My many morbid mouth muscle mutations mysteriously mimic malicious, macabre molar movements made monthly; meanwhile, Mindy's magical magenta mandible maliciously munches multiple miserable, moldy meals. My manipulative, maddening mom might morbidly mention metacarpals metabolizing miniature milk molecules. Maybe mother merely mixed medications, muliplying modest mental misery.

Hazy gray clouds filled the air in front of me. As I fought my way to consciousness, they faded into a blurry view of the hospital’s recovery room. Waking up in such a manner wasn’t anything new to me; I’ve had a lot of surgery.

I was shivering but didn’t feel cold. I didn’t feel anything, I realized. Blissful, blessed pain medication flowed through plastic tubing into my bloodstream, but I’d still expected to feel some discomfort. Coming out of surgery is never painless, especially when it’s major surgery involving the removal of two and a half pounds of breast tissue. I pulled the thin, cottom blanket up closer to my chin.

I certainly didn’t feel like my life was in imminent danger.

*****

Six months earlier

I’d regained consciousness after jaw surgery to the sound of inhuman wailing and a recovery room nurse demanding loudly and urgently that someone find the dilaudid and find it right fucking now! A male voice replied to her, sounding equally frantic, panicked, even; the manufacturer of dilaudid was in Puerto Rico. The production plant was destroyed by Hurricane Maria. There was none of the strong narcotic pain medication- anywhere.

Guess the wailing person was screwed, I thought, as I faded back into sweet nothingness.

*****

Although I felt no pain as I nestled into the meager blanket, I couldn't stop shaking. My teeth clacked together so hard I thought they'd shatter.

"I ca-aan't s-st-stop shiver-vering," I told the nurse.

"When you came out of surgery," she replied, "you were shaking the whole bed."

Was she saying my body's current level of frenzied convulsions was an improvement over what it had been?

"Holy shit! Does that mean I had a seizure? "

There was no response.

The patient next to me was wheeled out of the recovery room. He was awake and feeling well.

My eyes fell shut.

Time passed.

*****

"Neuro-malignant hypothermia?" someone whispered in the dimly lit room.

That sounds bad, I thought dispassionately. But it also sounded kind of interesting, the way animal documentaries or tours through a museum are interesting. I rolled away from the two whispering nurses and went back to sleep.

The irritating bleep-bleep-bleep of the monitors woke me up as soon as I'd drifted off again. The noise was neon blue, and I didn't like it.

"Joyce, this isn't normal," the nurse by my bed called out. "I think we should call the anesthesiologist."

I twistted in the bed, sluggishly fighting the blankets to see the vital signs in bright colors on the computer screen:

Blood pressure, 177/120. That obviously was a bad reading. My blood pressure was never that high.

Heart rate: 163. Bullshit. My pulse didn't race like that anymore, not since my heart surgery three years ago.

Oxygen saturation: 93%. Eh, could be better, could be much, much worse.

A new patient, IV pole in tow, was wheeled into the space next to mine.

*****

The anesthesiologist appeared from behind the neutral-toned curtain at the end of my bed. "What's her temperature?" he asked.

"38 degrees," the yet-unnamed nurse answered promptly.

I tried to remember the conversion from Celsius to Fahrenheit from science classes in college, but my brain was too foggy.

"Give her some valium," ordered the doctor.

"Did you say . . . valium," she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, and more Demerol."

Valium? I thought. I already felt like there were fingers in my head stirring around my brain matter. Did he actually think my symptoms were caused by anxiety? I'd mentioned to him before surgery that I'd had a panic attack last time I woke up from an operation. Did he seriously think this was a panic attack? I was barely even awake.

I knew from bitter experience; telling a doctor about any kind of mental health-related response could be a huge mistake. I was furious that I'd let myself do something so stupid.

*****

As I lay in the recovery room after my jaw surgery six months ago, a kind-hearted nurse put her hand in mine to comfort me. The background soundtrack of screaming intensified, and I wanted to yell at that person to shut the fuck up. Too bad you couldn't get a private recovery room, I thought.

Only seconds after I'd taken the nurse's hand, a male voice said, "you have to let go!" I didn't know what they wanted me to let go of. I felt thick, strong hands struggling to pry my fingers away from the nurse's.

Someone appeared with a syringe full of dilaudid.

*****

I woke up to nervous voices discussing my vital signs. My bottom blood pressure reading had dropped into the thirties.

"Get the anesthesiologist back up here," Joyce instructed.

"I have to pee," I told her.

A bat flew from right to left across the ceiling in the recovery room, but it wasn't using its wings to fly. It just sort of glided along at a steady pace. How was it flying without flapping its wings? How the hell had a bat gotten into the hospital in the first place? Why didn't anyone notice?

I shook uncontrollably, cold but not cold.

*****

As I slowly became coherent after my jaw surgery (kind of hard to stay asleep with the constant howling - for fuck's sake somebody needed to put that poor bastard out of their misery) - I noticed how many people were standing by my bed. A woman stood by my IV administering fentanyl. Two men stood at the end of my bed watching me. Another person took my temperature. The left side of my face felt like I was delivering a flaming, six-armed baby covered with razor-sharp spikes through my mouth. That, at least, would explain all the attention I was getting.

I realized the screaming person in the recovery room was me.

*****

The anesthesiologist again materialized at the end of my bed. In my confused state, I explained in jumbled English that I wasn't panicking. I told him the only reason I panicked after surgery last time was because I was in intense pain. I obviously wasn't panicking, I told him, because I hadn't broken anyone's fingers yet.

After a noticeable pause, he said Valium was also used as a muscle relaxer.

He then popped up next to the nurses by the monitors. Oh my god, he can teleport, I thought with awe. I wanted to compliment him on his extraordinary ability, but the words leaving my brain got lost on the way to my mouth.

I looked beyond the small group huddled by my bed. It seemed I was the only patient left in the recovery room.

"What time is it?"

"4:30," Joyce answered distractedly.

"How long was my surgery?"

"It lasted about an hour and a half."

Ok, I knew my surgery started at 11:15. That meant it was over by around 12:45. I'd been in recovery almost four hours? My other recovery room stays lasted between forty-five minutes and an hour and a half.

Something was wrong.

"What's going on?" I asked. The nurses and doctor ignored me while they discussed me.

"What's happening?" I demanded, louder this time.

The anesthesiologist looked up and stared at me silently.

"What is going on?" I yelled.

The anesthesiologist walked back around to the other side of my bed. Why didn't he teleport? It pissed me off that he walked.

"We think it's serotonin syndrome."

"What does that mean?" I asked through my still-clacking teeth.

"The levels of serotonin in your brain are too high," he answered tonelessly.

"And what does that mean?" I wished I could project the image of an angry swearing face emoji, so he'd know my exact opinion of him.

"It's why your eyes are dilated, and it's causing your fever and shaking."

My eyes didn't feel dilated.

"I have a fever?" I asked skeptically. That's weird, I mused. I never run a fever. I once had pneumonia in both lungs and didn't run a fever. My body temperature sits at a cool 97.4 degrees.

"How high is my fever? In Fahrenheit?"

"About 100.5 degrees," he responded.

Huh, I thought. No shit.

With this revelation, I fell back to sleep.

*****

I have a pretty high tolerance for pain, and I'm not one to exaggerate the severity of it. I'd rather suffer in silence; it's a self-consciousness issue. Regardless, I'm not embarassed to admit I screamed after jaw surgery. A lot. Delivering a spiked, flaming baby would've hurt much less.

The surgery was a success, however, and I'm glad I went through with it. The discs in both of my temporomandibular joints had slid completely away from where they should've been. I remember the surgeon pointing to a small white smudge on the radiology film and saying, see this? It should be over there. And this one? It should be here.

Not only were they in the wrong places, they were damaged beyond repair. They needed to be removed.

While in the recovery room, I was given enough drugs to supply a small cartel. After fentanyl, dilaudid, hydrocodone, morphine and tramadol, I should've been extraordinarily happy, and I was. The pain gradually subsided. Temporarily, anyway. I went home the next day.

Now, I can eat corn-on-the-cob and dried banana chips again. My jaw has not popped out of place. I even lost a few pounds during surgery. I promptly gained them back when I could start eating normally again.

I'm still curious where the dilaudid came from.

*****

"Send her up to intensive care," the anesthesiologist ordered. I wasn't really sure why a mild fever and some shakiness warranted intensive care. On the other hand, I'd never been admitted to the intensive care unit before, and hey, I'm always down for new experiences.

Serotonin syndrome, I found out later, can cause coma, seizures and death. It may have also been responsible for the appearance of a bat flying across the recovery room.

The intensive care unit was one hell of a nice place. The room was quiet, dimly lit, and warm. The nurses were attentive and very nice. My glass was always filled with fresh ice water, and orange Jell-O was delivered on demand. (Apparently, I demanded so much I exhausted their supply, and they had to start raiding the Jell-O stashes of other departments.) It was as relaxing as a mini-vacation in a spa, and what that says about me I'd rather not know.

I had no lasting physical effects from the serotonin sydrome. I have seen the bat from the recovery room a few more times, though. I've named her Battle.

#Surgery #health #hospital #medical #personal #inspirational #SerotoninSyndrome

Every night he sees 23 faces.

Anger, agony, fury, fear, exhaustion; their twisted features reveal nothing and everything. Voices scream in foreign tongues. With piercing eyes, they accuse him of committing unspeakable atrocities.

He is guilty of committing unspeakable atrocities.

The face that lingers the longest belongs to the ten-year-old boy who fired first.

The leg healed just fine. His Purple Heart lies buried somewhere in a landfill, next to broken plates and chicken bones and handwritten letters that weren’t important enough to keep.

We must stop the spread of communism, they said. We are fighting for freedom, they said.

They did not say fighting for freedom would cost him his own. They did not say that part of him would never leave Vietnam.

Although decades have passed, he’s only talked about it once. I had the privilege of listening. I had the privilege of learning I will never truly understand freedom.

Strange, I thought, why is my son leaning over my bed at 3 a.m.?

Then I noticed the pale, otherworldly glow around the head and torso - definitely not my son. The charcoal grey body standing next to me seemed to stand out against the blackness filling the rest of the room. A deep terror crawled over me, and I screamed. Loudly.

My husband, torn instantly from peaceful slumber, asked what happened. I simply told him I saw a figure leaning over the bed, but it was gone now. He asked if it was a large shadow about the size of our son.

Surprised, I answered yes. He confessed that a figure fitting that description was standing at the end of our bed a couple weeks ago. He hadn’t said anything, because he didn’t want to upset me.

That night I began to wonder: are ghosts real?

A few years ago, I walked into Walmart with my disabled child sitting in the grocery cart. A Latino man walked over to us, laid a hand gently on Jordan’s head, and asked if he could pray for him. Startled, I nodded my head. He prayed briefly for Jordan’s health and for our family to be given strength.

Astonishingly, Jordan made no attempt to move away from the stranger’s hand. When the man finished praying, he smiled at me and said, “he’s going to be okay.” I smiled down at Jordan and looked up to thank the stranger for his kindness.

He was gone.

We were in a wide-open area at the front of the store. Even if he’d been running, he couldn’t possibly have gotten out of my field of vision that quickly.

That day I began to wonder: are angels real?

One night I began watching a nature documentary on TV. The evening was peaceful; Jordan played contentedly in his pack ’n play, my older son was spending the night with his grandparents, and my husband was at work.

The peacefulness ended abruptly as I became very sick - very quickly - from food poisoning. I began vomiting. Soon afterward I passed out on the living room floor.

James’ regular shift ended at 11 p.m., but he had a feeling something was wrong. He left work an hour early.

When he found me, I was still unconscious. An ambulance rushed me to the hospital, where a doctor and nurses pumped my stomach. The emergency room doctor came to the waiting room afterward and told my husband, “It’s a good thing you found her when you did. She’d have been dead within an hour.”

Ever since that day, I’ve been wondering: are miracles real?

People interpret events in their own way. Everyone has their own point of view and their own belief system. Life experience changes our perception of the world around us.

I, for one, believe in ghosts, angels and miracles.

My murder was expertly staged and flawlessly executed. No one survives a fall from a fifth-story balcony. As soon as I felt the hands push me, I knew I was going to see Heaven.

The final seconds of my life, even those when my body broke across the ground, felt incredibly surreal. My head pounded against the concrete, and shadows began to creep across my brain. They slowly erased every function I needed to survive.

I was surprised to see the jagged bones jutting through my arms. I’d always thought bones were pure white, but mine were ivory-colored. Dark red stains splashed across my torn limbs, and I knew those splotches were important, but I couldn’t remember why.

Without warning I was thrust into a darkness so dense it was a tangible substance. If I’d still had fingers, I could have pinched the blackness. Gentle breeze propelled me onward, although no frame of reference existed to tell me what direction I was going.

Suddenly, in accordance with every cliché in existence, a light in the distance penetrated the Void. Angels materialized. Arms reached for me. Beautiful voices rang through every molecule of my being. Peace, adoration, and bliss gently wove their way into my soul.

The darkness soon melted away completely, leaving only the beings of light. Vivid colors filled my consciousness, and the answers to every question ever asked saturated my mind.

“Welcome home,” cooed a soft whisper.

I reached for the Angel’s hand. I felt unspeakable love as I arrived in Heaven. My ancestors smiled warmly at me from the clouds above.

A sharp claw snagged my leg.

“No! She’s ours!” growled a raspy voice.

“No, no, there’s been a mistake!” I wailed.

The angels released me. The music faded, the light receded, and I descended. My broken body reassembled itself around my soul as I was thrown into the Pit. The bliss and peace I’d felt were replaced with unspeakable agony.

Without diversity,

no evolution.

Only stagnation,

whispers in hallways

and frantic discussion.

Panic, frustration.

Recipe for

revolution.

A wrinkled old woman

with nowhere to go

waits in her room 

on the seventeenth floor.

Her apartment is empty

and so is her mind.

She stares past grey walls

at the black, moonless night.

What she sees there is strange

but she isn't afraid

She always has known 

it would happen someday:

Eight legged creatures,

faceless and dark,

seep into her room

and feast on her heart.

The cockroach skitters across the floor. I spray it with bug killer.

Suddenly dizziness overcomes me and I black out.

Sometime later I regain consciousness. Opening my eyes, the floor seems too close. Looking down, I see my segmented body. I try to scream as I wiggle my six legs.

Would this have ended differently

if we were not constantly

stepping all over each other?

In each other’s space

If we both were happy still

living in our own bodies?

The fistful of time taking over 

and punching might

have had less of an impact?

If cats

didn’t constantly

knock shit all over the place?

If stress didn’t fill up

the buckets left sitting all over

to catch the drips

from the constantly 

leaking ceilings

that now are our lives?

Wind laughing

through the cracks in our Foundations

and if we are honest

they weren’t all that strong in the first fucking place

Now looking at the boxes

containing the clutter

that once seemed so direly

needed and trying to summon the old spark

but somewhere along the road

that squeaky magic fell, died.

I miss it.

More than I’ll ever miss you.