scanned the room quickly and saw a sweet girl leaning over an older patient, gently tucking him in. I watched the young assistant for a short time, and when she walked by, I held up my finger to gain her attention. She came right over to help.

"If you have a moment, could I have one of those warm blankets, please?" I asked, pointing again at the wire mesh bookcase on wheels.

She leaned over and touched my skin. "My, you are cold," she declared. "it will take a couple of minutes," she warned, patting my knee; and despite the sudden chain of stinging sensations running down my calf, I beamed up at her.

"Thank you so much. Take all the time you need,” I gushed.

I watched as she pulled a blanket from a shelf, put it in the microwave, and then set the timer. While it cooked, she made her rounds, briefly checking her patients. They were all elderly, and one older woman had fallen forward, hunched over in her chair, her face practically lying in her lap. I was both amazed and shaken. I didn’t know that a person’s body could bend like that; she looked like she was part of two halves. The position looked incredibly painful, and I watched with sympathy as the assistant tenderly rearranged the old woman to a more comfortable position.

Afterwards she fetched my blanket and brought it straight over to me.

“Thank you so much,” I said again. I was radiating, happy -- content. Funny, how when one is really sick, the little things hold so much meaning. She smiled down at me, handing me two corners, and we unfolded the steaming blanket together. Stretching it out by holding both ends, we allowed the warm blanket to float downward, slowly covering me. The warmth made my skin prickle, and the heat felt soothing. As the gentle assistant bent over, tucking the blanket around me, my attendant walked in.

“She didn’t need that,” she snapped at the young woman, and then turned toward me. “I told you not to try anything funny.” She shook her finger in my direction.

“I was just getting a blanket,” I pointed out. “And I think you’ve got me confused with someone else,” I protested.

“Aren’t you the girl who is too good to swallow her own saliva?”

“What?”

“Didn’t you get one of those basins and use it like a spittoon?” she asked me again, second-guessing herself.

“What?” The idea seemed so remote, the accusation so strange that I couldn’t help but laugh. Images of a woman sitting on an old fashioned Victorian front porch, spitting into an old brass spittoon, careened through my mind.

“I heard you were the girl who came down here earlier today and filled one of those bowls halfway full with spit. Did you do that?” She leaned forward, closer to my face. I couldn’t believe she was serious.

“I was here earlier for a chest x-ray,” I admitted truthfully, stifling a giggle. “I was about to throw up; so yes, I used a basin. But no, I don’t normally use bowls to just spit in,” I explained good-naturedly, with the straightest face I could. “Who in the world would do such a thing anyway?” I chuckled, curious.

“All sorts of women do it,” she replied, as if her assertion were simple fact.

Suddenly in my mind’s eye, I saw a parlor full of women dressed in Gone with the Windfashions. Some were sitting on antique furniture and others were standing by the fireplace. As they joyfully gossiped, these beautiful, sophisticated ladies were each randomly spitting saliva into their own personally monogrammed spittoons. It was all the rage. The image was too much for me, and I burst out laughing until I was gasping for breath. The people around me turned and looked.

“I’ve got the right person. I haven’t confused anyone,” the attendant proclaimed venomously, stepping back, defending herself.

I shook my head, looking down at the floor, hiding my face, trying to suppress my giggles, but ultimately I lost the battle. The whole accusation and her anger about it seemed absurd.

The nurse’s aide, distancing herself, walked back to her other patients; and looking up, I saw the attendant staring down at me.

“I came here to explain the procedure to you and instead catch you doing this,” the attendant reprimanded me, furiously flipping up a corner of the warm blanket. “You’re going to be here for quite awhile, and while you’re here I expect you to leave the assistants alone,” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips.

“Aren’t they here to assist everyone?” I asked, baffled.

“I told you before, you don’t need a blanket. They cost money.”

“How much could it cost to comfort a sick patient? Five cents, ten cents maybe? They do use those industrial sized washers, don’t they?” I asked, perplexed, trying to figure out why a warmed blanket was such a critical financial issue.

She looked annoyed.

“If our American hospitals are really so strapped for cash that even minimal comforts are no longer allowed, the ‘powers that be’ have some rethinking to do,” I suggested.

“The money adds up,” she assured me. “And you’re wasting my time. I want you to be quiet now and listen up,” she announced, looking down at her watch.

“I am going to bring in two large cups of liquid, and I want you to drink them as fast as you can,” she paused. “On second thought, I’ll bring them in one at a time; I don’t trust you not to spill,” she alleged, looking at me sternly. As she turned to leave, something in me snapped.

“Is it the pink liquid metal or the white liquid metal?” I asked, as if the answer would make a difference. If she was going to project a ridiculous scenario onto me, I would do the same to her.

“It’s white,” she answered, turning back around.

“Darn -- and I like the pink liquid metal so much better,” I protested sarcastically.

She had a blank look on her face, shook her head and then cautioned me, “And no shenanigans while I’m gone.”

I nodded, but it seemed that somehow from the start, I got on her bad-guy list, and I couldn’t figure out how. If being ill in a hospital was an affront to good manners, where could one be sick? It really didn’t matter anyway; when this test was completed, I would never have to see her again.

After the attendant left, I finished tucking the warm blanket around myself and thanked the kind nurse’s aide again for helping me. She smiled but didn’t verbally respond. The old woman had slouched down, sliding partially off her wheelchair, and the assistant was busily securing the woman in place, wrapping another blanket around her. My heart went out to the lady, probably the matriarch of her family; I hoped that she wasn’t suffering.

************

Almost immediately, the attendant returned with a Big Gulp-sized plastic cup, three quarters full of thick white liquid. I took it from her without hesitation and raised the heavy cup to make a toast. It felt like lead. “Salute,” I said and started drinking it down.

She rolled her eyes and walked back through the double doors to get the second cup.

The drink had the consistency of paint, except it was grainy and tasted like some form of metal that the lemony flavoring couldn’t hide. I drank as much and as fast as I could, but then my gag response kicked in. My body absolutely rejected swallowing any more of the fluid. Reminding myself that this was simply mind over matter and that I’d done this years ago, I continued to get the liquid down by taking smaller sized gulps and holding my nose.

When the attendant returned, I proudly handed her the empty cup.

She smiled, encouraged.

“I’m having a hard time getting it down now,” I warned her. “I hate to bring up a sore subject, but could you get a basin for me, just in case? I’m not sure, but I might throw up.”

“If I give you a basin you will just spit in it. Swallow your own saliva,” she ordered, handing me the second cup. She stomped back to the double doors, then spun around and glared at me before disappearing behind them.

Staring at the full cup, hoping I would succeed, I readied myself and while gathering courage, a burning heat began traveling up my neck, into my face, and then settled, centering in my cheeks. I wasn’t sure why I was experiencing flaming waves of fire, but because I was busy focusing on the task at hand, I ignored the symptom. Without questioning why I was suddenly perspiring, I wiped the tiny beads of sweat from my brow and pursued my objective.

I held my nose again, sipped a small amount, swallowed, took a breath through my mouth, and then repeated, pacing myself.

The waves of heat began generating fiercely, spreading downward into my chest, and a diffuse heaviness descended upon me. Even my mind felt sluggish; it was almost as if I couldn’t think. My stomach began to rotate. The more I tried to ignore the sensation, the faster my stomach churned. Denial wasn’t working.

“Please, I need a basin,” I called out urgently to no one, and with the last word it was too late; I projectile-vomited everywhere, just like a little baby. Startled, the nurse’s aide rushed over in an effort to help me, just as my attendant appeared.

“Now look at what you’ve done,” the attendant scolded me, dismissing the assistant with a wave of her hand. “You’re a mess! What did you do that for?”

The nurse’s aide took off in the opposite direction.

I looked up at my attendant like she was crazy. “I told you I needed a basin. You chose not to give me one,” I slurred. Suddenly I couldn’t control my tongue; it was swollen, and what I was saying sounded like it was coming from an echo chamber in slow motion. I turned away from the yelling attendant, concerned for myself and was surprised to see that the nurse’s aide had returned and was shoving a basin into my hands.

“Stop throwing up -- or I’ll make you drink another cup,” my attendant threatened. The gentle assistant ignored her and continued to help me by removing the soiled blanket.

The attendant continued chastising me, but what she said didn't matter, because I wasn’t absorbing much. Gravity was pushing me downward, toward unconsciousness. I struggled against the invisible draining mass, desperately trying to stay awake, as chills overtook me and I started to shudder.

“Damn it!” I heard the attendant scream angrily as she ran across the room and pulled a few blankets off a shelf. Glancing at the microwave, she shook her head, then quickly turned around and ran back. Rapidly unfolding the blankets, she carelessly flung them all over me, piling them on lopsided in different directions, hanging them off the chair.

I was consumed by the heat in my face, the chills, and fighting the heaviness that pressed down on top of me -- all through me -- so I couldn’t stop her as she snatched the cup from my hand, pressed it against my lower lip and forced me to drink more. The liquid poured out, filling my mouth and covering my nose. I tried not to drown by swallowing as fast as I could, but most of the grainy fluid splashed up on my face and then ran down my chin and neck, drenching me.

“Leave me alone,” I gurgled, finally finding the strength to push her off me.

“Well, it’s certainly not going to be my fault when your x-rays don’t turn out,” she snapped as she hurried away, taking the cup with her. I looked helplessly toward the nurse’s aide who was warming up blankets for her patients. Then I threw up again.

************

Wracked in misery, I used a blanket to wipe my face and watched as the nurse’s aide continued to stand by the microwave, eyeing the double doors as they hydraulically closed. As soon as the doors clicked shut, she rushed back to my side with a freshly warmed blanket.

She took the basin from my hand and placed it on the floor. “I’m heating another,” she whispered, leaning over me. She pulled the tangled clump of blankets off and discarded them behind my wheelchair. Then she handed me two corners of the warm blanket like she had before. Despite shaking almost convulsively, I controlled my hands long enough to hold onto the cloth as we stretched it out together.

I smiled up at her weakly as the blanket floated down, but every alarm, beeper and red flag within me started going off in my mind. Something was seriously wrong. I couldn’t speak and the heaviness was sucking me down, suffocating me.

She leaned over, put her hand on my shoulder and looked me square in the eyes. “I’m going to secure you with another blanket, okay? I’ve seen this before; I think we might have a problem,” she explained, acknowledging my concern.

All I could do was nod at her and feel relief. Sweat was dripping off my face and as the chills shook me, I began weaving in and out of the dark.

She ran back to the microwave and pulled the second blanket out. Then she unfolded the blanket as she walked past her other patients, reassuring herself that they were okay. Grateful that she was also helping me, I watched as she tied me into the chair.

“I’m going to move you closer to me. You’ve got to wait in here for thirty minutes before they can take the x-rays, or they won’t turn out. I want you near enough that I can keep an eye on how you’re doing,” she explained politely, as if asking for permission.

I nodded again, thankful and scared. The weight kept compressing me downward and as I tried desperately to hang on, she moved me next to the elderly woman.

Sitting there strapped in the chair, I leaned up against the blanket that secured me and looked into the matronly woman’s face. Her eyes were clear and focused, and pierced through me as she looked back into mine. She extended her empathy and then gave me a smile of encouragement. During that silent exchange, she imparted what she already knew; I was her. She was me. Except for our age, we were no different.

Then everything began to spin, and an overpowering thrust forced me into a black nothingness.

************

“Wake up!”

I heard muffled screaming coming from far away.

“Stop your napping.”

The yelling seemed to come from someplace else. Distanced from everything, immersed in the dark, I felt the noise pulling on me.

A loud clap, two, three times, each progressively thunderous.

Jarred, I blinked and looked up. The attendant was bent over, close to my face, and the nurse’s aide was waving her arms animatedly, trying to explain.

Recognizing my own vulnerability, I quickly surveyed my body to make sure I was okay and noticed that I had been completely encapsulated by heated blankets while I slept. The cocoon of white thermal warmth was soothing and looking up I realized that the assistant had even used a blanket to cover my balding scalp. I slipped back again, lulled by the comfort, into the night.

************

“Damn it, I said wake up!” I heard again. I opened my eyes, looking up slowly, trying to focus. The attendant was not an inch from my face, screaming her spit at me. I raised my hand in protest but then looked down as I was starting to speak, and noticed my hand was still on the armrest. Dazed, I realized I hadn’t actually moved. The unexpected immobility startled me. The darkness that refused to release me descended rapidly, and gravity came down like a hammer, knocking me out.

************

I felt jerking and movement, and then a sudden jolt caused my eyes to spring open. Turning a corner, heading down a white hallway that had red arrows painted on the walls, I watched helplessly as we barreled forward, the red and white colors mingling together as we flew by. Then she pushed me into a set of double doors feet first, banging the doors open with the footrests, using my wheelchair to force us through.

“It’s the Spitter!” the attendant abruptly announced as locked the brakes, holding me in place.

“Oh, I heard about you,” another woman called out excitedly from behind her radiation fortress. “I just want to get a good look.” She rushed out to greet me as if she were visiting a freak show and I was one of the exhibits. I was slouched and leaning, pushed up against the blanket that secured me, barely able to open my eyes.

Approaching cautiously, she bent forward to examine the oddity before her. After taking a long look, she suddenly stood up, turned toward the attendant with her hands on her hips and declared scornfully, “She doesn’t look that tough to me.”

They both enjoyed a good laugh about the whole situation.

I couldn’t respond. I couldn’t even control my own body. I looked up and saw the blankets surrounding me as peaceful darkness reclaimed me.

************

Next thing I knew, I was freezing. I lifted my head and realized I was up on my feet, heading toward the x-ray table. One woman stood on each side, dragging me across the floor, using my arms as if they were teapot handles.

“…and you better not throw up on my machine, either,” the technician spat out as she shoved me toward the table.

Completely off balance, I stumbled forward and reached my hands toward the tabletop trying to stop my fall. The girls swooped me back up under their control -- pulling, tugging and spinning me -- roughly pressing me backwards against the sharp edge of the x-ray table. As they talked between themselves, the attendant expertly pressed her hand in the center of my chest, forcing me to stay put; and shoving me up against the sharp metal edge of the tabletop, it ate into the small of my back.

I looked at the technician in bewilderment as they ignored me and continued to gossip. Glancing away, I noticed that my IV lines were scattered down by my side and no longer hooked up to the various bags of liquid medications. Slowly turning my head, I saw the bags were still over there, hanging from the short pole on the wheelchair.

“Hop up!” the attendant abruptly ordered.

Startled, my hands flew backwards, landing flat on the table behind me, and I automatically began trying to pull myself up. I pushed down as hard as I could, but my heels didn’t budge an inch. Shaken, I discovered I was practically an invalid.

“Climb, then!” she demanded, obviously disgusted, and then helped me climb up. She yanked at me, then hoisted me up onto the tabletop. She shoved me over, bending me sideways and then pushing my shoulder I somehow ended up flat on my face, sliding across the cold metal surface, propelling over the other side. I barely stopped myself from falling off by grabbing hold of the edge.

The table was like none I had ever seen before, and I had a close-up view of it. The flat top couldn’t have been more than two feet wide, and a thin metal plate covered it. Two narrow conveyor belts were wrapped around both sides. The attendant pulled me up to a sitting position and told me to stay put. The technician had disappeared; I didn’t know where she was.

Realizing the incredible challenge ahead of me, I forced myself to speak. “I can’t do this,” I slurred, sounding like a drunk. “Something was wrong with that drink,” I frantically proclaimed, but my throat was tight and my lungs were so empty of air, I gulped down the last word, gasping to regain my breath.

“You can’t sit?” She was pissed. The attendant roughly grabbed my hands. “Hold on to the table like this,” she mocked me sarcastically as she took control, twisting and mangling my fingers, forcing them around the hard edge of the table.

I tried to pull my hands away but wasn’t strong enough to escape her grasp. My only defense was to let my hands go limp, as she continued crushing my fingers under the lip of the metal top until she was satisfied, her energies spent. She walked away, heels clicking across the floor, and I held on for dear life.

Alone, I busied myself by looking around the empty room, trying to stay awake. I saw a clock on the far wall. I tried see what time it was but couldn’t focus on the numbers or dials. They were impossible to distinguish, because the light was incredibly bright and the air much too foggy. I suddenly felt like I was tipping and consciously clenched the table edge more firmly. Holding on as tightly as I could with both hands, concentrating on not falling, I peered down at the tile floor. The tiles on the floor were pulsating in and out; damn it, the tiles are moving.

I shifted my eyes away to change my perspective, hoping the floor would stop throbbing and focused on the metal table I was sitting on. An adult man couldn’t fit on this; why is it so narrow? I asked myself. Inspecting the table, pondering my own question, I inadvertently saw a bead of sweat rolling off my arm. As I watched the tiny droplet fall, the shiny tile floor rushed up toward me.

************

I woke up flat on my back, moving. I felt confused and disjointed, lying face up… traveling through a tunnel… black and metal all around me …a tunnel of something mechanical.

“I said, don’t move.”

I heard screaming in the distance.

My hand pulled at my hospital gown; and then instinctively searching for more cloth to grab, I felt bare skin on my hip. Instantly alert, I panicked, and rapidly reaching around in the dark, I discovered my gown had been folded over at an acute angle, uncovering one side of my body. Crap. I was exposed.

“Stop, stop, stop,” a woman yelled out in frustration.

I dropped my hand immediately, realizing the voice was talking to me.

“Be still, I said!” she barked out like a drill sergeant.

Then it dawned on me; I was moving inside the x-ray machine.

I was actually lying on that thin metal plate, on top of that narrow metal table, and I could feel a conveyer belt under each arm. I felt like I was tottering and could fall off in either direction, as the table jerked back and forth, and then halted several times, The technician occasionally shouted orders, which were followed by loud, prolonged grating, clicking, and bright flashing lights. And while all this was going on, I pulled my gown back down to where it belonged, a tiny pinch at a time. Then I waited in the dark tunnel for the picture taking to end.

I didn’t recognize the difference. To me the darkness looked the same. I didn’t know I was unconscious. There I was, waiting patiently to be pulled out of the x-ray machine.

************

I emerged from the darkness completely encased in blankets; even my face was covered. Blinking my eyes, I realized my head was lying sideways on my lap, as though my lap were a suitable pillow. Light was shining between my legs, and I became slowly aware that I was sitting in the wheelchair again. Stunned, and bent over, I tried to lift myself up. I couldn’t; I had no power. As I lay hunched over, trying to figure out what to do next, I realized my peculiar position was strangely comfortable. Relieved that I wasn’t in excruciating pain, I relaxed as a shattering noise echoed all around me, dragging me back into the abyss.

************

The sound of voices and multiple footsteps woke me. My head was still in my lap. I opened my eyes and saw five sets of brown leather shoes walk by. Positioning my head at another angle, I watched the group of shoes through the weave of the blanket as they moved further down the hall. When they turned the corner, I saw the bottoms of their stark white jackets and knew instantly that they were interns.

I didn’t know where I was.

I turned my head to face the other way and saw that I was pushed up against a white plaster wall. I looked up and down, back and forth, across to the other side and up ahead as far as I could. There wasn’t one set of double doors anywhere, nor a pointing red arrow. There was a diagonal doorway behind me, though, across the hall. The walls outside the double glass doors had some kind of decorations painted on them. What happened to me?

Then it dawned on me who my attendant was; I realized I was going to have to sit up on my own. Bracing my hands against the blankets and armrests, I attempted to lift myself up. Trying to sit, I used all of my strength, but nothing happened. In fact, the harder I pressed upwards, the more physical resistance I felt. Unable to budge my own weight, I stopped bracing myself and lay back down to rest; but my lungs felt compressed, and I couldn’t take in a deep breath.

Shallowly breathing, I lay there considering my quandary, realizing how vulnerable I was. I had never felt so mentally out of it or physically drained before. This surely couldn’t be good. It occurred to me that I might be dying. Carnal fear rose up from deep inside me, spinning disorientation and confusion into panic.

Terrified and in the battle of my life, I tried to dispel the fog from my mind and even though I was completely depleted, I fought desperately against the dark gravity that was pushing me down. I just wanted to escape this mess and get back to my room. Shifting my eyes back and forth, I looked up, down and all around me. From inside the enclosure, the blankets appeared to be a poorly constructed tent. Panicked, I thrust my left arm out sideways, desperately pressing against the taut cloth, hoping to uncover my face. Something shifted across my back, and a pile of folded blankets dropped onto the floor beside me.

Stunned, I stared at the blankets on the floor. I could not believe what I was seeing and to prove myself wrong I forced my other arm out. As my hand touched the hard plaster wall beside me, another pile started to fall, but got stuck between the wheelchair, me and the wall. Why? The folded blankets crammed up against the wall beside me exposed their betrayal; the truth being too painful to absorb, I shook my head and ignored what they had done. Invigorated by the threat of dying in such an undignified way, I redoubled my efforts.

After a couple of false starts, I regained some of my coordination and was able to fling my arms around inside the covers. I concentrated on freeing myself by moving my arms in and out, back and forth, and up and down -- puffing the material out in different directions -- but for all the effort I exerted, I made almost no progress. I was still wrapped in blankets, including the one covering my face.

Resting again, hunched over, head in my lap, I busied myself by peeking out through the pinholes of the material and scrutinizing the office behind me. From a distance, the decorations around the glass doors looked adorable, as if it were a childrens’ medical office. I wondered if the employees’ working hours were over, but after watching for awhile, I determined the office was closed, and the silent halls started to spook me. I really was alone. I gave up wishing for the glass doors to magically open and renewed my resolve to sit up.

It seemed that no matter how much I struggled or what I did, I could not release myself from the awkward position. I knew intellectually that I was dying, and this circumstance proved very convincing. Frustrated and desperate, I focused all my attention and limited energy on overcoming my inability to perform the simple task of sitting. Immersed in my struggle, I almost missed the fact that someone was passing by, but my survival instinct took over, and without thinking, my arm flew down, under and out of the blanket, wildly flinging outside the left rim of the wheelchair wheel.

“Oh, my God,” I heard a male voice say; then footsteps rushed toward me.

Relieved, I withdrew my arm, feeling incredibly lucky and lay down to rest again, waiting to be rescued.

“I didn’t know there was a person in there; I thought you were just a bunch of blankets.” He was rapidly unstacking folded blankets off me as I struggled to sit up. “I walked right past you at least twice,” he admitted apologetically, sounding like he was taking personal responsibility for my dilemma.

I tried to talk, but produced only a hushed grunting noise.

“I should have known better,” he reprimanded himself. “I’ve seen this more than once,” he continued explaining, or was he still berating himself? I wasn’t sure, and I didn’t care. To me, he was a hero.

“Thank you,” I whispered hoarsely, pushing out the words. Just saying those two words made me feel like I had climbed a mountain. All my life, speaking had been like breathing; I never gave a second thought about either. These were parts of life that just occurred effortlessly, naturally. Now, not only was I thinking about the energy it took to say just two words, but I was also very concerned about my hampered breathing. Oxygen seemed to touch only the top tips of my lungs and not go down any deeper.

“It’s not a problem,” he said, still pulling off blankets. “It’s my fault, really; I should have looked closer when I saw your chair here.”

I stared down between the footrests as he talked and saw multiple stacks of blankets on the floor alongside the wheelchair. It looked like he had been to the Laundromat and was just finishing up his chores. Stunned by the sheer volume of blankets he picked off me, I could not grasp what was going on.

“What happened?” I asked, bewildered, as he pulled on the blanket that surrounded me, changed his mind and dropped it.

“My best guess is, someone didn’t want to return you to your floor after a test. They get lazy like that sometimes and just park their patients here,” he explained while examining the entrapment, as if what I was experiencing was normal. “I don’t know why someone piled all these blankets on you, though.” He sounded as confused as I felt.

I tried to lift my head off my lap again but still couldn’t sit up and discouraged by my own neediness, tears sprang to my eyes.

“Hold on, there are a few more blankets on you. It looks like someone tied you down, too,” he said, removing the short row of blankets away from the wall. He dropped those blankets on the floor with the others. “Are you dangerous?” he asked, suddenly cautious.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

Leaning over, he tried to look at me through the woven texture of the cloth. “It looks like you’ve been tied down pretty good here. Is there a reason I shouldn’t release you?”

Are you serious, I thought, confused.

He leaned closer to my face, and we stared into each others eyes through the mesh. He nodded, answering his own question and then stood up, grabbed hold of the blanket on my back and started pulling.

I exhaled, relieved that I didn’t have to argue with him to be freed.

Suddenly, the blanket he was tugging on popped out from the right side of the armrest, then came off my face, and lifted from over my back. Surprised, I felt the pressure release. At last I was free. I smiled at him as I pulled myself to a sitting position. I couldn’t breathe all the way in, but at least I could breathe a little better.

Gawking, he stood frozen in place.

Looking down, I saw another blanket scrunched up lying across my thighs and knees. The clump of cloth looked like someone had made a shoddy attempt at creating a cushion. I pushed it off my lap, disgusted. Whoever did this to me, knew what they were doing, I thought, and I glanced at the teenager.

He quickly shifted his eyes away and started pulling on the blanket again. “It won’t budge,” the young man complained, and then throwing his full energy into removing the blanket, he pulled up sharply, tugging me with it -- I felt myself rising, tilting to one side and slipping forward.

“Wait,” I called out, with more air than voice, trying to stop him from tipping me over or pulling me off the chair altogether. “I think it’s under me.”

Alarmed, he dropped the blanket and squatted down to examine how the fabric was attached to the wheelchair. “I’ll be damned,” he commented, shoving aside some of the blankets on the floor, moving the chair to look at another angle. “You’re sitting on it. Now, why did they do that?” he asked, completely perplexed. “Who did this to you?”

“I don’t know,” I gasped. None of this sense, the pieces were slowly falling into place. Too slowly. Why someone had intentionally folded me in half, used a blanket placed under my bottom and thrown over my back to hold me in place, was beyond my grasp. What did I do? My mind was reeling. The fact that someone had secured me in this hunched, bent position and then abandoned me somewhere hurt my feelings. Wasn’t dying punishment enough?

He looked down at me sympathetically and leaned toward me, offering to lift me off the cloth. I wrapped my arms around his neck as he picked me up a few inches and pulled the blanket out from underneath, tossing it away with the others.

“Where am I?” I asked as he put me back down. That’s when I noticed the triangular white paper hat and polyester top he was wearing. He couldn’t have been much older than my daughter Diana.

“You’re outside the cafeteria,” he beamed proudly. “I’m the dishwasher here.” He opened his arms wide, indicating the expanse of the hospital.

“So, I did hear shattering,” I commented to myself, realizing that what I had heard before made some kind of sense.

“Yeah, I haven’t dropped a tub in a long time, I swear.” He looked embarrassed. “But I get to moving around so fast sometimes, it just happens.” He shrugged.

I nodded, smiling up at him. He sounded like my daughter as well; she liked to dance in grocery store aisles and never could quite understand why people found it hard to avoid her. Cute, earnest, and semi-conscious seem to go hand-in-hand with adolescence.

“Well, I better get back to work,” he said, taking a step away. He smiled broadly as he looked at the mass of blankets and then me, proud of himself.

“How will I get back to my room?” I asked, totally panicked. Not thinking, I said the whole sentence in one breath, and it felt like the insides of my lungs were touching. Even though I hurt and hadn’t said much yet, I knew if there was ever a time to speak up, that time was now.

“Just push on the wheels like this,” he patiently explained, bending over next to me, moving his hands above the wheels.

“I’m not strong enough. I’m terminally ill,” I told him, pointing at my splotchy and fuzzy bald head. The idea that the boy would leave me alone in the hallway to fend for myself crushed me, and I found myself coming undone, emotionally deteriorating right before him. Tears rolled down my cheeks, and although I didn’t have enough strength to cry physically, internally I was sobbing.

He gave me a pained expression, and I was terrified he would leave.

“I swear I’ll vouch for you. I’ll have a nurse call down,” I promised, pleading, forgetting to breathe.

“I can’t. I’ll get in trouble,” he protested. He looked at me like he didn’t believe such a thing could happen.

“This is an emergency,” I prompted, panting, wiping the tears from my eyes. My adrenaline began to surge again, inciting me to rapidly shift gears. “Please, don’t just leave me here.” I was begging, scared and desperate. I didn’t want to take advantage of the young man, and I didn’t want him to lose his job, but the thought of sitting there until someone else came along who was willing to help me was too much to take. The fear of dying there was even worse. One way or another, I had to convince him.

“Ma’am, I’m not allowed to push patients around,” he looked genuinely sorry. “I only started working here this last summer.”

“Are you allowed to leave terminally ill patients alone in the hall?” As I leaned forward to catch my breath, I recognized I wasn't being fair to him, but I was being reasonable.

“I’m not sure,” he replied, looking confused.

“I promise you won’t get in trouble. One call will fix everything. They’ll probably give you a pat on the back even,” I pointed out the good side of helping me. If I had to recite the Girl Scout oath, I would.

“My boss isn’t real happy with me right now. That’s the second tub I’ve dropped this week,” he admitted, sighing. He put his hand to his chin, considering the possible benefit to him and the possible losses.

“I’ll have the nurse tell your boss that you helped save a terminally ill woman in an emergency situation,” I painted the picture. Fatigued, I closed my eyes to conserve energy while I talked. I also noticed that if I carefully gauged my puffs of air and took a breath between every few syllables, my words sounded clearer, and I didn’t gulp or gasp as much.

“Could you really have a nurse call down here?” he asked, becoming more interested.

“I’m sure I could. After all, I am terminally ill and I have been left in the hall. Don’t you think they would be happy you helped me?” I pointed out the obvious. “I’ll even tell your boss myself that you saved me. How does that sound?” I hoped it sounded good, because the more I talked the more faint I felt, and my voice was rapidly becoming inaudible.

“You don’t have to do all that,” he blushed. “But if the nurse could call down -- you see, if someone who works here said something nice about me, that might help,” he explained, seriously contemplating my offer. “My boss threatened to cut my hours today,” he confessed.

“I could call, too,” I offered again, smiling weakly, leaning my forehead into the palms of my hands, trying to breathe. Pacing my breathing -- so I could talk and breathe at the same time -- made me feel like I was chasing air. Each sentence felt like another lap around the track. I wondered if this was how paraplegics felt.

“Hell, it couldn’t hurt. And you’d tell him I helped save you?” he asked, pinning me down.

“Yup, I’ll tell him you saved me and everything.” I uncupped my hands, reopened my eyes and looked right at him.

“It’s a deal,” he finally agreed and then picked up a folded blanket from the top of a stack.

“Are they going to have to wash all those?” I asked, pointing at the bundles on the floor.

“Oh yeah, they’re dusty now,” he replied, kicking them out of the way, against the wall behind me. He unfolded the one he was holding and carefully draped it over me.

I sat there silently; I couldn’t even begin to explain.

“Don’t worry, I will pick them up when I get back,” he assured me.

“Thanks,” is all I said. Happy to be returning to some kind of normalcy, I sat up taller in my chair and pulled the new blanket up securely under my chin, feeling safer.

“At your service, mademoiselle,” the teenager replied with a smile and flamboyant bow. Then he darted to the back of the wheelchair and grabbed hold of the handles. “Where to?”

“Before we go, could you let me see the decorations around those glass doors?” I asked, pointing behind me, pacing my breaths better. I was still trying to put things together and had to know what environment I was in before escaping it.

“You want to read the menu?” he asked confused, pulling the chair backwards toward the glass doors.

“Menu? Oh, never mind, then,” I blushed. I was actually outside a hospital cafeteria. The menu on the door made it true.

“Where to now?” he asked, as if we had already gone somewhere, pushing me forward. His youth and spirit were refreshing.

I smiled back toward him gratefully, completely worn down, but relieved. “The ICU/Medical floor. Do you know where that is?” At last, I was going to my room.

“Sure, I’ve been on all the floors,” he bragged and made a turn around the same corner the interns used. “By the way, where were you?” he asked, curious, making causal conversation.

“X-ray.”

“You were in x-ray?” he asked, astonished. “No way!”

“Yes way. Why?” I asked, looking back at his surprised face. “How far from x-ray are we?”

“That’s over on the other side of the building,” he claimed.

We stopped talking. Both of us knew something was terribly wrong, but neither one of us wanted to address the issue, so we quietly traveled along, weaving this way and that. I tried to comprehend what had happened, as he rolled me toward my destination,

but my mind wasn’t clear enough and there were too many blank spots. Sheer adrenaline and fear were the only things keeping me going.

By the time we got to the elevator, I became worried the young man would lose his job. I knew any boss in his right mind would help me himself if their positions were reversed. However, I also knew bosses could ride young adults pretty hard, especially minimum wage workers. When we got inside the elevator, and were moving along, I looked back at him. “You’re doing the right thing, you know.” I wasn’t sure if I was reassuring him or myself.

“I know,” he responded confidently, watching the numbers pass by. “My grandma wouldn’t forgive me if I left you in the hall like that, and I wouldn’t even want to hear from my mom,” he added.

“Tell your grandma I said that she and your mom raised a fine man. And be sure to brag about saving me, because you really are.” I lost my breath again, swallowing the last words, mangling their pronunciation. I was so thankful to be out of that hallway, I decided to give something back, to plant a seed of self-perception. I gulped down a few short breaths and started talking again. “Also, you’re going to have… a great story to tell… your grandkids one day. About the time… you were a hero… and saved a little old lady.” I chuckled softly at my self-reference, and he smiled down at me.

“You’re silly,” he replied modestly. “Let’s just get you to your room.”

I looked over, and he was blushing, his ears bright red. Sweet kid. When put to the test, he chose social integrity. I hoped my daughters would eventually find young men like him.

The elevator doors opened.

************

“Oh, my God,” Angie shouted, startling me, causing me to jump straight up in the wheelchair. She ran right toward me as the young man pushed me out of the elevator. When she came closer and saw me head on, the alarmed look on her face baffled me. I knew I was bad off, but I didn’t know I had deteriorated so much that I could frighten a nurse. I was certain she was over-reacting. I was so much better off than I was five minutes before. I looked up at her, confused; after all, I was going back to my room.

“What did they do to you?” she demanded, shouting again, panicked. I was too relieved to feel scared, but I was amazed she was on duty. Happy that she was standing right there, because in my heart I knew Angie would protect me, and I wouldn’t be hurt anymore. I would be safe. I felt a part of me collapse.

Angie pulled the chair away from the teenager by the armrests, leaned over, and lightly pinched the skin on my arm. “Damn,” she stated, then pulled my face into her hands and tugged down one of my eyelids. “What happened to you? You’ve been missing for hours,” she declared and frantically continued examining me.

I started to raise my hand to begin talking, but the young man proceeded instead.

“Someone left her outside of the cafeteria, with a bunch of blankets piled on her,” he explained, standing there uncomfortably.

She looked at me, and I nodded.

“She was supposed to be in x-ray,” Angie told him, exasperated.

“Yeah, I know, that’s what she said. She was all bent over and stuff.”

“You need to call his boss,” I blurted out, pointing at his paper hat. “I promised. His boss doesn’t know that he’s gone.” Talking without thinking first caused me to start wheezing and choking again.

“That’s not important,” he insisted, looking over at me with concerned.

Angie smiled at me and then stood the rest of the way up. “Don’t worry, I will,” she said, patting my shoulder.

But I had to be certain she understood. “Seriously Angie, you've got to tell his boss he saved me and this was an emergency,” I panted, deliberately taking breaths in-between each word. I had to be clear; the boy depended on me.

“Seriously, I will,” she said, smiling that smile of hers.

I relaxed, and felt myself sink further into the chair. I knew she would come through.

“I need you to conserve your energy. Don’t talk,” she instructed me smiling, bringing her finger to her lips. However, as she walked behind my chair, I saw her expression change. She was mad enough for the both of us. Trusting her to take care of me, I let go some more.

Angie took the handles of the wheelchair and pushed me so forcefully I felt like I was floating across the shiny white floor into my room. The young man followed us without being asked, but he waited tentatively outside the doorway. Angie pushed down on the wheelchair brakes, locking the wheels in place, and then started examining me all over again.

“Come on in,” she called out to the boy as she inspected my scalp. “I’m going to need you to help me.”

The young man hesitantly stepped inside.

“How long have the IVs been like this?” she asked the boy, as if he could know the answer. She untangled the lines, then pulled the plastic strings together. “She’s dehydrated.”

I wanted to help, so I was trying to think of the answer too. I realized I had no idea what time it was now, then, or any other time this past afternoon. That’s when I saw my dinner tray on the bed stand, sitting within reach on the other side of my bed. My mind floated away, thinking about the lunch lady and how disappointed I was that I had missed seeing her. The room grew silent, and I caught myself drifting off. I looked up at Angie, who smiled at me helplessly, waiting. I hated dying.

“I walked by her at least twice during the dinner hour,” the dishwasher interjected, still feeling guilty.

Angie realized I didn’t know, and he didn’t know either. She stared at the wall, her face contorting in anger. Outraged, she threw the gathered lines angrily at the air, and they swung back and forth. “We’ve been sabotaged,” she exclaimed. “We have to put in new IV lines. And who knows how long you’ve been without liquids and medications.” She looked at her watch. Then she started talking to herself as she jumped into action. “Damn it. I leave for eight hours, and everything goes to hell. I promised I would help pull you through all this and now they went and did this to you.” She was livid.

I felt a strong impulse to tell her about the promiscuous nurse, but realized it was the least of my problems, and it could wait for another time. Besides, I didn’t want the boy to hear. Instead, I watched as Angie dashed over, poured some water into a cup and handed it to me. Then she turned her attention to my bed. Yanking the fresh covers down, she flung herself forward and spread across the sheet, quickly laying it down flat.

I was too weak to laugh.

Angie got back on her feet, and pointing toward me, announced, “First things first; we’ve got to get her back where she belongs.” Then she took a step forward, removed the blanket and started folding it in half.

The teenager nodded and jumped in to assist her by unlocking the brakes and pushing me closer to the mattress.

“We got a call up here about three hours ago, and they said she was causing all sorts of trouble down at x-ray. They said she threw herself off a table and then took off,” Angie told the young man.

I wanted to protest. I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell them everything. “I think I fainted,” was all I could get out.

They both turned toward me, waiting for me to say more, and the room fell silent again.

Put on the spot like that, I couldn’t even construct a complete thought to defend myself. Trapped by how physically wiped out I was, I looked between Angie and the teenager, feeling completely vulnerable.

“It doesn’t look like she could have done much of anything to me,” the young man commented. “And I doubt if she could have tied herself up like that.”

“Tied up? You mean secured,” Angie corrected him.

“I never saw anyone secured like that before,” he rolled his eyes. “They had her head tied down to her lap.”

Angie’s eyebrow rose up, and she looked in his direction. He nodded, smiling, sure of himself.

“And I know she couldn’t have tied herself up, and then stacked all those folded blankets on top of herself.” He upped the ante to prove he was right.

I was glad he told her straight out how it was, but hearing it said aloud and so bluntly, made the whole experience seem less like a dream and more real.

Angie looked back down at me, thinking, and then said over her shoulder, “After I call your boss, I would like to talk to you at the nurses’ station.” She didn’t ask; she ordered him.

The young man flashed me a scared look. I just sat there, surprised by Angie’s firm tone.

“She was under a bunch of folded blankets. I swear I didn’t realize that she was under there.”

“What?” Angie asked, not understanding.

I watched immobilized as he started to panic, describing what he saw.

“I thought they were using a wheelchair to take blankets to the emergency room again. How could I have known?”

Angie looked at him, confused by his defensiveness. I knew she wasn’t trying to put him on the spot or interrogate him, so I spoke up. “Angie knows you didn’t do anything wrong,” I told him and then, wheezing, I looked at her and said, “Angie, he’s my hero,” and in truth, he was.

He smiled proudly at her nodding his head up and down and looked a little less nervous. But I could tell his mind was racing a mile a minute.

“Just tell her the truth. She’s cool,” I puffed out, talking to him with the same intonation I used with Diana or her friends.

He nodded at me, and I smiled back.

“Okay, let’s get the show on the road,” Angie said, clapping her hands together. She gave the boy a friendly look of approval, as she took the cup of water from me. “Want to help me get her up?” she asked, including him, lightening the mood of the room.

I felt relieved, but this was exhausting.

The boy offered me his neck again, and I used it to help pull myself up.

Angie stood back, surprised. She continued watching as she placed the cup on the bed stand, and her smile widened as she observed us.

“Tell your boss I said he should be an orderly,” I told Angie as he pulled me away from the footrests so I wouldn’t trip.

“That’s not a bad idea. Where did you learn that trick?” Angie asked, reaching out to take over. She tenderly pushed the small of my back, turning me, and then tilted me back and forth until I was right next to the mattress.

“My grandma is in a wheelchair at home,” he revealed, as he moved my wheelchair out of the way.

I looked over Angie’s shoulder into his eyes, and he stared back into mine. Suddenly I was lifted upward and with Angie cradling me to cushion the blow, I landed softly on the mattress. What had happened in the x-ray room came flooding back. With new understanding, I watched as Angie stood up and brushed a displaced hair out of her face.

“Thanks for being so gentle,” I said.

She looked at me curiously.

“I’ve had a rough day,” I added, pushing my feet under the covers.

Angie chuckled, and I tiredly smiled back at both of them. She was leaning over, helping me layer the covers, when the young man urgently spoke up, pointing.

“Where did she get that?” he asked, his mouth gaping open in shock.

Sluggishly, I leaned over, deliberately shifting my eyes and to see where he was pointing. My left sleeve had rolled up, and on the inside of my arm was a long black, purple and red bruise spread out in a bold, solid line. It looked like I’d been hit with a stick. I twisted my arm to see the other side. There were four dime-sized, dot-shaped bruises. I was too weary to care. I shrugged, put my arm back down and turned on my side. “Thanks for everything,” I told them. I laid my head on the pillow.

Angie leaned over me and gently pulled down my sleeve. “I don’t know, but I’m going to get to the bottom of this,” she assured him. As she tucked the covers snuggly around me, I noticed the young man continued to stare with his mouth still hung open.

Closing my eyes, I rapidly retreated into the safety and comfort of sleep.

*****
To Read Chapter Four, Five and the first section of Chapter Six, visit: www. CommonManForAmerica .com

.

Thank you so much my Brave Heart Sisters for your support and obvious interest in the book I wrote to bring the subject of our country's Medical Culture to the fore-front and give us the ability to raise our voices, regarding this most personal subject.

I am deeply touched that so many of you have visited the website and read the chapters in full. This caused me to reconsider how I was posting them a section at a time and I now recognize that reading the chapters in whole does add proper context and greater understanding of the story being told. So, from here on, I will post an additional chapter each week and become engaged in regular blogging activities again.

Again, thank you for your support and the care that you have shown to me.

∞ Chapter Two ∞

The next morning a new nurse woke me. She was about my age and in great spirits as she excitedly introduced herself. For no apparent reason she poured a glass of water and then launched into telling me how similar we were and how sorry she was for my condition.

“Looking at you reminds me of where I should be myself,” she declared, pointing at my hospital bed.

Staring at her blankly, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“I am just lucky, I guess,” she continued. “I used to live my life much as you did, but when I got tested, the result was negative. For the life of me, I don’t know how I didn’t get the disease myself,” she chuckled, and then added, her voice instantly grave, “I should be lying where you are now.”

“What kind of life do you think I lived?” I asked, using the bed control to sit up.

“You have AIDS and you don’t have tracks, so it is pretty obvious. But I don’t judge you. I used to be promiscuous myself, you know.” She smiled broadly, as if we were members of the same club.

I sat speechless, sickened by her assumption.

“It’s okay -- you don’t have to deny what you’ve done with me. I used to sleep with any man who asked. I used to hang out at truck stops, you know.”

My mind was reeling. I couldn’t believe what this nurse was confessing to me, and what in the hell did truck stops have to do with anything? The situation felt incredibly surreal.

“Wow,” I stammered. “I assure you, I was not like that.”

“I know it is hard to admit,” she said, blowing me off. “It took a lot of counseling for me to confront my own past, so I can only imagine what you’re going through. You don’t have to feel ashamed with me, though. You can be completely open, because frankly, you couldn’t tell me anything I haven’t done myself.” She laughed at her own admission.

I sat back, horrified. How could I relate to what this stranger was revealing about herself? I didn’t know how I was supposed to respond. I wasn’t sure if she was looking for absolution or forgiveness -- but why did she need redemption from me?

I was baffled. What if her confessions were true? What was I supposed to say? “I am glad you were spared my fate; go forward, my child, and tell my story to all other promiscuous women,” or “I forgive you for testing negative; go in peace.”

What was she looking for? No employee who is stable would humiliate herself as brazenly as this nurse did, to the point of degrading herself in front of me, unless there was a motive.

“…because I really do understand,” she continued, rattling on, coaxing me.

“I … I don’t know what to say,” I managed to babble. Then suddenly it dawned on me. If she was really a nurse looking out for my well-being, the last thing she would do is tell me such intimate details about herself. What other possible reason could this nurse, a certified professional, have for confessing all to an unknown woman on her deathbed? Was this her regular practice with terminally ill individuals?

If this nurse was truly so psychologically unbalanced that she ordinarily used terminally ill patients as an emotional conduit or confessional to absolve herself of her so-called past promiscuous lifestyle, then she needed to have her license revoked. And surely, someone would have noticed her bizarre behavior long before her visit with me.

As she rambled on in the background, I continued to examine the facts. Common sense told me that my suspicions were true and this was a hoax. What the intention was I didn’t know, but I recognized the game. Send in the good cop to empathize with the individual’s plight in order to gain trust so the individual either talks or confesses. And in this scenario, I was that individual.

But, confess to what? This whole production was inexplicable -- here was a caretaker, posing as “the promiscuous nurse” to gain my confidence, so I would tell her what -- my sins? I wasn’t sure what the staff was after, but what became clear was the fact that my medical team, in all of their wisdom, decided to think the worst about my character.

That’s when I noticed how much we looked alike. She was a blond, blue-eyed girl of German descent, square jaw line and solid build. “Wow, this setup took quite a bit of effort, not to mention nerve,” I mumbled under my breath. Engrossed in her own tangent, she didn’t hear me.

“It’s okay,” the promiscuous nurse assured me, leaning over to pat my foot. “I’ve been assigned to your case and someday soon you will want to talk, and when you do, I will be here for you.” She had finally given up.

I only nodded.

“And please realize, I have been where you have and I won’t judge. I just got lucky and tested negative is all. But for the grace of God … well, you understand what I mean.”

Boy, did I ever, and I resented it. I resented the whole charade.

************

No sooner had the promiscuous nurse left than I heard the rumble of footsteps stampeding toward my room. The herd stopped just outside my door; then the expert dismissed herself and disappeared down the hallway to check on something.

I tried to count the many faces standing in the doorway while we all waited for the doctor’s return, but the students kept bobbing around and I repeatedly lost track, and had to start over. As I counted, I noticed the interns were reacting differently to the wait. Some joked around, distracting themselves, while others wouldn’t even look into my room, opting instead to stare at the floor or gaze at the ceiling tiles. Only one, the young man who stood on his tip-toes the day before, attempted to make eye contact with me.

When the doctor finally returned, the crowd of students parted down the middle to allow her access through the door. She came in and sat on the end of my bed, then waved the students forward. They clamored inside, completely surrounding me just as they had the day before. The doctor looked at me and snapped her fingers blindly in the students’ direction. A petite young girl nervously stepped forward and handed the doctor my chart.

“Good morning,” she stated at last, after she settled herself in.

“Morning,” I responded, bracing myself.

“How are you doing this morning?” she asked.

“Horrible, and it’s getting worse. I am hurting a whole lot more. And by any chance, do you know when this nausea and vomiting will start to improve?”

“It won’t, but we have medicines to help you with that,” she replied uninterestedly, opening the chart.

“I’ve been getting a lot of those shots, but they only help for a couple of hours. Then I dry heave for the next couple of hours, or until the next shot comes.”

“We’ll add another anti-nausea medication to the shot and see if a combination can get that under better control,” she said, writing something down.

I smiled, grateful for promised relief. “Is there anything we can do about the intense aching and muscle spasms?”

“After we check your blood, then we’ll better know what course to take. We need to find out if there is anything happening chemically that is triggering your spasms. Don’t worry, we’re going to address that right away,” she assured me, looking toward her students.

I nodded. “And I know this is going to sound strange, but there is sporadic stinging moving down my legs into my feet, and here’s the strange part -- it feels like my bones are on fire. It’s really hard to explain, but it burns and it is getting worse,” I told her, leaning over, putting pressure on my shins. “Do you know what is causing this?”

“It’s the HIV,” she asserted with certainty.

“That can’t be true. I didn’t have this before yesterday. This pain came on the heels of taking those new medications,” I argued.

“If it is the medications, which I highly doubt, then that symptom should improve. However, many people with HIV have aching in their muscles; this is a common complaint. HIV is kind of like the flu. I think your muscles are hurting you and not your bones; you are confused.”

“HIV is the flu?”

“I said, similar to. What do you think the V stands for?” she asked me, grinning.

Damn; sudden realization washed over me. HIV was like having a permanent flu virus, only worse. Awakened to the truth about my situation, I felt completely powerless to do anything that would change my course. “And you think the pain in my legs is only in my muscles?” I asked, pushing away my own physical awareness.

“That is most logical.”

I nodded, trying to convince myself the fire I felt emanating from my bones was only very achy muscles. “When will the burning improve?”

“If it is the HIV causing this, never. If it is the medications, in time, as you adjust; that’s the general rule.”

I swallowed hard. “In time” didn’t sound very hopeful in my case, especially since time was exactly what I didn’t have; or did I? Realizing I needed to make sure, I started to ask, but saw that the doctor was busily writing orders in my chart. After waiting a moment, I softly whispered, “When you’re finished writing, I would like to talk to you about something else.”

“I can talk and write at the same time,” she snapped, as if I had called her intelligence into question.

“Hmm… well, I was talking with my dad last night and he has convinced himself that these new medicines I’m taking are going to miraculously restore my health, kind of like penicillin does.”

She burst out in hearty laughter, and then turned toward her students, including them. I didn’t know quite how to proceed, but I did anyway, glad that I hadn’t brought up Angie’s prediction.

“Seriously,” I implored, growing defensive. “Dad looked up a lot of information about the drugs you are giving me, and he says there is great hope and asked me to talk to you again, just in case I had misunderstood.”

“You silly woman,” she began, talking down to me as though I were something pathetic. “Look at yourself. You’ve lost most of your hair, you’ve got thrush growing down your throat into your lungs, and your fingernails are blue. You know how you feel; do you honestly think you have a chance?”

“No, my dad thinks I have a chance,” I corrected her, flustered. Then I understood her other words and sat back, stunned. “There’s thrush in my lungs?” I muttered weakly. The concept seemed unreal; the image of an out-of-control fungus spreading from my mouth, down into my chest cavity and no other doctor noticing until now, seemed implausible. “Can’t thrush, that advanced, be easily seen?” I asked bewildered.

“Even my students would recognize it,” she chuckled, and some of the students joined in.

“How long would I have been infected for the thrush to progress into my lungs?” I asked as she started writing something else in my chart.

“At least a week, if not more, I would imagine.”

“So my other doctors should have seen it?”

“Let’s not worry about that. We’re doing our best to take care of you now.” She patted me on the leg, which escalated the burning sensation. “What we need to focus on is this battery of tests you are going to take today. We don't know what all you have yet or how many opportunistic infections you're facing. But don't worry, the tests I am ordering will tell us everything. I wouldn't be surprised at all if we discover you have tuberculosis or hepatitis C as well," she predicted, giving me a look of pity.

“I never had those illnesses before,” I interjected, bending forward, pressing down on the length of my leg, trying to chase the fire away.

“We’ll see about that.”

“And can’t the thrush and pneumonia be cured?” I asked, looking up.

“The thrush should get a little better, but you have a hell of a fight on your hands. I don’t think you will be able to overcome the pneumonia, however. Your immune system is really too weak to cure you of anything,” she smirked.

“Don’t my chances depend on maintaining the T-cells I have?”

“Something like that,” she agreed, then rolled her eyes in the direction of her students, as if to indicate how uneducated I was.

“If I am right, two hundred is the level for an AIDS diagnosis. How many T-cells do I have left?”

“You’re right, and as of yesterday morning, you had thirty-four.”

The number echoed in my ears, the sound of it falling like a dead weight into the pit of my stomach.

“Thirty-four? No way!” I shrieked sitting up. The impact of the number made my condition suddenly seem real. “I was just diagnosed HIV positive four days ago! Don’t people with HIV live ten years or more these days? Where is my lead time?” I adamantly demanded, enraged by my loss and forgetting my promise to Angie to remain composed. “Do you have any idea what I could have accomplished with ten more years?”

“You were diagnosed too late for any lead time. I thought we went over this last night,” she replied angrily, obviously impatient with me.

“How long can I live with thirty-four T-cells?”

“I told you this before as well, just yesterday.”

“Three weeks?”

She nodded, annoyed.

“You can’t be serious. Just tell me how to keep the thirty-four T-cells I have now.”

“If I knew how to do that, I would be a Nobel Prize Laureate,” she chuckled, turning toward her audience to include them in her fun.

“At least tell me what causes T-cells to die. Perhaps if I do the opposite, I can prolong my life some.” I was begging.

The doctor pointed blindly over her shoulder toward a student by the door.

“You can’t stop T-cells from dying. They will naturally die off as you struggle to survive,” a student offered.

“How does one recover T-cells?”

The doctor pointed over her opposite shoulder and leaned her chin into the palm of her hand as if bored.

“They grow constantly, but right now yours are being killed off faster than you can produce them,” another student informed me.

“How many T-cells does a healthy person have?” I persisted, looking directly at her.

Without looking back, she lazily pointed sideways.

“Six-hundred would be low normal and twelve hundred high normal,” the terrified student obediently recited.

I nodded toward the young man, stunned. “Then why are you giving me this medicine, if there is no hope? Obviously, those pills are making me sicker and causing me more pain. If I am going to die anyway, why put me through all this?”

“Right now your body is crashing; this medicine will help you survive a little while longer. You do want that time, don’t you?” She looked at me skeptically, sizing me up.

Images of my children flooded my mind. “Of course I do. I want years!”

“So I would think that even you would agree -- a few extra days at this point is a very long time.”

I understood her point, but damn. “So what do I tell my father? I mean, he really thinks I’m going to beat this disease.”

“Just tell him the doctor advises him to stop deluding himself and face the fact that he is going to lose his little girl.”

“I can’t say that to my dad!”

She stood up, obviously uncomfortable and aggravated. “Like I said, I’m sending up a few specialists today. They will be running quite a number of tests on you. I want you to cooperate so we can find out how many illnesses you are infected with,” she advised me, handing my chart back to the petite intern. “After we get the results back, we will decide where to go from there. People like you usually have all kinds of underlying problems.” She turned to leave the room. The students moved aside, cramming themselves against the walls and each other to provide a clear pathway for her to the door.

“Hey,” I yelled after her as she exited. “I need you to send up the waiver so I can sign it. We need to get my medical records from California,” I reminded her as she continued walking away.

“We’ll worry about that later,” she retorted without looking back, waving her hand over her shoulder again, dismissing my request. The students obediently followed her in lockstep out the door, disappearing down the hall from my view.

************

My breakfast arrived shortly after the doctor and her crew left. The lunch lady told me to give it my best shot, and I tried. After only a few bites, the weight of the food exerted pressure on the bottom of my stomach, and my stomach muscles contracted, folding upward and inward, completely rejecting the meal. I had never felt a sensation like that before; beyond producing painful spasms, it felt like my stomach was becoming concave and was about to collapse in on itself. As I leaned over the pink basin, debating whether or not to call the promiscuous nurse to save me, the social workers from the day before flung open my door so forcefully that it slammed up against the wall. Then they entered my room at full throttle, yelling in tandem.

“We’re here to place your kids!”

“And we don’t want any more trouble from you!”

They shouted aggressively, moving toward me.

They came to an abrupt halt together, as what I was doing registered simultaneously in their minds.

I smiled up at them in between the cycles and the looks on their stunned faces almost made the pain worthwhile.

They turned to face each other, chattering in-between themselves. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, however I watched as they fled my room at breakneck speed without another word to me.

I knew they would eventually return, but if I had to suffer this much, at least it was of good use -- it chased the big, bad children stealers away.

************

I decided to avoid the nurse as much as possible, which was fairly easy. While I coped with my unsettled stomach, muscle spasms, and the increasing burning/stinging sensation in my legs, I was presented a long parade of T.B. testers, blood takers, x-ray makers, sputum collectors -- you name it, I got tested for it. Unexpectedly and repeatedly, simple questions turned into an additional battery of tests.

When the first phlebotomist arrived to draw my blood, she brought not only her needles and tubes but also a long list of questions and some students. She explained that in order to protect me, the team needed to know what I had been exposed to -- and the names of every illness I had caught throughout my lifetime.

I was intrigued right away. Living on the fringe of the medical community, I didn’t often get a chance to learn what those strange Latin words meant. I felt like an encyclopedia had dropped by to entertain the nerd inside of me. I was delighted.

The list of questions was incredibly thorough. I was asked about illnesses I had never heard of before and certainly couldn’t pronounce, nor was I capable of imagining them on my own. Some of the illnesses were actually parasites that remain dormant in humans as long as an individual has a T-cell level at fifty or more. Other ailments were conditions that could only be contracted in the backwoods or in foreign rainforests. I tried to assure the head phlebotomist and her students that for me a trip to Kansas felt like a foreign destination, and since I had never traveled outside of Rosarita Beach, Mexico, I could almost guarantee I was free of exotic disease.

The teacher promised the tests would help my doctor distinguish among the various illnesses I was fighting, while eliminating others, and in some cases there were medications I could take to guard against potential infections. By taking the tests, we could better predict which conditions would likely confront me as we moved closer to the “end.” I wondered how close I had to be and how I became “we,” but I was happy for the distraction.

After all the questions were asked, the head phlebotomist ordered the whole list to be tested, saying it was good for her students to practice. Then three students missed seven times, but they eventually drew nine vials of blood, from three different sites. By the time they left, I had Band-Aids covering both arms, and I was exhausted.

************

I decided to call my dad, even though I was tired. With a two-hour time difference, I knew he would be awake and functioning by now but not yet distracted by work or consumed with deadlines.

“Do you have time to talk, or is your schedule really busy today?” I asked with my usual opening.

“It’s busy, but I have a moment. Talk away.”

Just hearing his voice made me feel better, and his familiar instruction to “talk away” felt like a security blanket. Raised as an only child, it’s not hard to be the favorite or the pest, depending on the circumstance.

“Last night my new doctor came in here and told me that once they can’t help me anymore medically, the hospital is going to send me home to die by myself. They know I don’t have any relatives here to help me. They can’t do that, can they?” I asked.

“I’ve never heard of hospitals doing such a thing.”

“Neither have I. Once you’re this sick, you have to stay in the hospital, right? Isn’t that the law?”

“That’s always been my impression. Americans don’t have to die in the streets or unassisted anymore; citizens fought for and earned that right decades ago,” he chuckled.

I felt a tremendous weight lift from me.

“You could decide to go home if you really wanted to, I guess, or you could choose to check into Hospice, but no, Wendy, they can’t force you out onto the street when you’re this sick. That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s what I figured. You wouldn’t believe the thoughts I was having. It was like watching a horror movie run through my mind.” I chuckled with him.

Suddenly there was silence, and then I heard something hit against the wall in the background.

“Dad, are you okay?”

“No. I’m angry. I can’t believe a doctor would tell you something like that. This is the last kind of thing you need to think about now. You need to focus on getting well. From now on, that’s going to be your full-time job, until you’re better, do you hear me?”

“Yes, Dad, I hear you -- twenty-four/seven,” I promised.

“Who is this doctor anyway?” Dad snapped, clearly miffed.

“I don’t know. She came with the hospital I was transferred to. Her name is Dr. Cunningham and everybody around here seems very impressed with her. They all refer to her as “the expert” and Angie says she’s seen her save a few patients before,” I explained. I was becoming increasingly aware that even the slight exertion used to puff out the small increments of air that I needed to speak, caused me considerable fatigue. I felt like I was doing an extended Lamaze exercise.

“Who is this Angie again?”

“She’s my nurse. You’d really like her. Dad, the way everybody acts around here makes me believe what they say about the doctor might be true.”

“So this doctor has been successful then?” His anger transformed into interest.

“I have no reason to doubt that she hasn’t been. The way she throws her weight around here, you’d think she walks on water. She’s one of those ‘Mdeity’ types.”

“Yeah, from what you said before, it sounds like she’s on a real power trip to me as well,” he agreed, trailing off.

“Angie says I need to try to get along with her. She even made me promise.”

“I’ve got some numbers here,” he said, ignoring me and changing the subject. I heard him twirl the Rolodex in the background. “Let me do some calling around. We’ll find out who she really is,” he suggested playfully.

“You’ve really got some numbers there?” I asked, amazed.

“I got quite a few numbers actually.” He commented chuckling, and then I heard the Rolodex spin again.

I giggled. Sometimes even I was surprised by my dad’s moxie. I missed him but knew that he, as the sole proprietor of an architectural firm, had no way to separate from his office on short notice. There wasn’t a chain of managers or employees to cover for my dad’s absence or meet the deadlines, which seemed to travel on a conveyer belt, always coming. He couldn’t leave California and confront Dr. Killjoy for me; it wasn’t that simple. He was stuck. But he could make some calls. My hopes rose, and I knew we’d eventually straighten everything out.

“I know you’ve never suffered fools gladly,” Dad started a familiar lecture from my childhood, interrupting my thoughts. “But this time I vote with Angie. Do your best to get along; and I’m going to call some of these numbers. I’ll get back to you as soon as I find out something.”

“I probably won’t see her again until tonight anyway. I bet she’ll be by herself.” I almost hated being alone with Dr. Killjoy more than being chastised in front of her students.

“Perfect. I’ll get back to you long before tonight, and you remember what I told you.”

“I know, get along with…”

“No,” he interrupted me. “Illegitimi non carborundum.”

“Don’t let the bastards wear you down,” I recited. Apparently, this was my life’s lesson.

************

After our call, I lay down to rest and thought about my situation. The doctor knew nothing about my family and probably thought that because there wasn’t a long line of relatives taking turns holding vigil around my bed, it meant no one cared about me. Why she delightfully jumped to the wrong conclusions was the mystery. I needed to tell her about my family and me. That’s the solution, I thought as I dozed into semi-consciousness.

************

After about ten minutes of drifting along in a hazy half sleep, I dreamed that a book dropped on a white tile floor with a loud clap. Jarred awake, I opened my eyes and saw a wheelchair with an attendant standing expectantly inside the doorway, waiting for me.

“Geesh,” I groaned and pushed the button to raise the bed so I could climb down to the floor.

The attendant smiled brightly and moved the wheelchair closer. She made sure the lines didn’t get tangled as she transferred the bags of liquid to the metal pole on the back of the wheelchair. Then she turned around and smiled again, waiting for me to stand up.

“I’m sorry, but I’m a little slow,” I apologized, swinging my legs off the edge of the mattress and sliding down the side. As I let gravity lift me up and pull me to a standing position, I immediately felt lightheaded and leaned up against the mattress.

“Where are we going?” I asked, buying some time. Instead of improving, the dizziness increased.

“We’re going to get your chest x-rayed,” she stated, like I should be excited to join the adventure.

“After that, can I get some sleep?” I pleaded. Losing strength, my legs began to buckle and I reached out toward her. She took my arm in her hand and helped me regain my balance.

“I think so,” she guessed, as she pulled me around like a rag doll and positioned me, backing me up right over the wheelchair seat.

The room started spinning.

“This won’t take very long,” she promised as she pushed me backward into the chair.

With a plop, the room went black for a moment and then my stomach flipped over. It felt like I was riding a roller coaster and I tried to regain my equilibrium, but lost the battle when the attendant suddenly took control of the chair; pulling me back, then pushing me forward, turning me this way and that, until we got out the door.

“Whoa,” I cautioned breathlessly, trying to get her to stop.

There must have been a misunderstanding, because she suddenly took off down the long hallway. As we careened forward, the blood rush out of my face, my chest muscles tightened and I couldn’t speak. The white walls blurred and the end of the hallway looked black, transforming into a dark tunnel. By the time we came to an abrupt halt, my perception was so skewed, my equilibrium so out of whack, that my brain felt like it flipped over inside of my skull and despite already sitting down, I collapsed.

Attempting to push the dizziness away, I heard doors open and realized that I was sitting in front of the elevator. The attendant thrust me straight inside, facing the wall and a large mirror. I heard the click of a plastic button behind me and rode down, backwards,

toward the floor where the x-rays were taken. If I thought I was unsteady before, I had no clue how extreme this feeling could get. Not only was I experiencing the roller coaster sensation, but now I was spelunking at ninety miles per hour, dropping downward. After doing several revolutions, my stomach jumped into my throat and sat there for the duration. Then my mouth sprang a leak, producing liquid like a hot water fountain.

I waved my hand frantically trying to gain her attention and staring at the mirrors reflection, I could see that she was oblivious, intently watching the numbers shift across the top panel of the elevator. Suddenly the confined space began closing in, then moving out, in pace with my breathing. With such intense physical over-stimulation, I was having trouble swallowing.

When we reached the x-ray floor, she pulled me out and still waving my hand, we headed straight toward the x-ray department. Big red arrows led us to a large hallway where rooms with double doors lined both sides of the walls. I felt liquid gathering up against my windpipe. I simply couldn’t swallow fast enough to keep up.

“I need a basin,” I sputtered urgently, then leaned over gasping, struggling for breath. The thin, warm fluid was generating so quickly that I felt like I was drowning. In desperation, I held my hands under my mouth and caught the watery saliva in my palms.

“Oh, heavens! Why didn’t you say something?” she asked and scurried into one of the rooms with double doors. She promptly returned, throwing a white kitchen towel in my direction and then dropped the small, plastic kidney-shaped bowl into my wet hands.

“Now, don’t go anywhere. I’m going to go get the x-ray technician,” she instructed, and then disappeared through another set of doors across the hall.

I sat there pondering her instruction; Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland had nothing on this.

************

Having AIDS felt like a dream, setting me completely apart from the world I normally experienced. Over the past month, I had been the focal point of a bidding war between three different colleges and when I took too long to decide, the amount of the stipends increased. More money is always nice, but this was about what I was going to do with my life -- my American Dream. Apparently, my past slacker status as a professional student made me a hot commodity on the university circuit because of my multiple degrees, and I wanted to teach.

After so many years of juggling family and working so hard in school -- shifting to different departments to focus on several majors -- I finally discovered where I fit in best. I belonged on the college campus.

So I decided to become an English professor. And lucky me, because of my GPA, the brass ring was within my grasp, all I had to do was say yes. Not only would I be considered competent and become financially independent, at last I would reach my initial goal -- to make my father proud of his little girl’s accomplishment.

Now this.

************

Another technician finally came and pushed me through a set of double doors. In the center of the room was a large x-ray table, and off to one side was a walled off space where the technician both operated the machinery and hid from the radiation. He shuffled the wheelchair back and forth until it rested right next to another machine mounted on the wall, then he leaned over me and pushed down the brakes.

He pointed toward the IV bags and walked away. “Get up,” he ordered over his shoulder.

To dizzy to stand up, I was still sitting there when he returned with two large x-ray panels.

“Get up,” he demanded, impatiently. He placed the panels on the large x-ray table and then turned toward me.

“I am very dizzy. I’m going to need some help,” I explained, handing the small basin and towel up to him.

He took the basin from me with a sour face and pinched the towel by the corner with his index finger and thumb. Holding them way out in front of himself, he carried them over to the large x-ray table and placed them on top.

“Disgusting,” he stated, and then returned to where I was sitting. Without any warning, he pulled me up to a standing position by my upper arms. His large hands pinched into my flesh, and my feet became entangled in the footrests of the wheelchair.

“Stop -- you’re hurting me,” I cried out.

“I didn’t hurt you!” he screamed, jumping back and releasing me.

Off balance, I blindly grabbed hold of the machine’s metal frame, while he was ducking away. My mind, focused on not falling and the pinching, burning sensation in my upper right arm, chose not to argue with an insane man.

He walked over to the table, picked up one of the panels and returned.

“Stand facing the machine,” he barked out, inserting the panel into the back slot, locking it in place.

I turned, obediently facing the machine and wall. If he doesn’t like patients he is clearly in the wrong profession, I thought.

“Not like that,” he shouted and then put his hand in the center of my back and pushed, squeezing me forcefully against the flat metal surface. “Now, wrap your arms around the machine,” he ordered, holding me securely in place.

I cautiously wove my arms through the flat metal braces, avoiding the hard, sharp edges.

“Interlock your fingers,” he ordered, pressing against me.

“I can’t reach,” I told him. I panicked, desperately trying to touch my fingertips together.

“Don’t move.” He gave my back a final shove and then walked away to retrieve the second panel from the x-ray table. Grabbing it, he went and hid behind the wall.

“Breathe in. Hold it.”

I heard the machine click twice and then the grating of metal. He ran back, removed the first panel and replaced it with the second. “Turn sideways,” he ordered.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I told him, turning sideways.

“Don’t tell me you haven’t had these x-rays before,” he snapped, rolling his eyes. He grabbed my arm, pulling it up and over the top of the machine and then started shoving my forearm against the hard edge of the metal casing.

“My bones don’t bend,” I protested, pulling my arm away. “Let me do it myself,” I ordered, regaining some internal strength. What in the world is wrong with me? Normally I would have already told a bully like this where to stick it, I berated myself.

When I raised both arms above my head, my blood dropped into my feet and the room started spinning again. Standing in place, I closed my eyes and promised myself no matter how much the world spun, I would not give him the satisfaction of collapsing.

“Breathe in. Hold it,” I heard from him yell as he traveled across the room to his cavern.

Click, click, then the grating.

When the grating stopped, I leaned forward, using the arm of the wheelchair to brace myself. Shifting my weight, I swung around and dropped down into the seat. I unlocked the brakes and pulled against the floor with my feet, moving away from the wall, attempting to leave.

He hurried past me, took the second panel out, put it under his armpit with the other and seized the wheelchair. He pushed me over to the large table, where he picked up the basin and towel, and then deliberately dropped them into my lap. Then he swung the chair around and pushed me out into the corridor.

He darted across the hall toward another set of double doors, opened them, and disappeared, leaving me there alone to clean up the mess.

************

I began to shiver as the first attendant returned me to my room upstairs. Hospital gowns don’t provide much warmth, especially when wet -- and that was all I was wearing. I was trembling when the attendant helped me sit on the edge of the bed and after she changed my gown, I watched her transfer the saline bags from the wheelchair to the IV poles. When she hurried away to fetch her next patient, I was tired, but relieved and crawled into the bed, pulling the blankets around me.

Leaning back, I noticed my bed stand was pushed into the far corner holding a food tray. I had missed the lunch lady and wondered what goodies she had brought today, but that would have to wait. I didn’t trust my balance enough to retrieve the bed stand on my own, so I tugged the covers over my head to regain my body-warmth first. As the heat began to generate, I relaxed and fell to sleep.

************

I woke up feeling someone tapping my shoulder. Nuzzling the blanket under my chin, I opened and closed my eyes several times, attempting to adjust. In those moments of peaceful sleep, I had forgotten where I was.

The nurse, who had accused me of being promiscuous, was standing over me. Sighing, I rolled over onto my back and hit the button to raise the bed. As I rose, sitting upright, I noticed a lab technician standing off to the side, behind the nurse.

“It’s time for your medicine,” the nurse told me, tapping the tray.

“I need to get in there too,” the lab technician called out.

“Go to the other side,” the nurse offered, pointing at my other arm.

As the lab technician drew blood from one of my arms, and I took fists full of pills with the other hand, I heard knocking at my door. I looked up to see the social workers.

“Do you know when you’ll be done?” the woman with the binder asked anyone.

I felt surrounded.

************

Eventually I was left alone with the two social workers and, though the crowd of people made the environment chaotic, at least there were witnesses. Now it was just them and me; they were free to play ball with my life in any way they liked, and they were fully aware of their power.

“We were talking down at the office and thought perhaps you have some preconceived notions about how the foster care system works, and that is what is interfering with our progress.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do have a few ideas about how the foster care system works in our country,” I admitted. I couldn’t believe I had to waste my scarce energy informing these social workers about what they already knew.

“I think we all just got off to a bad start,” the one with the clipboard said, trying to console me.

“We should begin again,” the other agreed, nodding toward her partner.

“No matter how we start, I am not going to let you have my kids,” I stated matter-of-factly. I needed to set them straight right away. I wanted no confusion.

“See, she’s so defensive,” the one with the clipboard said to the other, as if I proved their point.

“What are these ideas you have about foster care?” Her words were thickly sweet, like molasses. She balanced the binder on her hip and took a few steps closer.

“They are not ideas; they’re facts,” I insisted.

“What facts? How can we help, if we don’t understand?” she cooed.

“The way the system is set up, they load you social workers down with so much work that you guys don’t have enough time to adequately supervise what is really going on in these foster care home environments. Then there is such a desperate need for foster care households, almost anyone can sign up. This is a terrible combination for defenseless kids.” I could tell she didn’t know how to respond, so I continued. “Often these kids bounce from the initial crisis into a worse situation. The odds are pretty high for a kid to end up getting abused, molested, used, neglected or even lost. I don’t want my daughters even close to those kinds of risks.” I honestly didn’t think I was asking for too much.

“We don’t have families like that,” she claimed, taking a step back. “We are very careful who we allow into our foster care programs,” she boasted, pulling the binder up to her chest.

"If that’s true, then why did that little girl die last year?” I asked. “How about when…” I started to mention another example, then stopped and wondered why I had to recite cases for social workers, the people who were more aware of this phenomenon than anyone was.

“Geesh, there are stories like this in the news all the time, like: ‘Who’s Watching Our Foster Care Children?’ I quoted a headline I had personally seen. “Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about,” I confronted her phony assertion.

She tensed up and the woman with the clipboard looked nervously in her direction.

“I know it’s not your fault,” I offered them. “The system is set up to fail. That way, twenty years from now, folks who hate the welfare state can point and say, ‘See, social programs don’t work.’ Politicians have consistently been doing the same thing to social security and education as well.

They reconstruct our inherited public purpose programs with weakened support, ensuring the systems will eventually collapse. Then if that isn’t enough, annually they vote to weaken these same programs further, using one excuse after another. One day, I suppose, they hope to proclaim they were right all along, ignoring the fact that they themselves mortally wounded the system. See, it is only a matter of time. Our social safety net is rigged against us, and I don’t want my daughters to get caught up in our country’s sabotaged social infrastructure.”

“We would be especially cautious and find a good family for them,” the woman with the binder promised, as if I had just said nothing. It seemed like she was the boss.

“Can you guarantee my kids won’t be abused or molested?” I cut straight to the point.

The social workers flashed looks at each other.

“No one could guarantee that kind of thing a hundred percent,” the woman with the clipboard interjected, chuckling as if I were being unrealistic. She walked to the end of my bed, moving closer to her friend.

“I can,” I stated unequivocally, looking at them.

They both looked back at me doubtfully, and then turned, smirking at each other.

“I grew up with my dad, and he never once touched me inappropriately. As far as discipline goes, he only spanked me one time in my life and we are still arguing about that.” I chuckled at the memory of our continuing argument over a spanking I received when I was thirteen; I was sneaking boys into my room through my bedroom window so they could see the TV better. Whether he was right or wrong in his discipline is still up for debate, but the behavior ceased that same evening.

“But your dad lives in California,” the binder lady whined, pulling out the same old tired argument.

“And I told you before, that’s what God made airplanes for. Geesh, don’t you understand how easy and inexpensive it would be to let kids fly home to their extended families in situations like this?” I paused and looked directly into the eyes of the woman who apparently was in charge. “Think about this -- a majority of the time the flight wouldn’t cost taxpayers a dime, because most families would happily pay for the flight to bring home their kin, especially children. Why would a governmental system want to waste so much money placing children with a bunch of strangers, when children could be safe in homes they are familiar with and where they are wanted?” I thought if I brought up saving taxpayers money, she might see the logic. Money is all some people understand; it comes down to the bottom dollar for them.

“Interesting suggestion, but our world doesn’t work that way. This is just how it is,” she stated simply, like I had no choice but to settle for her solution.

“No, this is the way some congressmen structured this part of the program many years ago when people didn’t travel much. Perhaps back in the horse and buggy days, who knows?” I chuckled, trying to include them. They stood stone silent. “Why we allow ourselves to be treated like we live in the early 1900s is ridiculous. Why people who work in a system built to protect kids feel compelled to tear children away from solid foundations…” I paused, frustrated about our government’s absurd approach to helping families and these women’s need to precisely follow outdated legislation. “I will never understand this kind of logic. Why risk our country’s children like this?”

“We don’t risk children,” her ire rose instantly.

The woman holding the clipboard put her hand on her partner’s shoulder to calm her.

Their denial that these illogical rules were harming children and families on a regular basis disgusted me. “This ‘over-the-state-lines’ excuse you are using to tear my family apart is for the birds. A lot of families live in different states these days. It’s normal. We need to change the system so it works. Meanwhile, you, as social workers, need to use some common sense and evaluate each situation separately, based on its own merits. And always keep in mind, when you are throwing out the dirty water, it is essential that you remember to save the baby. Children should not be treated as a one-size-fits-all procedure,” I informed them.

“Good luck changing the system,” they said in unison, then turned toward each other, laughing.

I realized I was only talking to myself; they were selectively listening. They only understood what they wanted to and dismissed evidence if it didn’t suit them, including the obviously traumatizing effects such a move would have on my children’s cognitive, emotional and psychological development. Anybody’s children.

Fed up with their routine, I couldn’t resist asking, “Didn’t you guys ever take a child development class?”

The binder lady’s eyes flared.

“Don’t you realize how disruptive my death is going to be on my seven-year-old’s development alone? Violet is about to begin her sensitive years at any moment now, you know.” I reminded them of the harm they would cause Violet by using their own professional jargon. “Tearing her away from her own family by placing her into a household full of strangers, just as she is forming her beliefs about her own self-worth and fermenting distinctions between right and wrong will only serve to stunt her cognitive and emotional development. Why sabotage her potential growth and recovery? How would you like it if someone isolated you from the people you love, even at the age you are now?”

“Well, they are not that close to their relatives in California anyhow,” the head social worker completely copped out. I knew she had to understand what I meant. She was a degreed professional and I had only taken some classes.

“They live too far apart for that kind of relationship to exist,” the other insisted omnisciently.

Any concession I was giving these women vanished.

“Wow, you just make up facts out of thin air, don’t you?” I chuckled, amazed by their brazen behavior. “Don’t you realize your so-called justification for removing my children doesn’t even rise to the level of hearsay?” I asked and then lowered my voice to a whisper, “It’s all in your imaginations,” I stated, spinning my index finger around outside of my ear, peering at them as if they were kooky.

If looks could kill, it would have all been over.

“I’ll have you know,” I quickly interjected, “we lived in California until three years ago. In fact, my dad was there when both girls were born. I don’t know how they could get any closer than that,” I chuckled.

The women looked shocked.

“Three years is an awfully long time. Children forget,” the woman with the binder persisted.

I laughed. “I highly doubt that. Like a fifteen-year-old forgets anything,” I scoffed. “Besides, they talk to their grandpa on the phone every day and we’ve got the phone bills to prove it. Then there’s the vacations,” I rattled on.

“He comes here?” The woman with the clipboard seemed genuinely surprised, although I had no idea why. Don’t families who live apart routinely visit each other? What world did she live in where a move across state lines meant dissolving family ties? This made me wonder.

“If you’re so close to your family, then why did you move all the way out here?” she asked doubtfully, challenging me.

Clearly, neither of them cared how much they twisted facts as long as they got what they wanted. I knew there would be no reasoning with them. People like this were not only a part of the problem; they compounded it. In all their wisdom, these degreed professionals arbitrarily decided to support a socially destructive system by following archaic laws to the letter.

“I’m too tired for this nonsense,” I stated, closing my eyes, pushing the button to lie down. I was checking out, and they couldn’t stop me.

“You’re right, this is nonsense.” I heard a different voice entering the room.

I looked up as the lunch lady charged straight for the bed stand.

“I know you didn’t eat anything ‘cause your tray is right where I left it,” she proclaimed, disappointed, then immediately started to lift the metal lids off the plates to prove her accusation.

“I knew it. You haven’t ate nothing,” she gasped, clanging the lids back in place.

I hit the button to sit back up. “The tray was too far away for me to reach, and I’ve been getting tested all day and now I’m having visitors,” I explained, pointing toward the social workers.

“Do you think you could eat if I pushed the tray over there?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but I could sure try,” I stated, playing along.

“Just give us the address where your children are staying, and we’ll take care of everything,” the woman with the binder interrupted, her voice sounding sweet again.

“Oh, did I interrupt something?” The lunch lady looked anxious.

“Nah, that’s okay, we were already finished,” I assured her.

“We’re not finished, but we can come back later to get that address,” the social worker with the clipboard contradicted me, looking me eye-to-eye, smiling insincerely.

The lunch lady nodded toward the social workers and pushed the tray of food over to me. She removed the napkin from the silverware and handed me a spoon. “How ‘bout some of this here red Jell-o?” she asked, coaxing me.

I took the steel bowl into my hand and looked up to see that the social workers were leaving.

I ate a spoonful of the Jell-o, just in case they turned back to check on what I was doing.

************

At her insistence, and at an affront to my taste buds, I continued eating the Jell-o. Cooperating with her was the least I could do after she had saved me. After five bites, I stopped eating and turned around to make sure the social workers were gone and not hiding quietly behind me.

“Wow, your timing was great. Thanks for coming in. You saved me,” I rattled on, genuinely grateful.

“I know I did,” she said and then started chuckling.

I raised my eyebrows in her direction, wondering what she meant; regardless, I was glad and smiled thankfully.

“I was standing outside there, waitin’ for the longest time,” she informed me, bragging. “Nobody saw me either,” she grinned.

“When did you come? How much did you hear?” I asked, surprised. I couldn’t imagine anyone being able to hide for too long, up against the wall beside an open door, especially in a hospital hallway.

“You were talkin’ ‘bout foster care homes not havin’ good enough supervision.”

“So, you heard almost everything?” I acknowledged, astonished by what she had done and by her patience.

“Pretty much,” she grinned proudly, pointing toward the Jell-o.

“Why didn’t you come in and save me before that, then?” I asked and took another bite. “It seemed like I was talking forever.”

“You were doing a fine job defendin’ yourself,” she said, patting my pillow, fluffing the edges.

“Please, next time just come right on in. Don’t be shy. I don’t want to waste my limited energy on those women,” I said, encouraging her.

“I didn’t figure you needed me. I was gettin’ ready to come in at any time though, if they got the upper hand, but you handled yourself juss fine. I didn’t want to interrupt,” she explained apologetically.

“Interrupt?” I burst out laughing. “That’s exactly what I want you to do -- interrupt.” I laughed again, envisioning her scrutinizing the situation like a panther,

hidden against the wall outside my door, preparing to spring into action at just the right moment.

“So, you want me to juss barge right on in here anytime they’re around?” she asked enthusiastically, as if she were anticipating fun.

“That would be perfect.” Boy, was I surprised. I almost didn’t believe I heard right. “Are you serious?” I couldn’t help but beam joyfully at her.

“You bet I am. I’m sick of watching those women run over my patients, and they always come when folks are eatin’ too,” she complained about her personal war, then waved toward the Jell-o bowl, encouraging me to take another bite.

I did.

“They get folks so upset they won’t eat nothing. Almost every patient on this floor is terminally ill, you know. Folks here need their nutrition,” she explained further, justifying her anger.

“So you’ve seen this behavior before, then?” I asked, noticing a pattern.

“Off and on. Sometimes they’ll corner y’all, then juss keep pickin’. I seen some folks let them have their way, juss to get rid of ‘em.”

“So taking children from single moms is their regular routine?”

“Sometimes. Mostly they pick on the elderly and occasionally the men too,” she stated sadly. “It’s all sorts of stuff.”

“I can assure you, you don’t have to worry about me.” I looked her right in the eyes, and she looked troubled. “They’re not going to get my kids, I can promise you that,” I vowed.

“I know you’re strong minded, but they’re very tricky.”

“And interchangeable too,” I commented, laughing at my own observation. She ignored me, continuing.

“They’ll wait ‘til you’re sicker and come after you then. Be sure you don’t sign nothing,” she warned. The look on her face was grave.

“Why are you doing this? I mean, risking your job like this?” I asked, extremely grateful for the inside information. Because of her, I would be better prepared for the onslaught when my mind started failing.

“You forget. I heard you talkin’. Helpin’ you ain’t no risk,” she dismissed my question and brightened right up. “Sweetie, you’re doing right protectin’ your kids,” she patted me reassuringly. “Never doubt that. And if there’s anything I can do to help you with those women, juss let me know.”

I nodded toward her and saw in her an old soul who held a deeper knowledge -- a woman who had seen too much pain and hurt in her lifetime and now was life’s protector.

“If you ever see me acting crazy, I officially give you my permission to come in here and knock me up-side my head,” I told her, trusting her to help me.

“Don’t worry, I will,” she grinned.

And I knew she would.

I smiled, looked down and saw that I had eaten over half of the raspberry Jell-o. “I don’t want this,” I chuckled, discarding the bowl on the tray. “I don’t like Jell-o much, especially raspberry,” I explained.

“I know -- you tol’ me yesterday -- not since you were eight,” she winked. “Gotcha,” her smile broadened.

“Dang, you did,” I acknowledged, and shook my head smiling.

“Why don’t you like Jell-o anyhow?”

“Well, lots of reasons, really. Yesterday’s was yellow, and the lemon is too lemony.” I complained, scrunching up my face. “And the raspberry’s…”

“We’re talkin’ ‘bout life and death here, not what you prefer,” she interrupted. “When people are throwing up too much, they’re not gettin’ any nutrition. Jell-o is a good way to sneak a little protein in.” She smiled confidently.

I nodded. She had a point.

“Do yourself a favor right now and realize the doctors won’t let you have solid food ‘til you stop gettin’ sick. I’d suggest you figure out what flavors of Jell-o you tolerate best, ‘cause that’s ‘bout all we can offer.”

“What else is there?” I asked, lifting a metal lid off the largest plate, revealing soup. I looked through the clear brown liquid, staring at the bottom of the white porcelain bowl.

“That’s beef broth,” she volunteered.

“Any other choices?” I asked, replacing the lid. There had to be something else.

“Apple Juice. But I’m worried ‘bout puttin’ fruit on your stomach. Sometimes it can make things worse.”

I nodded, and despite having no appetite, was disappointed.

“Sweetie, your food will get better when you can keep something down. Are you sure you don’t want to try this?” she suggested again, pointing at the big metal lid.

“No thanks, I’m not really hungry anyway,” I admitted. “I took that medicine a little while ago.”

“Okay,” she nodded and picked up the tray. “I gotta get going, but I will keep my eyes out for those women,” she promised, smiling at me reassuringly.

She was my hero, and I realized I didn’t even know her name. I leaned closer to see her name-tag. “Thanks, Robbie,” I said, and I meant it. “My friends call me Wendy.”

“No problem, Wendy,” she smiled shyly, turning away. So far, I had two people I could trust and depend on -- the lunch lady and Angie.

“Orange Jell-o,” I called after her as she was leaving, “…and strawberry too. Oh, if the kitchen has grape, that would be heaven.”

“Grape,” I heard her laughing.

************

If one could be happy in this situation, I was temporarily placated. Not only had I secured a buffer between me and the social workers, it was also time for my soap opera to begin. I had only watched one since I was eleven, and it had proven to be a bright spot in my life, a constant for me to enjoy, especially during the rough times.

I was particularly excited because one of my favorite characters, after three years of absence, was coming back from the dead. No, not a resurrection. This character was returning as a ghost to woo the love of her life. The fact that the plot was silly, and “the ghost” had to use doors and walk around furniture, didn’t matter to me. I was just glad the actress, Kim Zimmer, agreed to come back for the twelve short weeks. And for some strange reason, like when external events happen in a way that one can’t explain, her return lined up with my diagnosis, and I felt like the higher powers had given this to me as a going away present.

By the show’s first commercial break, I decided I would try to live for the whole twelve weeks.

************

Safely under the blankets, warm and snuggly, I realized as I lay there perfectly motionless, watching my soap, that the pain somehow magically melted away to a different place in the background. While I watched in hazy half-sleep, totally relaxed and with focused concentration, the aching felt almost separate from me.

Those biofeedback classes are really paying off, I thought and dismissed my numbed state as a side benefit from years of practicing the instant relaxation response; the method I used most often to control the flare-ups of my intestinal disorder.

Perhaps by using the same method, I could control some of the aching and the burning/stinging sensations in my legs as well.

***********

Interrupting the end of my show was yet another lab technician who came in carrying a plastic box full of syringes and tubes.

“This is the third time my blood has been drawn today,” I complained the minute I saw her. After lying there peacefully for so long, I felt better and pushed the mute button, so I could confront her.

“Why don’t you guys decide what tests you need and draw all the blood at one time? Or, is this some kind of bazaar modern day blood letting procedure?” I sarcastically asked, pressing the button to sit up, but as I moved, the bed moved with me, and I knew immediately I was going to throw up. Before she could even respond, I put my hands over my mouth and called out, “Please get me a basin.”

She ran right to my nightstand, grabbed the pink dish-washing basin, and handed it to me, just in time.

I used it.

A horrified look crossed the lab technician’s face, and she instantly froze.

Thinking that her over-reaction was yet another example of a medical professional with an intolerance to illness, I started to laugh.

“Oh, my God, there’s blood,” she screamed and took a step toward my bedside, hit the call button for the nurse and turned around, heading straight for the door.

“Blood?” I asked startled, looking down. “Oh, that’s just Jell-o,” I told her, smiling.

She looked over her shoulder at me and, unconvinced, ran. “She’s bleeding internally!” I could hear her yell as she traveled down the hall.

“It’s only red Jell-o,” I hollered back repeatedly, using more breath than I had, but no one paid attention to me.

The nurse did keep reassuring me through the speaker however -- promising me that help was coming immediately.

************

When they finally arrived, the nurse brought a couple of other women with her and the lab technician as well. They were all dressed in sanitary paper scrubs, with masks, gloves, plastic protective lenses and everything. It was quite the sight to see. They looked like they were starring in a Robin Cook science fiction movie.

“It’s only red Jell-o,” I must have said a thousand times, but they weren’t swayed. They told me if it was what they thought it was, we didn’t have time for the lab to examine the red liquid or even my blood, for that matter.

While the technician drew my blood, one of the masked women got a plastic pee cup, took the basin from me and filled the cup to the top for later evaluation.

I pointed out the consistency and that the color was light pink, but they insisted that is how blood looks when an internal wound initially begins bleeding. Then they informed me I had Crohn’s disease, as if I didn’t know what it was. They were convinced that my fifteen-year-old surgery had magically come undone, caused by the stress of repetitive vomiting. The whole thing was incredibly stupid.

They declared I needed to be tested right away.

I knew what was coming and wanted no part of these “tests,” and argued that all of the commotion, expense and physical torture I was going to have to go through to prove that the red color was only a few raspberry Jell-o cubes, was ridiculous. Nevertheless, the overly reactive and cautious women made it impossible for me to avoid the drama they were insisting on performing. Cornering me, they made it clear, whether I wanted to contribute or not, I was included.

That’s when an older woman with a wheelchair showed up. I recognized her uniform immediately. She was from x-ray.

“No, not a barium enema,” I cried out, terrified. The memories of an adolescent experience came flooding back and I felt myself shrinking under the covers, trying to get smaller, wanting to hide. I had endured this medical exam several times during the 80’s, right before the surgery that very likely saved my life. The surgeon had to remove eight inches of my inflamed large intestine, and then a resection was completed.

“No silly, it’s the other kind,” the attendant informed me chuckling, amused by my primitive reaction.

“The kind where you drink the heavy liquid?” I asked, almost hopefully. This exam was a completely different procedure.

“Yes, that’s the one that’s been ordered,” she laughed.

“So, it’s not…”

“No. Come on now,” she said, patting the back of the wheelchair seat. “All aboard.”

I was so thankful; I decided to drop the whole Jell-o versus blood debate and crawled obediently into the wheelchair. Relieved it wasn’t one of the wors

∞ Chapter Two ∞

The next morning a new nurse woke me. She was about my age and in great spirits as she excitedly introduced herself. For no apparent reason she poured a glass of water and then launched into telling me how similar we were and how sorry she was for my condition.

“Looking at you reminds me of where I should be myself,” she declared, pointing at my hospital bed.

Staring at her blankly, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“I am just lucky, I guess,” she continued. “I used to live my life much as you did, but when I got tested, the result was negative. For the life of me, I don’t know how I didn’t get the disease myself,” she chuckled, and then added, her voice instantly grave, “I should be lying where you are now.”

“What kind of life do you think I lived?” I asked, using the bed control to sit up.

“You have AIDS and you don’t have tracks, so it is pretty obvious. But I don’t judge you. I used to be promiscuous myself, you know.” She smiled broadly, as if we were members of the same club.

I sat speechless, sickened by her assumption.

“It’s okay -- you don’t have to deny what you’ve done with me. I used to sleep with any man who asked. I used to hang out at truck stops, you know.”

My mind was reeling. I couldn’t believe what this nurse was confessing to me, and what in the hell did truck stops have to do with anything? The situation felt incredibly surreal.

“Wow,” I stammered. “I assure you, I was not like that.”

“I know it is hard to admit,” she said, blowing me off. “It took a lot of counseling for me to confront my own past, so I can only imagine what you’re going through. You don’t have to feel ashamed with me, though. You can be completely open, because frankly, you couldn’t tell me anything I haven’t done myself.” She laughed at her own admission.

I sat back, horrified. How could I relate to what this stranger was revealing about herself? I didn’t know how I was supposed to respond. I wasn’t sure if she was looking for absolution or forgiveness -- but why did she need redemption from me?

I was baffled. What if her confessions were true? What was I supposed to say? “I am glad you were spared my fate; go forward, my child, and tell my story to all other promiscuous women,” or “I forgive you for testing negative; go in peace.”

What was she looking for? No employee who is stable would humiliate herself as brazenly as this nurse did, to the point of degrading herself in front of me, unless there was a motive.

“…because I really do understand,” she continued, rattling on, coaxing me.

“I … I don’t know what to say,” I managed to babble. Then suddenly it dawned on me. If she was really a nurse looking out for my well-being, the last thing she would do is tell me such intimate details about herself. What other possible reason could this nurse, a certified professional, have for confessing all to an unknown woman on her deathbed? Was this her regular practice with terminally ill individuals?

If this nurse was truly so psychologically unbalanced that she ordinarily used terminally ill patients as an emotional conduit or confessional to absolve herself of her so-called past promiscuous lifestyle, then she needed to have her license revoked. And surely, someone would have noticed her bizarre behavior long before her visit with me.

As she rambled on in the background, I continued to examine the facts. Common sense told me that my suspicions were true and this was a hoax. What the intention was I didn’t know, but I recognized the game. Send in the good cop to empathize with the individual’s plight in order to gain trust so the individual either talks or confesses. And in this scenario, I was that individual.

But, confess to what? This whole production was inexplicable -- here was a caretaker, posing as “the promiscuous nurse” to gain my confidence, so I would tell her what -- my sins? I wasn’t sure what the staff was after, but what became clear was the fact that my medical team, in all of their wisdom, decided to think the worst about my character.

That’s when I noticed how much we looked alike. She was a blond, blue-eyed girl of German descent, square jaw line and solid build. “Wow, this setup took quite a bit of effort, not to mention nerve,” I mumbled under my breath. Engrossed in her own tangent, she didn’t hear me.

“It’s okay,” the promiscuous nurse assured me, leaning over to pat my foot. “I’ve been assigned to your case and someday soon you will want to talk, and when you do, I will be here for you.” She had finally given up.

I only nodded.

“And please realize, I have been where you have and I won’t judge. I just got lucky and tested negative is all. But for the grace of God … well, you understand what I mean.”

Boy, did I ever, and I resented it. I resented the whole charade.

************

Overrun by the tornado of events, I was more than ready when good news finally came. Brian had successfully transported my children and settled them in at the Campbell’s house. Knowing that my children were safely tucked away and would be well cared for was like a prayer being answered. However, the Campbells, my dad and Brian were busy making plans without my input, and whenever I made suggestions, they disregarded my advice as either unnecessary or overly cautious.

My father was having trouble accepting my condition. He had convinced himself since our last conversation that the medications would restore my health and that I must be overstating my situation. He argued against flying the children to California, based on the very “practical” reason that I was going to “recover” soon. He hadn’t seen me since February, and in his mind’s eye, I was still the picture of youth and vitality. That image of me helped stoke his denial. From his point of view, making his grandchildren take a flight across the country would only cause upheaval and confuse them. He thought the process of the flight alone would convince them that I really was dying.

Taking charge and using a conference call, my dad spent considerable time talking with the Campbells and Brian. They decided among themselves to keep my children in Kansas; insisting that the kids were “comfortable” and I just needed “a little time to recuperate.” Dad didn’t want anyone in the family to know about my condition because he was sure it was all a big mistake. I asked him to contact Angie, so he could arrange to talk with my doctor.

Brian, on the other hand, the most self-sufficient man I had ever known, suddenly became helpless, asking me for instructions about the most obvious and unimportant things. At a time when it was physically exhausting to speak, I found the endless questions about night lighting and lawn care grueling and psychologically wearing. And even though Brian had transportation of his own, he asked to borrow my new car for the forty-mile commute to the hospital. Rather than argue, I agreed because it took less energy to give permission.

When Diana called, she asked if I still wanted my things. My oldest daughter’s way of holding on to me was to encapsulate herself with our family belongings. I told her she could have whatever she wanted. Sadly, I noticed that in the hubris of youth, she saw my death as a personal freedom -- a freedom she’d never had -- and she was determined to take this new independence for whatever it was worth. Like any self-respecting teenager, when given an inch she fully intended to take the mile.

My youngest, Violet, was the hardest to talk with, because her request was so small. She wanted permission to hunt for “froggies” by the stream and to play with Luanne’s new puppy.

I didn’t want to say no to any of them, especially now. All things considered, their requests were insignificant compared to their loss. I wanted to shield them as best I could.

I felt like I was viewing life through a telescopic lens, projecting forward to the desired eventual outcome -- emotional stability. That being the objective, keeping my family intact was essential. I knew I had to keep my eye on the goal; I lay there making plans to leave planet earth only after I was certain my family was together, safe and secure.

I resolved to depend on Angie to help me and to allow the doctor to belittle me as well. There was no other choice. I had to live for my kids.

************

The rest of the evening was horrible. Between the nausea, pain and phone calls, I was depleted. I watched helplessly as my family and friends fell apart, and I could do nothing to protect them. I was the cause for their pain. What made this journey even tougher for all of us is the fact that my disease carries with it cruel, socially stigmatizing implications. Because society has its mind so tightly wrapped around the myth that only “bad” people contract AIDS, the masses believe that anyone who has AIDS in America is bad. As a result, the majority of us who suffer, suffer alone. While I was facing death, while Brian was losing his best friend, while my dad was losing his only child, while my children were losing their mother, my family felt the need for secrecy, the need to tell lies and the need to disclaim me -- even making excuses for our association. Isolation was already moving in – could it be that the doctor was right?

************

I lay in bed tossing and turning, dreadfully uncomfortable and fatigued. The conversation with the doctor kept replaying in my mind, and I became increasingly concerned about having her replaced. The extent to which Hospital Politics would become involved worried me, however; I was in a tenuous position, and this was no time to ruffle a bunch of feathers. The doctor had clearly demonstrated that she felt no need for self-restraint. She showed no hesitancy about running roughshod over me, and her behavior indicated the problem was much bigger than her personality alone.

I decided to talk with Angie and stayed awake waiting for her to come to my room. When she finally arrived, she was pushing a large white cart with multiple drawers, and on top of the cart was a tray filled to capacity with small paper cups.

“Those aren’t all mine, are they?” I gasped, my eyes opening wide.

“Oh no, we have other patients’ here too,” she commented, teasing me.

“Good. You scared me there for a minute. I was going to have to arm wrestle with you,” I teased back with a smile, feeling embarrassed.

She turned toward the cart and started to gather my medications on a separate little plastic tray.

“Angie? Do you have any time to spare?” I asked as she pushed a few buttons on the cart, which popped open one of the drawers. “I need to talk.”

“I thought you might need me tonight,” she smiled brightly, retrieving a medication and shutting the drawer. “But first your medicine."

I nodded and poured a cup of water from a pitcher on the nightstand, and then holding my free hand open, she started emptying the tiny paper cups of pills into my palm.

“Boy, you sure guessed right … I’m glad you stayed,” I said between gulps of pills. “My family is … either in shock … or in no position to … advise me right now,” I told her, swallowing three to five pills at a time. “…and I really need to talk,” I added, finishing off the last one. Then panting exaggeratedly, I placed the cup back on the nightstand.

“I would be honored to help you,” she smiled, handing me the yellow liquid. “The Nystatin to coat the mouth is always last.”

“And no water after,” I recited, remembering her instructions from before. Smiling up at her, I swished the disgusting fluid throughout my mouth. I felt comfortable with Angie; she seemed authentic. Swallowing, I reached out, held her hand, and then asked cautiously, “Is there any way I can talk with you confidentially, or would you have to write everything down in a report?”

“That depends. If you start talking crazy, I’d have to write that kind of thing down.”

“Define crazy,” I smirked.

“Oh, you,” she said cheerfully and putting her arm around me, she sat down.

Giggling, I cuddled up in her arms. “Well, if I was to say something about a person here, would that have to become common knowledge?”

“You mean, would I write in your chart, ‘Wendy says she doesn’t like so-and-so?”

“Yeah, something like that.”

“No, I wouldn’t write anything like that down. They’re concerned with your medical condition here, not about your opinions,” she chuckled.

“I really do need to talk to someone. I’ve been feeling very overwhelmed,” I shared.

“I imagine you have.” She patted me. “That’s why I stayed. I knew your family couldn’t be here and I didn’t want you to spend your first night alone.” She smiled down at me and stroked my head.

“I appreciate that, and I have been scared,” I admitted. “It’s about the doctor. It’s like she’s ego-maniacal. I mean, I am really worried. Dr. Killjoy came in here and…”

“Dr. Killjoy?” she questioned, chuckling.

“Yeah, she’s killing all the joy in my life, that’s for certain."

Angie nodded, smiling, and I continued. “Anyway, she keeps insisting that I am someone I’m not, and now she just came in here and threatened me.”

“Threatened you -- how?” Angie tensed up, concerned.

“She told me that when I couldn’t be improved anymore medically, the moment they give up all hope, the hospital is going to throw me out, to die on my own. She can’t really do that to me, can she? I mean, I am terminally ill -- isn’t this where a person is supposed to be when they get as sick as me? Aren’t I suppose to die in the hospital, gallantly fighting for my life and not lying somewhere in misery, confused and all by myself?”

“We’re going to make sure that tragedy doesn’t happen to you,” Angie asserted reassuringly, giving me a little squeeze.

“Tragedy? What do you mean?”

“Shh…,” she quieted me. “Now’s not the time to worry.” She pulled me closer, soothing me. “We’re just going to have to keep finding ways for them to help you improve.”

My mind was reeling, grasping for understanding. “Improve? You can do that?” I looked up at her, cautiously hopeful.

“Sure, you’ve got thrush and pneumonia, don’t you?”

“Do I?” I asked, bewildered. I only knew about the AIDS diagnosis.

“Yes, you do,” she nodded caringly, and then her face suddenly brightened. “Besides, I don’t think you’re going to leave us. Not anytime soon, anyway.”

“What do you mean? You don’t think I’m really dying?”

“Oh, you’re dying alright. But we’re going to turn that all around.”

“Turn it all around? How? My hair is almost gone, my skin is gray, and I can’t even keep liquids down.” I patted the basin and swung at the IV lines. “Doesn’t all this indicate it’s too late?”

“Most of the time it does. But that’s not going to happen in your case.”

“How do you know? Have you had patients like me before?” I asked, trying to pin down her rationale.

“I just feel it. And yes, I have met patients like you before,” she nudged me. “But only a few and not very often,” she added reflectively.

I looked at her, confused. “Feel it?” Then I chuckled. “Please explain.”

“I couldn’t explain it if I tried,” she acknowledged, then laughed out loud herself.

I nudged her back.

“All I know is, I’ve been a nurse for over thirty years, and occasionally I run into someone in your condition and I just sense that their job here isn’t done. There is that something about you, too. I can’t explain it, but I’ve never been wrong.”

“So, you really believe I’m going to live?”

“Yes, you have something important to accomplish,” she predicted with a far-off gaze.

“What isn’t done?” All this seemed so far-fetched -- then it dawned on me. “Oh, you mean raising my children. I realize that, but my dad…”

“Yes, that too. But not that at all… I can’t place it exactly. You’ve got more to do,” she interrupted me.

“More to do? I can hardly get out of bed as it is.” I pointed out the obvious and started chuckling again. I wanted more than anything to believe in her hopeful conviction, but clearly, logic was missing.

“Just give yourself time, you’ll improve,” she sighed contentedly. “You’ll see.”

“But Dr. Killjoy says that I am going to die in three weeks,” I argued. “Do you think she’s not only a jerk but an incompetent doctor too?” That would explain everything -- perhaps the doctor was overcompensating for being inept. I wondered. “I thought she was ‘the expert,” I imitated, raising my fingers in quotation marks.

“According to the test results, yes, she is right; you’re crashing. And, she is an expert. I’ve seen her save people that even I thought weren’t going to make it. Believe me, we want her on our side.”

“But she is so egotistical and she accuses me of the worst stuff -- you wouldn’t even imagine.” I felt disappointed.

“Yes, I’ve noticed her act like that before,” Angie admitted, which was a comfort. “Then I’m not the first.”

Angie put her finger to her lips, shushing me again. “What is important is that you realize there is little we can do about her behavior. But, we can and do need to take advantage of her knowledge. Don’t allow her weakness to make you weaker, but grab onto her strengths to make yourself strong. Later, if you still want to, then you can confront her.”

I nodded, understanding.

“There is nothing you can do to change her. In her world, she is that powerful. Plus, we’re going to need her to get you back on your feet and keep you there."

Not only was I stuck with an insensitive doctor, but my nurse believed she was going to help me beat AIDS. I burst out laughing. The idea that I would somehow regain health and vitality seemed ridiculous to me.

She tickled my side.

“Now I know you’re nuts. How do you propose to do this?” I asked giggling, looking at her as if she were the crazy one.

“We’re going to find some way to pull you through all this, I just know it. I rarely get a feeling like this about patients, but when I do I’m always right.” She beamed confidently at me, dismissing my skepticism. If Angie wanted to make me a pet project and keep me alive, what would the harm be? I already adored her.

“Well, Kim Zimmer has come back for twelve weeks. At least I would get to see some of that,” I thought out loud.

“Who?”

“It’s just soap opera stuff,” I told her, waving off her question. There was no reason to explain all that. Besides, I had already moved on, thinking about what Angie had said. “What is this mission I need to complete? Can you at least tell me that?” I asked, shaking my head doubtfully, but amused by her insistence that I was destined to do something amazing.

“I haven’t got a clue,” she admitted, shrugging her shoulders and laughing at herself.

Surprised by her honest answer, I laughed too. Angie was surely unique.

“You’ll have plenty of time to figure that out, after we get you physically stabilized. First things first,” she said, standing up.

“Do you honestly think you are going to nurse me back to health?” I asked, wiping the giggle tears from the corners of my eyes.

“That’s my plan.” Angie bent over and gave me a hug. “But I need you to cooperate,” she whispered in my ear, then pulled away and looked directly into my eyes.

“Okay, I’ll be sure not to write any notes about you either,” I teased, even though I knew she meant serious business. I understood if I wanted any chance at all, I had to get along with the arrogant doctor.

She smiled at me, glowing. “It’s a deal,” she accepted, and then walked behind the medication cart and pushed it right out the door.

************

The new medications added a whole new dimension to the definition of misery. Within forty minutes of taking the initial dose, I found myself sleeping fitfully with a pink dishpan size basin cradled in my arms, instead of a pillow. Bouts of dry heaves went on for hours and became so fierce, with cycles lasting as long as forty-five minutes, that I found myself begging repeatedly for injections of anti-nausea medication. Although, this method partially cured me of a chronic fear of needles, it was the strangest aversion therapy I had ever witnessed.

The expulsion was so guttural, so violent and so deep, I felt like I was expelling my very soul. The side effects of the drugs were so pronounced, I knew something was seriously wrong. Dying itself -- without intervention -- didn’t hurt this much.

My first clue to the toxicity of the medicines should have been how freely the injections were administered and how Angie insisted on assigning a nurse’s assistant to sit with me. The staff was extremely courteous and could not do enough in their efforts to make me more comfortable. I found myself incredibly thankful for their assistance.

When the doctor came by late that evening, she was alone. I reported all my new and improved symptoms to her, explaining that I thought they were a direct result of the medications; I was sure that I was presenting allergies. All the while that I was talking, I continued to intermittently dry heave into the over-sized pink basin.

She laughed off my suggestion and sat down at the foot of my bed, holding open my chart open.

I explained my symptoms further by describing the intense aching I felt all over. The pain was severe and spread out; I couldn’t name the exact location. It was as if the discomfort was hidden in the shadows, falling into the background -- obscured by the other more obviously intense symptoms. I found myself scrambling for words, trying to describe what I could not yet comprehend and as I became tongue-tied, I noticed the doctor quickly losing interest. Trying to reengage her, I rapidly changed the subject, telling her about a symptom I could successfully articulate -- the ongoing muscle spasms.

Muscle groups in my calves, feet, hands, arms, back … all over, spasmodically, would grip toward some invisible center, then uncontrollably form tight balls of muscle tissue that could be easily seen flexing just beneath my skin. My feet, legs and hands would contort mercilessly, refusing to release even when rubbed vigorously, stretched or hit. The spasms were so bad that two orderlies came in together several times, each expertly grabbing an offending body part, massaging and squeezing as hard as they could in an effort to persuade the muscles to release. The pain was excruciating, unrelenting and I begged the doctor to talk with the nurses, assuring her they would verify my symptoms. I would have told her about the persistent vomiting, but by this time there was no need to; she was witness already.

“All these side effects on the first day can’t be a good sign,” I insisted. “And it will only get worse from here on.” I was becoming frustrated. “I mean, won’t the drug levels build up in my blood, making these symptoms even more pronounced?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Yes, but your body should adjust some,” she mused. “These medications are strong; they will take awhile to acclimate to,” she concluded, shutting my chart as if the subject was closed, my point lost. “Did you talk with the social workers and place your kids?” she asked, diverting the issue. “I sent them up.”

“I don’t need that kind of help. My children are going to live with their grandfather in California.” Disappointed that she was ignoring my medical condition, I obediently answered her question.

She frowned at me.

“However, I do think it would be a good idea to sign up for disability."

“Disability Insurance isn’t going to be necessary,” she corrected me, chuckling, as if humored. Catching herself, she regrouped. “I’ll keep you in the hospital for as long as I can,” she promised as conciliation, and then added, “But when we can no longer help you medically, government insurance will force your discharge.”

“Force my discharge?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. After all, wasn’t this the end, the Big Good-bye?

“Once there isn’t anything more we can do for you medically, there is no reason to keep you in a Hospital.”

“You mean you’re just going to send me home to die?”

“If there’s nothing we can do for you to improve your condition, we don’t have a choice. You would die here anyway.”

“Yeah, but here there are nurses -- people who are trained to help me.”

She looked at me like I was being unreasonable. “Besides, no one can help you now.”

Her words, so cold and matter-of-fact, cut through me and crushed me at the same time. How could this be?

“What about Hospice?” I asked, desperately scrambling to find another option. “There has got to be a Hospice around here somewhere,” I insisted.

“There is, but you’re not going to live long enough to survive the waiting list. It is quite long, you know.”

“A list? How long?”

“Months. Could be as long as a year.”

“What happens to people like me? How am I expected to sign up for Hospice a year ahead of time when no one figured out what was wrong with me until it was too late? That’s ridiculous.”

“Most terminal illnesses don’t kill as fast as yours will.”

“So, because I was misdiagnosed for so long, I lost my ‘lead’ time!” My mind was absolutely reeling.

“Yes, and that is very unfortunate.”

“Isn’t there more than one Hospice? More than one list?”

“They are scattered here and there. But you’ve got to understand, Kansas is a small state."

“Let me get this straight. As soon as I am no longer medically sustainable you are going to send me home, to die alone, in my own filth, only to be found by a mailman three days later?” I thought if I painted her an accurate picture of what she was proposing, she would recognize the devastating consequences of her recommendation and change her mind.

“I’m sure they’ll find you long before that,” she responded as if humored, dismissing my description as ridiculously inaccurate.

I sat in stunned silence, bombarded by mental images of dying, isolated at home, found sprawled out in humiliating positions, in various stages of decomposition.

“You know, if you think you are going to die immediately, you could go to the emergency room right away,” she offered, smiling.

Her voice turned into a distant echo as increasingly depraved snapshots invaded my mind, replacing the previous ones, progressively horrifying me.

“They would have to take you then! That would be perfect!” she announced excitedly, as if she had just discovered an acceptable solution to my problem -- being sent home, left to my own devices, to fend for myself, during such a huge crisis. Giddy, she smiled even wider, proud of her ingenious plan while oblivious to me.

Trapped by her power over me, I watched in shock as she prattled on, creating a clever strategy, instructing me how to pull off the caper.

“You will have to be certain you are actually dying, before you go. If you just start showing up at the emergency room regularly, without a legitimate threat to your life, the staff will catch on and not help you as much when you really do need them,” she advised me, giving me the inside scoop. “Try to wait until the very last minute; then, all you have to do is call an ambulance up. If you time it just right, they’ll have no choice but to take you!” She clapped her hands together elatedly, pleased with herself.

The snapshots infiltrating my mind’s eye escalated into a series of mini movie death scenes -- each a panoramic view of me dying in the worst possible conditions. All the while, this “expert” doctor was trying to impose upon me an escapade that would provide nothing but heartache, accumulating in my own wretched, isolated death.

“How will I know when the time comes? I mean, I feel like I’m dying now,” I stated, attempting to point out the impossible task required of me: knowing exactly when I would die.

“You’ll know,” she assured me confidently. “You might not be able to stay in a hospital, but if you’re on top of your game, I imagine you could manage to die in an emergency room somewhere,” she declared, waving her hand out toward the wide expanse beyond. She nodded toward me, grinning, waiting expectantly for me to enthusiastically accept her suggestion.

Repulsed, I spontaneously recoiled from her.

“I don’t know what you expect from us!” she snapped as she watched me retreat, rage consuming her previous expression.

“I expect you to help me. I expect compassion,” I demanded.

“There really isn’t anything we can do to stop your terminal event from occurring,” she pointed out defensively, dramatically standing up. “It would be best for you to just die at home,” she concluded, moving to the end of my bed.

“Best for who?” I asked, stunned, knowing this decision could not benefit me.

She turned away, opened my chart again and started writing something else down.

My mind was spinning; I was terrified. Snapshots continued to flash before my eyes -- pictures of me dying alone, lying in random embarrassing positions throughout the house, in my own waste, decaying. The undignified images were so brutal, I felt assaulted. The doctor’s recommendation was so depraved -- by its very nature -- that I was having trouble grasping the concept intellectually, let alone believing that this was my government’s actual plan for me. I was appalled.

Discharging the terminally ill to die in squalor could not be a normal hospital procedure. I just knew she couldn’t do this to me. Sparked by outrage, I ignited. “You can’t force me to leave the hospital when I’m dying,” I declared. “I’m officially ‘terminally ill’, and this is America. Taking care of dying people is exactly what hospitals are for.”

She started chuckling. “No,” she corrected me. “Hospitals are for saving lives, not for holding hands with the terminally ill.”

Her heartlessness silenced me. I had seen hundreds of images of the terminally ill in my lifetime, and not once had I encountered anything even similar to what she was suggesting was normal practice in our country to be true. I had known since childhood that they can’t just let you die in America, and that was part of what made our country so great. America was the best country because we made it so; by uplifting the working people and elevating normal citizens; our Rights as humans had progressed substantially, because of the stands our Great Grandparents made. Clearly, this doctor was an “expert” in a “small state,” who suffered from “big-fish-in-a-small-pond” syndrome and had gone power mad at some point during her career.

My patience was up. Her attempts to bully me had to stop. After all, this doctor had already proven that she had minimal credibility by the stunt she had pulled in front of her students, during her morning visit. Medical tests didn’t lie, but obviously, she did. If she would lie about my character in front of a large group of interns, what would stop her from lying to me about standard discharge policy for the terminally ill? I decided to confront her first with the facts I could easily prove: her own misperceptions and false allegations about me.

“Why did you tell your students this morning that I was an intravenous drug user and very promiscuous?” I blurted out, finally fed up with her crap.

“Because you are,” she stated, dismissing me, as if preoccupied with what she was reviewing in my chart.

“I have never used an intravenous drug in my life, outside of a hospital setting,” I corrected her, indicating my IV lines. “You are clearly confused. I had the same general practitioner for over ten years; she can tell you who I am, as a patient and a person. In fact, she took care of my whole family. You need to get my medical records from California before you jump to any more wrong conclusions. I suggest you contact her right away.”

“That would take a waiver,” she informed me, like it was a major imposition.

“Not a problem; I’ll sign one right now,” I volunteered. “One thing Dr. Goodwin can tell you is that I am afraid of needles. Always have been. I had two natural deliveries, precisely for that reason. That’s what my records will prove. And I don’t appreciate you making judgments about my lifestyle based exclusively on one positive HIV blood test.”

“Then you were promiscuous.”

Astonished, I felt the air knocked out of me. “Why would you say that?” I couldn’t believe her gall.

“Because the statistics say you are,” she asserted confidently, snapping my chart shut with a loud pop; then she turned on her heel and walked out the door.

I sat speechless, infuriated, but most of all I was severely disappointed by the expert’s shallow, discriminating mind. And I didn’t appreciate her efforts to convince me that the hospital would kick me out to die alone. Trying to scare me by instilling a laundry list of fears in my mind seemed rude and professionally irresponsible. I wanted a new doctor.

I wiped the horrible images away and assured myself I had nothing to fear. Besides, I had never heard about a program like this before, and I was certain that in my America, a policy that treated our terminally ill citizens so cruelly simply did not exist.

************

The lunch lady heard right. Shortly after my food tray was collected, Angie returned carrying a miniature plastic tray, which held, stacked in several rows, a bunch of miniature, clear plastic and white paper cups. She gestured toward my bed.

I nodded.

She sat. Then she placed the tray on my lap and I looked down, startled. There, in the little cups, must have been more than twenty-five pills and three different, brightly colored syrups.

I recognized the Tylenol and the antibiotic, but little else.

“First, I have to ask you if you want to live.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“These pills could prolong your life a couple more weeks. We can’t make promises, but if you want any chance at all, this is what you have to try.”

“Do I have time to think about this?”

“The sooner we start, the better our chances,” she smiled and clasped her warm hand around mine.

“If I don’t start right now, right this minute, what are my chances?” I asked, holding our hands up, indicating my ashen skin.

She nodded, understanding. “You need to decide if you are going to fight to live or if you are going to let yourself die.”

“Rage… rage against the dying of the light,” I mumbled, reciting Dylan Thomas’s edict, absently, as if from out of nowhere. Subconscious thought made manifest. For the first time the weight of that passage became clear.

Angie allowed me silence to think.

If I could buy an extra week perhaps -- just a little more time -- maybe that time alone would be enough to ensure my children’s safe transition into my dad’s home, into my dad’s life. Just a few days more could make all the difference.

I squeezed her hand tightly, looked into her brown eyes and nodded in agreement.

“Then rage we shall,” she said, as she picked up the first miniature cupful of pills.

************

I learned more about American pharmaceuticals in the fifteen minutes it took to gulp down that initial dose of medication than I had learned in my whole life, including the education I had earned just by being raised in our American culture. While learning a lot about these new drugs during that short session, I actually learned very little -- certainly not enough. But what did it really matter? I was trying to buy my body another week or two, not a lifetime.

Angie warned me that I could experience some uncomfortable side effects, but assured me they were prepared for all possible contingencies at the nurses’ station. Trapped in a world full of strangers, I knew I had to trust someone and was genuinely touched by her kindness. She told me that she volunteered to do a double shift so she could stay with me into late evening in case I needed her.

And even though every sign was pointing toward the flashing red lights, I just didn’t see the train coming.

************

As I lay there waiting for the medication to digest, I reflected about my past. I remembered hearing from an elder when I was a very young child, after watching a Clint Eastwood western, that the worst pain in the world is a gunshot wound in the stomach. I asked why and got a detailed explanation that only children who love horror movies would appreciate, but I did get the point.

Because I had been diagnosed at a young age with Crohn’s disease, an inflammatory disease of the intestines, I had the opportunity to ask my internal medicine specialist years before if what I was experiencing as a result of my disease process was the same kind of pain as being shot in the stomach. The doctor agreed that it was but advised me not to test the theory.

After becoming an adult and taking over my medical care, I went through eight different doctors before I found Dr. Prehiem. He was the only one who would agree to treat my condition using the adage “less is best” as the driving force, before prescribing any kind of medication or medical procedures. This was long before American mainstream doctors even considered this notion of medical practice. He also predicted correctly that Crohn’s was a genetic disorder. Dr. Prehiem was the Master.

Previously, I was repeatedly told the corporate line by the other physicians, which at the time went something like this: “If you survive, and that is very improbable, because after all, this is an orphan disease -- not a lot of profits in researching this one, and the CDC says there are less than four thousand of you -- if you survive, young mother, you will be blind by twenty-six, and dead by the age of thirty. Not a lot to do but throw pharmaceuticals at it, and yes, we all agree -- Crohn’s is a ten on the pain scale.”

The corporate line then gave me a, "get out of jail free," card, a legal license to become the worst drug addict imaginable; and with a choir of eight doctors singing this identical chorus, I imagine I would have had the golden seal of approval, as well.

Even I knew better than that. At the tender age of twenty, life as a drug addict could not be healthy for me, no matter how bad the pain. I also noticed that Crohn’s, by its very nature, manifests intermittently, usually triggered by stressful events, spicy foods, large meals, or exhaustion. I thought these were environmental factors that I could manipulate to my advantage, thereby creating a much better chance for a positive outcome. Encouraged by my basic understanding and desire to actively become involved in my own health management, Dr. Prehiem chose to empower me. He sent me to a nearby college library where I hit the books and learned as much as a layperson could about Crohn’s and how the disease progressed.

Medical science knew what was happening; they just didn’t know why or how to stop the inflammation from spreading to the other internal organs, which was what made the illness potentially fatal.

My mission, as I understood it, was to stop or detour the occurrence of inflammation in the first place -- find a way to persuade my body to go into remission and keep it there. After taking copious notes, I returned to Dr. Prehiem’s office where we put our heads together and created a homemade medical model we could both live with.

He went out on a professional limb for me and agreed to treat me medically, incorporating a “less is best” approach to medicine, while applying behavior modification and biofeedback training. Following his advice, I attended two sessions weekly of biofeedback training for six months. I had my blood drawn every Tuesday to chart the level of inflammation and to discover if there were any cycles or triggers we could prepare for, minimize or control. I also began resting when I was tired, ate small bland meals throughout the day, and consciously avoided stressful situations. And there I sat, in a Kansas hospital, with all that knowledge and insight, and I had just voluntarily taken what appeared to be a suicidal dose of pills. I found the contrast comic.

I also thought it ironic that a different invader would kill me. For years, I had psychologically prepared myself for the reality that Crohn’s would eventually finish me off. But fate had other plans. While I was staring death right in the eye, the good news was, I had beat Crohn’s disease. It didn’t get me -- I conquered that one.

************