It's not even light out... - I went down, down, down.

There was confusion.  This tiny operating table (and how exactly do they operate on those bigger than I?), and a rush, rush, rush of people and tubing and wires.  I could name all of them, except what was injected into me.  I'm sinking away.  The mask.  They said it was just oxygen.  Was it something in there, or another injection maybe?  "You'll fall asleep in about thirty seconds.  Think of something nice to dream."

Andy.  Trees.  The green.  Notebooks and a smiling face.  Love.  Cats.

And then, things were blurry, and soon, they were gone.

The next thing I knew, I heard my name, over and over.  "Marissa.  Marissa.  Open your eyes."

No, but I'm sleeping, you don't understand how badly...  Hey, where are we going?

Then I felt it.  I was shaking violently.  And my head.  Who hit my head?  "I'll get her more blankets.  She's cold.  This should stop the shivering."

"Headache,"  I said.  And then over and over.  Where is my voice?  "Headache."  I look around as much as my eyes can bear.  So many people, and curtains.  I am no longer alone.  They move quickly still.  That medicine, into the tubing that is connected into my arm.  I'm off to sleep again.  "I can breathe now.  Thank you."

Time moves, who knows how much.  Who cares.  "How's the headache?"  "It hurts in my jaw up the side of my head."  "Nausea?"  "No."  Oh, wait.  "Yes."

And I'm down again.  Andy.  Trees.  Cat.  Art.  Love.  Bicycles.  That new journal I picked up.

"We're going to work on getting you up bit by bit... very slowly."  She moves the head of my bed up.  I want to take off my socks so badly.  "Nausea?"  Shake head.  Wait, no, that was a lie, too.  More medication.  And then just in case for the pain.

I am down again.

I open my eyes.  I feel okay.  When can I go home?  How long have I been here?  This room is so bright.  It's stuffy.  I want to go back to sleep.

She adjusts my bed more.  My back hurts.  I might throw up.  "Well, we're going to try a different medication this time.  And dextrose.  You've been fasting. Could be blood sugar.  You a caffeine junky?  It could be withdrawal."

"I drink tea.  My head hurts again."  Could be the angle of the bed and the stuffiness of the room.  Some girl in the curtain next to me understands what I am going through.  Now we have another neighbor, some kid who messed up his nose.  Our heart monitors only sync up on occasion.  I wonder which is mine.

I feel like I'm done here.  If I can just make it home, things will be fine.

Somehow, sans my voice, I convince them to let me go.  I sleep on and off in my mom's car to fight the nausea, and lie down in bed upon arrival at her house.  She gives me water, a popsicle, and my medication.  I finish about half of the popsicle, a quarter of the glass of water, and struggle to gulp down the thick, syrupy medicine.  I roll over and fall again.

She comes in at six-thirty.  Medicine time.  I drink the syrup and sit up for some water.  Visit the bathroom, then go out to see her.  The dogs want everything to do with me.  Where is my cat?  Spookie.  I miss him all the time, despite having Nintendo and Bacon at home.

We both had colds.  Mine is feeling a lot less like a cold post-op.  I can breathe so well.  These people don't know how bad colds can get, sometimes.  I feel I may be doing better than her, but she is the one taking care of me.  I try to do things for myself and she stops me.  I guess I can't truly give in to a helping hand.

A half hour later, back to bed.  10:30 alarm goes off for my dose.  I get up and write a couple of e-mails, stop when the nausea hits.  I think I am going to throw up.  It turns out to be a burp.  I take some anti-nausea medication anyway, eat a popsicle, drink water, then call Andy and use up the meager voice that I have.

"I thought you shouldn't be on the phone?  I thought you couldn't talk?"
"I have a very small, limited voice.  I wanted to hear yours, though."

We talk for about ten minutes.  He tells me about his day.  Then, the medicine takes over and I am down again.

2:30.  Medication.  Up and down again.  Up at five when mom wakes up.  Try to rinse my medicine cups and plate.  She warns me about over-doing it.  I step back, lie on the couch.  We're going home, to my home.  Into the car.

Andy is awake when I get there.  He hugs me.  He looks relieved to see me.  My words are limited.  I tell him I love him.  He is happy to see me well.  He says my voice is higher, more feminine, and is sure that once I get it all back, it will indeed be different.

My voice, my voice.  My now tiny, tiny voice.

We go to bed together after my 6:30 dose.  I am in and out of sleep.  I itch from the medicine.  There is no possible way for me to drink water fast enough.  I cough a little from the cold.  Still, I can breathe.

I inhale deep through my nose, and let it out my mouth.  Then reverse.

Yes, I can breathe, and it feels amazing.