Alternative

November 23, 2008 at 12:12PM

She calls me a couple days later and asks if I want to meet her at the hospital, grab something in the cafeteria or take a walk. Said she felt like she needed a breather, something to distract her.

Leaving school early, heading towards the hospital.

None of this feels real. I don't know when it's going to feel real or what that even means.

I remember the last time I was at this hospital. Memory comes back quickly. I can feel it in my chest. Grade eleven. The beginning of the school year. Maybe a year after the concussion. I was having these weird sensations, like feeling my heartbeat really loud in my ear, a cold feeling in my spine and weird, quick headaches, and I became convinced that something was seriously wrong. In the midst of a severe headache, I biked down to the hospital in a dizzying panic, went straight to the ER, and told them I needed to see a doctor immediately.

After a three hour wait, someone eventually agreed to see me. I asked for a cat scan—I'd had one after my concussion. Basically, it gave the doctors a picture of your brain, something where they could clearly identify issues. I was given a clean bill of health last time I had one of the scans, but with all the new symptoms I was having, I was convinced they'd find something seriously wrong with my brain and then hopefully perform some kind of life-saving operation. A cat scan was the best way of determining exactly what was wrong, really the only way. But they didn't want to give me one. They said it was expensive and that I seemed totally fine, that it was all in my head. I was relentless though, telling them that they had to believe me, that it absolutely was not in my head: I mean it was in my head, but not in the way that they were thinking. All of these symptoms were totally real, and I felt like I was going to die unless someone did something about it. They were doctors and they knew how to do this stuff. They were my only hope.

After what felt like five hours of waiting, they finally agreed to give me the scan.

I lay down on this white, cushioned table that covered the top half of my back, and this giant semi-circle tube ran up and down my head, taking pictures, like an X-ray. Lying on that white table was the calmest I'd felt all night. Whatever the prognosis, it was being taken care of; I wouldn't have to live in uncertainty, imagining all the different horrible things that could be happening to me with no one doing anything about it.

About an hour later, they told me the results: There was nothing abnormal on the scan. As far as they were concerned, I was perfectly healthy. I felt incredibly peaceful that night, lying in bed, knowing that I was okay, that my worst fears weren't true.

I guess I kind of liked hospitals, which was probably a little weird. There was just something so comforting about them. No matter what was wrong with you, it was going to be dealt with. Or not, I guess. But that was its own kind of solution.

Beth is standing at the other end of the lobby when I walk in. And when I'm close enough, I hug her as tightly as I can.

She looks exhausted and feels brittle in my arms. A quiet cry. It makes me tear up, too.

This stops eventually...her breathing slows, and we sit in silence for a few minutes.

When I ask her if she's hungry, she says that all she really feels like eating right now is McDonald's cheeseburgers.

I buy a few from the cafeteria and we find a spot in the hospital courtyard to eat them. She seems dazed, like being suddenly forced to wake up after a long, uneasy sleep.

We chat about school, avoiding the subject of her mom. I think she desperately needs the mental break.

After two or three hardy bites of the cheeseburgers, she stops eating abruptly and says she's going to be sick. Rushing off to the bathroom, she leaves me with the remaining burgers, which I toss in the trash.

We walk outside for a bit in the little community garden. She tells me she threw up and feels a little better now.

"My nervous system is all out of whack right now... I really hate hospitals," she says.

A sting of guilt: hating hospitals was the appropriate way to feel.

"You could probably use a good night's sleep," I say.

"Yeah... I need to be here though."

I'm trying, but it feels like I'm always just teetering on the edge of being insensitive, of saying something catastrophically stupid. Because the truth of the matter is that I'm not really equipped for this. Part of me thought maybe I could learn how to be the right person for her to lean on during this, but what if Amanda doesn't make it? How the hell would I handle that?

Rather than risk saying another stupid, inappropriate, inconsiderate thing, I mostly just keep my mouth shut for the rest of the visit with her. Beth seems fine with it. She grabs my hand a couple times and lets it go after a few minutes... when it gets too sweaty, or when something distracts her.

I look over at her a few times and see tears come into her eyes again. I start feeling what she's feeling. 

It's too much. It's overwhelming.