the curse of the unlucky hen

here's the good news.

today, kevin came back testing negative for opiates.

[uh, D-UH.]

here's the bad news.

too many employees at cedars-sinai were sick today and couldn't show up for kevin's presentation...grrrr....as my husband so eloquently articulated on facebook today, "i bet henriette is a lot sicker than any of them"...

another week may not seem like a long time to any of you; probably passes within the blink of an eye. busy with jobs and family and hobbies and travel. but in my world, time has become my albatross. a figurative weight anchoring me to the most mundane life imaginable.

bed. couch. bed. couch. its a daily dance i negotiate; craving even the briefest exhilaration change brings.

so i'll dance for another week. dance for a surgery date. dance for my life.

but everything looks good, save kevin's slightly abnormal ekg; but, ah, how false positives irritatingly reign. so how can i not adore a man who defines medicine as an art; not restricted by the "rules" of science, meant to be broken. textbooks constantly abridged and the evolving art of medicine discovered, not dictated.

[all hail dr. dauer. you must never leave me. ever.]

i miss my life.

i miss eating what i want. i miss exercising. i miss traveling. i miss hanging with friends. i miss me.

images that fill me with a searing melancholy.

but, these images i understand; those of the chronically ill...

it's an understated dichotomy, to be certain. at cedars i feel safe, protected, cared for. but, i incessantly squash a panic wishing me miles away. desperate to escape this land of illness and confinement.

after close to 30 years, i've never fully resolved the daily necessity for swallowing pills twice a day. since age 13, i've been popping pills. like clockwork, i swallow them with the efficiency and emotional detachment of a porn star. but there's no "happy ending" for me...

a few years ago, my mother-in-law gifted kevin and i with a "lucky hen". more accurately a mexican chicken, but now we're just dishing semantics. it was supposed to bring good luck; when positioned correctly within your home.

bring on: the crash of the american real estate market. the plunging of kevin's business. and my diagnosis of renal failure in february of '08.

cut to: opening of trash can. dumping of said hen. whew.

i don't really believe in these superstitions; but one can dream...

when kevin is finally "presented" to the transplant board next thursday, they should assign a surgery date. in 2 to 6 weeks. minimum.

you float in limbo; the chronically ill. from a distance, everything seems so attainable, but when attempted, your ego collapses souffle-like. flattened into humiliation.

and i'm angry.

angry that most of my days are spent on my back, with a heated pillow soothing cramps of nausea. never satiated. paralyzing.

un plateau du fromage.

it was my favorite thing to order in paris.

not only because it would roll off my tongue on a sexy, slippery slope; but because french cuisine was beyond sublime.

now i enjoy tomato and white bread sandwiches.

NO: beans
      legumes
      broccoli, asparagus, squash
      corn
      sweet potatoes
      dairy (yogurt, cheese, milk, cream, sour cream)
      brown bread, rice, pasta

[and the beat goes on]

but unfounded hope ignites twisted desperation in all of us. so as a pseudo-gag i threw a ceramic hen into kevin's stocking christmas morning.

there comes a point in your life where you want to believe in anything. need to believe the impossible is possible. and if that means displaying a butt ugly, ceramic hen on my stove, i'm in.

[maybe l. was on to something...]

but those hens are fake. figments in a world of fantasy. unsubstantiated.

this hen is real. weak. yes. sick. definitely.

but unlucky? nope.

never a day in my life.