I should be
cleaning. I should be doing dishes. Sweeping. Vacuuming.
I should be dressed. I should be finishing the book. Or writing a sestina about the universe called Breath, and using the words: feather, falling, word, void, love and laundry. I should be playing with the boyos and their new toys, I should be dressing them, I should be supervising as they pick up blocks. (I did feed them; food is love.) I should be blogging the continuing Frango story now that my mom left this morning. I should be leaving my fortune cookie witticisms on ya'll's blogs. I should be answering your wonderful comments on my own blog (one-way conversations are only half-fun). I should read my email, I should be writing thank-you notes.
But, I'm napping. More or less. I'm putting these words together in my head, to type in later. I should be sleeping. I should give up. I should call Dr. S., make my follow-up appointment, ask him if it was only a hallucination that I heard – his voice solid and real floating over my dreams, pulling me up and out of the dark; “She may want to have that ovary removed.” He wasn't there when I opened my eyes, just the nurses and Fiji. I should have asked right then. I think I tried. No one said anything about it to O.
This was before I had visitors: There were pictures. I saw them; someone flipped through them quickly in front of my eyes, and then they were gone. I remember seeing something that wasn't supposed to be there, and then it was gone in the next picture. Then the pictures themselves were gone. I wonder if I'll see them again in a textbook.
Everyone wanted me to tell them how I felt in numbers. God's own language, I thought. A nurse told me I shouldn't feel worse than a six. I told her I was around a five. She put something in my IV that took me to a two, for about two minutes. After that, 3.5 sounded good. I wanted to say pi, but I didn't want them to think I was delusional. Or hungry.
Then the girl who sat in front of me in 9th grade biology took me to the bathroom. Seriously. Ask her. Life's so absurd.
I should be thanking God for Vicadin. I should be set for the next migraine. I should be knocking on wood.
I shouldn't be telling you about the second night. I should leave a happy story be. I shouldn't have laid down alone. My diaphragm borrowed the nerves in my shoulder, having none of its own. It came on quickly, the pain. It wisely ignored the Vicadin, sending red pressure into my shoulder, where the closest nerves screamed a warning about my diaphragm; leftover co2 compressed it, and I couldn't breathe. But the pain was so intense, I couldn't move, either. I lay gasping like a fish in the middle of the bed, pain level as close to a ten as one can get without passing out. Pi cubed.
My mom heard me, heard that tiny, crucial sound. She called O in. They propped me up and I tried to breathe. My exhales were tight-fisted screams. “If you can do that, you can breathe!” O screamed back, trying to pull me out of the panic. I closed my eyes and when I did, I saw flowers bloom. Little five-petaled flowers bursting open.
The bubble moved. I breathed. I didn't sleep well after that.
I got better. I am better. I'll stop slacking after today. After I post this. After I think about napping again. After I decide not to.