I tried to focus on my work. In times past, work was always a kind of refuge for me. A thing I could do where progress could always be made. Even if it was nothing more than entering numbers in a spreadsheet, editing an article for our newsletter, or sending out a batch of emails and tracking the responses that came back -- they were all definable and executable tasks, boxes to check, steps to advance, goals to achieve.
But now there were so many things on my plate that there was no real refuge to be found. I kept a document on my computer desktop that served as my on-going “To Do” list, and as I opened it that morning I remember it spanning more than four pages of single-spaced 12-point type. Some of it was organized by project category, but much of it wasn’t. A whole extra page had just been added, representing the immediate tasks that Gerald had left behind, unceremoniously given to me in the same manner I had inherited items from Michael, and before that from Susan.
It seemed like the first thing I should do was go through Gerald’s list and try to organize it and then prioritize it, line it up by project against the projects I already had and try to decide how to cadence them all in a way that the most pressing things got done first. But that seemed overwhelming to me, so I picked something simple off my existing list and began tackling that, far preferring to get something, anything checked off rather than try to comprehend the totality of the challenge I was facing.
As I worked, keystrokes and mouse clicks the only sound emanating from my workspace, I kept noticing a kind of glitch on my monitor. There was a little fuzzy patch on the screen. Any set of characters that tried to penetrate it got smudged beyond recognition. But the phenomenon was fleeting in a strange kind of way. When I tried to focus my attention on it, it seemed to slide off to the side, but still there, wiggling and wavering in my peripheral vision.
I looked up and away from the monitor, and realized it wasn’t a computer malfunction at all. Staring up into empty space, it was still there, stuck against my blank office wall. And, frighteningly, when I closed my eyes, it was even still there, seemingly projected against the dark insides of my eyelids. Worse, it seemed to be getting bigger, now curving down into a tremendous crescent that obscured fully a fourth of my optical field.
What the fuck? Was I having a stroke? A brain aneurysm?
I got up from my desk, and had to steady myself. I was dizzy and I had a headache. I left my office and began making my way down the hall, trailing my hand along one wall to keep myself on course and eventually made it to the office restrooms, glad that one of the single, unisex rooms was unoccupied. Not knowing who might have seen my awkward journey nor what they might have thought about it, I closed and locked the door behind me and made my clumsy way over to the mirror.
I tried to look at myself, tried to look into my own eye, convinced that there would be the bright red splotch of broken blood vessels there, but the visual distortion was now so great that I couldn’t see anything clearly. I was dizzier than ever, and I fumbled and stumbled my way over to the toilet and sat down on its lowered seat.
I closed my eyes and leaned my head as gently as I could against the cold tile wall next to the toilet. I still had no idea what was happening to me, but was now too disoriented and experiencing too much nausea to seriously contemplate any wild speculations. The shimmery waves of light and shadow continued to pulse and surge in the darkness of my tortured solitude, and I began to lose all sense of my body in space. Was I sitting upright? Was I laying down? Was I spinning helplessly through yawning space? I couldn’t really tell, but I was suspecting more and more that it was the latter.
An intense way of nausea hit me and nearly vomited. Without opening my eyes -- it was too bright and painful to even open them a crack -- I slid myself down onto the floor between the wall and the toilet, pushed the seat up, and hung my head into the bowl. Without willing it, I started to retch -- once, twice, three times, each heave causing bright bursts of pain in my throat, in my neck, at my temples, and across the top of my head, but nothing but flimsy strands of mucus came up and into my mouth. When the retching was finished, I tried spitting them into the toilet bowl, but left most of the expulsion hanging off my chin and bottom lip.
I was dying. I had never experienced anything like this before, had no idea what it was, and found myself reasonably convinced that I was dying. The unisex bathroom was going to be my final resting place. Eventually, someone would have to break down the door and cart my mortal remains away.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. “Hello?” an unrecognizable voice said. “Is somebody in there?”
“I’ll be out in a minute!” I heard my own voice respond, exactly as if things were normal, as if it was simply the custodian, checking to see that the room was unoccupied before coming in to clean it.
I didn’t bother listening for the person -- whoever it was -- to knock or speak again. I didn’t even want to think about the fact that I was at the office, and that at some point, assuming I didn’t actually die, I would have to go back out there and face a group of mostly strangers and antagonists with my own overwhelming and undisclosed weakness. I suddenly had a vision of myself laying prostrate in front of Mary, fluids leaking from my orifices, begging her to help me, for the love of God, to call an ambulance.
Fuck that. I remembered the cell phone in my pocket. I wasn’t able to do anything with it, but I remembered it was there. If I should start to feel better, I realized, I might be able to pull it out of my pocket, call Jenny, and ask her to come get me. But how would she get me? She couldn’t come here and carry me out. I’d have to find a way to crawl downstairs without anyone seeing me. Crawl down to the parking garage and get in her car. I could do that. Couldn’t I?
All this thinking was making things worse. I dry heaved again, and then rested my head on the lip of the toilet bowl. Willing my worrying brain to be silent, and focusing only on pulsing flashes that continued unabated on the inside of my eyelids, I zoned out, marking neither the passage of time nor my chances for a positive outcome.
Slowly, imperceptibly, the symptoms began to abate. At some point, I was able to open my eyes a bit, and could actually make out objects in the center of my vision and at the appropriate focal length. Experimentally, I lifted my head up and leaned myself back against the bathroom wall. I looked at my watch, trying to get a sense of how much time had passed, but since I didn’t mark the time I came in, it was difficult to come up with a precise estimate. Twenty minutes maybe? Surely no more than a half hour.
Now I did fish my phone out of my pants pocket. Flipping it open and squinting at it with one partially-opened eye, I pushed the necessary buttons to make my home phone ring. I placed it against my ear and waited patiently for Jenny to answer.
After four rings, our home answering machine picked up. I hung up on my end, and made the difficult dialing maneuver again. I got four more rings, and then the click of the answering machine picking up again.
Okay. Fine. I’m going to have to do this myself, then. I can do it. At least I think I can.
I did not move for at least ten more minutes. By that time I could hold both eyes partially open, and felt strong enough to push myself back up to my feet. This I shortly accomplished, and weakly made my way over to the sink. I splashed some water on my face. I dried my hands on some paper towels. I straightened my shirt as best I could.
Here goes.
I had only one objective in mind. Make it back to my office. Once there, I would re-evaluate my next step. Thinking too far ahead felt paralyzing. It was simpler, and somehow more achievable, if I only attempted one thing at a time.
Slowly, I opened the bathroom door. The light was even brighter outside and at first I had to shrink away from it. But I pushed myself forward. Thankfully, there was no one in the short corridor immediately outside the restrooms, and I used that space to carefully regulate my gait so that I could make it down the major thoroughfare without attracting any attention.
Or so I thought.
“Alan?” It was Ruthie. I was having trouble holding my head up, but I recognized the blouse and flouncy skirt. “Alan, are you all right?”
“No,” I said, seeing no reason to lie, and no reason to stop my forward progress. “No, I’m not feeling well. I’m going home.”
She reversed direction and began walking beside me. I felt her grip on my arm as I stumbled into the wall and stopped. Goddammit, the lights were just too bright out here. When I cracked my eyes open even a little, it felt like lightning shooting into my brain. Another wave of dizziness overcame me, and, like a marionette with its strings cut, I crumpled to the floor.
“Alan!” I heard Ruthie say, but I did my best to block her out, too. Even the sound of her voice hurt, and it felt like the only way to respond was to try and crawl inside my own navel. In my misery, I was no longer worried that I was going to die. More than anything else, I pathetically hoped that someone would kill me.
+ + +
“Dragons” is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. For more information, go here.
This post first appeared on Eric Lanke's blog, an association executive and author. You can follow him on Twitter @ericlanke or contact him at eric.lanke@gmail.com.
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