Short Story Press Presents Unable To Breathe

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  1. The Story of an Hour
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The Story of an Hour

It is unusual for MS to affect the autonomic nervous system, and therefore uncommon for breathing problems to occur in MS as a direct result of loss of autonomic control. If breathing problems occur suddenly, it is imperative to see a healthcare provider immediately or go to the emergency room since this may indicate infection or some other problem.

In MS, the most common cause of respiratory problems is loss of muscle strength and endurance. Just as a person can experience muscle weakness in the arms or legs, weakness can occur in the ventilatory muscles of the chest and abdomen that are involved in breathing. And like weakness in the other parts of the body, weakness of the ventilatory muscles can begin to occur early in the disease course and gradually worsen over time. People with weakened ventilatory muscles have to work harder to inhale and exhale.

This extra effort can be quite tiring, particularly for people who already experience a significant amount of MS fatigue. Respiratory problems can also interfere with the process of speech and voice production — making it much more difficult and tiring for people to carry on a conversation or speak loudly enough to be heard.

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Blind Love Jan Love Under the Mistletoe Jan Get it by Saturday, Jul Blind Love 2 Oct Fronting the cold Atlantic, it proposes a symbiosis especially extraordinary given the long antagonism between man and water. And Dutchmen have navigated from their shores throughout the world, a migrancy of commerce, art and industry. Travel by ship is a signature of transatlantic migration but signals also the lacunae between departure and arrival.

The ocean was, before the advent of instant communication, a version of chasm, a gap or suspension, and in terms of relocation, an interruption separating theory and practice. Crossing became an opportunity to anticipate discovery and to recite memory. It stretched between the two ports as navigational thread, a thin membrane linking expectancy and loss. This voyage is mythic, disquieting, replete with the combined terror and anticipation of those who would gamble on a fresh beginning, those in the process of inventing for themselves a new narrative. The aperture of the journey effects a hiatus that enables the migrant to figure a surrogate identity, to dream an alternate outcome to the life left behind.

It is that moment of hesitation between abandonment and becoming, between leave-taking and entrance. The space of the journey then becomes a metaphor for hope and anticipation, but in fact rehearses a hugely truant ignorance. Migrants seldom know what they are going to encounter. They know what they have left, but they cannot anticipate what they will be faced with at the farther linkage of the expedition.

The thorough research behind the Encyclopedia Titanica meticulously identifies the places of origin of those passengers: Poles and Croatians, Finns and Lebanese, Bulgarians and Swedes and Belgians. We can easily imagine, in the shell of that great vessel, an extraordinary Babel, itself a transatlantic confabulation rich with ambiguity.

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And over that crucible hung the dreaming cosmology of migration, with its eager dispersion, its anticipatory pigment. In fact, I resist the story, over-told and obvious and even sentimental, and I found the James Cameron movie—in the romantic-disaster genre—almost revolting. If exile presumes an initial home and the eventual promise of a return, the questions met with en route consistently breach the boundaries of such an itinerary. The possibilities of continuing to identify with such premises weaken and fall away. And an interrupted journey, a drowned journey, an epically punctuated journey, where hundreds drown, becomes even more suggestive and symbolic.

The threnody behind all transatlantic narrative is grief, an ineffable grief that rides between the interstitial fissures of passage. My parents, with my elder siblings, packed their belongings into a massive kist, said goodbye to their families, and took the train from their village of Wierden, Overijssel, to Le Havre.

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I know very little about this pivotal moment because I was neither conceived nor born, although of course I inherited the vision of their decision to immigrate to Canada, and I am haunted by the mythology of their choosing to leave and to arrive elsewhere, my contribution to the master narrative of migration. One family photograph documents a farewell gathering, aunts and cousins crowded around my parents, who are dressed in travelling clothes, tailored suits.

My older siblings stand between adult legs, young and dandelion-headed. Years later one of my cousins told me about seeing my grandfather that day, behind the shed, leaning into its wooden wall and sobbing, convinced that he would never see my father again. But nothing would stop my parents.

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In Le Havre they boarded the SS Samaria, a vessel in the Cunard line, a single funnel, oil turbine driven, twin-screw ship that pretended to offer luxury, but on a smaller scale than the grand three and four funnel liners of the prewar era. The Samaria had been built as a passenger ship in the s, converted to a troop ship during World War II and returned to service as a passenger ship after the war. She had opinions about that ship, although she saw very little of it.

The moment that France disappeared below the horizon she was violently seasick and passed the crossing miserable and nauseous. The doctor, when called, diagnosed her with exactly that malaise and promised her that the moment she sighted land at the other end of the voyage, she would feel fine. His prediction proved to be true. When she saw the rocky coast of Canada, she was cured, although never of the memory.

My father, on the other hand, loved being at sea and roamed the ship from end to end. It was perhaps his last and only real holiday, although with my mother so ill he had to mind three small children over what must have seemed a long five days.

The Samaria was broken up in , so there is no rusting hulk or historical shell to attend to, no memorializing of that solid and trustworthy tub. That uncomfortable revelation is the crux of modernity and the drowning of all Edwardian notions of privacy, physically enacted by the transatlantic crossing and its repeated performance. That the calamity occurs mid-ocean, between embarkation and destination, makes that protean space even more usefully conceptual.

When the ultimate transatlantic voyage becomes a transatlantic drowning, the loss of imagined hope, any fleeting brush with love, and the terrible burden of survival all conspire to serve an overwhelming analogy. Its historically factual dimension and its private sorrow and loss are now covered with layers of interpretation and exposition, multiple re-visitings that make of the Titanic an endlessly malleable site, able to take on almost every kind of colour and for that reason relentless public.

The light on the Canadian prairies is relentless, so brilliant and intense that we who live there catch ourselves squinting perpetually, a constant almost-frown that creases the forehead and crinkles the eyes. The rain seldom brings a grey overcast but falls through a gauze of sunlight, virtually absorbed before it comes to ground.

Darkness is never completely absolute. Even in the thick of winter, with the temperature hovering at death-like degrees, an incandescent scintillation stains the horizon. It is light that enables our prairie hybridity, that makes us hyphenated Canadians feel that we belong. A translational urgency sets in motion the transatlantic pilgrimage and its subsequent story, the voyage from the side of desire and expectation to experience.

We invent the visions and traditions that invented us, and when we are confronted with this destination and its implacable demands, we invent too our refuge. These memories that might have belonged to us become ours by virtue of our practice of their presence, our holding them close when we need comforting, despite their inability to offer comfort.

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Knowing what makes her grandmother sleepwalk, and knowing that she roams the lost Titanic in her sleep makes the granddaughter both accessory and audience. In fact, she accompanies the grandmother on her transatlantic sailing, by her connection becoming hyphen to the dreamed and re-lived experience. Every now and then she would rise up from her bed and roam the Titanic that existed in her head. Through shallow pools of moonlight and spilling shadows she mimed the climbing of stairways and gawking at the dome.

She moved from third to second and first-class, into smoking rooms and gymnasiums, and sought out the young man or waited on the deck. She paused at the entrance to the Turkish Bath, precluded even in dreaming, and continued on, with dreamy slowness, through each and every spectral and memorised level. Jones , The deliberate marking of the hyphen is a translational gesture, the hyphen, which serves to break words into parts or to join separate words, a migrant sign. This reprise of the earlier ordeal and its resolution becomes then the connective hyphen between past and present, the transatlantic division that the grandmother cannot forget.