Page 6 of Alarm Fatigue

Finishing my tea and washing out my mug, I reflect on how incredibly sudden Eli’s death was. To say we were all shocked does not do justice for how instantaneously our lives changed forever. One day, he was fine, with a vague stomach complaint that I later wished he had not tried to downplay or ignore.

That night when I took him to the emergency room in our hospital, leaving the girls home with Amalie, I remember feeling a little annoyed that I was spending our night off hanging out where we worked. He had a fever by then and we thought, okay, he has appendicitis or a bad gallbladder. Looking back, it took too long to get the CT scan. There was a problem with one of the machines and the technician was running behind. By the time the radiologist had read it, called the ED physician and surgery had been paged, Eli was the color of clay and had become diaphoretic with pain. He was already in real danger and deep down, a part of me knew that. The CT result had shown that the blood supply for Eli’s bowels had been disrupted and the diminished blood supply was causing his bowel to die within in him.

I heard it overhead when they called a code blue to the operating room. I was hoping it was someone else, while feeling guilty for thinking that way—wishing that harm on another person, another family. Part of me knew, however, that it was Eli, but still part of me hoped for a different outcome. My hope was in vain.

When my friend, James, who had been the surgeon on call that night, came out to the waiting area looking like he would rather have died himself than come out to speak with me, part of me was not surprised. Eli had become unstable just before he was rushed to surgery. His heart rate was too high and his blood pressure was so low. At the same time it was all incredibly surreal. I was simultaneously astounded and yet facing what I had known was inevitable the moment that Eli had been in so much pain he became distracted from being himself.

A tear rolls down my face as I remember standing there, feeling more badly for James that he could not save his friend, than for myself in that moment.

That was the night I thought my life was over. I suppose, wiping my tears not for the first or last time, in a way it was. That part of my life, where I got to be a loving wife and a partner with my best friend, that part was over. Yet, Eli and I had built a foundation on which I was able to form an entirely new life.

The girls were only teenagers when Eli died. The most challenging part for me was facing that I had lived in the emotional safety of being his partner rather than continuing to work on myself. As much as I had to grieve the loss of a man that I had loved so deeply, I also had to face that Eli made my life easier than it had been without him. The parts of me that had been so broken or wounded, he knew how to soothe them with a mere look or a gentle touch. He had made so much space for me to learn to accept being loved. Our mistake, the one that nearly toppled all that had been built, was that he also did not challenge me, so that I had not really grown for quite some time. When he died, I was left feeling like a teenager myself, raising our girls. Luckily, I had Amalie, my sister of chance and choice, if not of blood.

Amalie has always been by my side. From the moment we had met at summer camp, it was if we were fated to be the best of friends. Her lovely parents even took me in after my mother had died and my father had become too abusive for me to continue living with him. She was there for me and the girls when Eli died in ways I do not think I would ever be able to pay back.

Amalie would get me into the shower when I did not even know how to start my day. Groceries would appear in the refrigerator and pantry like magic and lunches for the girls would be made just the way they liked them. When Lila was in the school play that month, her costume was sewed, which I am quite certain Amalie paid someone to do for her. When the girls fretted over a bad hair day, Amalie was there to braid it for them creatively, or attack it with a curling iron. Everything I did not have the energy to handle she took care of without complaint. Amalie was in our lives ready for anything and everything we could possibly need while I learned to build a new version of myself to face the world without Eli.

As much as I know she is on my side, I am debating revealing the fact that I had a dream about Mark to her. Part of me wants to run that I dreamt about him by someone, because what does that even mean? At the same time, however, I really want to pretend the dream never happened. Thankful I cannot remember the details of it, I hope that I will forget it happened altogether. The fact that the dream happened at all is what is getting under my skin. Discussing it with Amalie would be a relief but also would make it too real. It is nothing I have to decide right now, since it is the middle of the night, in any case.

While Mark certainly challenges me, I am not sure that is what I am looking for or wanting in my life. In fact it seems to be the opposite of what I want, if anyone is to go by the way I have carefully orchestrated my life to be one of safety and comfort. Of course, just because he is hot and clearly I have some type of chemical attraction to him, is a moot point. It will never matter if I am physically attracted to him, as he has made it is very clear that he cannot stand me. He has made that fact obvious from the first moment I met him. The small mischievous part of me which continues to exist, no matter how much I try to suppress it, is intrigued at the idea of a man that would be so very different for me. But, at the end of the day, it does not matter since he loathes me.

At this point I can admit that I am wide awake now and decide to go back to the den. So much for the melatonin.

After forty-five minutes of previews and adding more shows and movies to my to-be-watched lists than I could ever possibly have time for, I settle back to watch one of my most favorite episodes of cozy TV ever. Watching Noah Reid and Daniel Levy slow dance for the hundredth time through joyful tears…I cannot help but recognize that Patrick’s character does challenge David, even if it is in the most loving way. Interesting.

With my favorite television couple on my mind, I pause the television and go back to the kitchen to pour myself a glass of wine. Even cozy TV is making me face some hard truths about myself tonight. I have only been on one date—that was not even a real date by any definition I would use—and my life is already thoroughly unsettled. One partial horrible date and I am full-on experiencing dreams that leave me breathless, with insomnia and early morning/late-night wine drinking.

Thinking that I am more than likely getting a migraine tomorrow I decide I might as well enjoy myself now. I head to the pantry and raid the semi-sweet baking chocolate chunks and pour a cup of it into a cereal bowl. I grab a tray and put my wine in a mug next to my bowl of chocolate. Cursing Mark Levy’s perfectly sculpted forearms and shoulders, I pull the cheese out of the fridge and cut a few slices and grab some crackers to boot. I take my spoils back to the den where the cats are deeply asleep in their beds. I turn the heating pad back on, and, going back to the television, I exit out of that particular episode and start the series from episode one.

In for a penny, I think.

Chapter 5

Nothing is penetrating my hangover or my sense of impending doom. My mouth is thoroughly parched, as if I had been snoring all night, and the back of my throat feels as if it is lined with sandpaper. With the foresight of a nurse that has made questionable choices on more than one occasion, I did put two water bottles on the bedside table to help transition myself back to the land of the living today. I have already consumed them but I cannot seem to drink enough water to compensate for the raisin-like state I am in. Living for the moment last night, I certainly enjoyed myself, but the reality of how queasy, volume-depleted and exhausted I feel now makes it clear that it was not entirely worth it. I would curse the version of myself that felt alcohol and full fat cheese was appealing enough to eat and drink a week’s supply in one night, but it seems as if the curse is already upon me in the form of my bankrupted physical state. It is rare for me to put myself through this, however when I do, I marvel at the fact that my father woke up feeling like this way nearly every day of his adult life. No wonder he had a short temper.

After hitting the snooze button repeatedly for an hour, I brave getting up out of bed around 4:00 pm to face the night ahead of me. Employing my usual routine of prayer, meditation and strong Irish Breakfast tea, I try to settle down into my body again. Continuing to feel as though I am crackling with raw energy, I decide that what I need to do now is go for a run. My nerve endings feel untethered and I am a bit anxious about how work will be tonight. I am particularly worried about whether or not I will be working with him. At least I did not wake up with a headache. I will take my blessings where I can find them.

I get my running gear on and head out. It is another muggy afternoon in our nation’s capital, and therefore it feels at least fifteen degrees warmer than it actually is. I instantly break into a sweat despite the cool temperature and it feels cathartic. I get into my rhythm and start to feel the internal quiet that can only happen for me with physical activity. As I follow one of my usual routes, the peace building in my mind seems to solidify. However, what the night might bring and the possibility that I will be in involuntary proximity to Mark is seems to be hovering just ahead of me on the trail, encroaching on my attempt at serenity.

The doctors’ schedule is posted on the wall at work, rather than online, so I have no idea who will be there tonight. Working with Mark was already a pain in the ass, and now it has the potential to be more awkward than I can easily imagine. In thinking of Mark, my mind turns bitter as I resentfully picture him, completely unbothered by our “date” and waking up next to some younger, hotter woman than I ever have been. You are just assuming he sleeps around, you do not know that he is that type of person, I chastise myself. It is too late, however, and as my feet hit the pavement I imagine Mark and this fictitious woman in the throes of passion. In doing so I do not focus on the sidewalk ahead of me and I trip on a broken piece of concrete, nearly falling in the process. Catching myself just in the nick of time, my poor heart rate has risen to an undetectable speed. My fantasy of Mark turns into a day mare in which I have fallen and broken my hip like a proper elderly lady, and he is my doctor explaining to me that this is a sentinel event and that my mortality has just increased significantly. I need to get my mind off all of this. Admitting to myself that I cannot seem to stop obsessing about Mark, I put my ear buds in for the rest of the run to drown my brain out with angry nineties alt rock blaring in my ears.

After the run I felt more centered, but as I pull on my scrubs, the apprehension is rebuilding within me. This is exactly why I did not want to do this dating thing. I do not need this drama in my life. I huff in frustration to myself as I put together some snacks for my 3:00 am meal that I refer to as lunch. My huff sends Minerva scurrying across the kitchen, which makes me laugh out loud. She does not have much in common with her namesake, the goddess of military prowess. This Minerva is one that is scared of her own shadow.

As I finish packing my food I see that, as usual, I have made too much for me possibly to eat. My problem over the years is that I could never get out of the habit of making food for a family of five. I send Hannah home with little packages of food all the time, but the issue is what I do with the rest of it? Growing up there were times we did not have enough to eat, and as a consequence I keep my pantry too full for one person. I have paid a fortune for therapy to figure this out, but the acknowledgement of the why behind my behavior does nothing to curb it. A decent cook, I always want to finish what I’ve made. So I eat, I work nights and once I turned forty, my metabolism slowed to a snail’s pace. Add to that a period of depression after the environment at work shifted during COVID, and now I am chronically twenty pounds heavier than I probably need to be. I know I should be more modern and happier with myself as I am, but the inner critic is strong in me. I know I can thank my dear father for that.

Seriously, what kind of man tells his only child that she is ugly? My father did take insulting others, particularly my mother and me, to the next level. It was not that he would merely criticize me with name-calling or by pointing out my faults, because that would be too straightforward. He absolutely did those things as well, but he also had a way of building up to what could be a potential compliment only to pull the rug out from under me. I remember a time we were at lunch and I was an awkward eleven year-old and he said that I was reminding him of his sister in that moment. It was something I had said, and he said, the way you said that, you remind me of my sister, Sarah. He then proceeded to talk in great detail about how beautiful his sister was. When he finished, I then asked what I thought was the logical next question. I asked if I looked anything like his sister. He then laughed at me, loud enough that other people would look over at us, and said something along the lines of: You wish you could look anything like her. She was beautiful while you have to know that you are not. You do look in the mirror, right? Truly, the less I could say or interact with him, the better off I was.

A lifetime of that messaging has proven too entrenched to undo. If my father was to believed, my nose was too big, my eyes too small, and my features too plain to be interesting. I was too flat chested and then later, I was too buxom. Thank God, Eli would never comment on his daughters’ appearances in that way. His unconditional love meant we were all his beautiful women. For me, Eli healed as much of my pain as he could. It was Eli looking me in the eye, swearing to my beauty in our most intimate moments, that helped me grow into some form of self-acceptance…but even after years of that, I could only come to believe that I was beautiful to Eli, as if there may be something wrong with his perception. Beyond that, what did it matter? He was my husband and so I thought I would never have to think about it again. Currently, it really does not seem to matter at all.

Except that, for the first time in a really long time, it does seem to matter tonight in a way that I am not sure I am entirely comfortable with. I mean, what do I care what Mark Levy thinks about me, let alone what he might think about how I look? He may not even be at work tonight. Putting all of that aside, he has made it clear time and time again that he cannot stand to be anywhere in my vicinity. So whether or not I look appealing to him does not seem to be of any significance. Therefore, I am surprised to catch my reflection in the magnifying mirror that I am required to use if I want to see my own eyes while I put on mascara, of all things. I try to pretend it has nothing to do with who I might see at work and everything to do with the fact that Hannah made me buy this completely overpriced cosmetic and I will not let it go to waste.

I toss a romance novel in my backpack with my lunch, extra glasses, chargers and my water bottle. I think back to the ill-fated date and wonder if my recollection of it is entirely correct. It seemed to me that I briefly unnerved Dr. Levy with my too-red lips and form-fitting blue sweater. Looking back on that moment, it was so brief that I cannot be sure it was real or just my wishful thinking. Not that I want Mark to look at me that way, I just enjoy the notion that I may have disturbed him. As I reflect, I recall feeling that for once, I made him uncomfortable, instead of the other way around. It was like a mini power trip, a micro-revenge against a man who made my professional life unbearable at times. I doubt I will be able to recreate that moment, if it was even real, with my baggy scrubs and a little mascara. Meaning there is no way he will give me a second glance again, is there? I look over at the red lip stain that Hannah had encouraged me to purchase for my date. What in the hell am I doing? I cannot wear that to work. I run out the door, lock up and look back at my two cats who are peering at me from the front window.

Continuing what was working for me earlier, I am listening to Zack de la Rocha rap-singing about the evils of capitalism at top volume as I pull into the hospital garage. It is a relatively short drive, and I am distracted as I pull into a spot on the lower level while none other than star of my dreams and day mares takes that exact moment to materialize right in front of me. Dr. Mark Levy has pulled into the space opposite me in his own vehicle just as I park, because of course he does. In theory, I refuse to feel embarrassed about our horrible meet-cute because I did nothing wrong. Except in real life, my willpower is no match for my half-Irish blood and I feel the flush of my cheeks rise from my clavicle to my hairline. I pretend to be searching for something in my car as I feel his gaze on the crown of my head. Stop blushing, I try to command myself. The fierceness of my blushing feels like the exact opposite of having power over him. Since chastising myself about the physical manifestation of my discomfort does not ever work, I then start to beg Mark, in my mind, to leave the garage so I can collect my dignity from somewhere in the interior of my vehicle.

When I finally look up, he has gone and I am able to gather my things together without his gaze upon my person. I steel my resolve, grab onto my backpack straps like they are the harness of a rollercoaster, and march forward into the night shift.

Chapter 6

---