Snooze You Gain

Throughout our office hang various pieces of art in varying styles, ranging from paintings to collages to photographs. It creates a certain museum atmosphere, especially in those corridors with dark stained wood and low lighting. People have artwork in individual offices as well, and shortly after I was hired one of my new coworkers told me we were allowed to request any piece hanging in the hall by whichever number was marked on the edge of the frame. I didn't so much mind the abstract watercolor that came with the office, which resembled two swans crossing their necks into a heart shape, and I've never been big on asking for stuff. I put up a few posters and drawings of my own, though I didn't wallpaper the room with comic books, fantasy, or science fiction icons. I figured with a fresh start in a new environment, I didn't want to coat my office in chick-repellent as I'd done with my previous job. Just because the inside of my brain resembles a comic book store doesn't mean my surroundings have to.

A few weeks ago, heading down a corridor, I was struck by a piece of art on the wall. It was an insane illustration featuring a slew of Marvel characters, all the more striking because I'd never seen it before, and because it didn't match anything else in our building. We generally market our merchandise to a much older group of customers, and our staff isn't exactly the comics crowd either. I mentioned the piece to one of my friends, and he reminded of what the one woman told me when I started. I actually considered making the request, but knew I probably wouldn't act on my consideration. Yesterday my friend stopped by to tell me he saw the piece hanging in the office of one of the internet guys. “You snooze, you lose!”

It's an interesting expression and, as clichés go, not always true. Certainly my father has a lot to gain if he could just get some rest, but that's hard to do in the hospital. He can't get comfortable, he's in a strange place with devices beeping and people moaning or screaming at odd hours, and nurses or doctors always visit to draw blood and/or check vitals just as he settles into a good snooze. I remember my 11 days in the hospital when I had abdominal surgery back in 2000, not at all fondly. He seems healthier to me each day, but tired and often depressed. For a while I had him out of his funk, asking him how the automatic mattress that molded to any contour worked, getting him to think like a mechanic. We think there's an air compressor that inflates and deflates various pockets based on pressure and body weight. All I know is I'm very impressed when the thing hums and changes shape if I sit on the edge of it, taking on the form of an MCF assprint that fills back out a minute after I stand up. But when I started talking about future plans like upcoming gigs with the band in the Spring, he saw through my psychology. All day he was talking about going home after they finished the seemingly endless tests, which includes an MRI at another location in town because the hospital doesn't have a machine on the premises. When I mentioned the band, he told me to forget it, that he was finished, that he probably wasn't getting out of the hospital.

He always seems better when we get there, and worse as time goes on. His temperature did get all the way back down to normal, but his fever came back as it always does. If this does turn out to be some sort of viral infection, all he can really do is get some vitamins and boost his natural immunity, stay warm and keep the fever down, and most importantly get some rest. A dermatologist brought in to check his rash advised him, “get out of here before you really catch something”, and there's certainly wisdom behind that quip. We need some answers, an action plan, and to get him in the best possible environment to recuperate.

My brain's been doing odd things at night too. I usually feel so exhausted that I can't fall asleep, and when I do I'm not dreaming about all the stuff going on in real life, but escaping to happier places. One night I was comparing notes with a friend about bars she frequented in Manhattan, including one place where I was apparently a regular in that reality. On another night, I took my cat to a petting zoo that didn't exist, located next to a bird sanctuary that did. I put him on the ground and he ran about excited to sniff goats milling about behind bars, then to an outdoor Italian café to pause while diners leaned down and scratched behind his ears. Finally I carried him home and put him down as I fumbled for my keys. “Chirp...” I admonished as he rolled around in the snow, “Don't go in the backyard...stay away from those woods...”

“Get up! It's 7:15!” called my mom. “Get the cat!” I shouted, still half asleep. “Get him in out of the snow before he runs up a tree!” So yeah, it's both business as usual in my subconscious but amplified. I remember after my surgery I was in so much pain, I'd squeeze my eyes tight and will myself into dreams. I slept for fourteen hours, occasionally waking up, clicking my morphine button, and going back into the dream world. I've been snoozing through the unreal all week, and I want my dad to come home so reality might resume.