I must have taken too many pain killers last night because I had a crazy dream. I was singing and then I fell and cracked my head on some concrete. And my mom was there and then my dad and then my brother was talking and he was making sense for a change. But then I remember. I didn't take any painkillers because my stomach was bad and they just make it worse. It's a vicious cycle, really. I need the medicine to make my pain stop. I take it, the pain goes away for a little while, but then my stomach lining is ripped to shreds. And it starts all over again. And again and again.
My mom says she's looking into alternatives for me so I don't have to rely on pills that make me hold one of our bathrooms hostage for an hour. Gross, right? But true. I don't know what the alternatives are, but I'm kind of hoping it's pot in some form. I haven't told her that yet because while she's a huge fan of legalizing marijuana for both medical and recreational use in every state, I'm not sure how she would feel about her daughter blazing up on a regular basis.
I suppose I'll have to go downstairs and find her to see what the plan is for today but I want to hide in my bedroom for now so that's what I do. My bed is so freaking comfortable that leaving it under the best of circumstances is difficult, but when I'm expected to visit and talk with doctors who may want to draw blood, make me go back to physical therapy, or do God knows what else to me with the hope that I someday, somehow, feel better, I really don't want to leave my room.
My head clears a little and the events of last night come back to me in fuzzy, disjointed chunks. Flashes of humiliation, stomach churning excitement, and disappointment swirl around my brain as I realize that maybe my impending visit to my mother's doctor of choice will be the least of my worries today. My stomach sinks as the images begin to fit together like puzzle pieces to form the full picture of what happened at Isabelle's house. I close my eyes in an attempt to make them stop, to try to push the memories that are becoming more and more clear by the moment out of my mind. It doesn't work, of course, and I try to take deep breaths as I feel my anxiety start to go off the charts.
I open my eyes to find something soothing in my room to focus on in hopes of calming down. I turn on my side and come face to face with my favorite stuffed animal, Orange Teddy. I've had Teddy since I was three years old and never plan to let him go. He'll have to move with me if I ever leave my parent's house. He's seen better days but I love him and he gives me comfort, so I stare at his one remaining button eye and grungy orange fleece body and smile.
Orange Teddy has a weird background. My dad is an expert at working the claw machine. Anytime there's one of those big machines with glaring lights, filled with all sorts of stuffed animals that the average person can't grab with the metal claw, he's able to win a prize for someone. My mom, Michael, and I have all received slightly cheesy prizes after my father pumped quarter after quarter into the game. I don't know if my mom or brother still have the treasures won by my dad but I won't ever let go of Teddy.
We left him at the mall once and I was so hysterical that my mom had to retrace her steps and go on an Orange Teddy scavenger hunt to find him and hopefully stop me from shrieking so loudly that our next door neighbor came over to ask if I was OK. Sure, we lived in a condo at the time but still. I was loud. Mom eventually found Teddy at The Gap, hidden behind a display of flowery dresses. She brought him home, tossed him to me, and I fell asleep almost immediately, worn out from all that screaming. I was four years old at the time in case you're worried this trauma happened last year when I was a sophomore in high school.
As I continue to wake up and the fog in my brain lifts, I vaguely recall the sound my phone made last night before I slipped into unconsciousness and slowly rise from my bed and make my way over to my desk.
I click on my phone and see a message from Isabelle waiting for me. Bracing for the worst, I unlock my phone and click on the text.
"U OK? If u don't like Homicidal Vegans, how about Soggy Jesus?"
I feel weak but I'm not sure if it's from relief or fear and my stomach flips as I continue to remember what happened last night. The embarrassment, the pain, and the uncertainty all become painfully clear once again. I know I should respond to Isabelle's text but first, I'm honestly not sure if I'm OK and second, I really don't like the name Soggy Jesus for our band.
Our band. I let out a short, mirthless laugh. Thinking this is "our" band implies I'm still part of the whole process. It says that, for some reason, they still want me. Something starts to dawn at the back of my mind, foreign thoughts, ones that haven't occurred to me before this very moment. Isabelle essentially stalked me for who knows how long, watching me walk home, listening to me sing, before she made contact. She keeps texting me, asking me about these ridiculous band names, wanting to hear what I think about it all.
Could this mean that she actually wants me to stay in the band despite my weirdness and my health issues? Of course, she doesn't know how bad those issues truly are but I'm sure she has a good idea my whole situation isn't good after she saw me pass out on her patio.
I need to think about what to say to her before I respond so I put my phone back on my desk and start to head back to bed. Unfortunately, my mother's voice rockets up the stairs and intrudes into my private space.
"Carter! Go take a shower. We have a doctor's appointment in an hour. Dr. Lim fit you in at the last minute!"
I sigh, stumble into the bathroom and run the water in the shower. I turn it on as hot as I know I'll be able to stand it and watch the steam start to fill the small room. The mirror starts to fog, and my image slowly vanishes in the haze. How prophetic, I think, and realize that comparing steam from the scalding hot water to how invisible I feel most of the time sounds incredibly dramatic. Even for me.
I get in and wince at the heat, willing myself to relax and let the warmth do it's magic. I always feel so relaxed after a long, hot shower but I know I'll have to hurry it up today. I really need the water to melt my tensions away, especially after last night's chaotic events but I know my mother will be banging on the bathroom door sooner than later so I quickly wash my hair, soap up my loofah, and get clean as soon as possible.
Once done, I blast the hairdryer on high heat, don't worry about putting on makeup, and head downstairs with my hair still mostly damp. I have really thick hair and it takes forever to dry it completely. Knowing my mother and her impatience, I don't have more than 15 minutes before we have to rush to the car let alone forever.
I'm not happy to go to a new doctor but my old one moved out of state. At least I'm not stuck at my pediatrician's office with pictures of Winnie the Pooh and Elmo on the walls. The cheery images are actually decals and not permanent fixtures on the wall. Every time we go, I really want to peel one of them off but as soon as I reach my hand up to do so, someone walks in the room and I feel guilty for trying to deface their stupid decorations. Maybe some little boy really loves Elmo and would cry if that overly perky red monster wasn't plastered to the wall during his next doctor's appointment.
Dr. Lim's office is different. I look around the waiting room and figure out that I'm the youngest person there. Most people are far older than my mom and I notice a lot of gray hair, canes, and walkers among my fellow patients. I shrink down into my jacket, pulling my hood over my head. I'm only able to hide for a minute, though, because my mom starts asking me question after question about how I'm feeling, where I feel pain, how I felt right before I passed out. All the questions I was hoping to avoid but of course can't because the doctor needs to know the answers.
I emerge from the protection of the jacket, take a long breath of cool air and answer her quickly. The faster I answer, the easier it is to pretend that I actually don't have all these symptoms. Pain in the back, check. Pain in my legs, check. Stomach issues, check. Feeling tired all the time, check, check, check.
She jots down all my responses, completing the rest of the form with our insurance information and family history, and returns it to the front desk.
She flops back down in the chair next to me with a sigh. "I fucking hate those things. Why aren't they all online?"
I know my mother well enough to realize that this is a rhetorical question. I cast a quick glance at the woman with a walker right to my left and see that she has a disapproving frown on her face, most likely at my mom's use of the work fuck in a public place.
I shrug my shoulders. "They suck." I know if I agree with her, she'll most likely stop her ranting about the antiquated medical system before it even begins.
I'm right. She nods and closes her eyes, vigorously rubbing them. She's tired, too. Sometimes I forget how tiring being my parent must be for her. My dad, too, but my mom is the one who usually goes with me to these things. She's the bundle of nervous energy, always looking for a solution to my weird health problems. When she finally relaxes, she wants to go to sleep, but can't, because there is always something else for her to do.
"Carter?" The blonde nurse calls us back, gets my height and weight, and puts us in a small room. I sit on the exam table, and my mom takes one of the small, uncomfortable chairs.
After taking my vitals, the nurse smiles and assures us Dr. Lim will be in the room in a few minutes. In reality, it's about 15 minutes before he enters and I like him right away. This is rare for me as I usually don't trust doctors because, in my experience, they leave you with more unanswered questions than you came in with in the first place.
Dr. Lim shakes our hands and talks to me rather than to my mom like most doctors do. This makes me a little nervous. I don't like talking about my problems to my own mother. Why would I feel comfortable sharing everything with this guy? But, something tells me to trust him and before I know it I'm listing all of my medical problems, how my back hurts, and my stomach hurts, and how I feel more and more tired all the time. I even tell him I'm in a band now and that I passed out during practice and don't know why.
When I'm done oversharing with this relative stranger, he looks over my information, looks at my mom, and then back at me. "I don't know why either but we're going to find out. Today, you're going to have an x-ray of your back to see if your spine issues have progressed. Then, if necessary, we'll have you come back for an MRI-."
My mother has been waiting for her chance to talk and jumps in when Dr. Lim takes a breath. "What about the passing out? Is it related to her spine issues, her Celiac?"
Dr. Lim is patient even though my mother obviously asked him a question he was about to get to before she started talking over him. "I'm glad you started with me because we need to make sure Carter's degenerative spine issues haven't worsened. But, for the other problems, I'll have to refer you to Dr. Anderson who takes care of autoimmune problems as I suspect that is what this is, perhaps something more than her Celiac. As a spine specialist, though, I can't say for sure. It's just a hunch."
"A hunch?" My mother raises an eyebrow and looks irritated. Did she really think we were going to get all the answers today? Maybe she just hoped we were. Unlike her, I'm not sure I want to know every little thing that's wrong with me. Ignorance being bliss and all that.
Dr. Lim gets up, signaling our time with him is over for now. "Yes, right now, it's a hunch." He speaks kindly to my mother but winks at me as though we share a secret. It's not creepy, though, as it might be with other adults. He's reassuring for some reason and I start to feel a little better, like maybe I can know what's wrong with me, face it, and live my life in spite of it.
"But, once we run the tests, once you see the other doctor here, we'll have a better idea of how and why Carter's issues caused her to pass out. We'll get to the bottom of it. I promise."
My mother opens her mouth to say something else but closes it and just smiles and nods at him. She looks a little more peaceful, too. Maybe Dr. Lim's demeanor is rubbing off on her. I can only hope.
She stands up as I slide off the exam table. "Thank you. We really appreciate your time."
He shakes her hand, and then mine again. "I'll compare this x-ray to the old MRI done at the other facility and we can discuss it at your next appointment. I'd like to see you come back on Friday, Carter. Does that work?"
I nod my head and my mom says, "We'll make it work."
After the x-ray, we head toward home. "Mom?"
She turns the corner to head into our subdivision. "What?"
"Can you go back to Isabelle's house? I have something I want to tell her."
She glances over at me and continues to drive. I think the answer is no but then she pulls into someone's driveway, backs out again, and heads in the direction of Isabelle's neighborhood.
"What are you going to tell her?"
I pause, not sure how she's going to take the news. She so overprotective, and I'm worried my fainting spell is just going to make her even worse, that I'll never be able to leave the house again on my own.
My mom is quiet for a minute and she finally asks, "Do you really want to be in this band?"
"I do. I really, really do." I stare straight ahead, afraid to look at her.
"Will you do what the doctors say?"
I feel my eyes well up with tears, but I'm not exactly sure why. "I will. I promise." I feel like I'd say anything at this point to be able to sing in a band. At this moment, it's become really important to me.
"Then let's go."
Thanks to my mother's need for speed we make it to Isabelle's house in record time. I press the doorbell and step back, waiting for someone to answer.
Isabelle swings the big door open. She smiles when she sees me. "Well, are you in?" She asks the question as though she already knows why I'm here.
I return her smile. "I'm in. But Soggy Jesus? Really?"
She laughs. "Then you come up with a better one!"
I think for a second. "How about Esoteric Liquor?"
She tilts her head to the side. "Maybe...be here tomorrow at 5:00 and we'll put it to a vote."
My mom honks her horn. "I've gotta go. See you tomorrow!"
"Carter!" Isabelle calls after me. "You sure you want this?"
I turn around to face her. "More than anything." I wave goodbye, hop into my mom's car, and spend the rest of the night happily thinking of songs I can introduce the rest of the band. My band. How cool is that?