Now I'm in limbo. My mother told me last night that Nana had a relapse and that the medical staff truly felt there was nothing else they could do. I made her promise to call me as soon as she heard something. No call. I call my sister - she hasn't heard anything, but she has the waiting room phone number. The waiting room has been a week-long wake/redneck party that Momma hates to have to witness, but there's been a steady stream of family camped out in there since Nana was readmitted. Today no one answers the phone in the waiting room. Thanks to HIPAA, I can't call the hospital and get her status, because there's no way to prove who I am over the phone, since I don't have the secret numeric code which will let the front desk know that I'm a family member. I cancelled a trip to visit my son in Atlanta because I don't know what's going on. And the phone in the waiting room just keeps ringing...
Here I stand again, speaking to an empty room. My thoughts aren't worth the cyberspace they would take up if I cared to tweet or post to Facebook, but here I stand anyway. I had no idea how long it had been since my muse had forced me to write. I used to write almost daily, poetry mostly, when I was younger and believed that someone cared what I had to say. I wanted to be e.e. cummings or T.S. Eliot or anyone who seemed to be so comfortable in his own skin to pour out his emotions onto a blank page. It took me a few years to realize that the writers who filled my pantheon of literary deities were not that comfortable after all, but wrote because not writing was more painful than the spilling of emotion. So I think I will take up my keyboard once more, wade out into the battle, and write.
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