The first time she was brought to the emergency room an ambulance took her, and because she later learned that was costly she started taking taxis and Ubers.
Strange how she was alone when the accidents happened. No witnesses to back up her answers to nurses and doctors. But then, the fact that the accidents kept happening was strange by itself. She hadn’t been this clumsy before.
Sometimes she’d see the same medical professionals at the hospital, like going to a coffeeshop often enough the barista recognized you and got to know your beverage order. But the medical staff worked long shifts sprinkled through the weeks, so she wasn’t guaranteed to always see the same people.
Still, they saw her records. And in every visit, questions were asked: “Is someone abusing you?” (Would they ask that if she was a man?) “Where you drunk? High on drugs? Do you sleepwalk?”
No, she insisted. No, no, no. The lack of alcohol was proven when she exhaled into a breathalyzer. Blood tests proved the lack of drugs in her body.
“Are you feeling off-balance?” a doctor asked.
No, she said.
They thought something might be wrong with her brain. They slid her into an MRI tunnel and pummeled her with loud, cranky noises (loud even through the earplugs). Later, a doctor said her brain’s images looked fine.
The doctors were perplexed by her once-a-month visits to the emergency room, but surely not as perplexed as her. They didn’t experience the pain of falling down a flight of stairs in an office building. Or dropping a pot of steaming water and just boiled spaghetti noodles on her leg. Or badly cutting her hand while chopping vegetables.
She wondered if an angry ghost in her apartment had pushed her arm to make her drop the pot of water and slice her own hand. The idea was ridiculous. Even if true, what had she done to piss off a ghost? And a couple accidents happened away from her apartment. Did the ghost follow her?
Another ridiculous idea: write poems. She didn’t know why the thought came to her. She didn’t write or read poetry. Not since high school, when teachers had assigned the class to read poems by white men who died centuries ago. Now in her mid-twenties, she held no interest in reading poetry.
Except, she bought a notebook and started to write poems of her emotions and observations. Like keeping a journal. Her entries were short. They had broken sentences, which felt appropriate. She kept the notebook in her purse, so she could jot lines during breaks at her office job and home.
Hurt, fixed, hurt, fixed
a human pincushion
punishment for what?
What have I done?
Seeing her frustrations written on paper made her feel a little lighter. As if pouring some liquid out of a frothing pitcher.
Returning home after work one day, she slipped on the rug while walking across the living room. As she landed awkwardly, something popped in her wrist, followed by lightning pain. The sort of pain that sneered at the over-the-counter bottle of pain reliever in her medicine cabinet.
She fumed in the taxi, then while checking in at the emergency room. Previously, while waiting with the other ill and injured, she had scrolled through social media on her phone. This time, she brought out her notebook and was glad her right wrist wasn’t the aching one. She could use her dominant writing hand.
Beneath sharp lights
by beeping blinking machines
I’m grateful for care
given by nurses,
angels with wings
tucked under colorful shirts.
By the time she was escorted to the examination sections, she had written a few short poems about the hospital and the people working there. The familiar nurse—Sarah—shook her head when she saw the frequent patient. Studying the injured wrist, Sarah decided it was sprained and not fractured. Sarah slid a splint around her wrist and forearm and said to ice the area and take anti-inflammatory medicine.
The patient tore off a notebook page with a poem and gave it to a surprised Sarah. For you, she said. Sarah smiled while reading it. Other poem-pages were given to other nurses and to Michaela, who checked people into the emergency room. She liked leaving the small poems in her wake.
A month came and went without her going to the hospital. A relief. But she told herself not to get too optimistic. And she kept writing poems.
After the second and third hospital-free months, her optimism grew. As did the amount of her poems.
Dave Williams writes fiction (and sometimes poetry) in his spare time, when he isn’t working his main job as a graphic designer. He has self-published a novel, a few novellas, and collections of stories and poems. He lives in Maryland with his wife, two daughters (when they’re home from college), and two cats.
His books are available on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/author/davewilliamsbooks/
His blog is at https://davewilliamswriter.wordpress.com/
Image from vitalworks on Pixabay
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