Part 131 Negotiations, or begging for ice cubes


I have been here long enough now that the days are melting together, each one indiscernible from the next. I seem to be trapped in a place and a mood from which there is no escape.

My desire for something wet touching my lips is becoming unbearable. Becah arrives, sipping on a Dr. Pepper. I lust after it. I have been given strict instructions not to drink anything at all, lest I run the risk of aspirating. Desperate I may be, but I’m not stupid.

But I am desperate. So much that I grab the cup, take a big gulp in my mouth, swish it around, and spit it out. The taste is wonderful to my mouth.

Later Dr. Bl- drops by. As she talks to me, she glances at the extra large cup next to my bed, and remarks with a shock that she hopes I haven’t been drinking it. I relieve her fears by telling her it is Becah’s. I ask her if she will put orders in for one small Pepsi. She refuses. I ask her if I could have orange juice, to which she replies that a glass of it would be more dangerous than the Pepsi because it has higher sugar content. Any substance entering my lungs is dangerous, but sugar, I am told, is worse than the rest. I tell her (truthfully) that another physician, a lung specialist, saw me the previous day and said he saw no problem with my sipping on water, since my mouth contains saliva that will travel through my system anyway. Dr. Bl- will have no part of this, however, and nixes the water too. She informs me that I will soon have a swallow test, and if I pass it, and receive the blessing from the speech therapist, I can slowly move from liquids to blended/soft solids to more serious food.

But I must pass the test first.

As a consolation prize, she prescribes two ice cubes every 30 minutes.

I am reduced to begging for ice cubes. That’s what I live for these days.