They knocked me out today. They strapped me to a chair and talked to me in soothing voices reserved for temper-throwing children. They stuck my arm with an IV and dripped and dripped until I was completely under their control, able to be manipulated to whatever their hearts contented.
It's a very scary thought to be completely under someone's control like that. Luckily, I was so under their control that I didn't care.
They put me in a wheelchair today. They dragged me out of my deep sleep and rolled me into the big, bright chaos of the world and made me step into our skyscraper SUV, eyes half closed and unable to speak.
They brought me home today. They poked my cheeks and fed me broth and make sure my pillows were properly fluffed behind my head. They woke me up and fed me pills.
He came and saw me today. He pulled up in that bright red truck and slammed his door, pulling me out of my dreams. He hugged me and said, "You smell like hospital." "I know," I said.
All I wanted to do was grab his hand and run out the door, run away from this pain and go somewhere, somewhere where doctors don't do this to you and strap you to chairs.
But I couldn't.
Tomorrow's another day.
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