Like A Rag Doll Awake

There is beeping, a scrim of gauzy curtains, a wall of glass. She wakes up utterly disoriented, not surprising considering what has happened.

The worst of it she will simple…not…remember. Like a gift from her battered brain, this amnesia.

But for now there is this: where am I?. Her bedroom wall had a letter on it–signifying the name she was called. Wooden letter painted. Gone.

Not her. Not her room anymore. Her battered cerebral cortex must rise, like Lazarus, and summon the powers to comprehend–where am I?

Oh. And there is this–eventually the nurses, doctors, physical therapists will be kind to her, a family of sorts. Today not. Today the first ministering human in this alien environment will act as though her corporal reluctance to pee in a pan in a bed like a cat in a cage is an offense and a bother–like failing the simplest of tests.

Florence N. will badger her to urinate, threatening her with the unknown quantity of catheterization never to know that when it does happen and the pressure on her spindly, nearly broken body is relieved she feels only relief.

Only blessed relief.


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