{"id":2521,"date":"2015-08-11T10:37:06","date_gmt":"2015-08-11T17:37:06","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.talkinggrid.com\/?p=2521"},"modified":"2015-08-21T18:55:02","modified_gmt":"2015-08-22T01:55:02","slug":"room-two","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/room-two\/","title":{"rendered":"Room Two (Revised)"},"content":{"rendered":"

A different room,<\/a> a different roommate<\/a>, each an experience, a window into another world. \u00a0I drift. \u00a0I float. \u00a0High atop the crest of a Tsunami. \u00a0I’m on a mattress in a narrow hospital bed on wheels. It folds up and down and it has a magic wand, upon which, you can call a surly nurse.<\/p>\n

Surely.<\/p>\n

“Hello! I’m dying.” \u00a0No. \u00a0I won’t admit it. \u00a0Death is not part of my plan. \u00a0I’m ok with a slow easy death from old age, not now. \u00a0Now, I am busy. \u00a0Writing. \u00a0Painting pictures.\u00a0Reading. Right now, the bulk of my dwindling energy is yoked to the privilege of taking care of my offspring and willing myself to live another day.<\/p>\n

Roommate Number Two is young, perhaps a bit lighter shade of medium honey brown skin, a shade lighter than Cappuccino Me<\/em>. \u00a0I see her as they roll me in. \u00a0I take her picture with my mind. \u00a0Snap!<\/em> Her story becomes mine for as long as we share this room. \u00a0The curtain does nothing to separate us. \u00a0This instance of forced intimacy, being a shared room while receiving visits from one’s doctors and nurses, friends and family is a radical change from the sheltered reality I know.<\/p>\n

My dreams are torture. \u00a0I go to hell and visit with an evil Southern Minister and his all white choir and congregation. \u00a0I end up drowning in a flood cause by washing the plastic Negro soup dispenser.<\/p>\n

Roommate Number Two is married to a young dark skinned man with a dollar sign tattooed on his neck. \u00a0Her mother, a round quiet woman with blond hair, shaped around her head in a sleek bonnet, and her intense, and palpably, devoted husband, visit her. \u00a0He spends the night, sitting in the chair by her beside. \u00a0They barely talk. \u00a0Thankfully. \u00a0You can feel the quiet passion between them. \u00a0When they whisper it is of their children. \u00a0She wants to go home.<\/p>\n

Daylight. Her t.v. wakes up. Desperate Housewives of The O.C. is on. \u00a0I listen, curious. \u00a0I want to learn. Those women are… well, whatever. \u00a0I don’t understand. \u00a0I sink back into “Inheritance,” a novel set in China, which I am slowly… until the doctors come.<\/p>\n

A Gaggel of Doctors flock at the foot of my bed. \u00a0They plan out my treatment. \u00a0I listen. \u00a0Scared. \u00a0Doctors are really intimidating, lab coats akimbo. \u00a0En masse they march into the room and nest. \u00a0I am but a little bird, waiting to be told what is right, what is happening to my body!<\/p>\n

I’m expanding. \u00a0Each day I put on weight, no from food, but fluid… trapped under my skin. \u00a0I am a prisoner in a huge body, now. \u00a0I can not see my feet. \u00a0Every step I take, is the Odyssey. \u00a0Effort. Pain forms new shapes on the edges of my mind. \u00a0I’m dying.<\/p>\n

That night, I dream of a vast grave site. \u00a0Deep tones of gray and unending shades of eerie blackness… \u00a0There are tombstones. \u00a0On has an open grave, lit bright, like a disco, with stairs going down. \u00a0I fear this gaudy hole is calling me. \u00a0The light pulsates bight, a green tinge to it. \u00a0It whispers, “Come!” \u00a0Death, oily and seductive, has come to lay claim on me.<\/p>\n

Finito<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A different room, a different roommate, each an experience, a window into another world. \u00a0I drift. \u00a0I float. \u00a0High atop the crest of a Tsunami. \u00a0I’m on a mattress in a narrow hospital bed on wheels. It folds up and down and it has a magic wand, upon which, you can call a surly nurse. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":2525,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[32,295],"class_list":["post-2521","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-spirituality-art-chat","tag-frau-kolb","tag-illness"],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/08\/IMG_4913-e1611498323648.jpg?fit=960%2C1280&ssl=1","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2521","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2521"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2521\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2555,"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2521\/revisions\/2555"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/2525"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2521"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2521"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/talkinggrid.com\/dev\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2521"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}