Claustrophobia

We were in the ER again last night. Mark tried to tough it out, but after about three hours, we knew we were going to have to go in. I had planned to just drop him off and go home to put the kids to bed, but when we got there, his heart was going quite fast. Not enough to call in a crowd of medical personnel, but enough to be mildly worrisome. So I stuck around -- supposedly just long enough for the test results to come back and/or for his heart to slow down enough for me to leave without too much worry. Well, his heart never did slow down much, despite a cocktail of assorted drugs. Also, the doctors (with Mark's go ahead) have been trying to ween him off of narcotics, to give him relaxants and anti-inflammatories instead, just enough to help him ride it out. It didn't work last night. They finally came in with the narcotics -- and then later a second dose -- before we could finally go home.

I wasn't a very happy camper last night. As much as I love the staff at Newberg ER, I'm really getting to despise that place. To make matters worse, I hadn't brought The Bag (complete with reading material and embroidery) since I wasn't planning on staying. Also, after 8:30, they lock up most of the doors so that I was cut off from my usual diversions -- the cafeteria with its wall of windows looking out over the hills, the public computer, etc. I was confined to his stark white, windowless room or the waiting room or a small stretch of hallway.

On one of my walks around the outer limits of my cage, I stood and looked for awhile at a nook in the corner between the two vending machine. The air hummed like the air conditioner that I used to cuddle up next to as a little girl. I had a yearning for a pillow and one of the white blankets from the warmer... I didn't entertain the thought though. If someone found me curled up between the vending machine and the wall, they probably would lock me up -- literally!

I had an old Glimmer Train magazine in the car and a spiral notebook, so I wasn't completely without diversion. I read an excellent story by an author whose name escapes me now. And I wrote poetry. I wrote a haiku about the sapling in the yard and a very deep piece (hah!) about the experience of drinking orange juice. And I wrote the following. It's not good enough to send anywhere, and is too gimmicky anyway, but I thought I'd post it here, just because.

Claustrophobia

by Jenn

Can death Coexist
with Life?
Angels pace this space,
this edge of the Unknown,
where Spirits are born,
and Torn apart,
consumed and Regurgitated,
despair the bastard Offspring of
Pain.

Hope is
Obliterated,
Buried like nuclear waste,
too Incendiary even
to Allow.