OCR Text |
Show 190 The Bagged Lady "She's stopped breathing," the nurse is saying at my last soft exhale and the respiratory therapist to my right is putting the mask over my mouth and nose, squeezing the large blue plastic bag to its side. He is squeezing less often than I would like to draw in a breath and I am praying that he does not forget that I am smaller than he and need oxygen more often. It does not help that my heart is racing, chased by a rattling fear. Dr. Chappie is on the other end of the telephone that the nurse is holding, standing by the bed. Dr. Chappie is giving orders about the antidote to Baclofen overdose. This is the ninth time we have reenacted this same scene. "Blink once for 'yes' and twice for 'no,'" the nurse had said, when I could only barely breathe and had no more voice. She had raised my arm above me and dropped it, watching it fall heavily onto my face, as if it belonged to someone else. But now I cannot communicate at all if only because no one is watching. They are busy with my not breathing. |