anahat nad

I'm not sure what is going on.

I was laying in bed last night after the shower of all showers [[there is nothing better than washing away the hospital wear and tear]] attempting the futile quest for a comfortable position on a plastic, Mass General issued mattress, when I found myself bursting into tears. The tears were seriously flowing, and not stopping. I cried over being exhausted and finding it so hard to snooze. And for that time when I was five and I packed up a doll stroller with hair curlers, my favorite pair of shoes (girl's gotta be prepared), a popsicle, and a bag o' grapes, and I walked out my front door and onto the neighbors lawn in full rebellion mode, when I realized my plan to run away from home had hit a bump; I wasn't allowed to cross the street. For the loss of my childhood naivete. Over the unfortunate but true fact that I've yet to fully accept; Alexei Rodriguez really has parted ways with 3 Inches of Blood. At least I have the memories, of him and their 2004 glory, sharing a tiny stage with Exodus. [[Oh Palladium, you did my ears proud.]] For the loss of my dear Cheyenne to the swampy bogs of Florida; may the alligators and mosquitoes spare you and go for your drunken neighbor instead.. For Kelly girl, the sweetest dog I've known, the only creature I've met who ate ten pounds of raw flour without a hitch. And a cable box. And a table. Oh, and drywall. I cried for my slightly battered lungs, and their overwhelming impact on my life. The prospect and reality of a transplant hit me full force and I wanted nothing more than to be miles away from my impersonal hospital room with it's beeping IV pumps and sterile glove boxes lining the walls. I cried for a cure.

At some point I must have realized that the bubonic plague outbreak of the 18th century was not, actually, my fault, and the comfort in realizing how ridiculous I was acting calmed me into sleep. I woke up this morning to find my nurse standing at my IV pump, wiping tears from her eyes, only to apologize and say that she didn't know why she couldn't compose herself, it was just one of those days.

I understood.

THEN!

The physical therapist, a dear woman who I'd gauge to be in her 30's, perhaps, and who I just assumed was married with kids, announced her crush on a twenty-two year old guy in a band and that she was proud of her initiative to befriend him on Facebook.

This place? It's making us crazy.