and I reached up for them and tried to squeeze, but my everything hurt when I squeezed,
and Mom and Dad told me that I did not have a brain tumor, but that my headache was caused by poor oxygenation,
which was caused by my lungs swimming in fluid, a liter and a half of which had been successfully drained from my chest,
which was why I might feel a slight discomfort in my side, where there was, hey look at that,
a tube that went from my chest into a plastic bladder half full of liquid that for all the world resembled my dad’s favorite amber ale.
Mom told me I was going to go home, that I really was, that I would just have to get this drained every now and again and get back on the BiPAP,
this nighttime machine that forces air in and out of my crap lungs.
But I’d had a total body PET scan on the first night in the hospital, they told me, and the news was good: no tumor growth.
No new tumors. My shoulder pain had been lack-of-oxygen pain. Heart-working-too-hard pain.
“Dr. Maria said this morning that she remains optimistic,” Dad said.
I liked Dr. Maria, and she didn’t bullshit you, so that felt good to hear.
“This is just a thing, Hazel,” my mom said. “It’s a thing we can live with.”
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