Waving Not Drowning

The second glass of Santa Margherita goes down easier, sweet, cool, tangy relief. It's been six weeks, no booze. Against advice from the psychiatrist, just to make sure her health is as optimum as can be. And it is, apparently. Phenomenally low blood pressure, excellent renal function, solid heart health. The social worker told her they'd be taking her left kidney- 50.3 percent function in her right, 49.7 in her left so technically, it was the inferior one. She was planning a Liberating Lefty party, a farewell celebration. It wasn't until Chris pulled her aside in the waiting room last week while running a session for some insurance spot that she began to think about her disease differently, as a potential detriment, a contraindication to her potential to save her friend's life or even some stranger's. He had a resectioning, 31 centimetres, but like her, no drug protocol. It was too risky, he was told, to even consider donating; he wouldn't qualify. But since sh...

"This is ridiculous. Clearly these people don't know what they're talking about when they say this stuff is "intuitive". I can't make head's or tales out of this thing. The whole screen is jumping and sliding. It's giving me an aneurysm. Vivie!" Viv closes her eyes, drops her chin to her chest and takes a long, slow, cooling breath in through her nose, just like the yogi with the ratty dreadlocks tells her to. Why do people still wear patchouli, especially in a hot yoga room? She snickers under her breath and nods to herself. "Vivie! I can't make the screen do what I want it to do. You have to help me!" Her dad's plaintive whine pierces her momentary reverie like buckshot through a stained glass window, exploding the tempered red, purple and blues of her deep breathing ritual into pebbles of beach glass strewn all over the kitchen floor. "Ok dad, I'll take a look, just gimme a sec here to finish the dishes." Why sh...