Janis Joplin didn't ask The Lord for an Aveo

I've had two distinct situations in my day today--one as high as possible, and the other quite possibly the lowest I've yet had.

I woke today as the perfect hospital patient, in my beautiful ICU room with the nice view, the wood laminate floors and the incredible nurses. Mind you, I got no sleep last night. My blood pressure was taken hourly by a dictatorial machine. There was a special breathing treatment at 2am, a special chest xray taken at 3am, visits by a pack of roving doctors a couple of times, poking at my flap, hourly doppler checks of the blood flow through two special incisions, one arterial, one venal. I did not wake to the breakfast plate--my food flows through me on an hourly, pumped basis here--a very stingy 28 ml per hour of pale beige Nutren. Blood sugar was checked all night long--there was no room for anything but the cattiest of naps.

I woke knowing that I might move today--to a progressive care unit, not intensive. There, no hourly checks existed--I'd be far more autonomous, but frankly, for all their nursely hassling, I loved the ICU folks. They were thrilled that I like moving under my own volition, and seem to have a power of recuperation from surgical anesthesia little short of unheard of...yes, my special superpower is the ability to be intensely out and completely up almost like a dog.

And much as we might wish to fight for one another, I don't need ICU and they didn't need me. I was a vacation patient, they were my spa hospital.

Still, I had things to look forward to--I knew I'd have Monica the physical therapist who understands that my hell yes attitude reflects my deep hell please attitude to going home. I will throw myself 1000 per cent at anything that reeks of goal attainment and discharge status. So it is with physical therapy, the kicking of legs, walking with walkers, curling of arms--besides, one day in a balloon bed and anyone should want to take a walk, no matter how small, and no matter how much Monica keeps telling you to slow down.

I knew when I woke that I was a couple of hours from respiratory therapy, the one thing that stands between my trach tube and my trach tube strangling me. The RTs fascinate me--they seem like a gang within a gang, and yet without any one defining characteristic to predict who would take medical training and choose to be one. All sizes, shapes, genders, and attitudes.

I whipped through PT this morning insisting I should be able to walk to my new room. I sucked down albuterol from the RT like it wa last supper at a chemical plant. And then the order came, and I moved.

I'm now in an older part of the hospital, and it shows. There's no cabinetry or wood laminate. The view is of an alley I'm sure I've seen on Crime Stoppers. The lighting is harsh. It vaguely smells. I was swabbed for MRSA as my introduction in. Welcome to the real hospital Mark. Welcome to hospital hell.

The bed is awful, the chair is awful, the television is not a 32 inch flat screen. It's a Zenith CRT of indeterminate age. It hangs too far above the floor to be easily stolen The only art in this room is the art of survival.

I've been a little pouty because of this move, but damn if I don't always overlook the good in what goes on if I don't like the gloss of the moment. My nurse here, Silma, is about the most charming woman...and being Indian, she digs the fact that I used to work at India Studies. She unhooked me from the huge number of things attached to my body and allowed me the utter pleasure of going to the restroom in a real toilet with no one watching. It was fantastic. Also, likely against protocol. I love that woman.

And even though it's progressive care, she has pretty much treated me as if I'm her ICU project--but there's not as much coming and going, and Scott and I were in this room most of the afternoon without any intrusions, though trust me, dirty eggshell walls, scuffed floors and a boyfriend 3 days out from surgery aren't turning any of this into a lover's weekend.

I will continue to hope to witness no personal injury crimes as I look out the window of my hospital room--and I'm sure my mood will lift further the more that people allow me the silly pleasure of going to bathroom like an adult. Only time will tell....

But I will wonder if they are eating york peppermint patties that were slipped onto their pillows on the other side of the hospital.