Oxygen
The machine makes rough clicking noises
every seven seconds or so.
It kind of sounds like the noise you make
when you bounce your tongue off the roof of your mouth.
*click*click*click*
Every seven seconds.
Every breath.
The machine has your life
in personified its hands.
Or rather,
it has its hose
leading up your nostrils
gently delivering your life to you
every seven seconds.
*click*click*click*
Sometimes,
you try to breathe without it.
I watch your face turn red.
I listen to you gasp for breath.
I try not to anticipate that
*click*click*click*
Hoping maybe this time will be different.
Maybe this time you can get a molecule of oxygen or two
naturally into your cancer- invaded lungs.
Maybe this time there will be no
*click*click*click*
Simply a loud,
hopeful
intake of breath
singular.
No clicks attached.
Just you and your lungs.
Functioning properly.
Maybe this will mean
that the cancer is gone.
That the doctors were wrong
and you’re going to be okay.
That the meager four months those doctors gave you
were beautifully incorrect.
Maybe this breath will fill you up and give you the hope to take another
and another
Maybe this breath will mark the first of thousands of breaths that you will
singularly grasp in my presence.
And we’ll both be okay.
One…Two…Three…Four…Five…Six…Seven…Eight…Nine…
*click*click*click*
The color returns to your face,
though too quickly.
I watch the emotion wash over you,
optimism lost
and the four month deadline
becoming more and more
plausible
to you.
And me.
Every seven seconds
we believe that you can do it.
You can beat it.
Only to hear the
*click*click*click*
Of the oxygen tank.
And only to see your face
droop in disappointment.
Sometimes I try to breathe with her,
try to keep with her rapid pace
so as to make her feel like
she is breathing like a normal person
and lose her sense of reality a little.
To make seven seconds seem like twelve seconds
and four months seem like ten years.
But, despite the morphine,
she always recognizes the fact that I’m breathing
more rapidly than I usually do
And she takes the opportunity to chastise me
because there may not be many more.
And she takes the opportunity to smile at me
because there may not be many more.
And she takes the opportunity to breathe from the tank again
because she can’t breathe otherwise.
every seven seconds or so.
It kind of sounds like the noise you make
when you bounce your tongue off the roof of your mouth.
*click*click*click*
Every seven seconds.
Every breath.
The machine has your life
in personified its hands.
Or rather,
it has its hose
leading up your nostrils
gently delivering your life to you
every seven seconds.
*click*click*click*
Sometimes,
you try to breathe without it.
I watch your face turn red.
I listen to you gasp for breath.
I try not to anticipate that
*click*click*click*
Hoping maybe this time will be different.
Maybe this time you can get a molecule of oxygen or two
naturally into your cancer- invaded lungs.
Maybe this time there will be no
*click*click*click*
Simply a loud,
hopeful
intake of breath
singular.
No clicks attached.
Just you and your lungs.
Functioning properly.
Maybe this will mean
that the cancer is gone.
That the doctors were wrong
and you’re going to be okay.
That the meager four months those doctors gave you
were beautifully incorrect.
Maybe this breath will fill you up and give you the hope to take another
and another
Maybe this breath will mark the first of thousands of breaths that you will
singularly grasp in my presence.
And we’ll both be okay.
One…Two…Three…Four…Five…Six…Seven…Eight…Nine…
*click*click*click*
The color returns to your face,
though too quickly.
I watch the emotion wash over you,
optimism lost
and the four month deadline
becoming more and more
plausible
to you.
And me.
Every seven seconds
we believe that you can do it.
You can beat it.
Only to hear the
*click*click*click*
Of the oxygen tank.
And only to see your face
droop in disappointment.
Sometimes I try to breathe with her,
try to keep with her rapid pace
so as to make her feel like
she is breathing like a normal person
and lose her sense of reality a little.
To make seven seconds seem like twelve seconds
and four months seem like ten years.
But, despite the morphine,
she always recognizes the fact that I’m breathing
more rapidly than I usually do
And she takes the opportunity to chastise me
because there may not be many more.
And she takes the opportunity to smile at me
because there may not be many more.
And she takes the opportunity to breathe from the tank again
because she can’t breathe otherwise.