he saline solution is hooked up.
The doctor's administering liquid Dilantin,
something new for me. She says I need a
certain level in my bloodstream
quickly, so I don't have a repeat seizure.
After a previous seizure I was given
Dilantin (phenytoin sodium) in capsules.
I was to take five or six a day,
but I soon gave up because I felt miserable.
A dullness engulfed me, I was lethargic and
slow-witted, then zits began to sprout
freely, and, to top it off, two or three
beers and I was completely debilitated.
Also, if I became acclimated to the drug,
the possible long-term effects would be
a coarsening of the facial skin, a darkening
and increase in facial and body hair, as well
as gingival hyperplasia (a severe overgrowth of the gums).

I kept the pills around until I decided no way was I going to palm them off on anyone for non-prescriptive use. Here in the hospital, I'm hooked up and no arguing about it. A syringe is inserted in the tubing that runs from the saline bag to the needle in my arm. The doctor squeezes off doses at regular intervals. It sears like acid traveling through my vein: my forearm's burning from the inside out. I grimace and jerk uncomfortably.

"Stop that! This doesn't
hurt so much," the doctor says,
her strong German accent sounding
particularly admonishing.
She's wearing heels that look
less than practical; the sharp
retort of their clip-clop
advancing down the hall transmits
a Pavlovian alert. Each time
she pumps more Dilantin into me,
the piston moves in excruciatingly
small increments

down

    the tube 
              of the 
                   syringe.