tell me why i [don't] like mondays

at cedars, there will be blood.

but, there can be joy.

i think i would rather be cell mates with mitt romney, tossing and turning as he whispers sweet nothings down from his bunk; serving sick descriptions of the myriad ways he plans to slaughter big bird, then writhe in food-poisoned agony after being .38 special-ed to gnaw on the feathery muppet's carcass for lunch,

than take another trip to cedars.

this sleepy danvian strolled down the white light hallways, squinting through memories; knapsacked with past.

[btw, danvian is a term coined by an older actor with an ivanans infatuation. half danish, half latvian, this hybrid was chased around the homemade fudge laden lanes of niagara-on-the-lake, one theatrical summer. clutching a bottle of red, and cradling a game of scrabble with the intensity he hoped to unleash upon me, i nimbly nipped his fantasy with very loud, very frequent pinings over a certain teenage theatre stud. a 19-year old winterpeggian with an andy gibb mullet, who had just dramatically proclaimed,

"i love you, but i'm not in love with you.".

[ouch.]

so when this danvian's lasix kick started a spasming bladder, zooming her through the restroom door, sense memory revved loud and long.

those shiny tiles, the slanted mirror above the sink sent her heart into double beat. the ceramic shrine where she would gulp verboten tap water to swallow whatever xanaxtramodoloxycodone happened to be squatting in her purse that morning. evicted promptly by salacious saliva bubbling in her warm and wanton mouth. flecks of self-loathing flickered through her silver, tarnished eyes as she glanced up to wipe her mouth dry.

[sip. swallow. sigh.]

first. my favorite lab technician, k. and i curled into an hypodermic tete a tete, skipping over the right arm, veins now officially closed for business, transferring my lingering heroin fantasy over to a lonely, left limb. and in this infirm confessional, i poured, without steeping, my near-year of sobriety into her cup of good cheer. and like a good little nightingale, she chirped back about her son who blew underaged beer breath in michigan. where they threw the book at him.

the big book.

[my favorite book after my thesaurus.]

next. the new nurse, k. and i were soon bonding tighter than the serotonin reuptake inhibitor in your antidepressant. and yours. and yours. as we shared gory tales of the cranium, my tongue listed potential medications for my migraine sistah, rattling louder than the narcotics i no longer gobble. topomax, nortriptyline, neurontin. but, my frenemie fiorinol, light of my [un]life, remained banished to the prison of my own making; uninvited to the party.

"so, why haven't you?", i chastised.

"i should. but, you know, women just don't talk about this.", she mumbled.

my brows knitted into a mystified mountain as i gleefully crowed,

"well, honey, i do!".

the calvary descended. bring on the resident.

i've malignant patience for exotic arrogance, the swaddle-tongued, eager beaver attempting to unfurl "mycophenolate mofetil" before i've had my second cup of coffee. this bitchy pet peeve is right up there with sweeping away food court debris as i attempt to gorge over a guilty pleasure without gagging.

yes, with puffy patronization and clipped articulation, she parroted her textbook, suggesting i stay EX-TRA HY-DRA-TED the next time i barf!

[gag me with a medical student.]

but, with unrolling eyes, i saw the storm clouds disperse. and calmness feathered down. and i sat. quietly. fists uncurled, elephant ears,

and listened.

[and then there were four.]

enter my attending physician, dr. k.. the one i've come to breathy blows with. the one who suggested this glassy-eyed conductor "power through" her side effects, not realizing she'd already derailed.

but, monday, he told me to "let us do the worrying" about my antibody results.

and for the first time, i heard it.

it's a wonderful world of whackamole, with a pulse zipping from 63 to 100 within the course of a day. the girl with an unmedicated bp so low you couldn't limbo under it, has a fast pulse.

[dehydration? prednisone? teasing tachycardia?]

in the midst of a month of migraines, my overstuffed wagon glided away into the may night, and our marital knot unslipped into separate threads; the one choking us into "'til death do you part"...

so when my creatinine landed, like the plane about to bring my husband home, we taxied to a quiet joy.

"it's almost like it's not real...", he whispered.

[down from 1.2 to 0.9]

monday, i floated with a nun's eerie ecstasy, walking on wonder.

if there's a trick to life, it's a slight of hand.

our magic lives not in a number.

but, it's a pretty good place to start.