Day 13

January 12
4:30 pm

Even though it’s still daytime, I’ve just dragged myself out of bed to come meet Annelies. She’s actually gotten out of the Fast Track on time, for once, and I got out of the Urgent Care even earlier, and we are feeling jubilant. Annelies and I are big proponents of afternoon drinking and nothing says celebration to either of us like a workday that ends when it’s supposed to.

But I’m beginning to realize, in that slow-on-the-uptake way in which it usually happens in my life, that I may actually be getting sick. After my afternoon meeting I came home and crawled into bed, which I never do in the daytime, setting my alarm clock for about eight minutes before we’d agreed to meet up. Jubilant or not, I’m feeling a bit like I’ve gotten mauled by an 18-wheeler as I walk inside.

Annelies is perched on a barstool close to the door, drinking Chimay and reading the Offbeat, and the dusty yellow sunrays pour in through the high windows behind her and bounce off the little pieces of silverish thread in her scarf. Beneath the lustrous glittery textured aqua scarf, which is wrapped around her shoulders as though she’s a queen, Annelies is wearing a black hoodie, nondescript jeans, and these motorcycle-y boots that I’m pretty sure she’s had since we first met, about six years ago. On her, this combination looks not only beautiful but natural, as though clothes like these were always meant to be worn together.

My head is pounding. I order a Jameson but there isn’t any, and even though I feel strongly that whiskey will make me feel better, I’m not thinking straight and I end up with a Smithwicks in front of me, which is perfect in some ways but terrible in others, like the way eating chocolate feels when you’re nauseated.

Annelies and I are telling the beautiful and hilarious and random and heartbreaking stories of our patients: the sweet sad old man who came to the ER because he’s been fainting every day—literally fainting, every single day—for the past year; the guy who said “the Holy Spirit” when I asked him what brought him in today; the tall, strikingly beautiful manic woman who came in asking for Vicodin refills and then jumped off the bed, gave me a cheerful hug, and said “That’s okay! Thank you so much, baby,” when I told her we didn’t really refill narcotics in the Urgent Care.

A man who looks like Santa Claus walks in and sits right next to me, opening up his Macbook on the counter. He orders a Budweiser and keeps it in his hand, underneath the bar by his knees, like he doesn’t want anyone to see it.

Daylight’s disappearing, and the bar’s getting shadowy. Another Chimay appears in front of Annelies. There’s bouncy Irish jig music on overhead, and I massage my temples and try to concentrate on what we’re talking about. We strategize about whether or not Annelies should go to Haiti for a little while. Halfway into my Smithwicks I can’t drink any more, and I switch to club soda with lime. I rest my head on the cool surface of the bar.

Annelies gets up to go the bathroom. The Santa Claus man turns in my direction, and I nod and look somewhere else. Usually, I love talking to strangers, but today I feel completely incapable of doing anything other than sitting, right here, and maybe breathing every now and then.
“I can’t check my email!” the man declares.
“Really,” I say.
I’m starting to hallucinate, which tells me a full-on migraine isn’t far off. What am I doing here, I ask myself.
“My daughter’s getting married.” He shakes his head, like this is a lot to take in. “Oh, Lord. I just love her so much.” He sighs, puts his forehead into his palm.
I feel my heart soften a little. “That’s awesome that she’s getting married,” I say.
He nods sadly. “I hope I get to go.”
Now I’ve got a ton of questions to ask, migraine or no, but then Annelies comes back from the bathroom and we start talking about other stuff, which, ultimately, I’m glad about. I’m too nonfunctional to be making new friends today.

I’m supposed to leave for journal club in a few minutes. It’s in Metairie, a trek I dread under the best circumstances, but tonight, with a migraine, the drive will be utter torture.
“Don’t go,” Annelies suggests.
“Okay,” I say.

I will end up going to her house where she will feed me a delicious perfect comforting dinner, and between that and the medicine I will begin to feel better, and I’ll end up home early, in sweatpants, surrounded by stacks of novels and drinking fire cider. In the morning I’ll wake up to news of the devastation of Haiti, and between the cracks in my little heart I’ll also think, “Weird-we were just talking about Haiti,” and somehow, strangely, this will remind me again how we are all ultimately much more connected to each other than we realize.

But for now that’s all yet to happen, and now we’re settling our tab and getting ready to go, and the music’s too much, and even the lights on the tips of people’s cigarettes are too much, and as we get up to leave I barely avoid running straight head-on into the Mohawk guy, who’s walking in the door as we’re walking out.

“Whoa! Sorry,” he says, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to say back.
“How you doing,” I reply.

I need to get out of here.