A Terrible Deed

Finesse.

Right, finesse, I'm thinking, as the beads of sweat drip down my face.

From the edge of my fifteen year-old-esque sideburns, down, what could only be labeled as a '4 o'clock shadow', (it never quite reaches 5 o'clock... and not because I'm diligent when it comes to shaving, but simply for a lack of growing) to the greater angle of my jaw... where it swells to a bead so large that my face's grip can no longer resist gravity's pull, and it falls through the frenzied air, full of odd noises, limbs and chemicals.

I picture the anatomy in my head, as if this will assure that I make all the appropriate moves by which to ensure my eventual success. The leg bone's connected to the..... hip bone.... the hip bone's connected to... my wristwatch. Wait, that's not right...

The bead of sweat falls from A to B in the most direct of paths, nearly colliding with a swinging limb. The sodium-infused sphere ends up dodging a field of blue to end up on the only green in the room. In an instant, the glob turns the green where it has just landed, a darker shade of the same. Its wild, perilous and hasty exodus from me ends in a calm silence that stands in stark opposition to the way it began, which makes me think about the duality of such a singular thing. How in the world did chaos turn into tranquility? How in the world do these things happen? And they do!

With a sudden grunt that seemed to escape my lungs without my consent, I am immediately aware that the recent resolve to work out again is making this whole situation more painful. My entire upper body feels as if it's a sneeze away from complete spasm - a full body charlie-horse. This is not only painful in a physical sense, but is a terrible blast to my ego, for it is only the result of about 50 pushups and some rotator cuff exercises the day prior.

I reposition, bracing my right knee on the rectangle of green in order to get some damn leverage.... my left foot still on the ground, now flexing so that only my toes touch the ground, my heel raising off the linoleum causing my left calf to tighten into what feels like a solid piece of granite.

Still nothing.

Now, my left leg abandons the cold white floor, rises the two vertical feet, and rejoins its counterpart on the green cloth... feet now planted firmly on the soft cushion below. My left hand grips my right wrist so tightly that my right hand begins to change color. No matter, the two joined hands create more strength and stability. The force is directed from the crook of my right elbow, which is mashed into another person's flesh, to the union of my right and left hands. It feels strong. If only I could take some of this strain of my back, I think, as I reposition closer to the blob of carbon below me, now barely conscious. I get my feet under me, finally, and my back quiets its shriek somewhat. With my feet directly under me, my knees no longer bearing my weight, I am towering above everything.

The sweat is now pouring, and is dampening my clothes, which I'll have to change later. From powder blue, to navy blue... to salty blue.

She isn't fighting as much now.... how much total? Is she breathing? Did you feel it? Did you feel anything?

And then, as unexpectedly as the initial failure that got us to this point, a snap, slide, thunk and quiet signal the end.

Seconds tick by, silently. We stand motionless.

The duality reenters my mind. From chaos to peaceful, albeit uneasy, silence.

The silence remains for what seems like minutes.

I stare at the green sheet on the bed.

"How do you feel?"....... nothing.

"How do you feel?" is asked yet again.

The carbon blob begins to take more of a human shape, and is reclaiming some of her misplaced consciousness. The monitor beeps, signaling to us that it has been in some way displeased by what we have done to this poor woman.

"How are you feeling?" is again asked. In fact, it is nearly shouted, and spoken in a manner that is nearly identical to that which you'd speak to an infant, or a dog.

She looks up from the hospital bed, the forest green sheet surrounding her, a haze of amnesia surrounding that, and a mass of blotchy powder blue, navy blue and recently farmer-tanned, 4 o'clock shadowed PA standing on top of her cot, dripping sweat onto her hospital gown, still holding that same bit of flesh.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

A pause....... (thinking, or i suppose she was thinking.... taking a bit longer than normal... dredging her way through the medicines; propofol and fentanyl)

"Good." She says. "Much better.... can I have another blanket?"

And that's how you relocate a hip.

i don't feel the break, but i feel the bend

I find it interesting, or perhaps perplexing better describes it, how our perspective can dictate exactly what we see.

As I stare at the floor I can see where the hardwood meets the wall. It is flush, strait.... perfect. Well, for the most part. As my eyes trace the line it makes with the wall, running horizontally along my living room, I see a gap. It starts ever so small, like a poorly timed smile you dare not let escape for fear of reprimand. And not unlike that smile, it widens in the center, and tapers near the other end.

As I sit, staring at the smile in my floor, I try to decide whether it's the floor that has strayed from the strait and narrow, or if it is the wall which has warped with time. I decide it is the wall which is flawed, then, I rescind this assertion and call the floor a poor excuse for a level surface.

And then the argument begins again, and again.

I peer at a shadow, and call the floor crooked.... I inspect the light reflecting from the wooden floorboards and name the wall the culprit.

Though I know not who is at fault, I know that something displeases me. I wish for a more put-together seam.

I cannot decide who is to blame. I cannot blame the floor if it has bent with age... and I cannot blame the wall if it has curved with time. It would only be their natural reaction to a stress applied. One, or both, had to react in some way to the pressure of time, age, weather, hurt and consequence.

To blame an inanimate object for a less than desirable reaction to stress, I decide, is at least equally unfair as to blame an inherently flawed person for a similar bend.

No matter who is to blame, (if anyone at all), at least the bend creates a smile.

So, I lean back, release my held breath into a sigh, and let it all go.