I’m watching “Ice Trucks” on the History Channel with my son in his hospital room. Those arctic truckers are nuts, crazy brave, driving on a frozen river, distracted by the aurora borealis, gasoline crystallizing in the engine, radiators cracking and dripping antifreeze and melting snow, toes gaining frost bite because the floor heater dies. The TV is twenty feet from the boy's bed and it’s tiny. I’ll make a comment on the show, laugh at loud at the candid CB language or something, and then look over to see if he caught it, but my son’s sound asleep. At least he’s drifting in and out, in and out until the next nurse comes to wake him up, poke and prod him, reload his IV drip bags, scan the barcode on his wrist, set off beeps on a machine, or some chic in a hair net struts in to go over the menu for his next meal. Supper is rice pilaf and broccoli. The boy didn’t even sneer.

We both just ate hamburgers for lunch. I had to take the south elevators to the basement cafeteria for mine. Whose idea was it to place the cafeteria in a basement? At least the concrete block walls are painted baby blue. The low ceilings are still suffocating. There’s a Spiritual Guidance office down there. I hate knowing that a hospital cafeteria is coming to be not so bad. I’ve been in and out of it all week. I know where they keep the slices of plastic cheese and the bags for a to-go sandwich. I know the fountain Diet Coke is over-carbonated and foamy. Their coffee is decent. I’ve been keeping cash on hand because the cafeteria won’t accept cards.

I was glad that the boy ate something. This morning, he looks awful and was complaining of nausea. He said, for breakfast, all he ate was a half-slice of white bread. His eyes have sunken. His drainage tubes are pumping steadily. So much red. Four days after the surgery to remove several “weak spots” or “blebs” from his left lung, and I was expecting him to be more repaired, to have more energy. I was expecting him to have moved the bed into the shape something more like a recliner by now. I almost brought in Boggle because I couldn’t find his chess board. Instead, I brought in the laptop. He didn’t even ask for it. He didn’t ask for anything. He’s keeping the chocolate (?) scented teddy bear that his girlfriend gave him in the bed beside him. I’ve stopped teasing him about it.

I was searching for the crucifix in the room and I found it. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, home in my own bed, I reminded myself that I had yet to see one in his new room on floor number five. This crucifix is not as intimidating as the one that hung in his room in ICU. This one’s smaller – a petite crucifix – and the cross is stained oak and Jesus is silver, tiny and almost faceless. He shows no pain.

He is sleeping with his glasses on. I leave them on because I don’t want to wake him.

This is truth: On Tuesday morning – the day of his surprise surgery – I saw a golden hawk – maybe a paragon falcon – gliding over the hood of a beat-up pick-up truck in the hospital parking lot, and I wished hard that I was Native American or at least semi-earthly-spiritually-connected so that I might interpret it as a vision, find some precious symbolism in it. I wanted the bird to be a sign of strength and quick healing. But, truth is, it just scared me, this hawk in a hospital parking lot, scanning or swooping for mice or some other mini-creature. It lives by surprising the small and the oblivious.

There is a reminder of this bird every evening as I walk out of this place in the dark towards our little used foreign car (praying it will start just one more time with its half-burnt-out ignition). There are recordings of squawking and screeching predatorial birds that make the night even creepier. The sounds peal out of giant speakers or horns placed somewhere up there, high by the glowing white cross that rocks in the wind and shines over all the quiet cars. And the caws and shrieks fly off of the top of the building across the street too – St John’s Ambulatory Services. If the sounds weren't so steady, you'd think the place was infested. I’m not sure why they run these recordings – to scare off nesting squirrels? poop-dropping pigeons? circling vultures? As if the campus of this catholic hospital wasn’t creepy enough . . . All those clergy persons in white petticoats asking if they can offer assistance with prayer; the crucifixes staring down from blank walls in every room even onto empty beds; walls and floors pine-soled and bleached so often they might turn clear; bronze/green statues of the young, handsome Jesus, palms always open and uplifted; and all of those old black and white framed photos of nuns and nurses that line the hallways. There’s one of a nun handing over a baby – swaddled tight in a thermal cocoon – to a mother dressed in paisley and lace. The mother’s hair is ratted and flipped and molded perfectly; she’s smiling like she belongs on the cover of LIFE magazine. The nun is smiling too, but even in black and white, her teeth look yellow. There’s another of a nun – black robe loping to the ground – holding up a crippled little girl in a floral nightgown by her armpits as the child tries to get comfortable with her new stiff walker. This nun isn’t smiling; she looks burdened. And the nurses in their group photos are all quaint in their paper caps, but it’s those caps and those tight white dresses that remind me of the deformed zombie chics in Silent Hill.

Tomorrow morning, he gets his drainage tubes taken out and then his epidural. Our family doctor stopped in to see him and made him feel better by telling him that Abraham Lincoln may have had the exact same condition. This evening, he wants me to bring him back a box of Girl Scout cookies and my laptop with the demonic game Diablo ready-to-play on a flash drive. I hope he knows to keep such hell-ridden tendencies a secret, else someone calls an exorcist. ;)

I have a heating pad on my neck. I woke up some time in the night with a massive charlie horse in my neck muscle - I'm sure it was due to all the tension of the last two days. I must've screamed in my sleep (which isn't odd of late, actually). Funny how our body makes such things physical. I have a heating pad on my neck and my eighteen year-old son has a six inch surgical wound and 20-25 staples in the side of his rib cage. He has drainage tubes filled with milky blood, a catheter, an epidural still hugging his spine, a restricted diet - clear liquids. A short, pleasant surgeon removed several "weak spots" from the top of his left lung - this same lung that has spawned spontaneous holes - pneumothorax - over the last couple of years. This time the hole was a little bigger and led to a collapsed lung - during Economics class . . . or did he say it was during Current Events? When my son goes to the school nurse, it's serious. They might as well have called it "tall and gangly syndrome." The lung specialist said that often such physical traits (125lbs, 6'2") can cause long, weak lungs. He made him stretch out his arms, considered the notion that his arms were longer from fingertip to fingertip than the boy was tall. I've never heard of such a thing. Truth is, I keep trying to connect the weakness to my ex-husband. But that's another story. Not one for the blog, for this morning when I should be in his room now.

The word that spun in my mind yesterday, repeatedly was "mother." I called my sister; she said I'd done good to have so many children and not one serious hospital event for all of eighteen years. I called my mother; she literally gasped when I uttered the word "surgery" and Justin in the same sentence. She has a shrine of baby pictures dedicated to my son on her painted paneled walls. She still has every single one of his toys - including Star Wars bedsheets on a set of bunk beds in the attic. I half-expected her to hop in her bright blue Dakota Sport and head on up Highway 64, never-minding Indianapolis (and then perhaps crushed on 465 because she can't get it up over 40 mph), but she has the flu and she's recovering from her own cataract surgery and keeping a gauze patch over one eye. Mother, mother, mother. Even with the son, there were too many responsibilities - when all that I wanted to do was sit beside him in his room, scratch his itches caused by the morphine, make sure that his blankets are straight, make sure that he has the TV remote and a Sprite with a straw on hand. I got a little bitchy to the others. During the surgery, we had too many people in the waiting room. Dr. Phil and Oprah were hot on the trail of the Octo-Mom - the "Octuplet Controversy." Is Nadya of good mental health? Does she only want these babies to "complete her"? Does she understand the full-consequences of her actions? She won't have the time or money - EVER. Blah Blah Blah. There is another story connecting this to that. I'll pull it out later. Last night, all I could - when I was finally in the room and all was dark and the other children were home and fed - was play Spider Solitaire and jump when the boy moaned.

This morning, the dog freaked out a little. He's used to sleeping with Justin in his room. He pulled everything out of my purse, crunched one of my hair clips, and chewed up a pack of my cigarettes. Then he climbed in bed with us, whimpering and tossing and turning. He's not taking this so well. Dogs are amazingly sensitive. Justin won't be home until Monday.

Writing. Really writing. Revising. Lost in it. In a cabin somewhere - surrounded by Blue Spruce trees. Painting with watercolor in a messy studio with big windows that could be mine. Sniffing paper. Reading something escaping. Really escaping. Stretching out my legs. Lighting a candle and then an incense stick. Cutting pieces out of magazines until my fingers ache. Playing with my glue stick. Playing my sister's old viola (in a good way). Playing my granny's organ with the lighted keys (Snowbird). Eating an Egg McMuffin. Walking in the sunshine with my boots on, through muddy, empty cornfields because it's all finally thawing. Drinking at the Bob Inn with my cousins (drunk with their love for karaoke, passing the mic). Waving my hips at the Slippery Noodle, sipping on Sloe Gin and Sprite and smoking one after another, just for show really. Driving down roller coaster road, summertime, windows down, shoes off, toes on the dirty gas pedal. Buying myself a Jeep with straight-up cash, then pulling the top off. Jumping off a lake's dock into green water, holding my nose. Walking south on a railroad track, past the backsides of houses and zen-laden horses in fences and head-dipping oil pumps that don't smell as badly as I remember. Napping in a tent with a mesh top for a view of the stars, no mosquitoes or flies. Napping in the hay in a barn loft, after an hour of incredible sex. Yoga (and it's working, not painful). Discovering an island with not one beaten trail on it. Sailing on a catamaran, full run. Sipping real coffee, bittersweet. Or real ice tea with a fat lemon wedge in it. Or gulping a strawberry margarita (it's been so long). Leading the way up a jungle gym, my babies all following, with clear faces, all smiling, teeth still crooked - pre-braces.

I woke up with the sun in my eyes, with a four-year-old wriggling in my arms, and with a dream fresh in my head. In the dream, there were small gardener snakes caught in my coat, and everywhere I sat I would leave a few on a chair. This shocked my friends (faceless people), but I wasn't worried about it. It happens, I told them.

I do have a bag of fresh English Muffins sitting on top of the refrigerator. And eggs in the refrigerator. And deli ham. And cheese. And hash browns in the freezer.

Chicago IS windy. So many writers in one location stirs things up. Eclectic electric. I'm still twitching. So many bearded men in earth-colored vests with scarves. So many Venuses. Thai Spoon wasn't as good as I had hoped, or maybe I just ordered the wrong thing. I saw Peter Cole there in his dark beard and long coat, waiting on carry out. I never officially met him. No big deal, I guess. I heard somebody punched him on a dare. I wasn't cool enough to be in the right spot to see it. I saw a billboard almost knock the L-train off it's tracks. I saw a hefty rat in the alley between the Hilton and the Downtown Travelodge (our common thoroughfare - alleyways either break the crosswinds or become suction tunnels, dependent). It didn't bother me really. I saw snow sculptures. We walked away from the Innertown Pub because I hate standing in bars, even cozy artsy bars where there are good readings. Instead, we walked into the Moonshine on Division Street, which wasn't as swanky as we'd hoped, and spent too much money on a pizza that was not Chicago-ish in the slightest. Oh, and seven dollars for a glass of Riesling. Oh, and thirty dollars round trip to ride in two of the city's scary-ass taxis.

I wasn't all that impressed with the Field Museum - so many dead stuffed animals. Depressing. Poor Sue, the dead Tyrannosaurus. Even the tiny little skeleton of a humming bird, posed on a twig. Even the skeletons of mini-monkeys which looked like humanoids with tails (Matt said this was where myths of demons came from. Remember the horn of the Narwhal/Pegasus?). I did discover that the Aztecs honored women in childbirth with the same respect as they honored men who fought wars. That was cool. I should write a poem about it. I liked the Eskimo totem poles. I want to carve my own. I did dance a little (not at the Field Museum, at the Hilton, 3rd floor, under those pretentious crystalline chandeliers). I shoved my lime into a Corona at Buddy Guy's. Li'l Ed and the Imperials kicked ass, but after all those Corona's, it's likely that I didn't truly appreciate them. Smoking outside so many times gave me a nasty cold. I brought it home. Teaching comp only makes chapped lips and a sore throat worse.

I nearly killed myself to finish another issue. It's pretty damn good (if I do say so myself): www.cellasroundtrip.com/issue02.html. I still have lots of promo work to do, and I didn't send out every rejection letter like I should have. I hate rejection letters.

I need a job that pays. I may have an editor's blood. Not a manager's blood (I'm bad with numbers and tossing out orders), just an editor's. I have no idea where I got it from. Unless we can somehow relate this skill to my father's obsessive-compulsive love and care for his dress-up cowboy boots, his summer garden, and his black chickens. I need more space and time. I wish my teenagers were more unpredictable. All of this drama irks me. There is a continuum. My sixteen year-old chopped all of her hair off while I was gone and now looks like a chubby-faced Pat Benatar. I admire her balls. I still haven't made myself get that nose ring I've been wanting for the last five years.

I need new trees. We never should've bought this house. I don't think I'll be included in the stimulus bill. I'm not afraid of socialism. I was considering applying for a job - webmaster for the American Legion (Indy division or some shit). It paid frighteningly well. My daddy would surely shed a tear and brag to all of his vet friends. That may be a good enough reason not to do it. I'm thinking like me, at age thirteen (I hated the American Legion - stupid beer well). Last night and again tonight, I forgot to call my mother to check on her after her cataract surgery. She should've been banned from driving at night years ago. Surely, she thinks I do not love her any more.

At the conference, I fell in love with Barry Graham and Peter Schwartz (and would like to hug them both one more time). I fell in love with Sarah, Corby, and Elizabeth (again) and wish they could've stayed just one more night to dance with me. And I fell in love with Kim Addonizio (again, from afar). I have tried to befriend her on Facebook. I listened to her funky CD twice. They were handing them out for free, wrapped in contradicting, pastel-spring-patterned plastic bags.

I want a hippie bus to drive to AWP next year in Denver. I want to paint flowers and Haiku on it in fat, bubble letters. I want to have a futon in it. I should start another fundraiser for it. I hate fundraisers. I wish I could inherit something. Writing such a wish reminds me of the Twilight Zone. I should wish to win the lottery. Then start playing (essential). Or betting on the beaten thoroughbreds at Hoosier Casino (just up the road). I was never lucky at winning like my mother. Last year, my mother won a new electric stove. She always wins a ham at the turkey shoots. She doesn't really shoot turkeys.

I have to get myself out of this practice of staying up past 2 a.m. It's fragmenting.

I have launched an official search for my reflective narrator. Apparently, my creative nonfiction master thesis needs it. Anybody seen it lying around out here, somewhere? Be weary! Most times it is just a self-pitying, manic-depressive bitch. Really, when it starts dissing itself, I want to shoot it. But then when it does that upbeat thing and starts over-using exclamation points, I want to slit its wrists. It's ugly when it doesn't wear make up, but, trust me, it doesn't look anything like me. It smokes like a fiend in the early morning hours, drinks sloe gin when the children are sleeping, and slaps priests (damn confessions!). Oh, and pages upon pages are also disappearing from the thesis collective. I think they hooked up with my reflective narrator and they're buying each other drinks at the Recycle Bin (a blues bar kinda' place, lots of cheap beers). My reflective narrator might've picked up the harmonica.

Dear master thesis advisor, I promise, I'm not really thinking of running away to Canada to find a shit job waitressing on a daily basis. That was my reflective narrator sticking its tongue in my mouth again. I mean, I am somewhat familiar with the whole "fight or flight" thing, and, honestly, I'm not a fighter. At least, I never claimed to be and my reflective narrator always agreed with me. Despite my reflective narrator's bad habits, however, I would still like to find it and coax into hanging around a bit - to at least see me through this. If you see it, tell it to come home or at least call me, then add "A stranger sent me." We can make this work.

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