MY BLOODY VALENTINE: CHAPTER 35

 

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Days pass like kidney stones. Dr. Oz is playing and so I think it must be around noon. I want to push the TV off the shelf. I hate how standardized it is. I hate how scheduled it is. I hate how predictable the entire process is. I hate that everyone on the TV is so happy and falsely charming and plastic. I hate them gazing out at me, into my house, not seeing me but trying to talk to me, give me advice, counsel me, imagining that they, the daytime teevees, know everything what the world is going through; the details, the minutia, the process.

My hormones are going off the wall and through the roof. My testicle (both my testicles) are missing and I’m angry and then I’m sad. I tell my mom that I love her and then I want to break a vase but only one that’s owned by a person that pronounces it vozz. I cover my head with a blanket and just want to be left alone in the silence. I want to paint my nails black, embrace death, and write gothic poetry about moonbeams, dark angels, and religious sacrifices. I shut my eyes and try to logically explain to myself that I’m not upset or happy or sad, it’s all hormones. It’s all just a chemical reaction in my brain and your brain is misfiring left and right. I would see a piece of vanilla cake and want to cut it with a knife . . . but not to eat it. I just want to hurt it because it’s pretty.

I begin to feel as though my emotions (like everything else) are outside of my control. Imagine you’re at your workplace and you’re doing a phenomenal job and you have been doing a phenomenal job for a year or two. You’re at the absolute top of your game, proud of your achievements and when raise time comes around, you go into your boss’s office and he fires you on the spot for not performing at company standards.

So, of course, you’re really mad. You’re furious at him and at the company. And that’s fine because those feelings are totally normal for that circumstance.

Now imagine you’re sitting on a beach and you’ve got the place totally to yourself, with nice weather, good food, a special someone. You sit back, pull out a beer, and then you feel that horrible flood of emotions mentioned above. They’re not tied to anything; there is no event, past or present. They just show up randomly and you want to hiss and fight.

When you lose control of your hormones, you lose control of yourself. You become a slave to their chemical whims and it’s very scary because it all happens at a moment’s notice.

So I stand up and coast slowly into the bathroom where I remove my shirt, pull out my AndroGel-steroid-hormone-medication pump (or, My New Testicles) and apply two full squirts of the gel onto my shoulder blades. It quickly dissipates into a sticky residue that I have to let dry on my skin, covering me in a thin sheen that “no one is allowed to touch under any circumstances. Doctor’s orders.”

I hobble back into the dining room just as Dr. Oz is ending and I stare at him with his chiseled features and his piercing eyes and his charming smile and voice like buttered bread and I say, “If I ever meet you, I’m going to bite your ear off,” and then it’s 12:30 and he’s gone and something else comes on and the television is just as predictable as—something unexpectedly moves past the living room window in a dark blur. It’s outside and it was quick but I saw it, whatever it was. I say, “Uh . . . Jade,” and she says, “Yeah?” and I look over at my mom and she says, very sheepishly, “What? What? Whaaaaaat?” and I say, “Who is here?” and Jade says, “Someone is here? I need to pick up the house!” and then I hear footsteps whose tone, weight, and cadence immediately harkens me back to my childhood. There’s a sudden knock on the door. It’s brief but with a level of force that I recognize.

When I see that both Jade and my mother are waiting for me to get up and answer the door, I simply do so vocally. “Come in!” The doorknob twists and in walk my sister and dad.

I stand up in a state of shock, my nipples hard from the cold air, my frame an old flannel on a wire hanger. My sister and dad approach me, both smiling, knowing they’ve surprised me. My sister reaches me first and throws out her arms but I jerk backward and throw up my hands as though I were fending off a mugger, screaming something that sounds like, “I-wahh-kooo!” which is not so much a word as it is a guttural noise that translates roughly to, “Don’t touch me, I’m wearing AndroGel Man Poison.”

I tell my sister that if she were to touch me she’d grow a mustache and so I instead stick out my arm, shaking hands with her. She stares at me and grips my hand and tears suddenly fill her eyes and I say, “Thanks for coming,” and she, never good with words but always full of emotions, croaks out, “Yes, yes, of course. Always. Anything. Wouldn’t miss it.” I release her hand and step around her to my father, who I’ve never seen eye to eye with. I stick out my hand and he embraces me and I say, “Thank you for coming,” and he says, “How do you feel?” and I say, “Good . . . . That’s a lie. I’m sick.” He releases me and I wander back to My Yellow Chair, slip down into it, cover myself up with a blanket and shut my eyes while my dad speaks, always in his precise and succinct military fashion.

“We drove all day yesterday and then all night. Stopped in a Kmart parking lot and slept for two and a half hours and then kept going. Made it from South Dakota to California in record time; twenty-one and a half hours!”

This is my dad. These are his passions. Personal time trials.

He asks what we want to do today and I shut my eyes and say, “This is it,” and he says, “You guys wanna go to the beach?” and I say, “No,” and he says, “Car museum?” and I say, “I can’t walk.” He purses his lips and I say, “Welcome to the suck.”

My dad sits down next to me, unfolds a newspaper, and begins to read. My sister sits at the table and texts her boyfriend. And so goes the rest of the day.

 

***   ***   ***   ***   ***

 

Cancer made me into an agoraphobic. I was afraid to go anywhere, everywhere, because, and I know I’ve probably mentioned this to death, my sudden trigger vomiting was so powerful and out of control that I was afraid I would be caught in public without access to a restroom. My home was my comfort zone and I didn’t want to leave it for fear of being caught in the open.

My home was my sanctuary.

The following day we go out for Mexican food and then to an early show of My Bloody Valentine in 3-D. For ninety minutes, I sit between my dad and sister and watch naked chicks get hacked to pieces. The movie was my choice and I regretted every minute of it. As the credits begin to roll I feel my stomach turn over and I stand up and say, “I think . . . I’m going to be sick,” and my mom says, “OK, we’re leaving,” and I say, “No . . . I’m going to be sick right now,” and people are sort of just shuffling in the aisles like lost sheep stupidly grazing and I’m about to heave and puke and when it happens I know, I can just feel it, that it’s not going to stop, it’s going to roll and wave and heave and push and pour and nothing within a 15-foot radius will be safe from my spray and so I shout the word, “MOVE!” and everyone does. Everyone in the entire row sits down or steps aside and I run with the undiscovered fusion energy of an atom bomb. I leap over laps, hurdle seats, lunge down stairs, race up the inclined aisle, marathon down the halls, find the restrooms, kick open the doors, push pass a group of people in line, shove past a man just entering the stall and just as I say, “Excuse m—“ it all comes up, red and yellow and brown and lumpy like potatoes, again and again and again, spittle and saliva and bile hanging from my lips and pouring from my nose. My hands clutch the handicap rails and I hate everything about this. I’m angry at myself for puking, for vomiting, for not being able to keep it together.

There’s a very internal struggle happening wherein I start to get very angry at myself and pick and peck and poke and say, “You pussy. You pussy. Get your shit together. Pull it together,” and I puke again and it’s cherry red and I don’t know what I’ve eaten but it just looks like more blood. I wish more than anything that I were just at home, back in the comforts of my four walls, my territory, my familiar space; back in My Yellow Chair, under my jacket; back on the couch, under a blanket; in my bed. Somewhere where “making a scene” is not considered “making a scene.”

You know you’re amongst close family when you can puke in front of them and they all just keep eating dinner like nothing happened.

I heave again and a tear runs down my face, dropping into the toilet. My stomach feels like it’s tearing open and I push my knuckles against the cold tile wall. My legs shake and I bend down, proposing to Queen Porcelain, my knees instantly soaking with the piss of strangers.

I hate what I’ve become.

I hear a door open and I dry heave and cough and dry heave and cover my hand over my mouth and wipe my lips on my sleeve and push my face into my shoulder and I just want to weep. I hate being such a convalescent. I am twenty-six years old. I should be in peak health!

There’s a tap on the bathroom stall and my dad says, “Are you OK?” and I say, “No . . . but . . . yeah. I’ll be out in just a minute,” and he says, “OK,” and then I hear him take a few steps away from the door and wait.

My father and I have never been emotionally close and so I anticipate him waiting for me in the hallway, taking the extra ten steps and giving me that “casual privacy” you would offer to someone who is sick. But instead he sits on the sink and waits and suddenly the bathroom isn’t so bad.

 

 

 

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