Images of Mayo Clinic

Though I tend to be positive and upbeat most of the time, there are days when it's hard to be that way. In the past this was especially true, during the days when I had no idea what was going on and I seemed to be getting worse and worse, going from doctor to doctor, and even to the Mayo Clinic, as I write about in this modernist poem from about two years ago. Though it no longer reflects the way I feel most of the time, I'm sure many of you can relate to these experiences.

IMAGES OF MAYO CLINIC

[1 - introduction]

the place strives for a calming vibe

sculptures paintings aesthetics considered

volunteer musicians on a sleek new piano

but I’m not calm

I see the swans trapped in the rafters

in the paintings in the elevators and waiting

rooms and I want to burst back into what

I was

[2 - the nalgene jug]

it smells of ammonia and piss

(the latter of which I add carefully

each time, to avoid getting

any on my hands)

I carry it in a massive and (fittingly)

puke-colored plastic bag with a long

drawstring—essential to providing a

more comfortable separation between

me and It

growing heavier and more

foul-smelling with each addition

I make, each of the 24 hours,

it accompanies me everywhere I go—

except when I’m sleep, and then

it squats in the bathroom of our

hotel room, like a fat troll under a bridge,

waiting and sneering and stinking

[3 - blood tests]

there are thirty-one tests

on order, twelve vials to fill

and I’m deathly afraid of needles

I’m sitting in the sterile white

of a curtain-cubicle trying

to control my heart rate

the band tied around my arm

traps the blood

“it’s not so bad” she says

as she’s about to strike

pulsing faster

and faster

and faster

I look to you with an animal fear

consuming my eyes

(edit—the space of agony and cursing

thoughts as the needle breaks the skin—

[enter PA NIC]

! )

sounds and lights muffling, muffled

I can’t hold up my head

and I decide these must be the moments

just before a loss of consciousness

but it’s done now and I’m still awake

I wait a moment before standing

and even then agree to a wheelchair

the needle’s gone, leaving only a

bandage and a tiny prick mark

but my pallor—scars—admit to

a deeper, older wound

[4 - recommendation]

“I recommend you do this”

“NO.”

(my muscles ache with terrible intensity

but there’s the disagreeing in

my face that I’ve nurtured and perfected

over years and years of this and I

verbalize these thoughts in simple terms)

“I disagree

and

I’m not doing it.”

(what I don’t add is that

I don’t trust you

you will not trap me

in your man-oven, witch doctor)

“okay”

(and now she’s gone and I can breathe easier

because I’ve somehow won)

[5 - sleep study]

the irony of a sleep study

is that there’s precious little

sleeping involved:

the electrodes and wires and monitors

and cameras and the strange feeling of

being somewhere I don’t belong—and,

to my exhausted fury and contrary to

the doctors orders, the technician

waking me at 6:00

[6 - results]

found nothing

all’s normal—all’s well, etc.—

this corresponds with the history

of the place, conveniently

chipper smiles

and unsolicited suggestions

without any experiential basis

and “I think”s and “you need to”s

and “I would suggest”s

organized like an

efficient number system

—calling me in,

(breath) and now out—

cattle through a chute

okay?

okay

(pleasantries all around)

okay.

there was no harm in trying,

That. Them.

and yet—an indestructible

YET

more vital than my heart—

I haven’t in years gone

a day without pain,

without the piercing fear

that my bones are deteriorating

and now lightning bolts have entered

the paintings, stirring up the water

and frying all the swans