Drifting

Saturday and Sunday pass without incident. These things are the same. There is a sameness in my days, a kind of perpetual deja vu, this magnetic pull from my bed that makes my limbs so heavy, my body not strong enough to want to bother with resistance. Let the heavy lids close. Let the sleep surround.

Drugs arrive in the morning: benadryl to go along with the fresh blood hanging next to my bed. Are Mom and Paul here today or Dad and Jane? Who is with me today?

I am sleepy. Sleepy sleep tempts me.

White coats are in and out of my room. They blur. The blurring blurs mumble to my parents, their voices in and out, too, a "Robert" here and a "patience" there, sentences sifting into my dreams, then jarring me awake, then coaxing me back down again.

It's the same thing as yesterday. It's the same as last month.

I can feel the chills before they even start, like driving the line of a thunder storm. A nurse that is not Cindy puts her fingers on my wrists, takes my temperature with great care, brings one steaming blanket, two, and even though she's doing everything right, nothing happens until the Demoral pushes. It's the same: knees, chest, chills, all followed by the rush of the push, the melting draining whoosh, and then I'm sleeping again until someone wakes me.

I drift sideways through the weekend, waiting for Cindy to return.