The Two Kinds of Decay


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Someone gets sick, someone gets well. Those who claim to write about something larger and more significant than the self sometimes fail to comprehend the dimensions of a self. Most people consider their own suffering a widely applicable model, and I am no exception.

Sarah Manguso: The Two Kinds of Decay — MedHumChat

The important part might come in a form you do not recognize. You might not know to love it. But to pay attention is to love everything.

To see the future as brightness. Everything that happens is the last time it happens. Thank you! The disease that plagued her in various ways for nine years had ravaging effects on Rome Prize winner Manguso Hard to Admit and Harder to Escape , , etc. There was a problem adding your email address.

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The Discard Artists - The Two Kinds Of Decay

Log In. I was at my parents' house, and I'd stayed out late. When I splashed water on my face, I couldn't catch my breath, couldn't seem to hold it long enough. Still tingling, I finished packing, brought my bags downstairs, put them in the car, and sat in the passenger seat while my father drove the ten miles back to my college dorm. The dorm's elevator went to the even floors only, so I rode to the eighth floor and slid the bags down a flight to my room, G I phoned my parents the next night, and the one after that, and told them I'd come down with some kind of bug that was making me feel tired.

I walked stiff-legged and slowly, and I was still nearly drowning every time I washed my face. My feet were numb, and my hands were getting numb, too.

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I was concerned I'd caught a strange illness, but I was more concerned that I looked drunk. I was staggering around, even to and from breakfast, and I felt people looking at me and thinking it might be time for an intervention. On my fourth day back at school, I fell down in the courtyard. Then I went upstairs and called my mother and asked her if she'd pick me up at school and take me to the hospital near their house, the hospital where I'd been born.

She drove me home first.


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She said my father would meet us there, would drive back early from his office on the South Shore, and the three of us would go to the hospital together. I remember walking from the back door of the house to the driveway, with my mother clutching my right arm so I wouldn't stumble on the brick path, and asking, What's wrong with me? My father said, very calmly, I don't know, Sar, but at the hospital they will.

His calmness is the reason I didn't cry until almost twelve hours later, once I was in Intensive Care, my blood already churning through a machine, when a nurse explained to me that if the strength of my diaphragm weakened five more pounds per square inch of air pressure, I'd be intubated through a hole in my neck. Mama Gets Hitched by Deborah Sharp.

Sarah Manguso: The Two Kinds of Decay

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The Two Kinds of Decay The Two Kinds of Decay
The Two Kinds of Decay The Two Kinds of Decay
The Two Kinds of Decay The Two Kinds of Decay
The Two Kinds of Decay The Two Kinds of Decay

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