Got nothing got nothing got nothing. This once a week routine is not a routine. I’m out of practice on so many things and my back hurts.
I’m reading Invisible: How Young Women with Serious Health Issues Navigate Work, Relationships, and the Pressure to Seem Just Fine by Michele Lent Hirsch. The subtitle describes the content.
It’s kinda making me emotional. I’m re-navigating, re-immersing in a time long ago when I was ‘sick’. I catch up on that word. Up until the time “I got sick” getting sick meant a runny nose and a cough or a fever or vomiting because of a virus.
I shy away from the phrase ‘health issues’. I hate ‘issues’. I hate that word. Issues.
I linger over checking the box “do you have any medical conditions that would prevent you from…” I don’t check it. Nothing prevents me from anything, nothing but my own fears and a quiet worry that I am a bit more fragile than the person next to me.
I would like to put it down, those sad and haunting memories, those daydreams and nightmares of death at age 23.
I remember being in the hospital at night. Visiting hours were over. I was in my room alone, listening to women moan in their beds. I watched a few movies and the night went on.
I buzzed the nurse’s station. A nurse came in. I think she was nice. I think.
“I can’t sleep,” I said. I was afraid to sleep and wanted to sleep. I was afraid to try to sleep. I was afraid to turn off the television. I was afraid of having no company but my thoughts.
The nurse returned with a dark red pill the shape of a hexagon and placed it in the palm of my hand. I don’t remember anything else of the night. I slept. I didn’t die.