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Show 54 gulp such feelings to get them all down. In fact there may not exist a teacher with that experience. I kiss him good-bye as they poke in the IV and resign myself to yet another hospital room with paintings of cheerful flowers pretending to be real. He is resigning himself to saddened children and to parenting for two and neither of us will really understand the other's experiences. I cannot breathe well during the night and worry that the clot has gone upward from somewhere in my abdomen, into my lungs. The nurse obviously does not share my concern. She is an older nurse with older skills and I do not trust her assessment. "You're still breathing!" she had said with forged joy, and there is no appeal. It hurts to breathe. Morning is refusing to come with its different nurse on the next shift. My clotted leg is resting on a bed of pillows and it is red, swollen, angry. I am wondering if my lungs are not also red, swollen and angry. But I am still breathing, as she said, and resolve to ignore the pain that breathing creates in order to continue doing so. |
