Jellyfish

Each day, to my hospital bed
someone in white, with tray of little cups
filled with pink liquid.
Swish and spit test for CMV.

One day, they stopped coming.

Even doctors stopped coming.
No one wants to watch
the star liver transplant patient
become a failure.

 I am so weak now.
One new liver, then another
Weaken the immune system,
torment the muscles.

The virus takes hold.

Above 105 there is brain damage.
Forced onto an ice mattress
burning fever, unendurable cold,
then a cough that will not stop.

What happens now?

Endless night in a chair coughing
I sing along with Jimi --
"It's so groovy to float around sometimes
even a jellyfish will tell you that."

In the morning, a gallium scan.
How much longer can I go on?
After the scan I am parked in the hall
on a gurney, staring at tiny holes in the white ceiling.

I lie waiting.

Then the pain is gone.
I am floating, weightless.
Not a bone in my jelly back,
and I know it is my time.

I grab a passing white sleeve.
She leans over, puts her ear up to my lips.
I whisper "I am going,
if anyone wants to know,"

Sudden loud and furious action:
call the crash cart!
Pull me into a side room,
and they go to work.

I float up to the ceiling
and look down on my body
as they jam a breathing tube
down my throat.

Meg's face appears from nowhere.
Another liver for you in Florida.
I lift my hand and give the thumbs up.
"Talk to me darlin' with a message of love."