The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with.
It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself,
as if the things we’d done were less real and important than they had been hours before.
When you go into the ER, one of the first things they ask you to do is to rate your pain on a scale of one to ten,
and from there they decide which drugs to use and how quickly to use them.
I’d been asked this question hundreds of times over the years, and I remember once early on when I couldn’t get my breath
and it felt like my chest was on fire, flames licking the inside of my ribs
fighting for a way to burn out of my body, my parents took me to the ER.
A nurse asked me about the pain, and I couldn’t even speak, so I held up nine fingers.
Later, after they’d given me something, the nurse came in and she was kind of stroking my hand
while she took my blood pressure and she said, “You know how I know you’re a fighter? You called a ten a nine.”
But that wasn’t quite right. I called it a nine because I was saving my ten.
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