K&M

Still breathing.
Both tubed with a million snaking plastic snakes that invade every secret corner.
Every drop of in and out, every breath measured
As if to weigh your soul.
"Lighten up."
I wonder if your heart was light. I wonder why you waited so long.
And punishments like this make me wonder why you still believe.
There's a small card on the wall by one's bed, signed by a loving nurse in her daughter's name.
And miles of sterile hallway away, there's a paper with the other's name, colored by another loving nurse instead of her mother's hand.
They're poor, poor substitutes for what should be.
One flash, one wavering sleepy instant changes a family's hopes and dreams forever.
I wonder if you'll ever wake up, either one.
I want so badly for him to have one. If he can't have one, have the other, to not to have to say goodbye to both would be Mercy.

But if there's to be neither, can they go together? I play a scene in my mind, a hushed room, still of all the beeps and lights - with a small family together for the last time. Two souls, making the greatest transition together - a tiny, only daughter who was too small to fight hard enough, and her mother whose obstacles were just too great... And a man about to lose everything he ever truly loved and dreamed and hoped for. I want for them to go together, if they both have to go.

It's the living I am sorry for. It's those who have to get out of bed and go to work and trowel on a smile in the morning, whose every day forward will be measured by this one. She's a mother, now, but will never know it. But you'll always remember that you are a father to a perfect little soul.

If you had to choose, which would you? Whose injuries are fewest? Whose crimes are worst? Whose dreams were worth most? Innocence? Who knew you best? Who can say who you loved most - your daughter, or your wife?

Wake up, you must cry. Just wake up. Oh, please, God - wake up. What would you give for one day? One word? One smile?

They're still breathing, for now. Used to be one was breathing for the other, but I fixed that, didn't I. I'm bitter, still. I wonder if I should have left well enough alone, if you'd have more peace never knowing. There's still a glimmer of hope, one star, one single piece of square glitter that might give you that smile, someday.
But probably not. I hope you can find the strength, someday, to say the words that will vanish that hope and allow you to find your own way, again.

K&M, I am sorry you never knew eachother.
I hope you find one another again.

Cured?

Two weeks stone cold turkey.
Visions of sugarplums blur in my head,
There's a little more of me to go around, and while I've gone
Round and round, I'm still better off.
I'll still take 5 pounds over multitudes of milligrams.
Little centipedes, millipedes wend their way over the wrinkles in my skull,
winding between and through the fingers that spread over my parietal lobes,
Frontal disinhibition's joyful grin flashes out through the thinning mist.
I can have both.
I can think and create, I can write and do - so long been mutually exclusive.
I can exclude a few things. I know it's not forever, but it's nice to know that it can be done.
I can go without. Be without, live without and love within still.
It's nice to know that I haven't changed much but the season, and so I can still simply hold a chemical accountable.
Table. Treble warbling song reaches skyward. It's nice to feel so good,
Nice to be not so crazy.
Maybe I'm growing out of this phase - I know better than to think my future's all sunshine and rainbows, but it's a small triumph over genetics and old lessons to say "all clear".
All good.
I forget, though, that I no longer have that lame excuse. Now I'm really just selfish for not checking off the next box, the next logical step.
I'm okay with selfish. I'm okay with the status quo.
5 pounds are a much lighter-weight burden to carry.

Brighter days.

Soaring.
Blind flying sky-high.
I'll be here and there and everywhere soon.
My dreams handed to me one-by-one.
Exhiliration exhalation explanation "do you want the short one or the long..."
It's a long way home, so long, but there's such a force here.
A force of magnetism that draws me in and up.
Upward, outward.
I'm flying to fly, soon.
The calls and emails come faster, the Law of Attraction works,
Again and again.
Thanks, so many thanks to whatever little angel, whichever of the lovely
Fates has hung so many little baubles and bright jewels on my thread.
Whoever braided it so smoothly.
I can leave the window open, and the sweet breeze blows me in the right direction.
My sail's unfurled, spinnaker-wide.
Bright colors call to the birds aflight and sun rays and waves' spray
"You're welcome," they whisper.

I am eating the last of the leftover lettuce.
Radish metaphors for our adventures, so seldom anymore.
Doubt creeps into my mind, every time.
Every time you drive off into the sunset, I say goodbye for the last time.
I steel myself a little for the possibility that this is the inevitable.
I have carried this suspicion for so long, it's silly.
I suspect I won't have any warning. Maybe it's more of a hope...
For years, I have held my breath a little every time I pick up your call, every "Open" click.
I wonder where I learned that little fear, maybe a long time ago? Something I never left behind?
Hope, then.
A little hope that you won't go the way of the Dodo, drooling and grinning at your own sad, punchlineless joke.
I don't want you to slow down. I don't want you to lie down to sleep and I see it a little, here and there.
I see your grand conflagration gradually extinquishing itself. Like a forest fire that finally runs out of fuel.
Part of me wishes it were true, that I could preserve you in my memory now, rather than waiting a lifetime for your dreams to slowly disappear.
That would be the greatest tragedy for you, to disappear.

But, you have many more stories to tell, I think. Many more bright suns in your eyes.
You have to finish your own tale, anyway. As much as I fuss and quietly fret, and I know the ending, yes, but I don't know how we get there. Many chapters are still to be written.
Yes, many stories still to be told.

Digging in.

Reset.

Starting over again, yet again.

I am surrounded by love and laughter, I am the richest in that which is truly most important in life.

I am still learning, though, always a new lesson.

Today's: there's always more.

More to be done, more to be cleaned, 

Will I ever be clean?  Washed of my sins, cleansed of the clouds in my eyes, the cobwebs in my soul?

There's always more to be said, more to be fought, more to be built and torn away.

It's a process, a long, long process and I am still fighting through.

Another February begins.  

Another long winter takes stock of my sandbagged post.

I've dug in, it's a fine line between enough and too deep.

The February of my discontent, you called it, pretty accurate.

I will pull myself up, hop back in the saddle, and continue the slog through the muck.

It's nice to have the sun shine on my face, but sometimes I am still cold.  The wind still stings.

List.

Nodding daisies, I know how you feel.  

Had one on my toe, but it stalked off, too - jumped in some other vase, I'm sure. 

Traitorous Aster. 

Sleepy, bowing stems too thin to hold their caricature heads up. Fountain streams, bowtails that fall out of line, over the edge of the cup, 

I wonder if it's my fault.  

I kill plants alot. I've learned not to buy them, no matter how cute, because they end up frail, withered brown things on my tabletop. Howard saves them sometimes, sometimes not. Our Savior of Vegetation. 

I leave them there for weeks, sometimes, watering them and fussing that they might be resurrected. 

On the third day, Christ rose from the dead.  

In the third week, my plants land in the trash. No miracles for them. 

There's a forgotten tumbleweed in a corner of my yard. Tumbleweeds are different, they grow to die. Only in death, splintered off from their life-giving earth, they fulfill their true purpose; shaking out their seeds as they tumble and stumble across the ground. I wonder if they're lonely, tumbleweeds. If they hold back, never truly connecting with other plants. If they don't make any real friends because their fate hangs low before their eyes. The other species whisper about the aloof tumbleweed, wondering "what's his problem?". But the green shoots don't realize in their shortsightedness, like teenagers in their invincibility they just don't see the truth and the tragedy of it all. The wise and weathered tumbleweed knows what's coming in the autumn...  

Christmas Eve, stolen long ago from an ancient tradition of birth and rebirth. I miss my own ancient traditions of snickerdoodles and fudge.  

Of the dog chewing through the crumpled wrapping paper, of stockings hung by the chimney with care.  

I miss the silly advent calendar with the mice on it.  

"Murder-your-own" Christmas tree outings. 

I'm working through Christmas, this year. I figured it's better to let the people with kids stay home. I sort of wish I could just skip the whole thing.  

But I bought a tree of my very own for the first time, yesterday. It's about 8 inches tall, rooted in a copper-colored pot, Its branches reach out, offering a tiny snowflake symbol of peace. I thought long and hard about the consequences for the poor little thing - becoming *my* plant isn't something I'd wish on my worst enemy. But I bought it anyway, I need something that says "It's Christmas" around the house. It shivers and sparkles on the table by the front door. I put two presents on the floor next to it, satisfied with my lame attempt at a tradition.

My daisies bow deeper: out of exaggerated respect or exhaustion, I'm not quite sure. 

I want a dog. A puppy for Christmas.  

Shorter, redder hair, too.  

And a red convertible to match.  You could just set your reindeer to work on my Volkswagen...

I want world peace, an end to hunger and violence. I want my cousin to be ok.  

Please, Santa, now that I have a Christmas tree, would you put my family under it tomorrow morning?  

Or, maybe just some new slippers, a book or two, and something that resembles a heater for my car.  

If it's not too much, I'd like homes for all the lost children in the world.  

A green thumb.  

Cooking ability.

I've been very good this year; kind to my friends and strangers. I didn't lie, cheat, or steal.

Can I have longer legs? Warmer weather? New eyeliner?

I would just love a basket full of patience. Sanity. Wisdom. Extra time.

I want a new laptop for Christmas. Or, a bigger garage. Either one would be great.

Or, if you can't do any of these things, give me another year of blessings like this one: filled with the love of my family and friends, success in my artistic endeavors, challenges that teach me how to be a better human being, enough money to get by comfortably, a good job that keeps me interested, and a warm home with a wonderful husband in it. If you could just make next year as good as this one was, that would be more than enough.

Thanks Santa. I'll owe you big time.

-Me

CouldaShouldaWoulda

More, could have done more.

Still more, intubate. 

Compressions, rhythm, shock, epi, rhythm.

No rhythm, no air.

Bagged more, compressed faster, why didn't they start a line?

Why no drugs?

You just called it, and I was stunned.  I wanted to do more

My rational mind has set there was nothing to be done, nothing more to do

Futility most raw, most burning

Gone so long, success would have meant quantity instead of quality

Instead.  Of Quality.

But did I do it right?  I don't remember who was bagging, 

Why didn't you take over for me, tell me what I was doing?

I only remember one face, and that awful silence.

"Let's call it."  Words that still sting, here months later.  

Compressions, breathe, rhythm, harmony, trigger, feeling, shock, grief, shame.

Shame on you.  Is there something wrong with me?  Something wrong with us women, we are so supportive to these women in crisis, what about my crisis?  

I can't be the only one.  The only one who wonders...

What if?  

Could have, should have, rhythm, fluid, volume, cardiac, heartache, headache, ischemia.

Isolation.

Maybe I'm just not cut out for this.  

Or, maybe I'm tired or hungry and have hair-trigger tears these days.

Trauma, Tamponade, Tension Pneumo, Toxins, Terror, Treatment, Torrent, Terrible.

Hypovolemia, Hypoxia, Help, Hypoglycemia, Horror, Hidden, Hydrogen Ion, Hydrogen Bomb.

Help.

Help.

The T's and H's can't explain it all away.  Can't save you even though I tried.

There's always a reason, bleeding always stops, not your turn.

Not your turn.

Help.