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Show 87 "I'm sorry about that," she is saying, nebulously enough for me to wonder if she is referring to the reason for the startle or to the physician outburst or to simply my being here. I will not ask for clarification. "I'm really sorry." She is genuine in her sorrow. Placing her face close to mine, there on the floor, looking me in my eyes. As she gently helps my now quieted body back up into the wheelchair and then into my bed, I realize I am crying. No sound. Just tears marking down my sweaty face. It's OK. Diane is safe. My drugged vision is slowed as it tries to track her exit from my room. I am wondering at the cleansing power of throwing shoes, water mugs, dishes and silverware at the walls of a single patient room in this large medical institution. I extend my open hand toward our shared wall as a gesture of forgiveness and empathy. If I could reach that wall, I think, I might have been marking my days interred here on it. Small lines, crossed through at four to make five. This day would make a total of seven groups of five. My neighbor, however, instead of my small and imagined protest, has actually tried to break out. I salute his courage and fall asleep. |