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SLEEP WALKER
by Carla Rene’
The way I remember it happening:
"You want me to
use what?" My voice came out as a quack.
The
physician stared at me.
"You heard me,
Missy."
"But why? Lots of people lose use of
their legs all the time, it certainly doesn't mean they need a
walker."
I was getting good
at that high-pitched, nasal whine. I'd used it on my mother for
years.
"C'mon, let's see you try it. You're not
going home until you walk from here to the wall."
“Hmmn.
I wonder which medical journal that little test was in?”
I moved to the edge
of my bed in slow motion, hoping he'd simply lose interest and go
away. But it didn't happen; he just flapped at me to move
quicker. So I upped the degree of difficulty by putting a scowl
on my face--just to prove how much I detested this.
"So
noted. Now will you please get your butt up and walk?"
Walk.
That was funny. For the last two days my legs had been
jello--and if you count the cellulite in my thighs, then jello with
fruit. One afternoon while going to the bathroom, I felt them
suddenly give out--like a date does at the end of a bad evening when
he doesn't want to pay: I felt deflated. But, being the
stubborn cuss that I am, I put up with it for another two days, until
last night when I could no longer stand. Then I figured it was
time to call someone. Or else, sell my Monolo Blahniks and that
wasn't going to happen in this lifetime.
The EMTs, were nice.
They escorted me out of my house as if I were Paris Hilton at a
Japanese airport and had just delivered my, "I’m pretty sure
this isn’t my bag," speech.
What is it about men in
uniform that make me go all weak in the knees? Scott, on my left arm,
certainly didn't help my condition, I can tell you that.
Luckily he was the one who remained with me in the back during my
transit. He felt comfortable with me, as he began asking me all
these personal questions. Well, I'd never been hit on by an
ambulance guy before, so this cheered me.
"Name."
"Missy
Motion."
"Age?"
"I must be in my
mid-thirties."
He grinned.
Yes, good sign. I
turned on the charm. "So, what's a guy like you doing in a
place like this?"
Aren't there times when you wish you
could just suck back in the words?
"You called
me."
Okay, fair enough. But I had to know more.
"What's your name?"
"Scott. And yours?"
He caught himself, and we both laughed.
"How long have
you been doing this?"
"Six months."
At
that moment I winced in pain and became frustrated that leg movement
was near to impossible.
"It's okay, just hold on, we'll
be there soon." He placed his hand gently on my own.
My
heart skipped.
"You okay?" he said.
Damn that
heart monitor. Usually not the standard for calls with muscle
weakness, but I had also been suffering chest pain for days and they
wanted to make sure it wasn't a heart attack. With my Systemic Lupus,
however, chest pain was normal.
I nodded. "Yes,
fine." This man's sensitivity was unnerving me.
"I
love your glasses," he said.
I hate it when I do this,
but I dipped right into coy, "really? Oh, thank you.
They are one-of-a-kind.”
“Yours are dreamy,
too. Ack. Did I just say dreamy”?
I think I threw up
in my mouth a little.
"I'm sorry to have to do this, but
I have more questions for you. What do you do for a living?"
"I'm
a professional actor, stand-up comic and writer."
The
look of awe and worship on his face was priceless. "Wow!
So have you done anything I might know?"
"Yes.
I did a sit-com on NBC a few years ago," I said, as my ego
swelled to twice the size of my fruity-jello thighs.
When I told him the
name of it, he nodded his head.
"Yes! I remember
that show--very funny."
Time to be bold.
"I even have a
web-site. Why don't you e-mail me when you get back to the
station?"
"Yes, I was just going to suggest
that. Y'know, I thought I recognized you."
I gave
him my autograph as we neared the hospital, and he escorted me into
my ER exam room, holding my hand the entire way.
"You're
gonna be just fine, so don't worry. We have to get back to the
station now."
"Thank you, Scott. E-mail me!"
I called after him as he exited the building.
He nodded his
affirmation.
When the nurse entered the room to hook me up to
the machines again, she said, "So, Scott's going to e-mail you,
hunh? Pre-tee impressive. He's cute. No one's been able to
pin him down for months now."
My heart soared.
"Yes, he is
very sweet. I guess I just have what it takes."
*****
The
way he remembered it happening:
"Did you hear the
way that chick was coming on to me, man?," Scott said to
his partner, Mike.
"No, what happened?"
"As
soon as I began asking her the standard questions, she started
offering personal information--y'know, stuff I didn't even ask
for."
"Like what?"
Scott considered
this. "Like, she had a web-site, said she was some big
hot-shot actor from Hollywood, and wanted me to e-mail her."
"No
way! Man, how is it that you get all the women? So?
You gonna do it?"
"Are you kidding? If my wife
found out, she'd kill me dead."
*****
The way it
really happened:
"Name?"
"Missy
Motion."
"Age?"
"40."
"Profession?"
"Actor,
comic and writer."
"Oh yeah? Anything I'd
know?"
"Sitcom on NBC. Nothing
special."
"You've got something on your
glasses."
"Oh, thanks."
"If you
have e-mail, we need to add that, and I need your signature for
treatment."
"That's all?"
"Yep;
take care."
Carla Rene' is a
professional actress, stand-up comedienne and author. She's
appeared on NBC, at The Kennedy Center, and opened for some of
comedy’s biggest names. She currently resides outside Nashville,
TN, with her two cats who treat her as if she’s the hired help. For
places to purchase her books or find her blog, go to her web-site:
http://www.carlarene.com
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