Sick, Kid

Convincing yourself that you are going to die before the age of twenty-one is an unending nightmare. What’s worse is having no idea why. I played this game night after night in my room, breaking out into a cold sweat and wondering what everyone will do without me one day. I looked at my cat and wondered if he’d miss me as I laid in bed for the third day in a row, two days away from receiving a threatening letter from the school board that I may have to repeat ninth grade due to poor attendance. We get these every year, my mother tells me not to worry and tosses them into the trash while rolling her eyes. But telling me not to worry was as useless as the letters themselves.

The din of an “I Love Lucy” DVD is playing on the silver box TV placed awkwardly on my dresser. Day and night the rotation of episodes continues, and Ricky’s suave songs and beratements drift in and out of my restless dreams. I didn’t sleep much when I was in bed- I never had. I lay in constant discomfort: itching, sweating, pulsing, as I listened to the chimes of the clock in the entryway mark the hours. I’d count them down, “If I fall asleep right now I can still sleep for 7 hours...6 hours...5…4...3…”. Insomniatic anxiety colored the time, preparing me each moment for a day of absolute exhaustion. Naps came easier, and just as I felt my body relaxing, I heard the heavy footsteps of my dad bounding up the stairs. He slowed in the hallway and walked quietly toward my room, which served as a microphone to magnify each sound in the house. It made me a powerful eavesdropper, prepared to hyperfocus on every conversation from the basement to the bathroom, and fixate for days on their meaning.

Wordlessly, my dad opened my door after a soft knock and I looked at him in a daze. He’d just come from work, his tie half done and his hair scattered aimlessly on his head. He smiled sadly and reached for my open hand hanging out of the covers. “It’ll be quick” he whispered as he pressed the pointed tip of a blood-glucose meter to my pointer finger. I remained lifeless as he retracted, and he clumsily gathered cups of flat ginger ale and uneaten crackers abandoned on my bedside table. Monitor and dishes in hand, he ran downstairs to meticulously record the results. This had been going on for two days. My doctor had recommended tracking my blood sugar to see if there were any unusual lows or fluctuations that could explain why my head spun, why my chest ached, why my vision faded, and why my world stopped. It was on the bottom of a long list of other ideas, all tried, tested, and failed. But maybe this time we’d get answers.

I heard the dial tone on the kitchen phone and my ears sprung into action.

“Narien? It’s Ed. How are you?”

Dad was calling my doctor. They were friends, and had a symbiotic partnership for referrals between my dad’s psychology practice and Dr. Grover’s medical one. Calls after business hours to discuss patients weren’t uncommon, and neither were calls about me.

“It’s been two days now and I’m just looking at these readings”

I held my breath. Please say something is wrong with me.

“Everything seems fine. Nothing out of the ordinary as far as I’m concerned.”

My stomach dropped. Another option to cross off the list. I started to bury my head in pillows to stifle the rest of the conversation.

“What’s next?”