The Symptoms of My Insanity (28 page)

“Right behind you!”

I jump out of the way in time to avoid colliding with
another bed being wheeled past me into the room. Why do they need another bed in here? And I can’t understand what anyone’s saying. I feel like my ears are connected to a TV remote that keeps flipping through the noise in the room, letting me hear only bits and pieces of people’s sentences.

“We’re going transfer her over on ‘three’—”

“Linda, you’re doing great. I’m just going to—”

“It’s an NG tube and it might be a little uncomf—”

“This might pinch for just a sec until I—”

“When did she start on the—”

“Ninety-two, ninety-three, ninety-four percent, and now it’s at—”

Finally, Dr. Madson gestures for the three of us to follow him outside. He doesn’t take us into a private room or his office, but starts talking the minute all three of us get out into the hallway. He talks fast, but in a quiet and even tone. I try to make my remote-control ears stay on him, but I can’t seem to do it. I hear
complete obstruction
, and
fluid in lungs
, and
blocked bowels
, and
emergency surgery
, and
laparoscopy
, and
peritoneal cavity
, and
small incision
.

Now they’re wheeling Mom away. I don’t know where they’re taking her. But
emergency surgery
keeps pounding its syllables through my head. And Pam’s holding all these papers, and handing them to Allissa and me, and I need to sit down. I lean against the wall, my neck like an hourglass again dumping sand into my chest, faster and faster. Where did they take her? Are they prepping for surgery? We can’t even talk to her? There’s so much sand. I can’t breathe. I
manage to stagger over to Pam, who’s now sitting on a hallway bench with her head between her hands. She looks up at me. “It’s fine, okay? She’s going to be fine,” I hear her say distantly.

I nod, try to swallow, tell her I’m going to find a bathroom. Only it’s not me who seems to be doing this. It’s another girl who just happens to look exactly like me. I watch this girl walk down the hallway, pulling at her collar, and disappear into a single-occupancy bathroom.

When the bolt slides into the lock, my hands fly to my chest and I jolt back into myself. My heart is beating hard. Why is my heart beating so hard? Probably because I’m having a heart attack. My heart is trying to beat through the sand, faster and faster. My chest hurts so much, slicing at my insides. Oh my God, my heart is clogged, I’m having a heart attack! I clutch the sides of the sink and stare into the mirror. My eyes are unnaturally dilated. Oh my God, I’m dying! I need help! I have to get out of here! I have to go get help. No, I need to stay here. Yes, I should stay here because I’m not really dying because that’s just ridiculous.

But what if I am? A hospital is the very place people go to die. They either get better, or they die. And right now Mom is not getting better. She’s morphing. And she’s obstructed. And she’s not breathing right. And she’s having emergency surgery.

I drop the lid on the toilet and sit down. I’m blacking out, and I don’t have enough room in here to get into a good deep-breathing position. I turn myself toward the
wall and drop my forehead low against the tiles. Then I crisscross my arms as far as they’ll go behind my head and muffle my face between my elbows because I’m starting to sob.

I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, I don’t want her to die. She can’t die. I need to talk to her. I want to talk to her. I want my mom. I want to talk to my mom. I want to see my mom. And I’ve really messed everything up, and I’m one of those girls, and now it’s too late.

“Izzy!”

My head snaps up. My neck throbs. My shoulders ache. I have no idea where I am. Then I look down and see the ugly patterned carpet, and a flipbook of yesterday’s snapshots whizzes through my head. I’m back at the hospital, sitting in the waiting room, because that’s where people who don’t have heart attacks in bathrooms belong.

We were told Mom’s condition was too unstable for surgery last night, and we’d have to wait until the morning to see how she was doing. So I slept on Allissa’s dorm room futon last night since her college campus is only twenty minutes away and it didn’t make sense to drive me all the way back to Broomington. I don’t see how anyone can sleep soundly underneath a ceiling covered in glow-in-the-dark stars and a giant poster of a half-naked male model holding a puppy, even under normal circumstances.

Allissa continues to elbow me awake even though I’m fully sitting up now, my eyes wide open.

“I’m up, I’m up. What’s happening?” I ask.

“Pam’s in there, talking to Dr. Madson,” she says, gesturing down the hall, and then adding, “How do you even nap, Izzy? These chairs are so uncomfortable.”

“Well, this sweatshirt kind of doubles as a blanket,” I offer.

I’m wearing the only sweatshirt in Allissa’s closet that wasn’t too small for my chest. It belonged to one of her ex-boyfriends, who I’m guessing was a linebacker. This is the punishment I get for spilling cereal on my sole sweater: an XXXL sweatshirt with “U Got 2 Work 2 Play!” emblazoned across the front in menacing letters.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Allissa asks, staring down the hallway.

I’m about to offer a guess, when we see Pam coming toward us.

“You guys want to see her?” she asks, stopping in front of us with Dr. Madson right behind her.

“We can see her?” I bolt up.

Dr. Madson explains that although Mom had a good night, she’s still in the ICU and that they won’t be able to treat her fully until she gets her strength back, which could be another forty-eight to seventy hours.

“But then she’ll be okay?” Allissa asks, zipping her Bedazzled hoodie and standing up.

“We’ll know more in a couple days,” is all Dr. Madson says.

•   •   •

You can smell the ICU as soon as you get near it. Fear mixed with hand sanitizer. A new nurse named Anne leads Allissa
and me down a bright hallway filled with lots of tired-looking people sitting in chairs against the walls. She takes us into Mom’s room, which is really more of a windowless alcove with a bed.

Everything in here is beeping. Each long, clear tube, each metal pole, each bag filled with fluid is connected to something that is beeping, which is somehow connected to the bed, which is somewhere connected to my mom.

“Can we go over to her?” Allissa asks Anne, who’s standing next to Mom’s bed, hooking up another bag of fluid to a pole. She nods and then says, “She’s not totally with it, but I’m sure she can hear you.”

Allissa and I venture in from the doorway, slowly making our way to the edge of Mom’s bed.

I don’t know who that is, but it’s not my mom. Her eyes are crusted closed, her skin looks kind of yellow, and her hair is matted on one side. But the scariest part is her mouth. It’s all stretched out over what looks like a mini vacuum attachment. Her lips are chapped and cracking, and there’s dried blood caked in where the skin has broken.

“That’s a respirator,” Anne tells us, seeing me eyeing Mom’s mouth. “It’s just helping her breathe a little bit better so her body can rest.”

I nod, and open my eyes wide, then pinch them shut. I feel a clammy hand press into mine, and squeeze Allissa’s back.

•   •   •

I’m standing outside the medical center’s main entrance watching Marcus attempt to stop his car, only to be told that no outside cars are allowed to stop here, and that pickups are only allowed at the “pickup parking structure.”

That’s right, when I got back to the waiting room, Pam hit me with ten very unexpected words.

“Okay, so listen, Izzy. I’m sending you back to school.”

Unghh.

So Pam sent Marcus, via Cathy, to take me back to Broomington. So far, it’s been ten minutes of Marcus being yelled at by security while circling around a snow-covered island with a “No Pickup/No Delivery” sign on it. Which would be a lot more amusing if it weren’t so cold out.

He finally gets the car close enough to the curb to scream out, “Screw this, just hop in!”

“No pickups!” I hear for like the fourteenth time.

“What?” I say, pretending I don’t understand while quickly opening the door and practically rolling into the passenger seat.

“Wow, that was … intense,” Marcus says, illegally speeding off as I fasten my seat belt. “I pride myself on having an excellent sense of direction, but this place is extremely confusing. And that’s a completely asinine system they have. For you to take a shuttle to another structure when I’m already here? It defies logic.”

“Yeah,” I say.

“So, hi.” He cuts a glance at me and leans over to give me a side-hug. Or, I hope that’s what he’s doing because I lean
over and give him a side-hug back. And for a nice moment I get something other than hospital smell, Marcus’s good, fancy-soap smell.

“I like your … sweatshirt dress?” he says as I take off my coat and throw it in the backseat. l look down at my oversized sweatshirt/jeans combo, smile, and say, “Thanks.”

We drive for a while, Marcus focusing on finding his way to the highway, and me watching the snow starting to come down again. I’m a little surprised he’s by himself, actually. I had figured Jenna would come with him, seeing as the only communication I’ve had from her was Cathy saying “and Jenna sends her love” when she called to check in on what groceries I needed.

After we’ve been on the freeway for a few minutes, Marcus says, “So, you’re going back to school, but Allissa’s staying up in Pittsfield?”

“Yeah.” I’m still looking out the window. “Pam said that with my art portfolio due, and dress rehearsals for the play, and exams, and helping your mom get stuff together for the dance, that it’s more important for me to back in Broomington than at the hospital. And Allissa’s school is so close, so …”

“So your mom is … ?”

“Not strong enough to have surgery, I guess.”

“Oh, okay.” Marcus nods. “Well … I’m thinking good thoughts for her.”

“Thanks, Marcus.”

And that’s the last thing I remember saying before hearing, “Izzy? Izzy, we’re here.”

I lift my head up off the side of the window and stretch my arms up in the air.

Marcus comes to my side of the car and opens the door. “Madame,” he says, and does one of those fake flourishes while holding out my coat.

“Wow, what great service,” I say, stepping out.

“So”—Marcus closes the car door and helps me shrug into my coat—“you okay?”

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. I’m … pretty good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I say, leaning up against the side of the car. I look at Marcus and wonder for a second if he’s seen the photo. Just the thought of it is so exhausting that it’s easy to push it away.

“Okay,” Marcus says, leaning back against the car now too. And he’s just close enough now where if I wanted to, I could tilt my head to the side and let it rest on his shoulder.

“Well, good. As long as you’re … good,” Marcus says.

“I am—I’m good. I mean, I’m just—well, I’m kind of …” I close my mouth and straighten myself up. But then Marcus slips his arm behind my back and kind of pats it gently, and when he brings his hand up to my shoulder and gives it a little squeeze, it’s like something inside me unhinges, like I’m one of those camping tents with the cheap poles that keep popping out of place, and I collapse.

Marcus pulls me into him, close.

“I’m scared for her,” I say into his chest. “I’m kind of … just … scared.”

He wraps his arms around me tight and lets me cry.

I know it seems cowardly, but I’ve been hiding out in the bathroom stalls between classes, and coming out only after the bell rings. I just don’t feel like talking or seeing anybody. I slip into my classes late, just after they’ve started. I don’t get in trouble either, because Pam has already talked to all my teachers about Mom. So when I walk in, they all just nod and give me these encouraging smiles, as if they’re impressed I’m even upright.

“There you are!” Meredith manages to cut me off before I can make it inside the art room. She cocks her head to the side, her ponytail falling around her shoulder, and gives me the smallest of smiles.

“Izzy.” She says my name like it’s the title of a very sad, serious movie. “How are you? How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine, I’m feeling”—empty, defective, like something inside me is disconnected—“fine.”

“You up for doing some set painting?” she asks, because I guess technically I’m supposed to be at rehearsal right now.

I shake my head and tell her I’m just going to stick around the studio tonight and get some work done.

She nods and reaches her arms out, giving me a double shoulder squeeze, and then before walking away, says something about how she’s here for me, if I need to talk.

That’s what a lot of people have been saying to me, that they’re “here for you if you need to talk.” Which is nice, but some of these people I don’t even talk to under normal circumstances, so I’m thinking it would be strange to use them now, like as a therapist. And how would they react if I said, “You know what? Yes, I’d love to talk,” and then sat them down and told them how I looked at my hairbrush this morning and saw that it had an unnaturally large amount of my hair in it, and how for a split second I thought that it must be because of the progeria, that I’m losing my hair as I prematurely age. But then, right as I was about to look up “teenage hair loss” on Symptomaniac, this voice popped into my head, and she said,
Come on, Izzy. You know that’s a normal amount of hairbrush hair,
and I answered myself, in my head,
I do? How can you be sure?
and there was no answer, and it was hard, but I walked away from the computer and continued getting ready for school. You’d think I’d feel better, that voice telling me that I’m fine and not sick. But I don’t. I just feel lost.

I throw on my smock, grateful nobody else is here tonight, and grab one of my half-finished paintings from the rack.