Dragons - Chapter 82 (DRAFT)

The next few hours were a blur. Ruthie must have helped me to my feet. She must’ve helped me back to my office. Offered to call someone: my wife, my doctor, 911, an undertaker -- someone. I must’ve chosen Jenny and this time Ruthie must’ve reached her. At some point Jenny appeared at my door and helped me out of my office, down the gauntlet of the office hallway, into the elevator, down into the parking garage, into her car, out onto the road.

She spoke to me, she must have; she was always speaking to me -- but I must not have answered her. I can remember sitting in the car, leaning pathetically against the window with my coat draped over my head, wanting to die. She must’ve gotten me home and out of the car and upstairs to our bedroom, where she must have helped me get under the bed covers with a tent of pillows over my head, turning off all the lights, lowering the shades, and closing the door.

All these things must have happened because that’s how I found myself a few hours later when I began to swim back to consciousness. Had I slept? I didn’t think so, but it was hard to know. Everything had hurt so bad, my head, the light, my eyes -- I had just curled myself up into a ball and had blocked everything else out.

Now I was feeling somewhat better. I sat up, surprised to find myself still in my work clothes, with my shoes flopped over and on top of each other on the floor. I swung my stocking feet out and sat precariously on the edge of the bed. With a croaking voice, I called out for Jenny.

The bedroom door opened slowly and my wife poked her head into the room.

“Yes?”

“What happened?”

She opened the door fully and stepped into the room. “You had a migraine. Are you feeling better?”

A migraine? Why did that sound familiar?

“Not really,” I said, realizing that there was an emptiness in my belly, but the thought of food was still making me nauseous. “Are you sure? I felt like I was dying.”

“Pretty sure,” she said, coming over and sitting gingerly next to me on the bed. “Both the Internet and the triage nurse agree, based on your symptoms.”

“What’s a triage nurse?” I knew what the Internet was.

“At the clinic,” she said, placing a hand on my back and giving me a gentle rub. “You have an appointment there this afternoon, if you’re feeling up to it.”

It was too much information, coming in too fast. The questions were exploding in my brain the way flashes of light previously had. I closed my eyes.

“What time is it?”

Jenny looked at the bedside clock. “One ten,” she said.

“Fuck,” I said, both believing and not believing it at the same time. “I have a call with Wes Howard at two.”

Even with my eyes closed I could sense the look that Jenny was giving me. “Can’t you reschedule it? Your doctor’s appointment is at three.”

I shook my head. “I can do both.”

Even I didn’t believe that, but there was nothing else that I could say. Like a hundred other things that had happened to me over the past several months, I was just going to have to start juggling another ball. 

“No, you can’t, Alan. You’re going to have to reschedule.”

I leaned into her heavily, and she wrapped her arm around me. “Can you do it for me?” I asked. “Maybe tomorrow afternoon? Or the day after?”

“You want me to call Wes Howard?”

“No,” I said. “The doctor’s appointment. Can’t you reschedule that?”

“Alan.”

“Please! Please, Jenny. Tomorrow, or the day after. I’m going to talk to Wes and then I’m going back to bed. I don’t think I can do anything else today.”

She started to argue with me, trying to convince me with her logic, but, as usual, it was a special kind of Jenny logic which presupposed that she was always right. Throughout our marriage, her arguments had always been presented more to persuade on that essential point, and not necessarily on the merits of any particular point of order. Mentally, I wasn’t up for the sparring match. I knew I would have to do that soon enough with Wes Howard. I gently pushed her away.

“Please. Jenny. Just go make me something small to eat. I think I can eat something small. And then I can talk to Wes. Let’s at least get that done before we attempt anything else.”

I think she would have argued with me some more but, oddly, Jacob came to my rescue, appearing at our door and also asking for something to eat. It made me wonder for the first time where he had been through my whole ordeal. Jenny didn’t bring him to the office, did she? But if she didn’t, where had he been? Jenny hadn’t left him home by himself, had she?

More questions causing more pain. I had to push them away, and gave my wife another gentle shove. Please. Jenny. Go.

Thankfully, she did, taking our son quietly with her, and I gave myself just two more minutes of dark silence, before getting shakily to my feet and getting myself positioned for my phone call at two. I looked in the corner where I usually kept my briefcase, saw that it wasn’t there, and realized that it, along with all my notes for the upcoming leadership meeting were likely back at the office -- my “To Do” list likely still open on my computer screen and my folders haphazardly stacked in the stand-up file I traditionally kept at my elbow.

I considered shouting downstairs to Jenny. Had she grabbed my briefcase and brought it or anything else home with us? But I decided against it, suspecting that shouting was something that would likely put me back in the dark hole I had just emerged from. Then I considered making my way downstairs to look for my briefcase and to ask Jenny about it, but dismissed that idea just as quickly. In my current state, I’d likely trip on the stairs and wind up breaking my neck.

For the first time I realized that the lump of my cell phone was still in my front pants pocket. I pulled it out and sat back down on the edge of the bed. I flipped it open, squinting at the light of its little screen in the dark room, and began hunting through my list of contacts. Was Wes Howard there? Had I ever called him on my cell phone before? I quickly determined that the answer to both questions was no.

I looked up and sighed. I slowly went through my options, while listening to the sounds of Jenny clunk and clatter around in the kitchen. I found a different contact, dialed the number, and pressed the phone against my ear.

“Good afternoon, Ruthie MacDonald speaking.”

“Ruthie. It’s Alan.”

“Alan! Oh my god. How are you?”

“I’m okay,” I said. “Hey, I need you to do me a favor.”

“Where are you?”

“Can you-- What?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m home. I just woke up from a long nap, and realized that I have a call with Wes Howard at two.

“Are you feeling better? Everyone here is very worried about you.”

At first I thought Ruthie was being her usual motherly self, but something about her tone when she said ‘everyone’ made me suspicious.

“Are they?”

“Yes! You gave everyone quite a scare. You looked like you were dying.”

I kept my eyes focused on the fraying laces of my overturned shoes. “I felt like I was dying. But I think I’ve slept it off, whatever it was. You can tell Mary not to worry. I’m still in the land of the living.”

There was a strange silence on the line, and I had to pull the phone away from my ear to make sure I was still connected.

“Ruthie? Are you there.”

“Yes, Alan. I’m glad you’re feeling better. What can I do for you?”

There was that strange tone again, this time on the ‘I’m’. I shook my head to dismiss it, but had to stop when even that made me dizzy.

“I need Wes’s number. I didn’t bring any of my files with me and it’s not in my phone. Can you give it to me?”

“Sure,” she said, as I listened to her fingernails clicking away on her keyboard. “Do you have something to write with?”

“Yes,” I said, holding the phone in the crook of my neck to free up the hands needed to retrieve a notepad and pen from the nightstand. “Go ahead.”

She gave me the number and I wrote it down. “Okay, thanks.” I said.

“Take care of yourself, Alan.”

“Uh huh,” I said, my mind already pivoting to the next phone call I would need to make. “You, too.”

+ + +

“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.

Image Source

http://lres.com/heres-why-amcs-need-to-pay-close-attention-to-looming-regulatory-changes/businessman-in-the-middle-of-a-labyrinth/