2006 - Vol. 3, Issue 3

"Treatment"

The rheumatologist at Albert Einstein
Medical Center, a leading expert in the field
my parents have decided to consult,
discusses plasmapheresis. At ten, I can
barely say the word. My tongue delves
into the syllables. The sounds
tangle and twist, swirl around my mouth,
a vine clinging to a pole. The doctor
explains how a machine
will siphon blood from my veins
and filter it to withdraw the bad cells,
the ones causing inflammation and pain. 
The ruby red blood, now healthy
and fresh, will then flow
into my other arm.

Sitting on the corner of his desk
buried in paper and manila files,
he describes the process. I hear
the low hum of the machine
accompanying his words
like an orchestra in a musical.
I imagine the blood flowing
from my arms, streams of crimson
disappearing into a large silver box
where the cells are carefully classified,
G for good, B for bad. A hot iron
branding each cell with a sizzling black 
letter. And, I wonder what happens
when they return?

Will I still feel the same? 
Will I know something
has been withdrawn from my blood,
like when the school cook cuts
the sugar from a recipe? 
Will I feel like part of me is missing?
If they take out the "bad" cells,
does that mean I will become
the perfect child? The naughty drive
fading. I wonder if that impulse
forcing me to fight with my brother
and sister, urging me not to do my chores,
or to argue over taking my medicine,
will disappear with those cells.
I want to ask the doctor if
whatever it is in me
that some say caused God
to give me arthritis will vanish
so my joints no longer swell
or my bones crumble. Is that
what the machine will do?

"Normal"

When I return to my room from physical therapy I find my roommate, an older woman who spends her time moaning about her hip replacement, parked in her wheelchair by the window. She calls me over to her and tells me, You know I thought I was bad, until I saw you. I remain there in my wheelchair, stunned, not knowing what to say. It's not exactly a compliment so Thank you doesn't seem to apply. And neither do the responses How interesting or Sorry, my usual answer to her comments and questions. This time, I ignore her, turn and roll out of the room.

Later that day, in my second therapy session, I struggle to stand, strain to feel my feet under me, to know where they are, the way I used to. The rubble of the days pours down on me, the fight to transfer myself from the bed to the wheelchair, the battle to dress, to go to the bathroom. I lie engulfed by the debris, unable to see an end. The day I'll get out of bed and dress myself, fix breakfast, go to work. That's my objective, to be normal, like everyone else.

I soon realize none of the usual methods work. This is a new start, relearning how to move from one place to another, how to dress myself, tie my shoes. Normal no longer exists as a concrete fact, but shifts and blurs, sliding between descriptions and definitions, blending and stirring until no one knows or cares what normal is.