awake

I am in a room, or a sort of a room, an area defined by curtains separating us.  She has dark hair, and dark eyes, and is asking if I can speak.  I nod, and my voice is there, weak hurting, she tells me it will come back, the breathing tube sometimes does that.   It hurts.  I’m sick, ready to vomit, but I have nothing to offer up.   Her back is to me, and I wave my hand feebly, and call out. I know even in this quiet room she cannot hear me.   Her partner is facing me, the two of them serve others here too.  She comes over, and injects a clear fluid into my IV.  I start to feel better and drift back to sleep.

Awake again, same place, they apologize, a delay getting the room prepared.  I have not the energy to care. I will just wait here I think to myself, too drained to even say the words.  The doctor was here to speak to me, or wasn’t.  I can’t quite recall.

Crying, a mournful sound that strikes you  in only the way a child’s defenseless wailing can do.   Not an infant, poor child, not old enough to talk, but old enough to feel pain, and alone, and fear.  His tears fill me with pity.

One nurse cannot comfort him, and so they switch, and her soft words soothe him a bit.  She promises mommy will come soon and soon his cries die to quiet sobs, little moans punctuated by soft gasping breaths.   There is no time here,  each thought lasts a minute or hour, I cannot tell, and I wonder what brought this poor fellow here, circumcision, defect to be repaired?  How I pity him, an emotion I despise to receive, yet today freely give.  How I envy him his tears.

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