… And yet more choices.

Dena went back in the hospital today… And that day was January 15, 2009. No longer today but this day is identical in so many ways. …The hard part! The doctor informed her that if she ever conceives again it could kill her, no good, Dean concurs and that means a mini-laparotomy tubal ligation was in the works, words I didn’t even know until today. I hated it all ‘cuz I was alone with no one to talk to. To, for, with, my self-pity made me mad as well, what about the easy part? Things are starting to spiral away from our safe little jungle flat and I find myself clawing at my immediate environs for security and since all I do here is write it’s the only thing I can do to feel comfortable… At 5:00am we’re on the motorcycle in the pitch blackness of Kovalam road heading north to the Manacaud Junction and our fifth Indian Hospital experience. Our first elective one, we chose to do this. Obviously I’m still working that one out in the moment, blinding lights on a coal black street, the continuous honk of an India highway. Dena’s doctor, an amazing physician, Dr. Kavitha, is calm and smart with a wicked sense of humor who was seemingly well educated in (if I understood correctly) Mumbai with a stint in New Delhi and another one in Tamil Nadu. She made us wait, a lot. (Really, that’s not a complaint, it’s an observation and one that is all doctor encompassing.) … Anyway, I trust her, she’s cool! She wears the most amazing silk saris (INTO SURGERY!) and takes no shit in any of the 6 languages she speaks fluently, English not being one of them but she does a bang up job trying! …And now! <[...]

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Choices

Bleeding so heavily that the nurses exclaimed over it from between my spread and raised knees, I didn’t feel lucky. My calm in that moment was a pacified fatalism. Everything that could be done was being done. If later there emerged ideas of could-have-done-more, they would have their day, their time. That moment of dissociation and concomitant relaxation had grown from the tip of a sterile needle taken from a syringe. They’d searched both arms in vain, but with impressive teamwork. The ladies chattering in Malayalam fretted that there were no veins to be found, because they’d been sternly ordered to get me on fluids. They worked me over like dough – pressing, squeezing, rolling – and finally spied a possibility. With my left wrist cocked sideways, thumb pulled in line with my forearm, they moved quickly to get the IV tube into the hint of rubbery, rolling duct running under the pale skin that should have revealed every vein like an anatomy model, were those veins not collapsed upon their scant, sluggish load. I averted my eyes, as though too modest to watch the penetration I was allowing, though I looked back as soon as the insertion was complete. I watched a long, thick needle come out of the IV feed and be replaced by the blunt end of a bag of fluids. That’s all I know – fluids. Ones I needed, ones I lacked, presumably because I misplaced them along with the fetus I was miscarrying. A nurse, roughly my age, tore open a syringe package and I couldn’t figure out how they’d get another needle in another vein when the first had been so hard to find. She drew something from a tiny bottle in the way that was familiar to me from movies, familiarly pushed the[…]

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Happy New Year Kerala,1/1/09 (!)

I saw a ga-gillion men… a billion Cops, A million beatings, A thousand tiny cars bearing aforementioned men, A hundred or so large lightly educated inebriated Australians, A dozen puking sunburned Japanese [men] 6 of one kind of fight (drunk men) Two Very Freaked (the fuck) out scantily dressed English girls. …And one very nasty motorcycle wreck about four feet in front of me. Sweet Home India…

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