Editor
Michele
Fete Lifestyle Magazine
Fete Lifestyle Magazine
Michele Lomax
Editor
FLM
HappyFallr
Fete Lifestyle Magazine
FLM
FLM
That night and the whole next day, the pain ebbed and pulsed until it reached a crescendo on the third day. I vomited all morning before admitting defeat and called my doctor. I listed my symptoms via a video visit, and she tilted her head concernedly. Go to the emergency room, she said. Go now.
A few hours later, I was in a bustling ER with 20 other masked to-be-patients, trying both to avoid them and the overly cool air conditioning vents spewing out frigid plumes from the ceiling. My blood was taken, I finished the NYT Bee Puzzle (genius!), and eventually, I was escorted to a bright room where I changed into a blue gown and sat on the bed.
I lay back and closed my eyes, trying to meditate and focus on anything else but the ache in my head. I could hear the buzz of monitors, the tick of a clock, the scuffling of people hurrying outside in the hall. The intercom paged a doctor to room 219, someone spoke Spanish and sounded annoyed to someone else who answered in equally annoyed English. A nurse named Erick came in and told me my blood work was ‘boring in the best way.’ He asked me about my stress level since my blood pressure seemed ‘kind of high.’
Level of stress? What does that even mean anymore? I mean, if your level of stress isn’t at 11, are you even paying attention?
Uh, my stress level is uh, pretty high, I guess, I said. Pretty high, sure. This seemed to be an obvious statement in a time of a global pandemic crossed with back to school plus international pain and suffering that seemed too tragic to ignore and too far away to do much about.
He exited, and another nurse returned with an IV she said would help with my nausea and hopefully reduce my headache. She expertly jabbed a vein in my left arm, and the bag began to drip. I closed my eyes again, feeling my heart pulse in the finger monitor that I’d just noticed.
I must have fallen asleep because I opened my eyes and saw a man in blue scrubs facing the screen with my vitals. He introduced himself as the attending physician, again pronounced my blood work boring, and suggested that, while I was here, they should do a CAT scan. Just to be sure.
The CAT scan was not awful, and soon I was back in the room ruminating and waiting for the results.
This is how those sad novels start, I thought. I hate those tragic novels, and I was certainly not ready to be the main character in one. I thought about my husband and our sons, my mother and sisters, and brother and friends. The places we haven’t seen. The book I haven’t written.
The Book.
Since I was a child, I’ve always planned to write The Book.
School and work and 50 years of life have gone by somehow, and I’ve traveled and loved and lost and become a mother and still, no Book. Of all the things I haven’t done, The Book looms large.
I bargained with the universe in a fit of magical thinking: If this is all fine, I will write The Book. I will fix my head, and I will finally do it.
The doctor came into the room and declared anticlimactically that there didn’t seem to be any issues with the CAT scan. Having found nothing, he prescribed pain medicine, vaguely suggested I see a neurologist and sent me on my way.
And I’m left with keeping my half of the bargain. I put it out there to the universe, and now it’s out there for you, too.
The Book.
Fast forward to a few weeks later, and I’m working on the headaches with a chiropractor and acupuncturist, and my GP. I’m also keeping up with the deal I struck. I sat down at my computer and opened a blank document, and began typing.
THE BOOK, I wrote and saved the file. And like the next chapter of my life, we’ll see what happens next.