Miracle bottle

When I returned the empty pump this afternoon, the nurse asked how it had been.  My honest answer was that I had almost forgotten about it and might have missed the appointment, had it not been for an alert on my phone.  How can this be, with a pin in my chest, a valve taped to my sternum and a plastic bottle on my hip?  The key is fasting.  What follows is exaggerated for dramatic purpose, but not very far from the truth.

The first 24 hours of the pump’s presence, the only thing I think about is food.  I’m running on empty.  Often I don’t think at all.  I hover in a semiconscious state of minimal energy expenditure.  I move slowly.  There seems to be little life in me.  The bottle is the least of my concerns.

In the afternoon of the second day, I start eating.  First a few nuts, then suddenly the entire bag.  I have a cappuccino.  Magic happens.  Life starts flowing back into me.  I gain strength.  I can move with what seems like purpose.  Colors explode around me where before the world was gray.  I couldn’t care less about the bottle.

In the evening I eat a good dinner.  I’m getting ecstatic now.  Life is so good with a full belly.  The night before I could hardly sleep, but now it’s getting midnight, and I’m not tired.  I’m sitting on my balcony snacking on cheese.  There’s dozen papers on vitamins, cancer and diet on my computer.  If I put my mind to it, I could probably read them all, but sense prevails and I go to bed.  I forget to think about the bottle.

The next day is how days should be.  The contrast to the previous morning is stark.  I am elated.  My voice has returned from its starved mutter.  I ride my bike to work and it’s fun.  The day is like any other, but I feel as if I’d just won the lottery.  Nothing can spoil my joy, and certainly not the nearly empty bottle dangling from my hip.

p>The nurse does her job with experience and tenderness.  She apologizes repeatedly for having to rip the tape from my hairy chest.  “Maybe you shave next time”, she suggests.  I tell her not to worry.  The pain is no bother.  She grabs the pin and asks me to inhale.  With one swift motion, I’m disconnected, and the bottle disappears in the bin.  It is as if I’d never had it.