Waving Not Drowning

It's been 3 months and she's slowly getting better. Rae comes in every day, checks in with the ICU nurses and spends about an hour, maybe 2 if she's got the strength of will. She rolls the reclining sleep chair over and sits next to her mom's bed, surrounded by a ventilator, all kinds of monitors and machines, flashing, beeping, keeping score. Today's a good day. Her levels are high, whatever that means. This seems to be progress. The nurses are exceptional. Patient, kind, and above all, frank. No bull, no patronizing, just the facts with a wry sense of humour and a seemingly endless supply of answers. Whether they're the ones Rae wants to hear or not is a moot point; at least they're communicative. The doctors on the other hand are elusive, cryptic. Disinterested and halfway out the door. It makes Rae crazy. She doesn't speak their language so she stumbles and sputters. On a bad day Rae weeps openly, embarrassed by her complete inability to articulate w...

Please no, not now, no. No no no no no. Aw, crap. Sarah is dying. Her head is pounding, it feels like there are socks stuffed up her nose. At first she thought it was allergies- tis the season and everything- then the thick head, phlegmy couch, an absolute inability to sleep because the moment she lays her head down she can't breathe. Smothered alive by her own histamines. Underwater, drowning in the sound of her own body; her ears are plugged up so every swallow sounds like a crackling back of tortilla chips. Which would be great if she had any appetite at all. Not that she's not eating. Exhausted, punch drunk with daytime cold medicine and she shovels in some oatmeal and cups of earl grey, shots of  vitamin c. All that time dating the yogi and the best gift was being turned onto the neti pot. Excruciatingly  painful- she nearly collapses on the floor trying to fill her sinuses with salt water. What a bizarre idea. One side is fine but the other is akin to being held upside d...

It really wasn't the news she was anticipating but then again, Loretta understands she should never anticipate anything. Ever. Expectations cause endless disappointment. Not the most positive of mindsets but Loretta knows from whence she speaks. Sixteen years of stasis in middle management,  two near-engagements; one long heartbreaking, slipshod divorce and five rounds of chemo later, Loretta expects nothing short of the unexpected. The first round had gone relatively well, as far as treatment goes. Three hours in hospital, then an easy day at home. Days two through six  knocked on her ass. Then she began the slow climb back to next-to-normal over the following two weeks. The frequency was wearing her down. At every three weeks, Loretta was familiar with the seesaw rhythm of up and down days. Right now was pretty freakin awful. The mass had spread, metastasized into her lungs; things weren't as positive as Loretta had hoped. This is the problem with expectations...

Suddenly, like a freight train pulling into the station, wheels squealing, this immovable weight comes crashing down on her, enveloping her entire body. Her organs hurt. Or is it her back? She can't differentiate between the pounding in her head, ears, chest, legs and stomach. Dysrhythmic, cacophonous, consuming. There is no comfort here. She tries to roll over, coax her cells back into a restful sleep but something triggers the gag reflex in the back of her throat. This is not good, this can not be good. If she breathes, just tries to focus on deep, cleansing breaths-no, wait, bad idea. Through the slits of her barely open eyelids she reads 5 am on the clock radio. Must Keep Sleeping. She's a kid all over again, imagining that this is all a bad dream; when she wakes up it will all be sunshine and fairytales, rainbows and kittens, and back to her old, active, healthy, take charge self. It hurts to roll over. Struggling to throw off the quilt then the duvet and finally the top s...