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Show 258 residence in the guest chair in my room. I was finally reluctantly informed that it holds the equipment required for emergency intubation. The vent itself is continuously parked near the entrance to my room, I subsequently discovered. It is named "R2-D2," I was told, both because it vaguely resembles that endearing character and because it seems less foreboding if it is thought to vaguely resemble that endearing character. I am nonetheless terrified of this R2-D2. "Dream on," I am saying, playing my part in the joke. My body needs no study as the fall guy for this joke. Dr. Emerson had told me, in all seriousness, that he enjoys intubating people because he is, frankly, quite good at it. I do not doubt it. I simply do not want to experience his expertise at this skill firsthand. He is now sober. "Let's see your back," he is saying, and I lean forward in the bed. He does not find a Baclofen bubble there but it is not reassuring to me anyway. I have overdosed with great regularity - or perhaps the chart will show that I have overdosed with great irregularity - for quite some time now without the Baclofen bump. "Let me see your fingers," he says, holding his own hand upright, flexing his long fingers straight. So easily straight. Mine are curving now and will no longer open straight. |