The student physician escorts me from the waiting room. She is smiling enough for four people. She asks me how I am and I compromise between her feelings and mine by claiming that I am 'making it'. Her smile trips and she looks overly concerned.

To her credit, all she says is, "making it is good." Had her response been any less kind or neutral or whatever it was, I might have broke just then,. Inside, I am asking how she can see patients all day and expect them to be having good days. My blood pressure is escalating.

I remind myself that not every patient feels as terribly as I do today, not every sick person feels like they should stay home from the doctor's.
I remind myself that I used to make appointments when I was feeling pretty ok.
I remind myself that there was a time before the pain fog.
I remind myself that just as I only barely remember "before" everyone else only barely imagines the fog.
I remind myself of all of those things two or three times, because I am forgetful today.

I borrow some of her extra smile and I try to forget everything I just tried to remember including the pain.

Luck Runs Out

I am not a lucky person by my own standards or anyone that I know. I don't find $100 folded up on the ground when I need money...or even $5. My health is not a constant. When I don't study for tests, I don't pull A's with made up elegance. No pots of gold. No four leaf clovers. The wishes I make on stars, birthday candles, eye lashes, and in tunnels are all still in the works if they are coming at all.

On the other hand, I suffer from no great amount of bad luck. The mirrors remain in tact. The things I do on Friday the 13th prosper. Black cats are ... just like white cats except, well, black. And so on.

But it takes a lot more than luck to get by. Luck runs out. It leaves. It wears thin. It turns sour. And yet... yet I continue to make it. Despite all of the "almosts" and close calls that have filled the pages of my life daily, I am still here and still heading into some kind of future. It bewilders me. It is not by my amazingly strong will either. Many a time my stubborn will has been determined to go in what turns out to be the wrong direction.

I think it is called it blessing. I think it is named grace.
...I think it makes me want to paint again.

And I would. But I cannot yet breathe. My lungs are full of water ...or mud. Better yet, my lungs are vacuumed shut and emptied. Yes, that is the feeling. And I keep wondering if I will ever breathe again. Oxygen would be so sweet. Like sugar. Or maybe less sweet and more like fine salt. Or cold. Like snowflakes. I forget just now. What's worse is I feel myself arguing against it. "If I let myself breathe again, it will consume me for the rest of my life."

But I forget how naturally it comes. It does not distract from the rest of life. It is no threat. So what if it consumes my life? Without it, there is no inhale.exhale. rhythm. Without it, I am certain to forget how easily luck runs out and how gently grace finds you when you stop running.