Cutting Time plus Nine days

What if all the people
who could not sleep
at two or three or four
in the morning
left their houses
and went to the parks
what if hundreds, thousands,
millions
went in their solitude
like a stream
and each told their story
what if there were
old women
fearful if they slept
they would die
and young women
unable to conceive
and husbands
having affairs
and children
fearful of failing
and fathers
worried about paying bills
and men
having business troubles
and women unlucky in love
and those that were in physical
pain
and those who were guilty
what if they all left their houses
like a stream
and the moon
illuminated their way and
they came, each one
to tell their stories
would these be the more troubled
of humanity
or would these be
the more passionate of this world
or those who need to create to live
or would these be
the lonely
ones
and I ask you
if they all came to the parks
at night
and told their stories
would the sun on rising
be more radiant and
again I ask you
would they embrace

Lawrence Tirnauer
The Sleepless Ones -


Cutting plus Nine Days
I walked to the end of the hall today, after making it to the nursing station yesterday. I walked under the ministrations of my Mistress in Black Scrubs, [well, almost, I had to stop a few meters shy when my lower back went into spasms] we went walker-weaving past the encouraging smiles of the Nursing staff, shuffling past clumps of medical gear and schmoozing doctors. I would not have made it at all had I not had the patient, empathetic goading of my Lady of the Lash.

Do not underestimate my desire to walk out of here;
but it will only be accomplished with the help of dozens of people: doctors, nurses, nutritionists, dedicated health professionals all. And, of course, those who Dr. Green teasingly describes as my ‘cheer squad’ meaning my family and friends. I have a feeling the Doc neither says nor does anything lightly when dealing with his patients. There was a tone to his voice as he did it, and after thinking about it for some time I realized what he meant:
Many times many are the patients who have crossed the boundaries of this ward without the benefit of a single visitor. And here I have the loving support of an entire clan. He has a way of pointing these things out obliquely, and I have decided that Doc Green has a penetrating insight as well as fantastic hands. I thought he was a little rough at times, especially right after I got out of the ICU, but now I realize, as did others, that it was no time to coddle me.
I needed to be abraded back into life, that a pearl might grow in me, and they knew it.
Though I worry about those closest to me, and about just how much this is taking out of them. It is a constant reminder that life is a circle, always coming back around to give us a chance to make better choices, to step up and do what is needed. As I watch Gayle move calmly about the room, doing what needs be done, I am filled with a sense of circular awareness, and reminded of my vow, written here in these pages, to step up and be a human. It is breathtaking, the knowledge of twinned frailty and strength that lies in each of us. Each kindness, each act of mercy we receive from another is an opportunity to give back the same. And fear not Mothers mine, both Gayle and Sharon, she who raised a changeling child into a good man, you will never have to look far for a son when you need one.


Thank Goddess…after a day of Physical Therapy and bed exercises in the evening, the Docs let Jimmy the Night Watchman [a nurse of boundless compassion and kindness, more on him later] bring me an early Darvocet, a slower, less goofy sibling to Percocet, which is the main narcotic we have been using to control my pain. And I easily admit I was greatly relieved to have something early, although I didn’t want to ask for it. Perhaps this would be a good time to take note of—

Dawn’s Daily Dope:
I begin the morning, sometimes before sometimes after breakfast, with a lively cocktail of Percocet, Lyrica, Ativan, Lovanox (this injected into the scant flesh of my belly) Nexium, Coalasce and two big patches of Lidoderm, which are like a mix between cold salmon skin and a band-aid. The patches are time-released Lidocaine (a local anesthetic) that lasts 24hrs. I have come to love the slimy little buggers.
These various meds are repeated at staggered intervals throughout the day, sometimes supplemented by such favorites as Biscadyl, for an easier, squeezier BM; or the much-feared Fleet enema, heaven help me.
At 10 pm I get the intestinal joy of receiving all of these meds once again, as in the morning; in addition I get an extra cannon shot across my cranial cruise-ship by receiving 50 to 75 whopping milligrams of Elavil…which is a potent anti-depressant/painkiller/knock-out drug. I am dubious of this last one as you might guess, considering the dosage. Save for the last, I have purposely left out the dosages because they change like the weather.


Lindsay, friend-lover-teacher-confidant, wrote to me in an email the evening after she drove down from Gainesville the following words “…What I really believe is that the Universe, She does not rake someone across the coals, as She has you, without having something truly grand on the other side of it. Somehow I have faith in the mystery, and it makes me smile…”

I too smile wide at such a bold and glorious idea. Others may call it naïve, or wishful thinking, to suppose that there must be a reason for so much suffering, skulking all around us.
Yet consider for a moment which reality you prefer to live in: One in which there are veiled reasons and onionskin mysteries…or a universe that is just a mindless place of action and reaction, a place of levers and fulcrum. Or lever and pipe if you will, while we are but circling a drain slowly.
Long ago I chose the former. Though I do not pretend to hold any real answers, and too often I feel the spinning tug towards the galactic drainpipe. What I do know for certain is that the few glimpses I have been given both exult and stupefy me, terrify and inflame me; and that soon, soon my friends, it will be raking time again.

-End Transmission-
Dawn McKenzie