arrive. Here I am, coiled around a man who just had a seizure and my mind is moving along selfishly as usual as though the universe has my name etched upon each star. Poor Cristoff will be so sore in the morning. Stomach muscles he never uses but here will be burning, and then that overwhelming headache and all.
Well, tomorrow’s Sunday, and after the disastrous date with Leslie, I’m not all that eager to get to church anyway. I feel awkward enough without that sort of help. I’ll probably just walk across the street and hear mass at Sacred Heart. I consider driving out to Daddy’s church. At the first mass, they play guitars and the people who have a very deep relationship with Jesus or at least a very expressive form of worship lift their hands high when they sing songs like, “I Love You, Lord” or “There Is a Redeemer.” Daddy’s fostered that brand of free devotion and fought tooth and nail for a percussion section. He still loves a good beat. My mom bought him earphones a few years ago, declaring her musical tastes had grown up. “Carl, if I ever have to hear another drum solo again, I may just have to leave you!”
Daddy’s dead brother played the drums.
A little drum, a little bass, a little playing of the keyboards and so shall your joy come on you like a rush of wind. But, no, the service is just too early and the drive too long after a night in the emergency room. Sorry, Daddy.
Some months ago, I flipped by that charismatic network featuring the makeup lady with the pastel hair, and she said that God inhabits the praise of His people. You can take it from me, despite her error in fashion (and for me to even notice, it must be bad), she’s right at least about that.
The first wave of sound from the paramedics’ siren jiggles my eardrum. Cristoff lies quiet now, but I could wake him if I chose. He’ll have lost track of time, be fuzzed up mentally, and try to do whatever I say.
The paramedics knock on the jamb of the open door. “Hello? Paramedics!”
Thank you, God.
“Back here!”
I jump to my feet, leaving him there on the floor. Man, I hate to do that. Sorry, honey. And I just stand out of their way and answer questions while they do their thing. One of the paramedics is a “little person.” It’s a shock at first, but he knows his stuff, moves his small hands with skill, and keeps up a genial conversation about his life in Edgewood.
When he finally comes to, Cristoff wants to know what is going on. I run back to his bathroom, examine his pill organizer, and realize that he’d taken his medication that night.
Darn.
Seems as though they haven’t regulated the correct dosage of his new meds yet. And he’d been so excited to get off that Stonehenge Dilantin he was taking for years due to that ancient neurologist of his. Of course, I found him a new one. Dr. Tyler rocks.
He’s cute, too.
And married.
Figures.
“First clear thoughts I’ve had in years!” Cristoff had said a few days after starting the Topamax. He’ll be furious about this breakthrough seizure once he comes around enough to care.
Off to the hospital.
Grandma’s quilt and my pillow lie on the car seat beside me, and I follow the ambulance to Bay View Hospital. The visit won’t take too long, unless we’re confronted by a burgeoning emergency room. Outside my window the moon shines full in the sky.
Oh well.
Knowing Cristoff will be fine, I pray anyway that God will grant me a lonely waiting room, a silent television, and three armless chairs sitting in a row where I can curl up with my quilt.
Tacy
I dressed carefully the last day of my junior year because since the seniors already graduated, I was actually a senior. I felt older and excited and ready to take over C. Milton Wright High School. Rawlins, still withholding his kisses, but obviously not his future, called me the night before and said to look outside my window as soon as I woke up. My birthday wasn’t until the next week, but he wanted me
Well, tomorrow’s Sunday, and after the disastrous date with Leslie, I’m not all that eager to get to church anyway. I feel awkward enough without that sort of help. I’ll probably just walk across the street and hear mass at Sacred Heart. I consider driving out to Daddy’s church. At the first mass, they play guitars and the people who have a very deep relationship with Jesus or at least a very expressive form of worship lift their hands high when they sing songs like, “I Love You, Lord” or “There Is a Redeemer.” Daddy’s fostered that brand of free devotion and fought tooth and nail for a percussion section. He still loves a good beat. My mom bought him earphones a few years ago, declaring her musical tastes had grown up. “Carl, if I ever have to hear another drum solo again, I may just have to leave you!”
Daddy’s dead brother played the drums.
A little drum, a little bass, a little playing of the keyboards and so shall your joy come on you like a rush of wind. But, no, the service is just too early and the drive too long after a night in the emergency room. Sorry, Daddy.
Some months ago, I flipped by that charismatic network featuring the makeup lady with the pastel hair, and she said that God inhabits the praise of His people. You can take it from me, despite her error in fashion (and for me to even notice, it must be bad), she’s right at least about that.
The first wave of sound from the paramedics’ siren jiggles my eardrum. Cristoff lies quiet now, but I could wake him if I chose. He’ll have lost track of time, be fuzzed up mentally, and try to do whatever I say.
The paramedics knock on the jamb of the open door. “Hello? Paramedics!”
Thank you, God.
“Back here!”
I jump to my feet, leaving him there on the floor. Man, I hate to do that. Sorry, honey. And I just stand out of their way and answer questions while they do their thing. One of the paramedics is a “little person.” It’s a shock at first, but he knows his stuff, moves his small hands with skill, and keeps up a genial conversation about his life in Edgewood.
When he finally comes to, Cristoff wants to know what is going on. I run back to his bathroom, examine his pill organizer, and realize that he’d taken his medication that night.
Darn.
Seems as though they haven’t regulated the correct dosage of his new meds yet. And he’d been so excited to get off that Stonehenge Dilantin he was taking for years due to that ancient neurologist of his. Of course, I found him a new one. Dr. Tyler rocks.
He’s cute, too.
And married.
Figures.
“First clear thoughts I’ve had in years!” Cristoff had said a few days after starting the Topamax. He’ll be furious about this breakthrough seizure once he comes around enough to care.
Off to the hospital.
Grandma’s quilt and my pillow lie on the car seat beside me, and I follow the ambulance to Bay View Hospital. The visit won’t take too long, unless we’re confronted by a burgeoning emergency room. Outside my window the moon shines full in the sky.
Oh well.
Knowing Cristoff will be fine, I pray anyway that God will grant me a lonely waiting room, a silent television, and three armless chairs sitting in a row where I can curl up with my quilt.
Tacy
I dressed carefully the last day of my junior year because since the seniors already graduated, I was actually a senior. I felt older and excited and ready to take over C. Milton Wright High School. Rawlins, still withholding his kisses, but obviously not his future, called me the night before and said to look outside my window as soon as I woke up. My birthday wasn’t until the next week, but he wanted me
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