It was early yet.
We hadn't even made it out of England.
Mother was running through Heathrow,
passports in hand,
exhausted, I'm sure, from the late
and sleepless nights.
I was in the United Airlines infirmary.
An airline doctor, apparently,
was to arrive shortly, to verify
that I was "fit to fly."
The rash was barely noticeable at first.
It started on the back of my hand.
It rushed up my arm,
wrapped around my neck,
crawled down my back.
My face flushed, my breathing labored.
What's happening? What...
My doctor said a reaction, quickly plunging a drug
into my veins. There, he said, there.
I had been receiving blood all night.
(replenishing lost fluids, i had joked with mother)
There, he said. It was just a reaction to the blood.
And then my stomach cramped.
Knives in my abdomen.
They helped me to a bed,
drew thin white curtains around me.
The doctor was there,
holding my hand,
saying there, there.
And I was trying to breathe,
and the rash was burning my skin,
and I thought
oh god oh god
this hurts this hurts
please don't let it hurt like this.
Our plane was leaving in two hours.
My doctor called an ambulance.
We've got to get you to a hospital, he said.
You can't fly now. We can't fly you out now.
They lowered me onto a stretcher.
The nurse wiped my forehead,
whispered hush.
And a brief thought,
between the stabbing pain:
now i've done it.
now i've gone and done it again.
Leave a comment