While you were lying around
the hospital, refusing to give
the doctors the one thing
they needed—I was on
my hands and knees,
scrubbing the floor by
your bed, under your
overstuffed blue chair, your
hippie couch, your red velvet
cane-backed chair, your whole
apartment. True, you didn’t
have much choice about the chest
x-ray or blood sample, so you stood
your ground where you could. All day,
you refused to provide those kind and
loving doctors with a little tiny sample of
your urine. I get that you were mad about
having to fast last night. But at least we didn’t
eat in front of you. We didn’t even make coffee
this morning. We were careful to pack your favorite
cat food in the trunk of the car so its scent wouldn’t
get your mouth watering. At Two PM I called them:
“Nothing yet,” they said—call back in an hour.” Three
PM: “She has not cooperated yet; call back at four.”
I spoke to you through our usual route—mind to mind.
Do you want to come home tonight, sit in my lap and
watch a movie? Then you have to pee, Mystie. You do!
The good news is that there’s a cure for your thyroid.
The bad news is the long drive to Cornell and that we
have to leave you there for days. The cost is steep,
but you are the light in our life. Fast forward, fast
forward. This will be so much better in the past.