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The Bomb Paintings

Not too long ago I found out that my heart was beating way too fast. Not in a good way. And the shaky hands? the instantaneous sobbing? the general feeling of crappiness? Well, ALL of that went with this disease. My immune system had turned on me. No I do not have AIDS! It’s a gland malfunction. Really old hat. People have been getting it for a long time. My doctor says it is caused by an iodine deficiency. So if I had grown up on one of the coasts and not the third coast, I probably wouldn’t have ever gotten it. Woulda, shoulda, coulda. Too late for those kind of ideas.

So now I live life in a bubble. I am trying to protect myself from all of the angry, evil, rude people. Ha! that’s not easy! Just yesterday I had to tell a particularly rude man, “Ease up Bronco!” He was giving the check-out girl (maybe 17) a very hard time. She was almost in tears. He forgot his receipt;not her problem. Duh!

So to protect myself I have moved in with my exboyfriend, Doc.

Doc is nice. Doc is cool. But here’s another cosmic joke. The day before he is to go with me to the bombing (I have the choice of surgery or radioactive iodine. I select the bomb) at the hospital, he gets sick with the flu. Everyone has had it recently and we both know it will last three days. Poor Doc is barely able to get out of bed.

I can’t drive down myself because I have been taken off all meds. That means I am freaking flaming!!!! Not only are my hands shaking, my whole body is doing some kind of frantic rhumba. Yikes!

After figuring out who is available and more importantly, who will not make me even MORE nervous I call BadBoy. He always said that he would die for me. I am thinking that means he would be willing to drive me to the hospital. Yep! I ring up St. Louis and he says “I’ll fly right up.”

The next morning I drive over to a nearby hotel where BadBoy is staying. He takes the wheel and we are off. I appreciate him so much right now. Not that I think much of anything at this very head’s spinning off.

It’s 9 a.m. The endocrinologist is to meet me. He’s nowhere. I am going to explode all over the light peach walls. Red and peach made a horrible color combination. Oh, there he is.

He unlocks a room. A man joins us. He looks at the doctor and says “Pulse must be close to 400.” My doctors nods yes. They tell me to sit in the single chair in the tiny room. They disappear. “Oh my God!” They both return wearing white spacewear. No skin is showing. They peer googly-eyed out of the clear-glass panels. I am sooooooooooooo scared I can feel my hair turning white and crisping off my head. My skin looks like it has been drained of blood and dipped in Lake Superior.

The man opens a vault. Goes inside and returns carrying a silver metal canister. He opens it. And covered-hands me the one pill sealed inside. “Take this.”

“Okay.” I know I am dead. I know this is some kind of Rocky Horror Picture Show meets Alice in Wonderland kind of movie and somehow I have been stuck inside of it. I know this freaking pill I will now swallow, now take inside of me, is lethal.

The doctor reminds me to see him in seven days. “No one else should use the toilet you will be using for three days. Your urine will be radioactive. “ That propeller-shaped radioactive symbol is blazed in my brain. I am a glowgirl.

BadBoy, who doesn’t seem so bad at this moment, opens the car door for me. “How’d it go?” “Okay.” I say back to him so quietly I’m not sure if any sound came out. He leans toward me, “Awww, c’mon, you are a tough girl. You can handle this.” He grabs my knee and gives it a little shake. My dad used to do that. It’s very comforting. “Hey where shall we have breakfast?”

Fast forward five days. Doc is much better. He stopped puking two days ago. He is still a little weak. BadBoy has returned to St Louis. I have promised him something I shouldn't have. Me? I am acting weird even to myself. I sit and stare. My brain is empty. This is what I was always after when I did my meditations. Now I have achieved it. I don’t like it.

“You are at two.” says the doctor after he checks my blood. “You should have called me sooner. Between 9 and 13 is normal.” Nothing seems to sink into my skull. I have gone stoic. “Start these now.” says the doctor as he hands me a bottle of pills. “Come back in one week.”

It’s two weeks later and Alice’s walk through the lookingglass was odd, not fun at all. But, haha!, I am back. I am good. Life is good. The sun is shining. And I already hungry for YOU!

Part One of this story is located at:the Mermaid paintings

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