02.12.02 - 12:42

you're still plenty fucked up but sometimes i feel like the words are so boring, so straight up and down like you've forgotten how to make them dance.

you, lying in the hospital bed. me, staring at myself in the mirror at your feet. i watched the neurologist come in on crutches (the kind that fasten on your forearms and curve up into joystick-like things for your hands to hang on to). he set up shop behind your back. a white plastic tray. size 8 gloves. sharp silver things. three envelopes stuffed with scrub brushes soaked in betadyne. he painted yellow across the little bit of skin on your back, once, twice, third time's a charm (he said). i saw him stick the tiny needle in between the vertebrae, the one with the numbing stuff. then the little needle came out and the big one went in and you squeezed my hand and i squeezed it back. four clear glass vials with black plastic tops, he unscrewed them one by one and i watched you drip into them, clear and slow.

by the time he got to vial #4 i was thinking about a lot of things. the drip-drop-drip of your spinal fluid. the orangey plaid couch that appeared like it might fold out into a bed for one. your eyelids, red and puffy, the threadlike blood vessels pronounced and tired at once. the grey gown (i told you it was flattering, you told me i lied). the nurse and her squeaky sometimes-cute sometimes-annoying voice. the iv pump honking, so loud.

i felt my head floating far above my body, my ears popping as the distance grew greater. i came down and my forehead was clammy and my ears plugged so i felt half-deaf. hold on, i said. i'm not quite there yet. ice chips in a cup. a white plastic-vinyl-pleather chair with oaky-looking arms. regis philbin, muted, on the television in the corner. the hospital green (it's just that color, no other) of the mask strapped across your face. almost-sweat on your forehead and your cheeks. your sleepy eyes, my fingers, so tired, your hands, so hot so very hot.

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