The fallacy of wrangling Life Horns
Honey, can you tell me I’m not dying? You’re not dying. Ok. *closes eyes*….*opens eyes* But are you even a doctor? Where are your credentials? I can’t write with any authority on topics of dying because I’ve never done it before. Died, that is. I imagine to know that you’re dying requires an unsettling degree of commitment, but I’m not one to find thrills dabbling in such a lacuna. That said, I thought I was dying. There was a power outage at the hospital last week. My infusion pump kept gently churning drips of chemo (3 at a time, to be precise), powered on backup battery. Nurses went through protocols for power outages as the hospital kept trying to sputter itself back to life like an old truck ClickCLUNK *flash*CLUNK*flash* until it gave up all together and stayed off. The infusion floor has walls of windows, so the darkness we were left in was more daylight than dark, more sunshine than LED. It was peaceful. Drip, drip, dri...