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Show 249 I am going to die. I do not want to die of simple neglect. It seems such a waste after all that I have gone through. I am back in the hospital once again, once again on the overdose-under-dose cycle and they tell me they really do not understand why. We have been able to better anticipate the overdose and turn off the pump before a crisis, but it has happened much more quickly than usual this time. And now they are talking, complacent in my supposed progress. I am wondering about the guilt they will each feel and wish I could tell them I understand, that I remember being young and carefree and sometimes careless. I am feeling faint and want only for my family to know how much I love each one of them when I distantly hear Terri yelling suddenly that I am not breathing and for Brian to code me. He is rushing around my bed to the code button on the wall and I feel the mask being placed hastily and harshly over my mouth and nose. Terri is squeezing the bag and my head clears more thoroughly with each squeezing. The antidote has worked fairly quickly and I am breathing on my own once again and sitting up in bed as my muscles once again begin their swing from flaccid to totally tight. A doctor is coming through my door, looking at me curiously. He is stopping just inside the doorway, staring at my body. "I guess you don't need me," he is saying, emphasis on the "me," as if I might need someone else and I admit my confusion as to who he might be and why he would be coming into my room. |