The Meadow Annual Literary Arts Journal 2022

The Meadow 49 she says, threading a 16-gauge needle into a throbbing patch of skin. Tape rips and metal is fastened. Katherine reaches up and turns a valve. The floodgates open and gravity pulls at the liquid in the bag. Highways of veins transport fluid to counteract the compression taking place. Up, down, and around it goes. I feel the bloat. My blood smacks of brine. I lick a crack at the corner of my lip while the doctor rubs a new eruption on my shoulder. She motions for Katherine to join her on the other side of the bed and, in a voice that ought to be several decibels lower, she attempts to take back control and put a stop to the ongoing assault on my body. “Administer the Prednisone.” “Wait, why not—?” “No, only if necessary. We’re not there yet.” “But why wait?” Kappa Katherine pats my leg in the spirit of sisterhood. “If the Prednisone’s a bust go for the adrenaline, but call over Peter just in case. He’s already done two intubations. Maybe this will be lucky number three.” Trinity. Triad. Troika. Why are threesomes, almost always, auspicious? High on sodium I click my tongue and watch as a tray of syringes and cutting instruments roll up next to my bed. “Please Sir,” that’s the doctor trying to relocate my boyfriend who just returned to the triage following the code blue. Her hand is on his arm and his nails dig into my palm the moment my chest starts to seize. Taking a page from old Nancy, I try to yell but only manage a hybrid wheeze-cough-choke. All hands take flight as I struggle to breathe and my muscles involuntarily contract. Katherine places the fingers of her jewelled hand on top of the catheter in my arm and, with an upwards jerk, replaces the saline with something else. It rapidly enters my system and everyone waits. Nothing occurs. Like a deer crossing a country road at dusk, I sense a collision is about to take place. And, Oh great,

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