There Was Blood Diptych I. Unos cuantos piquetitos Crónica
8 January, 2008
Somewhere en el Evil, oops, Inland Imperio de Califas
For Laura Gutiérrez, Elaine S. Brooks, Raphael Kadushin y Florence Moorhead-Rosenberg,Tauruses all, con amor y sangre
Well, mi colega y amigo el José C-2 accompanied me to the hospie yesterday for a biopsy. It was extremely unpleasant, to say the least, and, as could be predicted, my BP was off the radar, que digamos Richter (more el upper que el lower numerito, pero I forget which way is more dire, lo cual me hace stress out even more, OB-vio…) en los momentos just before the “procedure”. I am trying not to be too alarmed about THAT, since the arribas and abajos of my BP are intimately related to my emo state, and I’ve been faithfully using my new Resperate machine, que te hace una especie de biofeedback pa’ aletargarte la breathing. Plus, he seguido con el estúpido sécate-toda diuretic, los health walks, y bla bla (ay, todo tan boring).
Anygüey, I won’t go into detalle about el procedimiento mismo: it was unnerving, demoralising and mega-estresante, even bajo los efectos del Xanax and local lidocane (the installation of which was maybe even casi casi lo PEOR). Por suerte, the pathologist who performed the stereotactic biopsy era un puertorriqueño who appreciated the bizarre humor I was somehow able to muster cuando, mientras yacía, boca abajo, en ese heartlessly cold metal table (images of la parrilla–como le decían al torture table que usaban durante la dictadura en Argentina—kept popping into my admittedly paranoid and hyperbolic imaginación), le pregunté, apropos of a teensy titanium CLIP (?) they inserted into my buhto—AND LEFT THERE—supuestamente at the precise site of the microcalcificaciones, if I was now officially some sort of Sci Fi Alien. El tipo, cool as a pepino, hasta me hizo un little quip patrás, “why, are you an unofficial alien now?”
Actually, it is the thought of having that tiny “clip” inside me, in such an intimate locus of my geografía interior, that I find most unsettling and yet (bueno, you know how genuinely STRANGE I am)… also somehow intriguing. En la X-ray que me mostró el médico, it looks a bit like a tiny (we’re talking, about the size of a pen point) antenna, or a blue ribbon (as the Chicana nurse, Melissa, cheerfully prompted me to appreciate). To me, it looks most like the glyph for the astrological sign Taurus, el signo de varios de mis MAXimos carnales. And so, I will hold on to the idea of this semaphor. Me reconforta, de alguna manera, la idea de shevarlo a Uds. tan close to my too-excitable heart, entangled con mis entrañas…and in imminent danger (aunque el patólogo assured me this would not happen!) of setting off los detectores de metal en los aeropuertos.
Can you imagine? First my 24 South African bracelets—que eventualmente tuve que dejar de llevar, por el tema del beefed-up security en los aeropuertos, post 9/11, después de más de 20 años, so much jingle jangle and weight on that left side; I even gave birth in them, coño!–and now un Taurean titanium clip, marking off the site of former microcalcificaciones busteriles.
Mientras me hacían la jodida biopsia, the nurse had to call in una über-enfermera, porque aparentemente, there was a blood vessel too close to the site of the little chips de calcio, and they had to do this most uncomfy manipulating operación to get it (la vesícula) out of the way.
Bueno, al regresar a casa entré al cobalt blue guest bath, abajo. I took in the fantastic, little-girl-lost Camille Rose García prints, the beautiful caldera-colored mosaic-tiled counter, the gorgeously Goth, black, drippy-looking wrought iron light fixture, worthy of the Addams Family manse, installed by Pierre en las últimas refacciones del 2006. I took off my ancient (according to fashion’s ever-fickle seasons) black Prada ski jacket (second-hand regalo de mi hermana Wiggue, before I went to Buenos Aires for the first time, en el ‘99—y creo que estaba past-season even then!). In that penumbral, Alice in Wonderland a lo Chicana luz, I saw three sort of beautiful pero definitely crimson spots flowering on my chest, left side. I wriggled out of the left side of my grey American Apparel raglan-sleeved, tissueweight cotton sweatshirt, cupped my breast instinctively and my hand came away filled with blood.
Como en una película de horror, like in “Carrie,” la sangre saturaba el petite round ice pack que las enfermeras me habían insertado en el sexy yet sort of stern black Olga bra (my good-luck corpiño). Todavía pathetically clutching my breast, con la bahtante menos eficaz diestra, I stripped off the top, y el bra; los tiré al sink con ese crimson icepack, les eché agua fría encima and watched it bloom scarlet. Just like ese Easter egg dye que nos preparaba mamá, musité. El espejo me devolvió una imagen espectral, oddly placid. Blood covered the left side of my torso. How could so much blood emerge from a tiny nick, pensé, y luego, immediately, pensé en ese famoso cuadro de Frida Kahlo, “Unos cuantos piquetitos.” Can you imagine? Typical me: there I am, dripping, pulsing, coursing sangre, pensando en la moda, en películas, paintings.
I unzipped my grey-green Levi pinwale stretch cords; I was intensely conscious I would drip blood all over the floor; me preocupaban las gatas, Esmeralda y Alejandra, que ya maullaban, worried (bueno OK, also hungry, a decir verdad…). I remembered about pressure. Aplicar presión. I held my breast more insistently, con la mano derecha, pero somehow, I couldn’t believe that only that would staunch the flow. Llamé a Pierre al trabajo, porque conoce un chingo de First Aid, pero to my horror, he was barely even conscious himself, having been stricken con un fast-moving stomach flu. Apenitas tenía la fuerza, as it turned out, to drive himself home.
Para cuando llegó, I’d already spoken to the enfermera, y al mere mere Puerto Rican pathologist, quien me dijo que (natuurlik) lo que me pasó was “unusual,” pero that there can always be some little artery or vesícula “in the way,” invisible. A fount of unexpected blood. He told me, bien matter of fact, que hasta en el peor de los casos (cutting “a major artery”, dijo, creo) if you apply pressure “for about an hour”, it will stop.
Bueno gente, apreté like there was no tomorrow; I set the little red, retro timer en la blood-red, PoMo, retro cocina, and pressed, 20 minutos, como si fuera uno de los trials de Hércules.
It stopped.
By the time it stopped, había blood spatters on the made-in-Argentina (it’s true, el downstairs floor tile hasta se shama “Pampa”), faux-Spanish–or faux-Mexican—Saltillo tile; blood had soaked through the rolled up paper tower I was clutching; it caked my hand, la axila, streaked my torso y hasta trickled down into my chonies. El full-length espejo en el living, donde generalmente chequeo mi look antes de salir al mundo, me devolvió una imagen espeluznante. Somehow ghoulish y compellingly erotic a la vez.
OK, OK, sha sé. Leave it to me.
Y bueno, it’s Kaiser Permanente. It’s an HMO mundo we inhabit (digo, those of us even lucky enough to have healthcare coverage), so I won’t know anything for up to 10 days, can you believe it? Y eso que sólo me van a llamar para hacer una cita for me to return, again, to that rasquache Kaiser Permanente hospital in the heart of the Evil, qiue digamos Inland Empire, en Fontana, Califas, para que me den los resultados in person. Me dijeron: whether the news is good or bad, they have to give it to you in person. Es la ley.
So now, a esperar. Tic tac tic tac. Um, not something my grand trine in Fuego personality excels at, pero you already know that. Y… qué remedio, no?
So, les escribo esto, Tauruses, seeking comfort, seeking…que sé sho, connection. Sigh. As usual. My words looking for your words, wishing it were your eyes, your mouth I could see talking, reassuring, laughing with me. Pero for now, heme aquí, a la espera. This is it.