Snow Feet

This evening I have the strange desire to stab my forehead with an ice pick.

You think that'd be a good way to go? -- An ice pick to the forehead??

I don't know. 'I'm a stranger here, myself.'

...

On January 8th, I didn't come to my office to write. Instead, I spent the afternoon doing whatever boring thing I deemed more important (i.e. less frightening) until I went to pick up my daughter from school. There I found her red-faced, holding her coat, and begging to stay in the front seat, and for me to turn on the air conditioner.

Sure enough, she was running fever.

A high fever.

Two days later, a snow storm blew through, bringing a half a foot of snow to my otherwise green land, and for a while, at least, my unseasonably warm life.

School was canceled for days, which came in handy for my ailing child.

I let her play outside without many clothes, to break her one hundred and three fever, so she enjoyed it, to an extent.

Despite the re-freezing of ice on the roads, I was prepared to take her to see her usual doctor, but the office was closed for the entire week.

Helpless; exhausted from taking care of a child, staying at her bedside off-and-on most nights -- though partaking in wine, and LOTS of Marx Bros to keep me sane -- I stumbled, on the fourth day of her sickness, as I walked through the yard, right after sunset; on the eve of trash-day, so my can wouldn't miss the trash pick-up. Stumbled, because I was tired. Because my plan for a depression-free 2011 was fading from me. Trying to escape like the snow melting into the earth, only to make a damp, soft ground easy for my high heels of black leather boots to stab through to the skulls of those who died before me. Scraping against bones long forgotten, as I stumbled through the shadow of an overgrown coffin, a tin box I call home, and inside is a child always sick, and I can't do any thing to change or stop it!

On the sixth day, on the way to the hospital, for a worry-soaked trip to the ER, a white car in front of me turned, smashing into oncoming traffic. Another white car, flew into a ditch. From the vehicle at fault, once it spun, and came to a halt, sprung a girl my age or younger. Her head in her hands. Bending over. I'm not sure if she was crying, puking, or what.

Made it to the hospital.

My next door neighbor, who looks like Groucho(!), came into the waiting room, with a blonde, and they brisked me through triage.

In the hospital room, I fight to find enough space to stand; the tiny room, my child on the bed, in a gown; Groucho and the blonde, stay, and lean against the wall; Gummo's in the chair; and in walks the nurse; a beautiful brunette who bought me a pregnancy test when I was sixteen. Sister to my ex-boyfriend/possible soul mate/love of my life.

Details.

She looks overwhelmed by the amount of people squeezed into one room, and among the faces (in the stateroom!) is me.

Of all people; a ghost from the past.

They give my child a strep-test, a flu-test -- 'and two hard-boiled eggs!' -- then x-ray her chest.

A ghost from the present. A ghost, always! I drift down the hallway, and into the open door of each emergency room, I see people bleeding, and dying. A man in a yellow neck brace. One guy escapes, because it takes too long for the gum-chewing nurse to show up, and giggle, "Have you seen my patient?"

Shifted tenses. Shifted my weight from one foot to the other. Waited for the doctor. Groucho and the Blonde discussed what the Blonde should cook for supper, then say good-bye. My child cried to go home, and finally arrives the test-results, and an actual doctor: an old man, complete with Bill Cosby sweater, said it was only a severe viral infection, and he's old-fashioned; he doesn't believe in antibiotics. Just give her liquids.

Kool-aide will solve all my problems.

The doctor left, and in walked the nurse; familiar, but distant; asked if I'm still living in town, and what I'm doing now, but doesn't wait for the answers.

She hands me a contract. 'The party in the first part'...I sign it's okay to state my daughter has been here, and there's no reason for the second party not to disclose it.

I'm disclosing it now, aren't I?

All together, she ran fever for eight days; sick, and home for ten.

It took me a long time to get caught up on housework, chores, and errands. In a state of bad depression. But as of last night, it seems to be edging its way into a hypomanic state, which equals writing!

In my absence, though, I did write tons of poems, took some star-inspired photos, and drew another pastel picture of a (different) Marx Brother.

Another snow storm forecasted for today, but hopefully it won't reach me -- I'm in the South part of the state. But it will replace my near-eighty degree temperatures, with freezing cold rain. And tonight, the child said her ears were itching. She started sneezing, and coughing. Had trouble falling asleep.

I know it's fixing to begin again.

But snow will melt again.

And fever will break, again.

And I'm sober again.

Life goes on just the same.

__________________________