And he put it on and you both sat down and you both watched.
And when they got to the scene where the men attacked her, where they held her down screaming and laid into her, your body started shuddering, you couldn’t control it, faster and faster, and you were sobbing and Jim wanted to know what was wrong and you couldn’t say anything.
You were hovering outside of your body. You were not really there in your living room anymore. You were somewhere else.
Dad’s Question
Growing up, you always referred to yourself as “Julia-wait-till-the-wedding-night-Fox.”
You were preserving yourself as the one thing you could give as a gift to the person you loved. You would be the wedding gift. Your friends thought it sounded too much like a fairy tale, but it was what you believed. You just felt you could never make love to somebody without having the love that goes along with a lifetime bond with that person.
People called you a tomboy growing up. You were always a buddy with the guys, never a girlfriend. Once your father even asked you if you were a lesbian, because he couldn’t understand why you didn’t date. You thought about saying, “Dad, I’m so glad you brought this up. I’ve been struggling with how to tell you, but I’m in love, and I want to marry Tina Turner.” You spared him that joke, though, and told him the truth, which was that you were just more of a buddy-type person and that you really didn’t even know how to flirt.
Ray-Bans and the Search for Cool
You spent a lot more time in the mud with boys than trying to attract their romantic interest. Every time you tried to flirt it, was pathetic. Once, as a twenty-something, you were at the auto mechanic’s picking up your car after a fender bender. You were inside the garage, inside your car, and the cute mechanic was leaning in the window to talk to you. You were chatting, smiling, and doing the best you could to be flirtatious. You reached over and got the aviator sunglasses from your handbag. You put them on trying to look cool—then you noticed something slapping against your face. There was a misshapen, flecked-with-purse-dregs, out-of-its-cartridge tampon stuck in the hinge of your glasses, hanging off your face.
That was what used to happen to you when you tried to flirt. You weren’t exactly a smooth operator.
For some reason the cute mechanic never posed the date question. Maybe he was turned off by your Inspector Clouseau take on female cool.
When you went to college, you were still a virgin, and you were proud of this, because most of the girls you knew weren’t virgins. You weren’t “experienced,” but this didn’t matter to you.
During your freshman year in college you had a friend named Rick.
You knew him from the year before; you had met him while visiting friends. He was nice enough and the two of you spent time together. There was nothing sexual about it. It was a friendship: talking, hanging out, like several dozen other buddies you’d had over the years who were guys.
When you eventually went to school in Vermont, Rick was still there at another college across town. You went to a party over at one of the dorms at his college.
You had been drinking keg beer (which was pretty disgusting) and partying with Rick.
Rick volunteered to give you a ride back to your dorm, and you gladly accepted.
Getting rides across town had been a bit of a dilemma for you recently, so you were relieved to know you had a ride home.
It got late. Rick’s car was at his house. You left the party together.
You walked over to the house he shared with two other boys. It wasn’t far.
He invited you inside. You thought for a moment, then decided to go in. Maybe if you hadn’t been drinking all night, you would have insisted that it was time for you to go home. But everything seemed fine.
The minute you stepped in, he shut the door behind you.
He started kissing you, right there in the hallway. At first, you thought it was nice. But the minute he decided you didn’t seem to mind him kissing you, he stopped being Rick.
You’d hardly realized it, but it suddenly dawned on you that he had been leading you somewhere. He closed another door behind you.
You wanted to leave. But he wouldn’t stop kissing you.
He started ripping off your clothes.
You didn’t want to have sex with him, and you told him so. It didn’t matter. He kept tearing away at clothes and underwear.
You tried to make your way to the door. He threw you onto the bed and kept tearing off things.
You said, out loud, so you’d know you had said it, “Stop, please stop. I’m a virgin.”
He got on top of you, held you down, and forced his way into you.
“No, you’re not,” he grunted. “No, you’re not.”
He had you pinned down. He was strong. You were utterly defenseless. Something animalistic took him over and he was no longer Rick, but Sick Rick. The nice guy had left the room and been replaced by a maniacal stranger.
You were no longer a person, but some kind of blow-up doll without human feelings.
All the time that he was violating you, you sobbed and begged him to stop, but eventually you stopped the begging and a sense of unreality came over the room and you saw yourself pinned to the bed by a stranger and heard yourself weeping.
He grunted loudly and pulled himself out of you and dragged your head over his penis, which was now limp. You heard some voices in the room, probably his two roommates, but you couldn’t see anything because of the way he had you pinned. You recall thinking that he was actually proud of this.
He held your head down on his penis for what seemed like hours and you thought you would suffocate. You came very close to vomiting from the wretched smell of urine and semen. He must have sensed this, because he pulled your head away. You looked up and around. Whoever was in the room had left.
Once it was over, you eventually stopped sobbing and lay there for a long time, numb, empty, gone.
Jesus.
Violated.
Not really there.
The sun was up.
Your voice was hoarse and raspy.
You asked as quietly as you could if he could get you home now. You didn’t want to agitate him, so you asked very humbly and very submissively.
He nodded and left the room, closing the door behind him.
You realized that, if you played your cards right, you might actually get out of this alive.
You scrambled to find your clothes. Your underwear had vanished. You put on your pants and your sweater sans undergarments. Each had been torn.
You opened the door and looked out. His roommates were passed out in the front living room. You saw him jostle them awake and ask them to go with him, with the promise they’d all go to breakfast. His treat.
Rick had an older Mustang with bucket seats in the front. There were lots of fast-food cartons strewn in the car. You got in the back. The three boys sat in the front, with one of them sitting where the gearshift was located. They didn’t want to even sit in the back with you. One guy offered gum to the other guys in the front. As they unwrapped the gum and popped it in their mouths, they rolled the wrappers up and took shots at you with the gum wrappers. This amused them so much that they found other discarded wrappings and threw those at you, too. They were having lots of fun and laughing at this game. They dumped you at your dormitory.
It was a weekend, and the dormitory was empty. Everyone had gone home to the safety of parents and family.
You climbed the stairs to the second floor where your room was. You walked into the shower stall fully dressed. You turned on the water as hot as it could get. Your body leaned against the flowing hot water in the stall for a long time, until the shower head ran cool.
But you were not there.
Years later, you were on the Cape with some friends at a club where young adults and college-age kids would go to get drunk and meet members of the opposite sex. You noticed a man with dark hair trying to catch your eye. He looked familiar.
When yo
u realized it was Sick Rick, your stomach went cold.
You were speechless. You just stood there gawking. He must have mistaken your staring as a come-on, because he made his way across thebar to you. You thought surely he’d say your name or apologize or something, but he didn’t even recognize you now. You had lost weight and cut your long hair and were a few years older.
He said, “It’s been a while since I’ve come across a smile as nice as yours.”
Not only did he have no memory of you, he was trying to pick you up.
You stared at him for a moment. Then you threw your drink in his face.
You motioned to your friends and left the bar without looking back.
Déjà Vu
THE DRIVER SILENCES the blaring siren as the ambulance squeals to a halt at the emergency entrance. You feel like a prisoner in the metal cage of the ambulance cargo area. You hear the latch on the rear door click. Two attendants silently roll your wheeled bed through the automatic doors and into the corridor.
The lights of the ambulance continue to whir as you are rushed to an examining room.
“Why am I back here? I’ve already done this.” Are you dreaming? You feel as though you’re watching a sci-fi movie where someone keeps hitting rewind, play, rewind, play, over and over.
“I’ve already seen this movie.” You hear a voice in the room say, “She might be hallucinating.” The nurses are going about the business of taking your vital signs and talking among themselves. “She was sent from the rehab hospital. They were concerned that she might be about to stroke again. Her neurologist is Dr. Neuro. I called him at home. He wants her admitted once she is stabilized.”
You’re not there.
Why does the IV feel so real in this dream—sticking, poking, prodding. As usual the phlebotomist has difficulty finding a vein.
Suddenly, you realize that Jim is beside you. “Thank God you’re here, Jim. I thought I was dreaming. Are we going back to the rehab hospital now? Joe brought pizza.”
“You’re being admitted for observation. Dr. Neuro is going to see you in the morning. Don’t worry, it’ll be okay.”
You both wonder if that is so.
It’s after two in the morning when you are moved to a room. Jim kisses you good night and heads home, still wondering. You’re exhausted, but you can’t sleep.
Residents Out for Blood
Edie and your mom were in a bridge club for thirty years. She made you things when you were a little girl. Clothing for your dolls. A doily for their tiny table. Edie is on your mind a lot for some reason.
“WHAT ARE ALL THESE BLOOD TESTS FOR and who ordered them?” You are staring at a little bearded nurse who is trying to smile.
A different young fellow. A new and yet-to-be-experienced level of incompetence. Your veins are virtually impossible for even seasoned professionals to locate. Yesterday your mother left during one of the blood draws, while you were talking to the guy doing it in your Dracula voice and asking if he was related to Bela Lugosi. She didn’t laugh, even though he did. She simply couldn’t watch it anymore. She probably slept poorly last night. You know how she is about seeing you get poked and prodded constantly.
Nurse Beard smiles harder. “Ma’am, one of the residents ordered three tests for us this afternoon, okay. So could I get you to just go ahead and hold out your arm, please?”
You glare at him.
“Actually, no, you can’t have my arm, or my blood. It’s time for me to ask you questions. Less than five minutes ago, had you ever set eyes on me before? No, you hadn’t. Right? Right. Now. Time for another question. What the hell is the resident’s authority? No answer? No answer. Third question. I’ve already had these three blood tests. True? Don’t just stare at me, take a look at the goddamned chart. True?”
Shuffle shuffle shuffle.
“Uh…accurate, yes.”
You have successfully split the entire neurology staff into factions. Each one has a theory. Each one has a diagnosis. Each one has an agenda. They are each pricking you like a pincushion to prove how smart they are. And they are not even reading their own notations. You have a feeling you know which one of them it was who ordered these tests, too. The brisk little brunette with her hair tied in a bun who never talks to you, only past you, never looks you in the eye. You wish she was close enough to slap.
“Please tell the resident I’m refusing any more blood tests from anyone other than my primary neurologist, Dr. Neuro. And while you’re at it, tell the resident who ordered these tests that if she wants to be considered any kind of doctor, she should take thirty seconds to look at a patient’s records before ordering tests. Okay. If she gives you a hard time, tell her to see the patient, me—the boss.”
He leaves.
Testing Your Patient
DR. NEURO, your neurologist, visits you. The only person in a white coat who seems capable of looking you in the eye. Tall, patient, calm Dr. Neuro. You remember liking him and trusting him, which is an achievement at a time when your memory is not always totally reliable. He makes you feel safe. He has huge hands. His right hand amazes you when he extends it for you to shake.
“You missed me and wanted me back, right?” you joke. He smiles, and nods, and asks about your symptoms. You tell him everything you can think of. He writes down what you say.
He tells you Dr. Jerk’s diagnosis is still very much in doubt. Dr. Neuro, of the huge hands, tells you he has arranged for some tests to try to clarify Dr. Jerk’s theory. He apologizes for the number of tests they’re running on you. He apologizes for not knowing everything.
He means it. You can tell.
As it turns out, vasculitis (Dr. Jerk’s favorite disease) commonly presents in the lower intestinal organs. Dr. Neuro wants an ultrasound of your lower organs to look for evidence of vasculitis. If that proves negative, it will be time for another angiogram.
Then Dr. Neuro tells you he won’t be at the hospital for the next week, due to an unexpected family situation. He reassures you, saying that you’ll be in the care of the head of the neurology unit.
You are surprised by how nervous this piece of news makes you. You know he has put you in the best of hands while he’s gone, but you feel more secure with him than with the head of neurology.
You realize you have confidence and a sense of security with Dr. Neuro. You don’t want to keep repeating your medical history over and over again with new people. He assures you that the covering doctor will be informed personally about your case. He asks if you need anything. You tell him, “Yes, I need my left side back.”
He smiles and squeezes your hand in his huge hand. He goes.
It’s night and you’re all alone. The hall outside your room is dark and empty.
Everything stops. The hospital is so quiet it frightens you. A storehouse of wounded strangers. You wonder what other lives have been altered forever by some catastrophic illness or injury. The neuro floor must have some gruesome stories.
You wish Jim were next to you. You want to lie on your side with your arms around him.
A Piece of Your Mind
IN ADDITION TO THE GAMUT of tests that awaited you when you returned to the critical care hospital, they are asking you to consider approving a brain biopsy. The neurology staff is recommending this procedure to determine if you truly have cerebral vasculitis.
Since you refused another chemotherapy treatment at the rehab hospital, Dr. Doogie, your radiologist, has taken a personal interest in you. He’s come to visit you on his days off to help you sort out the medical questions. One of those questions is pretty basic.
“What,” you asked, “is a brain biopsy?”
“It’s when a burrow hole is drilled into a quiet area of the brain, and sample brain tissue is removed.”
Okay…
“What,” you continue, “is a quiet area? There’s nothing quiet about me—unless maybe you count the whole right side of my brain, which I guess is now considered dead.”
“A quiet area is a sp
ot in the brain that would not affect any functions. It’s usually behind the ear.”
“See,” you explain to Dr. Doogie, “I’m thinking I need to keep whatever I have left, quiet or not.”
“You want conclusive evidence about whether you’re suffering from this incurable disease, right?”
“Right.”
“Brain biopsy is the way to go.”
“The only way to rule this out?”
“Yes.”
The possibility of certainty is very appealing to you.
“Okay. Then poke as many holes as you need to. I just want a goddamn diagnosis.”
You have been poked, prodded, and tested for so long in a hospital environment that you just want a straight answer. You just want to get it over with.
BUT JIM CONSULTS with his doctor brother-in-law, Pete, who tells him that a brain biopsy is an invasive procedure that could cause all kinds of complications. When he hears this, Jim is against doing it. He feels that if the test isn’t going to be conclusive, it isn’t worth the risk.
Dr. Doogie then comes back to explain that the results could come back negative, but that you still might have the disease in a different area than the one that was sampled.
“So will they poke holes all over my head like a colander to keep checking until they find something?”
“No, there would only be one biopsy at a time.”
“What would you do if it were you?”
“I don’t know. It’s a tough decision. Cerebral vasculitis is extremely rare and it’s already been determined there’s no evidence of the disease in your lower organs.”
Dr. Jerk saunters into the room while you are discussing the biopsy with Dr. Doogie. You can tell he’s miffed that you’re even considering it.
Don't Leave Me This Way: Or When I Get Back on My Feet You'll Be Sorry Page 8