I have a roomate, Deffrey. She is from Jones county in Mississippi. One county over from our family home. She is three years younger than me, African American, married to a serviceman and just returning from Germany, where she lived for nearly ten years. She doesn’t want to ever go back to Mississippi. Maybe I won’t either. She ordered the hospital catfish today. She should have known better.
There is, of course, no cell phone service in our room. Just as well. I’m high and babble. Deffrey and I read tabloids all day. We have a stack. Deffrey is well versed in Hollywood gossip. She knew even the most unknown of the unknown stars of reality TV. And we're both shocked about the Sandra Bullock story.
Our hospital beds are separated by a vacant mattress and our privacy curtains. The curtains are drawn shut by the nurses so we shout at each other. We talk more quietly when comparing nurses. I got lucky tonight. Miss R. But my arm is throbbing and swelling, my right leg is wrestling with the passive motion machine, or whatever its called (I hate it). My knee is swollen from yesterday’s surgery when the doctors pushed through the scar tissue, literally. And that right foot looks like it belongs to an alien. I’m high on meds, about to vomit any moment, and if I don’t have a cigarette I will die. I’m certain of it.
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