“I just have one more thing to do before I leave,” Alejandro said.
He did not just say he had “one more thing to do”? I was so punchy I giggled.
“Hey! Stop laughing. You just popped open one of your cuts. It’s bleeding again. God dammit, Sophie! I’m serious.”
“Okay. Okay,” I said. “You’re serious. What’s your one more thing? Lay it on me.” Oh craptastic with the sexual innuendoes. I started giggling again, tried to shut it down but instead, snorted. Well if nothing else could get rid of this guy, I bet snorting while laughing would totally do the trick.
“Just one more simple thing. After that, I promise you—I am out of here.”
“Your one more simple thing does not involve anything the good ER doctor said I couldn’t do?”
“I promise. He never mentioned this.”
* * *
My sublet was, just as Alex suggested, old. The apartment complex had probably been built sixty years ago. The walls painted over dozens of times with multitudes of colors ranging from eggshell white to eggshell blue to eggshell yellow. The oversized kitchen sink was accented with small spider vein cracks in what was probably the original porcelain. I leaned forward over the vintage Spanish tiled counter with the discolored grout. My head dropped forward into the sink while Alex stood next to me and massaged shampoo onto my beer soaked hair.
“Okay,” I said. “I think you got it all out.”
“I poured the shampoo on your head five seconds ago.” He leaned in a little closer and pressed his leg, hip and then his torso firmly against me. “Keep your hands around your face. Like a mask. Or a shield. We don’t want this sudsy stuff to get on your cuts.”
I fidgeted. “Are we done yet?”
“No. You still smell like a brewery from a block away.”
“Maybe you need to go a block away and try that smell test again,” I said. “Why does everyone call you a driver?”
“Because I’m a Designated Driver. A couple of my friends and I do this to help fellow students.” He turned the water back on and rinsed my hair. “I don’t drink anymore. Don’t do drugs. Everyone knows I’ll drive students and their friends home if they’ve had too much. Or take their keys if I have to. As long as they don’t abuse the privilege. Just like what happened tonight.”
Interesting. Alejandro wasn’t your typical college party boy.
He leaned his face into my hair.
“What are you doing?” I blushed and prayed he wouldn’t notice.
He pulled away from me. “While I have nothing against Coronas—you still smell like one. Just one more wash.” He poured more shampoo onto my head and massaged my scalp. “I will never understand how you women tolerate this stinky stuff.”
“In defense of girls everywhere, I have five words for you,” I said.
“What?” His nails scratched gently on my scalp and I suddenly understood why Gidget the dog liked her ears rubbed.
“Axe body wash for men.”
He rinsed off the shampoo. Thoroughly. So thoroughly I calculated how many ones I had in my wallet to tip him. “Thank you. That’s great. Now I don’t have to go to bed with beer head.”
“Or pop your cuts open. Again.” He’d managed to find a towel somewhere, and dried my head with it while I was still bent over the counter, my head in the sink.
I was getting used to this head-rubbing thing. This felt pretty darn good. After all the stress of today, I figured I should at least make the supreme effort to stay awake and take this kind of attention for another hour or so. But he wrapped the towel around my head and tucked in the corner like a turban.
“Head out of the sink, please.”
I heard the sound of a chair scraping across the linoleum floor.
“Sit here. Are you woozy? I’ll guide you.”
“Um…” I wasn’t woozy. I was in love. Okay, I wasn’t in love. I was simply infatuated. Truth be told, I just needed him to do this head-scratching thing for a bit longer. “You forgot the conditioner,” I said. “Thank you so much for getting rid of my beer-head, but you totally forgot the conditioner. It’s because you’re a man. And I’m not sure if men even use conditioner. But girls do. And it’s super important. And if I don’t get conditioner, my hair will—”
Alejandro’s phone belted “Gimme Shelter” by the Rolling Stones. He yanked it from his pocket and looked at the message. “Sorry, Bonita.” He strode toward my front door. “It’s an emergency. The conditioner will have to wait.”
And just like that? Alejandro was gone. And my first day in L.A. had officially ended.
Chapter Four
I walked out my door the next morning and nearly tripped over a bouquet of white daisies jammed in a mason jar filled with water. Next to it was a small sealed white envelope. I opened it and pulled out a greeting card. On it was a cartoon of a man who stood next to a dog that had a perplexed look on his face. The man pointed to a well. “Get well!” was inscribed in the dialogue bubble above the man’s head.
Dear Sophie:
Hope you’re feeling better. Meet me at the Grill tonight? I want to see your beautiful, dairy queen face.
Best,
Alejandro
Beneath his signature were his phone number and email.
I smiled, but that quickly faded when I realized I’d never go back to the Grill. I needed to cut Alejandro off quickly. Don’t give him a reason to hope or pursue or expect anything from me that I wasn’t able to give him. Besides, today was going to be jam-packed with all sorts of adventures. Just not the kind I had last night.
* * *
I walked down what felt like miles of sterile white hallways, past white-coated interns, doctors and a few folks in medical scrubs. I headed toward a modern desk at the end of the hallway where a trim man and woman sat behind a counter next to computers and talked in hushed tones on their headsets.
I smiled at both the receptionists, waited my turn at the counter and glanced around. There was a small waiting area tucked into the corner with basic wood-like chairs and a few side tables with magazines. Cheap watercolor posters featuring soothing seascapes and knock off vintage prints of Santa Monica back in the day adorned the walls. A few folks read some weathered magazines. One man surfed the Internet on his iPhone. Another lady slumped forward and rubbed her temples with the heels of her hands.
The male receptionist concluded his call first and turned his attention to me. “How can I help you?”
“I have an appointment for the study.”
“Great.” He reached across the desk, grabbed a stack of paperwork attached to a clipboard and handed it to me. “Sign in on the roster. Fill this out and we’ll get you up and running. I’ll take your insurance card. Remember to print the name of the person and their contact information in case of emergency. You can have a seat over there.” He pointed to the waiting area.
I signed in, took a seat and started filling out the forms. “How long have you had symptoms?” A year and a half. “Please check the boxes next to the symptoms you have experienced.” Check. Check. Check. Check. Check. “Has anyone else in your family been diagnosed with this condition? If your answers is yes, please fill in your relationship to this person as well as if they are still living?” Yes. Grandmother. Very much alive. About a half hour later I finished filling out the mile-high pile of forms and stood at the counter watching Phil the receptionist enter my data into USCLA hospital’s system.
“Strange,” Phil said. “Looks like you already have an account and a chart with us.” He leaned in and squinted at his computer screen. “ER visit just last night.” He peered up at me, really looked at me for the first time, took in my face and winced. “Ouch. That must have hurt.”
“You should have seen the other guy.” I made a fist and flexed the bicep muscle in my arm.
Phil smiled. “We’ve got some really great plastic surgeons on staff here if you’re worried?”
“Nah. Everything’s healing. My face is going to be just fine. I j
ust want to get on with the important stuff.”
“Got it.” Phil typed a little bit more and hit enter. “Done and… done. Go down that hall,” he pointed, “to Room 342 on the left. Nurse Michaels will get you started. Good luck.”
“Thank you,” I said.
* * *
I sat in a small hospital room wearing an airy light blue hospital gown while Nurse Michaels attended to my every medical need. He took my blood pressure and my temperature. “Nothing to eat or drink since last night?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
He pricked my finger, drew a little blood and dropped it onto a slide. “How many days since your last menstrual cycle?”
“Five,” I said. “No, I’m not pregnant.” Unless I was the re-incarnation of the Virgin Mary.
He cinched a tube around my bare arm and tapped the underside of my elbow. “You have thin veins.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He found a good one and inserted a needle. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried not to make a face. “Did you get it?” I asked.
“Your veins have a tendency to roll,” he said. “Sorry. I’ll get it this time.”
I hoped so because my arm felt like a sausage in a casing that was too tight.
“Darn,” he said. “Third time’s the charm.”
I gritted my teeth and reminded myself to breathe.
* * *
I tried my best not to be nervous as gowned hospital techs wheeled me down the hall on a gurney. I already had an IV inserted into the back of my hand and an ID bracelet on my wrist as they rolled me into the operating room. It was a small white space with multiple box-shaped monitors craning down from the ceiling all focused at the operating table in the room’s center.
There was a crash cart with electric paddles should my heart decide to tank during the procedure. Stainless steel carts were filled with instruments. Large round lights beamed down on me like I was about to be interviewed for a TV show.
But I wasn’t. Instead I was about to have stem cells injected into my spinal cord in multiple locations.
A couple of techs helped transfer me from the cart to the operating table. “Hi, Sophie,” a friendly female voice said from behind a medical mask and goggles. “I’m Dr. Kristin Warren and I’ll be in charge of your anesthesiology today. You have to be absolutely still during the procedure so I’m going to knock you out for just a little bit. You won’t feel a thing. I promise.”
“Sounds good.” I gave her a thumbs up.
“Hello, Ms. Priebe.” A George Clooney type wearing a mask leaned down and must have been smiling because I spotted deep crinkle wrinkles etched next to his eyes. “I’m Dr. Goddard and I’ll be performing your procedure. Thank you for participating in this study. We’re hoping to help a lot of folks, just like you, in the future.”
“Thank you, Dr. Goddard.”
“Sophie,” Dr. Warren said, “I want you to start at ten and count backward.”
It was officially too late to turn back.
“Ten. Nine.” The lights on the ceiling wavered. “Eight.” I felt a little funny. “Sevvvv—”
* * *
I woke with a shudder in the recovery room on a skinny cot. My senses came back pretty quickly. The room smelled antiseptic, was painted white and accented with stainless steel carts and stands. A nurse asked me how I felt. Frankly, I felt surprisingly well—just a little achey on my back where I’d been injected.
“Can you roll onto your side?” she asked.
“Sure.” I gingerly turned over.
She pulled off the gauze and checked my injection sites. “They look good.” She placed a few cushy bandages over them. An assistant brought me orange juice and some crackers. Told me to rest for a bit longer and get dressed when I was ready. Just take it easy. Don’t over do anything for a couple of days.
“No problem,” I agreed. “I just have one simple thing I need to get done this afternoon.”
* * *
I sat on the hard, industrial plastic and metal seat next to a large unwashed window on a Blue Line Bus. I’d boarded at a main intersection on campus and headed toward Venice Beach, which technically wasn’t all that far away. I peered at a hard copy of the maps and schedules of L.A.’s bus routes that I’d grabbed from the Student Union.
There were about forty stops on the route. I knew from researching and Googling that traffic in L.A. was a fickle beast. The kind that when you lopped off one head, seven more materialized and took its place. Every blog I’d read about L.A. traffic said you couldn’t beat it, so it was simply best to leave early and arrive on time instead of screwing up all your important appointments.
My summer journey here involved a lot of important appointments. I’d just spent most of the day at my first. Getting admitted to the USCLA Stem Cell trial study for early onset multiple sclerosis was huge. I’d signed a butt load of paperwork promising, swearing, declaring, that I would not participate in any other healing modalities while I allowed USCLA doctors and their staff to pump me full of stem cells, draw vials of my blood several times a week and MRI my brain and spinal cord in order to monitor my progress.
But I’d already decided before I flew out here to break their rules. Because, while I’d had MS for only a year and a half, my Nana was diagnosed thirty years earlier. She’d been highly-functioning until she landed in a wheelchair five years ago. Don’t get me wrong. I was thrilled to be part of the stem cell research, but I really didn’t know how much time my grandmother had left. And I couldn’t just sit still, do nothing and lose her without a fight.
I was on a full-fledged journey to find help or healing for the both of us and nothing would stop me.
I planned on exploring the cornucopia of alternative medicines and treatments that could help stop the progression or even cure MS. Yeah, acupuncture and chiropractic were the basic standards and available everywhere—including Wisconsin. While it would have been fun to go to India or China to explore alternative healing—it would have killed my budget. That left L.A. as the closest and probably biggest mecca for unconventional therapies.
You named it—Los Angeles had it. There was acupuncture with dry cupping. Acupuncture with wet cupping. Shamans. Peyote. Vision Quests. Brujerias and their concoctions. Gurus: Eastern Indian. South American. North American. Sweat Lodges. Re-birthing. Cranio-sacral. Thai massage. Chinese massage. Yoga—every freaking variety. Shakti-fests in the desert. Ecstatic dancing. Oxygen chambers. Hyperbaric chambers.
* * *
The sun was sinking toward the horizon as I stepped off the bus in Venice at Lincoln and Brooks. I stood on the sidewalk next to Patsy’s Pet Store and Exotic Creatures Emporium, with an “Adopt a Kitten” banner in their window situated above a large cage filled with kittens. I pulled my handwritten directions from my purse but couldn’t resist leaning in and ogling the fur babies.
Some napped. An orange fluff ball wrestled a tabby in the too-cute-for-words kitten version of a WWE fight. One longhaired, fat, fuzzy black kitten toddled to the edge of the cage, put his paws up on the rungs, gazed at me determinedly through the window and meowed, which sounded like, “Eep.”
“I don’t care how cute you are. Someone will adopt you soon. Just not me,” I said. “I have too much to do in L.A.” The bus squelched clean-gas fumes in my face as it pulled away from the curb and teetered into bumper-to-bumper Lincoln Avenue traffic. I examined my directions.
Exit bus at Lincoln and Brooks. Check. Walk on Lincoln three blocks south to California Avenue. I walked. Check. I looked up at the Triple XXX Hot Porn Store that featured “Going Out of Business” banners in its murky tinted windows. Once again the all-mighty Internet was beating the tar out of local businesses and forcing mom and pop places to close. Times were changing. I was changing too. Turn right on California Avenue. Check.
I strolled another couple of blocks, rounded a few corners and, considering that I wasn’t the best with directions, still somehow found my way to my destination.
; The house was small with a tiny fenced-in yard overgrown with flowers in a rainbow of colors. Fat sparrows, hummingbirds and a few bees visited a fountain and a birdbath. I buzzed #2 on the security keypad next to the gate. A hand inscribed sign hanging from the gate’s entrance read, “Namasté. Please enter and leave QUIETLY so as not to disturb our neighbors.” I was beeped in, pushed the gate and entered QUIETLY just as I was advised.
* * *
Native-American dreamcatchers dangled from the latches on two small older windows that were cracked half way open. Sturdy metal bars painted a flaking white were bolted on the outside. No one was breaking in here without some effort.
I stood in a smallish living room furnished with bookshelves filled with books on healing, cultivating a positive attitude, as well as an impressive assortment of crystals. I wondered what I’d be dreaming about tonight while I waited for my appointment with Lizzie Sparks, medical intuitive extraordinaire.
A darker skinned woman with a bindi mark on her forehead wore yoga attire and a headset. She typed vigorously on her computer situated on top of an ergonomically designed Ikea desk, paused and smiled at me. “I’m Ms. Spark’s assistant. My name’s Indira. She’ll be with you soon….” She squinted at her computer then looked back up. “Miss Priebe?”
I nodded.
“Have a seat. Can I bring you some tea?”
“Oh, thanks. No, I’m fine. I got here a little early.” I sat down on a worn green vinyl couch and its tired seat springs squeaked in protest.
Indira nodded. “Good intuition on your part. Most first-timers arrive late. L.A. traffic.”
The Story of You and Me Page 3