one perfect day (mark 6:53-56)

i walk into intensive care

and see my sister lying under
crisp white sheets.
the beeping monitors around her bed
playing a chamber piece of uncertain meter.

i sit down.

she is still but waltzes.
she rushes to the respirator, then steps back.
she flows with the whirring dialysis and then pirouettes
around her suitor.

i daydream.

i watch her breathe for hours. the nurses come and go, i touch
the hems of their white skirts. they do not turn about.
the night nurse touches my sister’s brow
with a cool cloth. she does not stir.

i feed dollars to the coke machine at 2 AM.

we sleep on sofas in the family waiting rooms.
we wait for the doctor to tell us something. “she is no better,” he says
“she is growing worse.” as he leaves, i touch
his clothes. he does not turn about.

we go home to our beds.

the stars come out.
they orbit her.
she breathes them in.
she is in her bed but far away,
climbing mountains beyond mountains.

the nights come and go.

we lie awake. we are still.
we listen to the snow as it covers the prairie with sleep.
we wait for it to cover us. grateful for its soft numbing cold.
we fold our hands. we wait.

we bargain.

in her deep chemical sleep,
does she feel my fingers on her forehead? does she dream?
does she listen in on our unspoken prayers?
does she dream of the one perfect day she'd like to have

if she wakes up?

will she remember the god with whom she laughed
about all our fleeting lives?
did she ask for her one perfect day?

the one with sun on water, children and husband, song and dance?

did she grasp at the fringe of his cloak?
did he turn to her then, just as he was fading?

and was that the very same moment

that she at last opened her eyes


and looked so puzzled?


namaste.

one perfect day

i can't help but wonder what my sister does in her deep chemical sleep. does she feel my fingers on her forehead? does she dream?

does she dream of one perfect day that she'd like to have when she wakes up? does she will it from deep in the well of her night?

will she remember where she went for weeks and weeks and with which gods she laughed about all our fleeting lives? but in laughing did she still ask them for her one perfect day?

the one with sun on snow, children and husband, song and dance?

and their answer, what of their answer?

namaste.

30 breaths per minute

I am back in Colorado after spending a week at my sister's bedside in Minnesota. She has not yet regained consciousness - they are keeping her sedated for all kinds of medical reasons. Slow steady progress according to the doctors.

I think that is true, but it must be tough to be a doctor and have the family looking to you every day for hope.

I don't know if she knew I was there. Though I felt better being there. I talked to her here and there but even if she was conscious enough to hear, which I doubt, she wouldn't have heard since she didn't have her hearing aids on. Still, it made it seem real, to talk to her.

The sound of the respirator that she is on still plays in my head like a slow dirge. 30 breaths per minute. Evenly. Perfectly. Endlessly. Our breathing is usually not so front and center. It really is the sound of our life. The thing we can do least without. So I was reminded of my mortality about every 2 seconds when the machine would suck air in and then blow out. Which led me to think about life and death. For a week.

I was humbled in that room. And overwhelmed. And angered. And sad. So many questions and no answers. Not about the infection or what went wrong. But how to live. Serious illness always makes me think, but the moment I get away from the situation it is so easy to forget. To drop back into mindless living.

I realized something from listening to the silence in her room punctuated by the respirator, but its hard for me to express.

Its got something to do with love.

That much I know.

Namaste.

night nurse

I walk into intensive care and see my sister laying on fluoresent white sheets. Glowing under the green monitors. Talking with little beeps. I sit down. She is silent. Her breathing is as loud as the machine doing it for her. She is still. Her blood moves to the whirring dialysis machine. And then back. She is here. I am here. I see all this machinery. These computers and tubes. We all seem to be suspended between life and death. We daydream. We are all hovering above a vast green plain with a blue sky and dusty roads. I sit and watch her breath for hours. The nurses come and go. I feed dollars to the coke machine. We sleep on sofas in the family waiting rooms. We wait for the doctors to tell us something. Anything. We go home to our beds. The night comes. The stars come and cover her. She breaths them in and out. She spits them like meteors. She is in her bed but also far away waiting with bated breath. The night nurse touches her brow. We lie awake. We are still. We listen to the falling snow as it covers the prairie like sleep. We wait for it to cover us. For its numbing soft cold. We fold our hands. We bargain. We wait.