My waking hours remain confined to my hospital bed, so I must buzz the nurses to go potty, rinse out my my mouth or take a shower, all of which take great effort. I can barely read the LA Times or a book or magazine, concentrate on a TV show or carry on a conversation. Call it chemo brain to the extreme.
But my my dream life is another story. After a round of morphine (my first and, I hope, my last), I swirled in and out of psychedelic dreams. Last night, without the aid of pain meds, I had wild adventures involving myself in boy-type underwear and nothing else with a group of pre-prepubescent Japanese-American boys in Little Tokyo. We ingeniously fashioned clothing from burlap, mud and tar. We rolled in mud and slid down bacteria-ridden water slides, all forbidden activities for patients with repressed immune systems. The finale was jumping off a roof. (All dangerous and mischievous activities, but none sexual in nature.)
Today I was convinced my dream was real. I escaped from the hosptial and looked down and saw that my leg was injured and sought help at the Pasadena Macy's. I was stylishly dressed, but had no hose on my legs or shoes on my feet. I've never been so happy to wake up and realize I was in my hospital bed watching an episode of Martha.
Martha's pumpkin center piece never looked so good.
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