Entry #516344, added on 01-05-10 @ 1:59 pm EST
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I open my eyes, and immediately close them again because the light above me is too bright. It sends a shock of pain all the way down my spine column. God, who turned on their freakin' brights, and what did we do to deserve it?
It's with a sharp breath that I realize the soft texture below me is not Morgan's leather seat. It's much too squishy. I'm afraid to open my eyes. I'm not sure I want to know where I am, how much I missed, or forgot.
Although it makes my head hurt even more, I try to remember what happened to land me in this soft, painfully bright room.
I remember the object in the road but can't picture it to figure out what it was. I remember Morgan jerking the wheel in my direction while I latched onto the door handle and watch us spin. I remember the bump as we drove off the road.
That's all I remember.
I still haven't opened my eyes, but I can hear footsteps somewhere off to my left, and then a man's voice. "She has a minor concussion. When her head hit the dashboard, it put a lot of pressure on a nerve in her brain. We're not sure what effects that'll have later on, but it's not causing any damage to her system right now."
I take a deep breath, but when I start to exhale, it comes out as a soft groan. The footsteps get closer, and I brace myself before opening my eyes and forcing them to stay open through the bright light above me.
My mother's face is there before me, which is slightly refreshing since her head blocks the light. "Hey, sweetie," she coos, her long, curly hair falling in puddles around her face as she leans over me.
"Where am I?" My words come out a croak. Gosh, how can my throat possibly be so dry?
"The hospital." She smiles as if waking up in a hospital is as normal as eating dinner, and everything is definitely okay in fairytale land.
Everything cannot be okay. If everything was okay, I would be at home right now, probably watching TV or talking to Morgan on the phone. I wouldn't be in a hospital bed, with a massive headache. "Morgan," I say, my voice cracking but coming out a little sturdier than before. "Where is she?"
"She's fine." My mother leans back, leaving me to deal with the bright light, and perches a hip on the edge of my bed. "She broke her arm, but other than that, she's just fine."
I nod, satisifed for the time being.
A man, who I assume is the owner of the voice I heard earlier, leans over me now, but not enough to invade my personal space, a concept my mother doesn't seem to understand. "Hey there, kiddo," he says to me, like I'm ten. His voice grates on my nerves and makes me feel like I should scoot away from him. "You hit your head pretty hard. How do you feel?"
"Terrible. I feel like I have a massive hangover. Not that I know what a hangover feels like," I add, glancing over at my mother.
He smiles at me. Now that my eyes have adjusted, I can open them wider to take in his features. He has a kind face; one of those perfect model-type faces that you only see in magazine calogne ads. Dark hair, green eyes, distinct jaw-line. Mom once told me never to trust a too-handsome man.
"Well, don't worry. You won't be missing much of school. You'll be out of here in no time. You have a minor concussion, but that'll go away with enough time and rest."
I wait for him to mention the part about hitting some nerve in my brain, but he just glances down at my chart, running the tip of his pen along it, as if he's checking to make sure everything is in order.
"Is that all?" My voice is much louder than I anticipated. It's still sore, but the croak is gone. "That's all that's wrong with me?" I wait for him to snap his fingers and tell me that I may have some sort of undetermined long-term illness from this pinched nerve, but he doesn't.
His eyes widen as he looks down at me and then glances over at my mother. "Yes, that's all."
"Are you sure?"
This time, he doesn't say anything. He sticks his pen in the snap of the clipboard and crosses his arms over it, while my mother invades my space again. "Sweetie, everything is fine. What's gotten into you?"
I want to laugh. What's gotten into me? Seriously? I just got into a car accident, slammed my head against a dashboard, and apparently the doctors don't have any idea what's wrong with me. For all they know, I could die of brain swelling before the end of the day. It's not like I have a pinched nerve in my back. This is my brain!
But, of course, no one is going to tell me what's wrong. I'm only seventeen and not an adult, and therefore, must not be involved in any of those "adult-like" concerns.
I stare at my doctor and glance down at the name tag pinned to his flawless white coat. Dawson, it reads. Yeah, he looks like a Dawson. I give him another second before turning to my mother. "Can I have some water, please? My throats hurts."
She hesitates, staring down at me with a frightened look in her blue eyes. "Of course." She reaches to the bedside table, where apparently some water waits in anticipation of my awakening, as Dr. Dawson leaves the room, without looking back.
Once he leaves the room, I let the bottom of the water up rest against my abdomen and look up at my mother. She's looking at the cup in confusion, probably wondering why i asked for it when I don't intend to drink it.
"Mom, I know that the crash caused me to hit a nerve in my brain. Why would you guys hide that from me? is it going to kill me or give me brain damage or something?"
My mother's eyes grow to the size of ping-pong balls. "Of course not! They don't know if it will have any effects at all. Dr. Dawson probably just thought it wasn't necessary to mention it. He says it's not doing any damage at the moment."
I stare down at my feet, propped up on the bed before me. "Yeah, I heard him." My voice comes out rather croaky again, so I gulp down some of the water.
"It's really nothing, Bethany. Don't be so dramatic."
When I look up at her, she looks away and shuffles out of the room, leaving me alone with the bright light and the muted television.
~*~
When the day arrives when I'm forced to go back to school, Morgan's mother picks me up. I'm not allowed to operate heavy machinery for a while, and Morgan can't drive with her cast.
Neither of our mothers have taken us to school since we were in eighth grade, so the experience is less than desirable. "Do you have everything?" Mrs. Rappaport calls out before we close the door.
Morgan rolls her eyes. "Yes, Mom." She slams the door as I snicker.
Throughout the day, I almost go crazy when people keep asking me, one after another, how I'm feeling. I'm almost positive that if one more person looks at me with that sympathetic look, like I'm a puppy whose tail just got stepped on, I'll explode.
"Are you still upset about Sean?" Morgan asks me as we sit down in our fourth period class.
I glance over at her quickly before pulling out my textbook. "No, I'm upset because I want to be at home, sleeping, instead of sitting in class right now. Four hour-and-a-half long classes a day is Hell."
She scoffs. "High school is Hell, sweetie. Get over it. At least you don't have to wear a cast."
"Right, I just have to walk around with a giant migraine all day. I can't even think straight," I tell her, bitterness lacing my voice as I press my forehead against my palm, hoping to relieve some of the pressure. "It's killing me."
Our English IV teacher, Miss MacCreary, starts to speak and we, as do the rest of the students in our class, ignore her.
"My doctor says I have to go back for some more stupid tests. I'm not sure when though. I think he said sometime next week." I can feel my nerves starting to skitter at the thought.
Morgan glances at me quickly before popping open her compact. "It's not that bad. Stop freaking out." She studies her perfect features in the tiny, round mirror. From the way it's turned, I can see my own pale face and mousy brown hair in the reflection, a deep contrast to Morgan's tan skin and auburn curls.
"It is when you're claustriphobic and they want to stuff you in a tube and shine lights in your eyes."
She snaps her compact shut and puts it in her purse. Even with a cast around her arm, she seems more elegant than me. "Beth," she says. "You'll be fine."
"Right," I mutter. "Once this headache goes away."
I watch her straighten her lacey tank top and wish that I looked good in clothes like the ones she wears every day. Not me. I look better in t-dhirts with funny logos that distract people from my less-than-perfect form, a task that is much harder to do when I'm accompanying my best friend, the goddess, through the halls. Over the years, people have always told me I have a more natural beauty than Morgan, but I think that's just a nice way of saying it's okay if I don't wear make-up.
After a moment of silence, in which Mrs. MacCreary attempts to explain something about Dante's use of allusion, Morgan sets her chin in her palm and turns her head toward me. "So, Sean...."
I throw up a hand to stop her. "No. No more Sean. I have enough to think about without adding him to the mix." Morgan seems to accept my answer and turns back toward the front of the classroom, but she probably knows I lied. How could I possibly not be thinking about Sean? I set my head on my desk, ignoring the look of pity that Morgan sends me, and shut my eyes.
~*~
That night, I sit at my desk, trying hard to focus on the Calculus homework in front of me, but the pain is too much. I thought downing a couple of aspirin would help, but it didn't have much effect on my throbbing head.
I drop my pen on my desk and put my hands on my head, hoping that the pressure will make the pain stop, but it just gets worse. And worse, until I think I might pass out from the pain. I grind my teeth as I hear a loud ringing noise start up in my ears. It gets louder and louder until it becomes a screeching noise, and I want to scream.
I clamp my eyes shut and find that, instead of pressing on my head, I'm pulling on my hair, adding to my own discomfort. My head feels to heavy for my shoulders, and I'm certain that any moment, I'm going to find myself lying flat on my carpet.
In a second, so fast it makes me even more dizzy, the screeching stops, leaving my ears feeling numb.
Even with my eyes closed, the flash of lightning is a white light surrounding me. It's followed by a crash of thunder so loud it makes me scream, having been so quiet just a second ago.
My bedroom door slams open, and my mother rushes in. "What's wrong? Are you okay?" she asks the room before spotting me at my desk and coming over to frame my face with her clammy hands. "I heard you scream."
"I'm fine. I just got a little freaked." For the most part, it's not a lie. It's just not the whole truth, but if I tell her that I had a horrible migraine, she might overreact and insist we go to the hospital. After a crash like mine, how uncommon can a headache be, really?
She nodes and stares at me for another second, scanning my face with her concerned eyes.
I smile to throw her off.
"Okay," she finally says, but she is obviously still skeptical. "Maybe you should get some sleep honey. You look tired."
I look tired? I wonder how long it's been since she looked in the mirror. She has bags under her eyes and messy hair. From how fast she was to respond to my shout, it doesn't take a genius to figure out she was probably listening closely, waiting for an excuse to play nurse.
I just nod.
"Do me a favor, and try not to get yourself hurt before next Tuesday."
I wait for her to explain, but she remains silent. Still bent over me, she glances at the window, where rain splashes against the glass. "Next Tuesday?"
"You have an appointment with your new doctor." She stands up straight and meanders around my room, glancing at the neatly framed pictures on my wall; one of me and her at the Grand Canyon; one of me and Morgan at a football game; and one of my mom and dad on their wedding day almost 20 years ago.
She walks to the door and opens it, looking at me one more time. "If you need anything, let me know."
I nod again and she sighs before closing the door behind her. I silently thank her for closing it gently. I'm afraid that something will trigger another migraine.
I look around my spotless room for a second, confused about what just happend. Everything looks the same- the pale pink walls, the cream curtains that match the quilt on my bed, the oragnized shelf of books, It's just me that feels different.
My eyes land on the window. I get up to look out through the blinds. I stare out at the neighborhood of perfect houses identical to ours, blurry through the torrents of rain. I continue to stare until the screeching starts again in my head. It's not as bad as last time, but it gets louder until lightning flashes again, so bright I know it hits somewhere close.
Staggering away from the window, I cover my ears, not wanting to hear the loud boom.
Once it passes, I try to shrug it off and climb into bed, but as I stare up at the ceiling, all I can think about is the rain falling just outside. |
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