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Show 191 More nurses are coming into the room, changing the angle of the bed, drawing up the antidote, swabbing the IV access port on the line,injecting the antidote slowly into the line, ever so slowly, to prevent other bad things from happening. Orders are given in short sentences, relayed to the group by the nurse from Dr. Chappie on the telephone. I am watching the second-hand tick my life away on the big clock high on the wall next to the bed. The respiratory therapist is squeezing, releasing. Squeezing, releasing. Squeezing, releasing. The wind of his squeezing fills my lungs. The dead weight of my own chest expels the air. It tastes of stale plastic. Many minutes have passed and I am beginning to feel the nausea of the antidote. I am blinking rapidly, hoping someone will notice because I am about to vomit. I fear the possible consequences of vomiting when laying flat on my back arid I am screaming, screaming in my head with no sound that I am about to vomit and please, please - somebody! - notice before it is too late! "She's vomiting," the respiratory therapist is saying, alerting the nurses on the opposite side of the bed, and I am suddenly shoved onto my side, vomit pouring from my mouth. They have swiftly removed the mask and my breath, and are suctioning my mouth and my throat, now rolling me back, replacing the mask and once again squeezing the air into my lungs. I did not inhale the vomit. |