Once before in this space (May 6, 2008) I wrote about being "splinched." As a reminder for those not familiar with Harry Potter, this is a magical mode of transportation whereby thinking takes us to the place we want to be. But in the beginning, few can do this neatly. A torso or leg is in Place A while the rest of us has moved on to Place B. Confusion results.
So these days. At times, a certainty that I'm in one piece, that I've made the move neatly, all parts intact. So confident, in fact, that I attempt to move further into places that may hurt.
Last week I returned to Memorial Sloan Kettering to question another absurd bill that, I thought, Rich had settled months ago. First, I'm asked for Rich's ID card. Rich is dead, I say (isn't this true of most MSK patients, sooner rather than later?) The rep gives me a disgusted look. She taps, taps, taps the computer. I wait. Ten, fifteen minutes.
"You can pay at the cashier," she says.
That's not why I'm here, I repeat. I'm questioning the bill, not paying it.
Back to the computer for a few more minutes.
She rips a sheet off the printer and hands it to me.
"This is the number to call," she says. "You can't see anyone. It's confidential."
"The bill is confidential? You mean I can call someone to talk about it, but not see someone?"
She nods, yes.
What to do? Off to the hospital cafe, where how many times I don't remember, I bought a scone and latte while my love was somewhere upstairs having nasty things done to him. And I waited.
This time, all I'm waiting for is the bus on the corner to take me home. I'm okay, though. I munch and sip and attempt to read the newspaper but I can't, I'm losing my mind to other days when we will get through this, just get through this...
No more "we." I'll get through this. In one piece.
Until a man walks by carrying an ersatz plant from the gift shop. It's made of some sort of felt, an orange and yellow imitation of a sunflower. It is singing.
You are my sunshine...please don't take my sunshine away...
I separate, sliced down the middle, and liquid erupts.
Splinched, again.
Candace
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2 comments:
I think of you often, Candace. You say so poetically what I went through after my husband died, almost 30 years ago. Thank you so much for the words. You are in my thoughts and prayers. God bless you and be with you.
Michele Sanford
You just splinched me, Candace. Big hug to you. Love, Heather
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