Our Good Dreams...

It's a normal sound. It's not loud or invasive or even unpleasant.

But I am sick-to-death of falling to sleep to the rhythmic clicks and hums of the I.V. unit.

Those of you who've been hospitalized know the sound well.It drives me crazy. I turn off all the lights; I ready my "bed"; I kiss my wife good-night. All acts of normalcy - all ways of saying to this world that "Tonight, we rest. Tonight, we restore ourselves. And as we sleep, you cannot touch us."

But you do, you little maniacal machine.

You do touch us. You click and whir and even beep from time-to-time as if you know that we just got to that good place in our dreams:

That place where we've built a house on top of a rainbow or in a field eating Starburst Waffles or playing scrabble with Richard Belzer.You sneak into our good dreams and say oh, so quietly but oh, so persistently:

I'm still here...
You're still in the hospital...
Everything is messed up...
Your life is turned upside down...
I'm still here...

You're not cool, I.V. machine.
You're important and I'm glad you're here, but you're not cool and you never will be.
And when me and my crew leave, you have to stay here.

No wonder you're nuts.