Saturday, May 26, 2007
She remembers shaking. Actually, she thought the bed was vibrating. It was in a hotel in Philadelphia, maybe six years ago. She thought someone in the room downstairs might be doing something to make the bed vibrate. Then she gave up thinking and just lay there. Her father, whom she'd seen that afternoon, was home in Margate. She'd thought maybe he'd stay with her, or at least have dinner. That's why she kept the room a second night. But he wanted to get home right after the doctor told him his mind was fine, there was nothing to worry about. Wanted to get home while he still remembered where home was. Maybe it was seven years ago.
Middle of the night, last night, she woke in a state of panic. 2:34 a.m. Not asleep more than an hour. Normally, she would still be up and working at that time, but nothing's normal. She twists the wedding ring around her finger, takes a Clonitin, decides to wake her husband. Arms around her, he's quickly back to sleep. She's calming down, but still shaking, sleepless, searching for that giant brass ring again, the hell with the rest of this.
Sixteen years ago ago, when she went in for surgery, they removed all her other jewelry but taped down her wedding ring, crosswise, only a hint of gold visible. The ring was just fifteen months old then, and it still felt new. What will they do this time, the surgery three times longer, her finger somewhat swollen from where the ring's grown tight against it? The surgeon says the numbness in those two fingers might be coming from the larger lesion in the brain. She knew she should have had her head examined when that finger first numbed. Knew in the back of her head, where the tumor is. This could have been caught over a year ago. It was around then that she lost the ring, or thought she lost it. Only to have it turn up two days later in the unmade bed, pulled off sometime in a nightmare she couldn't remember. And this hospital bed? And this nightmare?
Four days until another 100-day mark. Four horrendous days. Four days of Clonitin to try and keep her calm. At midnight of the 600 mark she'll be unable to eat. Around six a.m. of the 600 mark she'll be heading for the hospital. Around noon of the 600 mark she'll be in surgery. Around five p.m. of the 600 mark she'll have no idea where she is. The very next day the month will be changing. She's supposed to start another section of this blog then. God only knows if she will.