Of Another Kind Altogether —PART 8 of 9

For Missy, the 18-year-old girl who had first encountered Marilyn Mayer in the OBGYN office where she worked, it was serious.

Her family was huddled around her in the darkened isolation room, each bedecked in bright yellow disposable hospital gowns and N95 masks. Even through the gloves, her mother could tell she was burning up with fever. It had only been a stiff neck that morning, but now Missy was confused, and she winced at any sliver of light that snuck in with the opening of the door. Heroic medications were being delivered through her veins, to pump them out from a heart that struggled to do just that.

But Missy could tell by the eyes above the mask that there was someone else in the room with her. Someone the others assumed was hospital personnel. And she could also tell by the eyes it was Marilyn Mayer, which ushered in a lucid moment for her as her own eyes widened in recognition.

“You really are stalking me!” she suddenly shouted.

Her parents, sister, and brother jumped at the sudden change from her mumbled rantings. For Marilyn, the jig was up.

“No, Missy, I bring you hope. Please listen to what I have to say.”

“No! You’re a witch! Nothing but bad things have happened to me since I met you. I got fired. My cat died. I’ve gotten GERD. And now this. And I don’t think I’m getting out of this. Am I? No, I don’t think so.”

Her sister burst out in tears.

“Why? Why me? What have I ever done to you. She’s a witch, everybody. She’s cursed me. Get her away from me! All she wants is me dead. I’m not imagining this.”

“It's the fever,” her father said almost too low for anyone to hear. Missy heard.

“It’s not the fever, Daddy. It’s real.” Missy’s eyes were wide open in terror.

“Missy, please listen. I bring you good tidings,” Marilyn offered.

“Mom, ring the nurse button,” her sister urged between sobs. Her mother promptly did.

“This isn’t the end for you, Missy,” Marilyn said hurriedly and desperately, as Missy’s brother and father grasped her by the shoulders and began forcing her out of the room.

But it was the end for Missy.

Within an hour had heart had given up. She was an 18-year-old who had dodged Rheumatic fever as a child, sidestepped countless meanderings of vehicular itineraries that had otherwise targeted her—like everyone else, even survived potential electrocution by a tripped breaker that did its job. She had made choices that careened her this way and that along fate’s journey, away from its pitfalls, toward the ideal—the sublime—dying of old age. If that were even possible.

But 18 was a far cry from old age.

Despite her successfully having circumnavigated the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune—like everyone else—she had made it this far only to be felled by an arbovirus gifted to her by one mosquito out of trillions one lovely summer’s night while parked with her boyfriend for a romantic interlude.

Marilyn didn’t fight her forced escort. These people had enough to deal with, without the drama that had just invaded what should have been a private, solemn end-of-life exclusive.

She knew she had failed, but she also knew there were always second, third—and even more—chances.

__________

On to Part 9, the conclusion.