Taking Oxygen I always knew it would catch me one way or another. No, it’s not kidney cancer, which is what I was diagnosed with when I was 3. This time, my organs were attacking each other, like battleships bombing the home team.
Now I have an army of different doctors on my side. I feel so special when they drop by on rounds and listen to my breathing. In out in out in. Again. Deep breaths. Out in out in out. They have written white papers on my case, dissecting what they find, and whisper to their study groups about the downturns I make in the night. I can’t tell if they want me to live or die—what would help their research the most?
Not that I’m any better. I’m a shameless nurse wanna-be, lurching around the medical mainstay wherever I find them—at dinner parties, restaurants, and while I’m in the hospital being treated for a serious medical matter.
Shuddering, I think about the long wait for a liver donation transplant. With a gun pointed at my head, I try to breathe through the moments, embrace the gravitational pull of all the celestial bodies residing in the hospital. And breathe.
