Facing the Support Group: A Post-Comatose Democrat Awakens to the Obama Administration
The creak of a door and the hallway light again spills onto my face. Curled up in a ball on the puffy plastic cot on the floor, sheets of newspaper cover my frail and shivering body. They crinkle as I roll away from the light. Was it morning? Night? I didn’t know anymore. All I know is I want someone to take me home.
“Mr. Carter, it’s time to get up,” said the same soothing feminine voice from yesterday. I wrapped myself in the warm timber of her words like an infant nestling in the womb. “It’s time to take your medicine and join the day, Mr. Carter. Please get up!”
I roll towards the light and raise myself up in bed, casting the paper newspaper aside. It’s a herculean effort, with my head is still swimming in the cottony comfort of drug-induced dreams. Awkwardly, I pull myself over and throw myself onto the depressed edge of the plastic cot. Tottering, I await the woman’s touch on my shoulder, or anything to jolt me back to the real world.
“Mr. Carter, take this juice and the little red pill…” she orders me with that wonderful maternalistic tone of hers.
“What is it?” I asked curiously and coughed, though consigned to her lovely authority.
“Oh,” I answered, a bit disappointed that it wasn’t something more exotic, something that would make my problems go away. I took the pill and drank down the cool, bright, acidic orange juice. It was the most fabulous thing I’d ever tasted.
“Please put the slippers on that are by the door. The ones wrapped in clear plastic. We have a meeting at oh-nine hundred. Don’t worry about changing your pajamas.”
“Nine o’clock?” I ask, grateful for the clue as to the time of day. “A meeting?”
“It’s a support group, really, for people like yourself. It’s right after breakfast at oh-eight hundred.”
Continued on Conservative Daily News.