To say I woke up early this morning would be an understatement. It happened at around 4 when I was seized out of sleep by a searing aching pain in my right shoulder that snaked down to my side and curled up in my belly before stretching up to squeeze itself in just below my sternum. I wondered if it was pill time. These days I'm always wondering if it's pill time.
As I had suspected: all predictions of the second procedure being a dream compared to the first were a load of evil communist lies. Knowing what I was going in to face dipped me in fear from tip to toes as they wheeled me into the examination room. They prepped me as an anesthesiologist sent me off to some twilight world caught halfway between this world and the next, (whatever that may be). Luckily the sterile draping on my hips blocked the view of the camera making its way through my innards to one of the arterial entrances of my liver- I don't think any amount of half-way sedation could've kept me calm through viewing that little show.
Waking up from sedation is truly a combination of life's most terrifying disconcerting circumstances one could imagine. You awake in blinding confusing pain while your eyes dart about trying to gain their bearings; who is a friend, who's a threat (or really rather who do I dislike). As you make your assessment you take a deep breath and dive head first into a deep chilly resentment of your situation. The "why me, oh god why me, oh how i hate this" begins on repeat, sinks its rusty claws under you ribs and wiggles its talons, tapping them to the beat of its constant refrain. The coughs when they come are rattly and bounce around inside my right shoulder like they're looking for somewhere to roost; angry, molting birds.
The days that follow go oddly well with bursts of awful. As more days pass, the good moments dwindle and the awful inches its way into more and more of your activities until you find its mostly all awful. I sit to write, to let out the feelings, try and help the world understand. As the laptop sits warm on my lap and my fingers rub at the keys it seems impossible to explain it all. All anyone wants to know is how it feels, what I need, what will make me feel better. But as I sit to try and give the world what they want, my neck sinks down deep into my shoulders and my head inches back, eyes drooping. And then I think how ludicrous it is that I can't sleep at night, that I stare at my ceiling and wonder where Morpheus has gone with his soft sleepy sand. But as my head drops back, sleep comes creeping up behind and I'm gone before I can answer these questions that hang over my head. Answers I owe to the ones I love.
I look for activities; landmarks of movement, of achievement to show myself I'm still whole somehow, to keep the pall of fading away to nothing away off from around my neck. It itches like a silly fear you're afraid to admit to. The days I can make a batch of cookies or have coffee with a friend I am elated: I'm not dead or dying or so afraid all the time. Seems a ridiculous level of gravity to lay upon a batch of chocolate chips or a double ristretto vanilla latte. But I have known days when neither were imaginable; I am grateful for small achievements, for the little reminders. June is creeping closer and more than anything I want to be healed well enough to go to Italy. I hear the Tuscan breeze and the smells of field ripe tomatoes. I will eat my way through that country, god willing, even if it kills me. My eyes will see the fields roll on green and gold, I will stand on streets older than upon my feet have tread before. When those molting cawing birds roost in my chest and preen their black pinfeathers I dream of Italy and how an Italian moon must be more beautiful than that opal orb that looks down on me from my green Kent valley. I close my eyes and let my mind fly free of their roost. I let my head fall back, let my regrets go, and dream of Italian stars.
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