I have narcolepsy

Premature Burial

Edgar Allan Poe

United States: 1809-1849

There are certain topics of absorbing interest, but too horrible for the purposes of a work of fiction. The simple novelists should avoid if you do not want to offend or to disgust. Only properly treated when the severity and majesty of Truth sanctify and sustain them. We thrill, for example, with the most intense "pleasurable pain" over the accounts of the passage of the Beresina, the Lisbon earthquake, the plague of London and the massacre of St. Bartholomew or death by suffocation of one hundred and twenty-three prisoners in the Black Hole of Calcutta. But the excitement in these stories is the fact, reality, history. As fiction, we seem simply abominable. I mentioned some of the most prominent and august calamities in the history, but they reach no less than the character of the calamity, which so vividly impresses the imagination. I need not remind the reader that, the long and weird catalog of human miseries, could have selected many individual instances more replete with essential suffering than any of these vast generalities of disaster. The real misery, grief last, is really particular, not diffuse. Thank God merciful than the ghastly extremes of agony are endured by man individually and never in mass!

Being buried alive is without any doubt, the most terrific of these extremes which has ever fallen to the lot of a mere mortal. That has fallen to the lot often, very often, no judgment to deny it. The boundaries which divide life from death are at best, fuzzy and undefined ... Who can say where one ends and where the other begins? We know there are diseases in which there is a cessation of the apparent functions of life, and yet, the end is only a suspension, to call by name. There are only temporary pauses in the incomprehensible mechanism. After a certain period, some unseen mysterious principle again sets in motion the magic pinions and wheels fantastic. The silver cord was not for ever loosed, nor irretrievably broken the golden bowl. But meanwhile, where was the soul? However, apart from the inevitable conclusion a priori that such causes must produce such effects, that the well-known cases of suspended animation, again and again, inevitably cause premature burials, apart from this consideration, we have the direct testimony of the medical and ordinary experience proves that actually take place a large number of these burials. I could now refer, if necessary, a hundred well authenticated instances. One of very remarkable character, and whose circumstances may be fresh in the memory of some of my readers, occurred not long ago in the neighboring city of Baltimore, where it caused a stir painful, intense and widespread. The wife of one of the most respectable citizens, eminent lawyer and member of Congress-was seized with a sudden and unaccountable illness, which baffled the skill of physicians. After much suffering she died, or was supposed to die. No one suspected, and there was really no reason to do so, that was not really dead. Presented all the ordinary appearances of death. The face assumed the usual pinched and sunken outline. The lips were of the usual marble pallor. The eyes were bright. There was no warmth. Pulsations ceased. For three days the body was preserved unburied, it had acquired a stony rigidity. In summary, it advanced the funeral by the rapid advance of what was supposed to be decomposition.

The lady was deposited in the family crypt, which was closed for three years. At the end of that period was opened for a sarcophagus, but, oh, what a terrible shock awaited the husband when he opened the door personally! Pushing the gates, dressed in white object fell rattling within his arms. It was the skeleton of his wife with the shroud on.

Careful investigation showed evidence that she had revived within two days of being buried, their struggles within the coffin had caused it to fall from a ledge or niche to the ground, breaking the coffin her escape. A lamp which appeared accidentally had left full of oil, into the grave, may, however, been consumed by evaporation. In the top rungs of the ladder down into the dread crypt was a piece of the coffin, which, apparently, she had tried to arrest attention by striking the iron door. While doing this, probably fainted or perhaps died of sheer terror, and falling, her shroud became entangled in some iron protruding inward. There was so rotted, erect.

In 1810 France was in a case of premature burial, in circumstances which go far to justify the claim that truth is stranger than fiction. The heroine of the story was mademoiselle [Miss] Victorine Lafourcade, a young girl of illustrious family, rich and beautiful. Among her numerous suitors was Julien Bossuet, a poor litterateur [writer] or journalist of Paris. His talent and his kindness had awakened the attention of the heiress, who, apparently, had he really in love, but pride of caste led her to reject it and finally marry a Monsieur [Mr.] Renelle, banker and diplomat of some renown. After marriage, however, this gentleman neglected his wife and perhaps, even hit him. After spending some wretched years, she died, at least her condition so closely resembled that of the death that fooled everyone who saw her. She was buried, not in a vault, but in an ordinary grave in his native village. Desperate and still inflamed by the memory of a profound attachment, the lover journeys from the capital to the distant province where he was the village, with the romantic purpose of digging up the corpse and seize their precious hair. He came to the tomb. At midnight he unearths the coffin, opened it and when I went to cut hair, stood before the eyes of the beloved, they were opened. The lady had been buried alive. The Vitality had not altogether disappeared, and the caresses of her lover she was awakened from lethargy which had been mistaken for death. Desperate, the man took her to his lodgings in the village. He employed certain powerful restoratives suggested by no little medical learning. In short, she revived. She recognized her preserver. He remained with him until he slowly and gradually recovered his health. His heart was not so hard, and this last lesson of love sufficed to soften it. He gave Bossuet. He did not return with her ​​husband, but, concealing his resurrection, fled with her ​​lover to America. Twenty years later, the two returned to France, convinced that the time had changed so much the appearance of the lady, that his friends could not recognize it. But they were wrong, for the first meeting, Monsieur Renelle recognized his wife and claimed. She rejected the claim and the court supported it, deciding that the strange circumstances and the long period had extinguished, not only from an equitable point of view, but legally the husband's authority.

The Journal of Surgery, Leipzig, publication of high authority and merit, that any American publisher would do well to translate and publish, told in a recent issue very painful event which has the same characteristics.

An artillery officer, a man of gigantic stature and excellent health, was shot down by an unmanageable horse and bruised a very serious head, which knocked him unconscious. He had a slight skull fracture but no immediate danger was perceived. The trephination was made ​​successfully. Was applied to a drain and adopted many other common remedies. But slowly fell into a doze increasingly serious and so was given up for dead.

It was hot and was buried with indecent haste in one of the public cemeteries. His funeral took place on a Thursday. The following Sunday, the grounds of the cemetery, as usual, was filled with visitors, and around noon there was a stir caused by the words of a peasant who, while sitting upon the grave of the officer, the earth had been removed , as if someone was struggling below. At first no one paid much attention to the words of this man, but his obvious terror and the stubborn insistence on repeating his history occurred at last its natural effect on the crowd. Some quickly got some shovels, and the grave, shamefully shallow, was in minutes so open that exposed the head of its occupant. It seemed that he was dead, but appeared almost sitting in the coffin, the lid, in a furious struggle, he had partially uplifted. He was immediately taken to the nearest hospital, where he was pronounced alive, though in a state of suffocation. After some hours he revived, recognized some acquaintances, and disconnected phrases related his agonies in the grave.

As said, it was clear that the victim kept the consciousness of life for more than an hour after the burial, before losing the senses. They filled the grave, unaware, with a very porous soil, without crushing, and so I came a little air. He heard the footsteps of the crowd on his head and in turn tried to make himself heard. The tumult in the grounds of the cemetery, he said, was what probably woke him from a deep sleep, but wake realized the awful horrors of his situation. This patient, as the story goes, was improving and looked set to a final restoration, when it fell victim to the quackery of medical experiments. He applied the galvanic battery and suddenly expired in one of those paroxysms which sometimes causes static.

The mention of the galvanic battery, however, reminds me a case well known and very extraordinary, that his action proved to be the way to restore life to a young lawyer in London who was buried two days. This happened in 1831, and then made ​​a deep impression everywhere, which was the subject of conversation.

The patient, Mr. Edward Stapleton, had died, apparently of typhoid fever accompanied by some abnormal symptoms that aroused the curiosity of their doctors. After his apparent death, his friends were asked permission for a postmortem examination (autopsy), but they refused. As often happens with these negatives, the doctors decided to disinter the body and examine it thoroughly, in private. Easily reached a settlement with one of the many groups of body snatchers abound in London, and the third night after the funeral, the supposed corpse was unearthed from a grave eight feet deep and placed in the operating room in a private hospital.

At practicársele a certain length incision in the abdomen, the fresh and undecayed appearance of the subject suggested the idea of applying the battery. They successive experiments with the effects used, without any particular in any way, except in one or two occasions, an appearance of life than the norm in some convulsive action.

It was late. Would dawn and saw fit, at last, proceed immediately to dissection. But one of the scholars had a special desire to experience his own theory and insisted on applying the battery to one of the pectoral muscles. After a rough cut, quickly established a contact, then the patient, with a quick but nothing seizure, rose from the table, walked to the center of the room, looked around uneasily for a moment and then spoke. What he said was unintelligible, but uttered a few words, and clearly silabeaba. After speaking, he fell heavily to the ground.

For a few moments all were paralyzed with fear, but the urgency of the case soon restored them the presence of mind. It was seen that Mr. Stapleton was alive, but senseless. After he came to administer ether and quickly regained his health, returning to the society of his friends, whom, however, they hid any news about the resurrection until he no longer feared a relapse. One can imagine the wonder of those and ecstatic wonder.

The scariest fact of this incident, however, lies in what it said Mr Stapleton. He stated that at no time lost all meaning, that somehow blurry and confused perceived all that was happening from the moment he was declared dead by doctors until he fell unconscious on the floor of the hospital. "I am alive," were the uncomprehended words which, by recognizing the dissecting room, had tried to pronounce at the moment of grave danger.

It would be easy to multiply stories like these, but I forbear, because in reality we do not need to establish the fact that premature interments occur. When we reflect on the rare times when, by the nature of the case, we are able to discover them, we must admit that it may occur more frequently than we think. In fact, almost never have removed many graves in a cemetery, for any reason, without the appearance of skeletons in poses that suggest the most fearful of suspicions. The suspicion is dreadful, but more dreadful fate. It can be said without hesitation, that no event is provided both lead to the height of physical and mental anguish as the burial before death. The unbearable tightness of the lungs, the stifling fumes of the damp earth, the shroud that is attached, the rigid embrace of the narrow home, the absolute darkness of night, silence like a sea that overwhelms, the unseen but palpable presence of Conqueror Worm-these things, along with the wishes of the air and grass growing up, with the memory of the dear friends who would fly to save us if they knew of our destination, and the awareness that they can never know, that our inevitable fate of the dead is the truth, these considerations, I say, take the still beating heart to a degree of appalling and intolerable horror from which the boldest imagination recoils. We know of nothing so agonizing on Earth, we can not imagine anything so horrible in the deepest realms of Hell. And so all stories on this topic aroused a deep interest, interest, however, thanks to the fearful reverence for this item, just and specifically depends on our belief in the truth of the matter narrated. What I have now is my actual knowledge, actual experience and my personal ...

For several years I suffered attacks of this rare disorder that doctors have decided to call catalepsy, in the absence of a name that best define it. Although both the immediate causes and predispositions and even the diagnosis of this disease are still mysterious, its obvious and apparent character is well known. The variations seem to be mainly of degree. Sometimes the patient becomes a single day or even a shorter period in a sort of exaggerated lethargy. Still unconscious and externally, but the heart rate is still faintly perceive; are some signs of heat, a slight staining persists in the center of the cheeks and applying a mirror to his lips, we can detect a torpid, unequal and uncertain activity of the lungs. Other times the trance lasts for weeks or even months, while the closest scrutiny and more stringent medical tests fail to establish any substantive difference between the person's condition and what we conceive as absolute death. Generally, the premature burial save his friends, who know that previously suffered from catalepsy, and therefore suspect, but mostly saves the absence of corruption. The disease, fortunately, progresses gradually. The first manifestations, although marked, are unequivocal. The attacks are becoming more distinctive and each lasts longer than the last. Herein lies the greater security, in order to avoid burial. The unfortunate whose first attack was the seriousness with which sometimes occurs, it would almost inevitably brought alive to the grave.

My own case did not differ in any important details than those mentioned in medical texts. Sometimes, without any apparent cause, I sank slowly into a state of semisíncope, or near fainting, and that state, without pain, unable to move, or really thinking, but with a fuzzy and lethargic consciousness of life and the presence of those who surrounded my bed, lasted until the crisis of the disease restored me, suddenly, the perfect knowledge. Other times the attack was fast, explosive. I felt sick, shivering, cold, chills and dizziness, and suddenly, I fell prostrate. Then, for weeks, everything was empty, black, silent and nothing became the universe. The total annihilation could be no more. Awake, however, the latter slow and gradual attack, against the suddenness of access. As the day dawns for the beggar who roams the streets in the long and desolate winter night, without friends or home, so slow, tired, happy coming back to me in light of the soul. But apart from this tendency to syncope, my general health appeared good, and could not perceive that he was suffering the disease, unless a peculiarity of my dream could be considered as caused by it. When I awoke, I could never regain full use then my powers, and always stood for a long time in a state of bewilderment and perplexity, as general mental ability and memory in particular were in complete suspension.

In all my suffering was not physical, but an infinite moral anguish. My imagination became grim. He spoke of "worms, of tombs, and epitaphs." I was lost in meditations on death and the idea of premature burial took hold of my mind. The creepy danger to which he was exposed haunted me day and night. During the first, the torture of meditation was excessive, in the second, was supreme, When the grim darkness overspread the earth, then, seized with the most horrible thoughts, shaking, shaking like the shimmering feathers of a hearse. When my nature could not stand waking, I plunged into a struggle that finally led me to sleep, because I shuddered thinking that, on waking, I might end up stuck in a tomb. And when at last I sank into sleep, he did it only to fall immediately into a world of ghosts, which floated with huge dark black wings and the only, prevailing and sepulchral idea. Of the many images melancholy that oppressed me in dreams I choose for my story a solitary vision. I dreamed I had fallen into a cataleptic trance of more length and depth than normal. Suddenly a cold hand rested on my forehead and impatient voice, slurred, whispered in my ear: "Arise!"

I joined. The darkness was total. I could not see the figure of which had awakened me. He could not remember when he had fallen into a trance, nor the place where I was. While still motionless, trying to collect my thoughts, the cold hand gripped me by the wrist, shaking it petulantly, while the gibbering voice said again:

- Get up! Have not I told you to get up?

- And you - I asked who are you?

I have no name in the regions where I live voice replied sadly. I am a man and a ghost. It was ruthless, but I'm pitiful. You see, tremble. I grind my teeth when I talk, but not for the cold night of eternal night. But this horror is unbearable. How can you sleep alone? Do not let me rest the cries of those long agonies. These shows are more than I can bear. Up! Come outside with me at night, and let me show you the graves. Is not this a spectacle of pain? ... Look!

I looked, and the unseen figure who was still squeezing my wrist managed to open the graves of all mankind, and each phosphate out irradiations of decomposition, so that I could see his most hidden corners and the shrouded bodies in their sad and solemn sleep with the worm. But, alas, those who actually slept, but were many millions, were less than those who did not sleep at all and had a faint struggle, and there was a general sad unrest, and the depths of the countless pits out the melancholy rubbing the garments of the buried. And among those who seemed to rest easy, I saw that many had changed to a greater or lesser degree, the rigid and uneasy position in which they were buried. And the voice spoke again, watching:

- Is not that, ah, perhaps a pitiful sight?

But before he could find words to reply, the figure had dropped my wrist, the phosphoric lights were extinguished and the graves were closed with sudden violence, while leaving them a tumult of despairing cries, repeating: "Is not this, My God, perhaps a pitiful sight? "

Fantasies like this were presented at night and extended their terrific influence even in my waking hours. My nerves were shattered, and I fell into a continuous horror. I did not dare to ride, walk, or do any exercise that I stay away from home. Actually, I no longer dared trust myself out of the presence of those who knew my propensity for catalepsy, lest, in one such attack, bury me before I met my state really. I doubted the care and loyalty of my dearest friends. He feared that, in a trance longer than usual, be convinced that there was no remedy. Incluso llegaba a temer que, como les causaba muchas molestias, quizá se alegraran de considerar que un ataque prolongado era la excusa suficiente para librarse definitivamente de mí. En vano trataban de tranquilizarme con las más solemnes promesas. Les exigía, con los juramentos más sagrados, que en ninguna circunstancia me enterraran hasta que la descomposición estuviera tan avanzada, que impidiese la conservación. Y aun así mis terrores mortales no hacían caso de razón alguna, no aceptaban ningún consuelo. Empecé con una serie de complejas precauciones. Entre otras, mandé remodelar la cripta familiar de forma que se pudiera abrir fácilmente desde dentro. A la más débil presión sobre una larga palanca que se extendía hasta muy dentro de la cripta, se abrirían rápidamente los portones de hierro. También estaba prevista la entrada libre de aire y de luz, y adecuados recipientes con alimentos y agua, al alcance del ataúd preparado para recibirme. Este ataúd estaba acolchado con un material suave y cálido y dotado de una tapa elaborada según el principio de la puerta de la cripta, incluyendo resortes ideados de forma que el más débil movimiento del cuerpo sería suficiente para que se soltara. Aparte de esto, del techo de la tumba colgaba una gran campana, cuya soga pasaría (estaba previsto) por un agujero en el ataúd y estaría atada a una mano del cadáver. Pero, ¡ay!, ¿de qué sirve la precaución contra el destino del hombre? ¡Ni siquiera estas bien urdidas seguridades bastaban para librar de las angustias más extremas de la inhumación en vida a un infeliz destinado a ellas!

Llegó una época -como me había ocurrido antes a menudo- en que me encontré emergiendo de un estado de total inconsciencia a la primera sensación débil e indefinida de la existencia. Lentamente, con paso de tortuga, se acercaba el pálido amanecer gris del día psíquico. Un desasosiego aletargado. Una sensación apática de sordo dolor. Ninguna preocupación, ninguna esperanza, ningún esfuerzo. Entonces, después de un largo intervalo, un zumbido en los oídos. Luego, tras un lapso de tiempo más largo, una sensación de hormigueo o comezón en las extremidades; después, un período aparentemente eterno de placentera quietud, durante el cual las sensaciones que se despiertan luchan por transformarse en pensamientos; más tarde, otra corta zambullida en la nada; luego, un súbito restablecimiento. Al fin, el ligero estremecerse de un párpado; e inmediatamente después, un choque eléctrico de terror, mortal e indefinido, que envía la sangre a torrentes desde las sienes al corazón. Y entonces, el primer esfuerzo por pensar. Y entonces, el primer intento de recordar. Y entonces, un éxito parcial y evanescente. Y entonces, la memoria ha recobrado tanto su dominio, que, en cierta medida, tengo conciencia de mi estado. Siento que no me estoy despertando de un sueño corriente. Recuerdo que he sufrido de catalepsia. Y entonces, por fin, como si fuera la embestida de un océano, el único peligro horrendo, la única idea espectral y siempre presente abruma mi espíritu estremecido.

Unos minutos después de que esta fantasía se apoderase de mí, me quedé inmóvil. Why? No podía reunir valor para moverme. No me atrevía a hacer el esfuerzo que desvelara mi destino, sin embargo algo en mi corazón me susurraba que era seguro. La desesperación -tal como ninguna otra clase de desdicha produce-, sólo la desesperación me empujó, después de una profunda duda, a abrir mis pesados párpados. Los levanté. Estaba oscuro, todo oscuro. Sabía que el ataque había terminado. Sabía que la situación crítica de mi trastorno había pasado. Sabía que había recuperado el uso de mis facultades visuales, y, sin embargo, todo estaba oscuro, oscuro, con la intensa y absoluta falta de luz de la noche que dura para siempre.

Intenté gritar, y mis labios y mi lengua reseca se movieron convulsivamente, pero ninguna voz salió de los cavernosos pulmones, que, oprimidos como por el peso de una montaña, jadeaban y palpitaban con el corazón en cada inspiración laboriosa y difícil. El movimiento de las mandíbulas, en el esfuerzo por gritar, me mostró que estaban atadas, como se hace con los muertos. Sentí también que yacía sobre una materia dura, y algo parecido me apretaba los costados. Hasta entonces no me había atrevido a mover ningún miembro, pero al fin levanté con violencia mis brazos, que estaban estirados, con las muñecas cruzadas. Chocaron con una materia sólida, que se extendía sobre mi cuerpo a no más de seis pulgadas de mi cara. Ya no dudaba de que reposara al fin dentro de un ataúd.

Y entonces, en medio de toda mi infinita desdicha, vino dulcemente la esperanza, como un querubín, pues pensé en mis precauciones. Me retorcí e hice espasmódicos esfuerzos para abrir la tapa: no se movía. Me toqué las muñecas buscando la soga: no la encontré. Y entonces mi consuelo huyó para siempre, y una desesperación aún más inflexible reinó triunfante pues no pude evitar percatarme de la ausencia de las almohadillas que había preparado con tanto cuidado, y entonces llegó de repente a mis narices el fuerte y peculiar olor de la tierra húmeda. La conclusión era irresistible. No estaba en la cripta. Había caído en trance lejos de casa, entre desconocidos, no podía recordar cuándo y cómo, y ellos me habían enterrado como a un perro, metido en algún ataúd común, cerrado con clavos, y arrojado bajo tierra, bajo tierra y para siempre, en alguna tumba común y anónima.

Cuando este horrible convencimiento se abrió paso con fuerza hasta lo más íntimo de mi alma, luché una vez más por gritar. Y este segundo intento tuvo éxito. Un largo, salvaje y continuo grito o alarido de agonía resonó en los recintos de la noche subterránea.

-Oye, oye, ¿qué es eso? -dijo una áspera voz, como respuesta.

- What the hell happens now? Said a second ..

- Out of here! Said a third.

- Why thus howls like a wild cat? Said a fourth.

And then a rough-looking individuals I was seized and shaken without any consideration. I awoke from the dream, for I was wide awake when I screamed, but they refunded the full possession of my memory.

This adventure occurred near Richmond, Virginia. Accompanied by a friend, had fallen on a hunting expedition, a few miles along the banks of the James River. Night approached, we were overtaken by a storm. The cabin of a small boat anchored in the stream, and laden with garden offered the only shelter available. We made ​​the best of it and spent the night on board. I slept in one of two berths, no need to describe the berths of a sloop of sixty or seventy tons. The one I occupied had no bedding. Having a width of eighteen inches. The distance between the bottom and the cover was exactly the same. I found it very difficult to get into it. However, I slept soundly, and my vision-it was neither a dream nor a nightmare-arose naturally from the circumstances of my position, in the usual trend of my thoughts, and the difficulty, already mentioned, to concentrate my senses and especially of regaining my memory for a long time after waking. The men who shook me were the crew of the sloop and some laborers engaged to unload it. Of the same charge came the earthy smell. The band around the jaws was a silk handkerchief which I had bound up my head, in the absence of a nightcap.

The tortures endured, however, were undoubtedly at that time equal to those of actual sepulture. It was an inconceivable horror, incredibly frightening, but evil comes good, for their very excess wrought in my spirit an inevitable reaction. My soul took tempering effect. I went outside. I exercise hard. I breathed fresh air. I thought about more things than death. I left my medical texts. I burned the book of Buchan. I read no thoughts at night, no fustian about churchyards no bugaboo tales like this. In no time I became a new man and lived a life of man. Since that memorable night I dismissed forever my charnel apprehensions, and with them vanished the cataleptic ailments, which may be less consequence than the cause. There are moments when, even to the sober eye of reason, the world of our sad Humanity may seem like hell, but the imagination of man is not Carpathians to explore with impunity its every cavern. Alas, the grim legion of sepulchral terrors can not be regarded as entirely imaginary, but the demons in whose company Afrasiab made ​​his voyage down the Oxus, have to sleep or eat us ... must be allowed to sleep, or perish .

MAN'S BEST FRIEND

Mariana Duhalde

Sandro is a furry animal oddity, its future owner, Miriam, too, not because it is hairy but she also is a rarity. But the way these two people as individuals are in the world of the impossible, undermines all odds and statistics possible. Our little friend, it is quite a normal puppy, ordinary, except for one tiny detail that few can pass up. It serves as a guardian, so if one looks a fearsome bark to discourage any undesirable predator, you better not have Sandro, who sleep soundly until the danger passes. As a pet, leaves much to be desired as it does not respond as expected to cuddling and ear scratching. It's almost as if acariciáramos a cushion. If on the other hand, we want a show dog, a proud animal well-scented and shiny coat, to take a walk and strut to the neighbors, forget it. It will not work. Try putting his brush belt, and perhaps more successful. But if we settle for some company, Sandro will not disappoint us and will always be at our feet, without having to bribe him with delicious dog biscuits. And that is precisely what Miriam seeks, not knowing that what you will find more. That little detail that makes so many give up, is the ace that Sandro has up his sleeve.

Miriam seems to be more of the many typical teens of the new modern world, but certainly is not. Suffers and enjoys, represses and exploits, packed and unpacked in seconds, and search and retrieval but not always find. Her youth makes her living all a mile a minute, without pause or rest, although unique way. Why so singular? Because if too angry with their parents or siblings, for example, instead of giving a loud slam of film is limited only to fall to the floor collapsed, literally. And in the most graceful and unusual situation, knees and seems to betray him to pass out with laughter.

His life is not easy, but somehow or another, so it is for everyone without exception. Struggles to find an identity that does not resemble any, struggles to belong without losing its very essence, being cool or at least seem so, fight for your condition does not limit or condition the way others see her. And I never lost hope. He laughs at itself, mocking their flaws their theatrical parody falls, turning what could be tragedy into comedy. So when you go to Sandro, frantically excited that his touch collapses without notice, need not know anything else. It is a meeting point, as in mathematics when two lines intersect. It has to be yours and nobody else, no doubt.

Miriam looks at who will be your dog and go beyond it. He understands, and because they can see what so many discarded. She and he are unique among such monotony imposed. You do not need anything else. The woman who serves, tries to explain that it may not be the best choice because unfortunately the dog ... But Miriam interrupts. Just what you want, and with great determination, pick him up before the incredulous eyes of the woman, and whispers something in his ear, because she knows she can hear. Finish the corresponding paperwork, prepare your bike and put the puppy, which is starting to come out of his reverie on the basket, calmly and without haste.

The fresh air of the morning is good for them both, the comfort, the active. Miriam looks at Sandro, and gives him a small smile, very controlled to prevent the puppy excited, because they both know well what can happen next. Knowingly, Sandro looks, but does not move the tail looks only.

Miriam thinks of how many planets and moons must have aligned to make this meeting possible, though not believe in horoscopes and astrology. Think about what your father say when he hears everything and prepared a speech to beat strong and accurate, but NOT know a Dad never last long.

Sandro, the name you chose for your friend, lives up to his mother, a fan of gypsy heartbreaker. He knows that when his mother heard him, the puppy will love automatically. All covered. Best impossible.

Y pensar que hubo quien le dijo que antes que un perro, mejor sería que eligiera un gato, porque es bien sabido que no hay criatura a la que le guste más retozar 23 horas al día. Pero para dormir a cualquier hora, ella no necesita compañía. Miriam no necesita eso, un minino está bien para algunos pero lo que ella quiere es un perro, un animal cariñoso y leal, eso es lo que ella quiere. Que te siga al fin del mundo, en las buenas y en las malas, que se emocione con el ruido de tus pasos en la puerta, que te mire sin reproches y sin exigencias. Y ya lo tiene.

El detalle, ese raro detalle que los hace tan especiales a ambos, no es traba alguna. Cataplexia o no cataplexia, serán inseparables y felices, sin importar lo que nadie diga. Porque cuando Miriam se ría a carcajadas de alguna pavada y sienta que sus músculos la traicionan y la dejan caer, sabrá que el cálido hocico de Sandro la traerá de vuelta suavemente. Y cuando estén de paseo en alguna encantadora plaza de barrio, y Sandro se emocione tanto al ver a otro perro, tanto que su cuerpo le falle, Miriam le palmeará el lomo, lo tomará en sus brazos y le susurrará una vez más al oído esas palabras secretas que sólo ellos conocen: “ ya no estás sólo”.

©2009, Mariana Duhalde