They're Ba-Ack!

I wake up choking on my spit. My eyes water and my face reddens. I run to the bathroom to gulp water from the faucet and wipe my face in the mirror.

It is 7 am and I have been asleep for just a few hours. The pain kept me awake, as did "The Nanny" marathon on Nick at Nite. (No one cheers me up like Fran and her struggles against the upper echelons of New York society.)

At night, I perfect my dance in the kitchen with Colleen and Sam. But in the mornings I am alone and so painfully awake.

I cough again and swig Orajel mouthwash- antiseptic, bitter, unkind. I take prednisone, even though it makes me crazy and fat. (Which, come to think of it, is not such a departure.)

My mouth has blown up again—sores have moved in, taken residence on my gums, lips, tongue. The crater on the tip of my tongue is offended easily; the passing wind of my breath aggravates it, like 
peroxide on an open wound. 

It hurts to talk, so I only speak when a good joke or insult comes to mind and when someone is about to eat the last of the lo mein. And It hurts to eat, so I only eat popcorn and noodles, where I can place each bite in a non-infected spot. 


But when the night has dried my mouth and the air is particularly offensive against the open wounds, I must look for something to distract me.


I throw my fists into the air. I punch the armchair in this old bedroom in my grandmother’s house. I kick, kick, kick.


And then--I take a deep breath through my nose and think: 

This is not easy.