Life Among the Never-Winged

Once upon a time I was writing a book called, "Just Another Love Letter", about angels behaving badly. Now I just quietly ask myself each day, "What the hell am I doing?"

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Location: The Rocky Mountain Empire, United States

My friends always knew I was going to hell. My only hope is that God likes good jokes and bad redheads.

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  • Friday, May 18, 2007


    Mona's challenge this week is just that. I've already written my best about the subject, I think, so a rerun for repro. Kind of fitting.

    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.

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    10 people left me a love letter:

    Blogger Stucco wrote in a love letter...

    Jeezus Pants- you're freaking me out. Medical maladies are my established idiom. Get healthy or I may sue for infringement.

    11:05 PM, May 18, 2007  
    Blogger meno wrote in a love letter...

    I remember reading this the first time it aired. I'm sure i said something witty and caring back then, or else i bravely ran away.

    I am glad that this is in the past. Keep on breathing.

    9:18 AM, May 19, 2007  
    Blogger patches wrote in a love letter...

    Have you ever noticed that sometimes breathing is the hardest part? I really like your labels, I mean doesn't everyone use red wine for medicinal purposes? They should, well maybe not if they're on the wagon. That might not be such a good idea.

    I'm glad you have this part behind you, Nancy.

    9:59 AM, May 19, 2007  
    Blogger Scott from Oregon wrote in a love letter...

    You should let Stucco be the sick puppy. It suits him better.

    8:14 PM, May 19, 2007  
    Anonymous Meredith wrote in a love letter...

    Did you get the bitchy lecture about how you're never supposed o wait until you're past 4 to tell them your at 4? How if you wait too long it takes longer to get back once the morphine ( or vicodin) kicks in. I sometimes wish there was still that option.
    "How bad is the pain?"
    And you're magically infused with a yummy cocktail of pain relieving loveliness.
    Good times.

    11:21 PM, May 19, 2007  
    Blogger Cheesy wrote in a love letter...

    Oh how I adored the "click awwwwwwwwwwwwww" machine. I felt your pain in your words. I do hope you have relief now baby girl.

    12:08 AM, May 20, 2007  
    Blogger Irrelephant wrote in a love letter...

    Damnit Dancypants, you're reruns are better than my original material. No fair.

    8:16 AM, May 20, 2007  
    Blogger Bud wrote in a love letter...

    Oh, damn, I have a lot to catch up on here. I'll try, I promise!

    1:26 PM, May 20, 2007  
    Blogger Nancy Dancehall wrote in a love letter...

    Hey, it's only my girlie parts, Stucco. You can't sue me for that! But wait; if you sued me does that mean I'd have to appear in court in Seattle...? :-)

    Brave Sir Meno, she ran away, she bravely ran away...
    Just kidding. Can't resist a Monty Python joke. You're always caring and witty, my dear.

    Yeah, Patches; how can something so automatic be so difficult? The red wine is also helping with my hearing, seriously. I'll have to post that later this week.

    We're BOTH sick puppies, Scott. ;-)

    Nope, Mer; the nurses were more cocerned with Fiji (I've had much better). But that cocktail...mmmmm... Oh yeah, hospital=Partay, huh? ;-)

    Aw, thanks, Cheesy. *hug* We'll see how these new meds do. So far so...well. I'll give them time.

    Oh, I beg to differ, Ir. :-)

    BUD!!! *hug* Glad to see you back in the blogosphere.

    7:45 PM, May 20, 2007  
    Blogger Mona Buonanotte wrote in a love letter...

    This post made me breathless!

    Even with the 'miracle' aspect of our girly bits, sometimes it just, well, it just sucks to have to deal with them and their associated foibles. Glad you found a way to breathe...what an awful feeling....

    5:23 AM, May 21, 2007  

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