Intensive Care Yesterday’s platinum injection has offered protection from the artery ballooning at the base of your brain. Still, damage is done: a chaos of blood lays uncontained. The nurse: a whir of efficiency, change IV’s, leans down checks the yellow catheter and dispenses relief for your invaded cranium. Records on your chart, and nods in our general direction. You drift in and out: remember to smile and be gracious, but forget your name. Recognition spreads across your face as you look at the rainbow rings that have escaped the collar of the nurses uniform “So, you’re a lesbian” you say, clear as day. The nurse pauses, re-checks fluid levels, the catheter, hesitates, cautious as truth colors this dingy room. Before the reply, your shaky arm points, “It’s okay, my daughter is too,” you say. So relived to hear you remember, I forget my shame; begin to shed restraint. As hope pools in the base of my brain, we slip into intensive recovery.