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Show 356 Five Hands Raised I am still here. I do not remember coming in. I do not know how long I have been here. The walls are still the same color and the rips in the fading wallpaper are still in the same place. There are stains on the ceiling that could only have gotten there by spurts of trauma. I am hoping they were not put there by my trauma. I do not remember yesterday. Perhaps tomorrow I will not remember today. The pump is still off and the only options left us are the meager, unsubstantiated experiments indicated in the journals by the doctors of only a few unfortunate others with my disease. Until something works, I must be kept on a Versed drip, at a level which allows expansion of my rib-cage for breath but does not render me totally unconscious as a side-effect. Versed is a benzodiapine and I am on great quantities of this drug. It is depressing my muscles and my spirit. I cannot see far enough to find daylight. The door is opening and my family is filing into my room. They seem happy to see me and I am trying to smile. I am trying to smile for them. I love them, each of them, so very much. They are talking about their several lives in their individual and differing ways and I cannot keep up with the conversation. The oldest two children are settling into chairs the nurses have brought |