Exploration

Continuation of June 13, 2009 - 1st person PN deals with immediate pain and 
loss and goes through everyday-type tasks while dealing with grief.  The mood 
is sad, the tone is matter-of-fact.

*******************************************************************************

	It’s late afternoon on the second day after her Whipple.  The tangerine
and scarlet sky is shining onto the east wall of her room.  She is smiling at 
me as I comb her Loreal platinum blonde hair back from her face with my 
fingers.  It’s a smile of adoration and love - she doesn’t have any idea who I 
am.

	A white coat knocks and I walk with him/it out into the hall.  On top 
of the we-were-too-late-she-has-maybe-a-month information from two days ago, 
she now has-an-infection and the-drugs-she-was-being-given-were-the-wrong-
kind/too-strong.  I nod at the coat.  That would be why she tore out all her 
catheters and ran down the hall screaming last night.

	He nods.

	And now?

	He shrugs and adds a hopefully-she-won’t-get-loose-and-do-it-again.

	I shrug and walk back into the room, to the fading blood-red glow.  
She’s asleep.

	I pick up Tom Robbins, Skinny Legs and All, a supposed distraction, and
flip to the prelude.  “This is the room of the wolfmother wallpaper.”  
Wolfmother – that rings a bell….  

	I escape down the hall.

	In the cafeteria, I see a salad bar where everything is wilted, even 
the boiled eggs.  Grey-brown meatballs floating in grease of a similar color, 
and broccoli – the shade of pea soup - are at the hot food bar.  I look at the 
stale donuts, grab a coke and go back upstairs.

	Urgent and soothing voices float out of the room as I approach.   I 
wait until they are done, lean against the wall, drink my coke, and watch 
lights pop up in the darkening distance through the plate glass.
  
	She is no longer sleeping.  She sobs hysterically and tears flow down 
her face.  I dry them off and talk to her gently.  My eyes travel down to the 
restraints.  They’re very nice, three inch leather cuffs with a small, chrome 
buckle.  They are lined with soft fleece.

	Later, she whispers to me that I have to go pick up my father’s scotch.
It’s out in the hall, under the chair.  She can see it.  If I don’t get it, 
that gremlin will steal it.  I retrieve it and tell her it’s safe.  A few 
minutes later, she tells me about the party in the ceiling and how all of her 
friends are there.  She’d like to go, but she is tied down and very, very 
tired.

	I stroke her hair back from her face and tell her that it’s okay.  
They’ll have another party and she can go then.  Soon, she sleeps.

	The book is on the bedside table.  I pick it up and stare at the dance 
of the seven veils on the cover.  But all I can see are the cuffs at her wrists
and ankles and I remember my own tears and the knotted cords that pinned me and
cut my wrists as a child.

	How do they feel, mom?  Do they hurt? 


Kathleen Speck
08/08/09