Jenny wanted to know everything. She was reserved at first -- looking up like an expectant father when I came back into the waiting area -- and only asking me about how I was feeling and how things “had gone” as she walked me down the long hallways and out of the clinic. By the time we were back in the car, however, her intense need to know and control could be held back no longer. Even as she was backing our vehicle out of its parking space, the interrogation began.
Which doctor did I see? What did he say? What did I tell him? What did he think was wrong? Did he prescribe me anything? What was it? How often and how long was I to take it? What did it do and how did it work? When was I supposed to go back? How was I feeling? What did I think?
I only answered a handful of her questions and none of them to her satisfaction. I told her about the two medications Blair had prescribed -- one for the migraines and one for anxiety -- and as soon as the word anxiety slipped out of my mouth I immediately regretted it.
“Anxiety?” Jenny said, sounding legitimately surprised. “Why did he prescribe you something for anxiety?”
Yeah. What did I have to be anxious about? I closed my eyes and rested my head on the car window. “I don’t know, Jenny. I guess he thought it would help with the migraines.”
She continued to needle me but I did my best to tune her out after that. If this was how she was going to react to the anxiety medication there was no way I was going to tell her about the counseling referral. I had already made sure to stash that piece of paper in a separate pocket from the other two so there’d be no chance of some accidental mixup. We went to the pharmacy and I waited in the car while she filled the prescriptions. The business day was over and the office was closed so I decided not to check my messages, knowing that as soon as we got home I was going to pop my two pills and then go back to bed. In all the universe, there wasn’t anything I wanted more.
It was full dark when I awoke again, and at first I didn’t even know where I was. And I felt strange -- nauseous but not nauseous, dizzy but not dizzy, sick but not sick. In a way I felt like I was floating, but not peacefully on air. If this was floating, then I was floating in a vat of pudding full of needles.
I looked over at the clock, and could just make out the time through the two pill bottles that had been left on the dresser in front of it. 2:17 AM. Jenny was asleep next to me and our ceiling fan swirled on its lowest setting above me.
Dear, Christ. What had I done?
That question seemed to comprise my entire painful universe. It was unfocused and overwhelming; not just one fear but thousands, all crowding in on me like gleeful demons, eager to drag their latest foolish supplicant to hell.
I fumbled with the wet sheet covering me and fell out of bed. I had tried to stand, but neither my legs nor my inner ears were along for that ride and I found myself quickly sprawled out on the area rug that dominated the open floor space of our small bedroom. I remember smelling the carpet fibers -- a strange combination of mothballs and long-forgotten grime -- and believing for a moment that I was paralyzed, that the toxic cocktail Blair had given me had short-circuited my nervous system. I tried to swallow and started coughing, dry-in-the-chest but wet-in-the-mouth spasms that momentarily replaced my consciousness.
“Alan?”
It was Jenny, dragged out of sleep by the sounds of my nocturnal terror.
“Oh, my God! Alan!”
In a moment she was over me, her face hovering down near mine, cooing at me, hushing me, telling me everything was going to be all right.
I tried to get up, but couldn’t, collapsing back down into the useless pile I had become. “I’m going to be sick,” I managed to say between coughs. My head was pounding -- like the migraine I had experienced earlier had been but a prelude.
“Not here!” Jenny practically shouted. “Oh, God, Alan! Not here!”
There was nothing worse in Jenny’s universe than vomit deposited anywhere other than a toilet. The stinking rug offending my nostrils, I knew, could be easily replaced. We had picked it up on sale at a home goods store for $39.99, and even when I wasn’t face down on it, I hated it. It would have been a pleasure to vomit on it, to show it who was boss, but Jenny, I knew, would absolutely lose her damn mind.
With great effort, I pushed myself up and shakily started crawling towards the bathroom. A wave of dizziness almost overwhelmed me, but it lessened when I closed my eyes.
“Alan! What are you doing! Are you all right?”
I had no ability to answer her, single-mindedly focused as I was on my movements and destination. The needle-laden pudding was still there, and I was pushing my way through it, my extremities stinging and tingling as if they had all fallen asleep and were coming back to life at the same time. Shakily, unsteadily, I started making slow progress.
“Mommy?”
It was Jacob. We had evidently woken him up, and he was standing in our bedroom doorway. From my position I could only see his stocky legs, his bare feet, and the tail end of the blanket he must’ve been holding. He was effectively blocking my path.
“Move!” I said, my voice begging more than ordering.
“Jacob!” Jenny shouted, much more sternly. “Let your father through!”
A kind of impasse followed, one I didn’t have the energy to sustain. In the small confines of our bedroom, Jenny was behind me and had no way of getting to Jacob, and Jacob, evidently, was either too frightened or too stubborn to move. In short order, my arms gave out on me, and I was back down on the floor, my face, fortunately, past the limits of the rug and now resting against the section of dusty hardwood floor right before the entryway.
“Fuck it,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else. “I’ll just die here.”
In the roaring silence that followed, nothing else seemed to matter. When I started vomiting, I barely heard the screaming commotion that surrounded 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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