Hey Siri

“Hey Siri, where’s the nearest QT?”, I pleaded, hoping that he would complete my request speedily. (By the way, my Siri is a man and he’s from Australia) 

Siri answered, “The nearest QT is 2.1 miles to your east and gets 4 stars. Would you like that one? 

“Yes! Yes, I would like that one very much.” I had been holding my bladder for at least an hour as I packed up my final belongings. Or should I say, all that would fit in my Jeep. I ended up leaving a little of this and a little of that in almost every room of my flat. It was inevitable. Still I waited until the very last moment to find a new place, much like I waited ‘til the last second to find a restroom. Procrastinate much? I pulled into the QT and parked on the left side. The left side is where the women’s restrooms are at 99% of QT stores, men’s are on the right. How do I know which side is women’s? That’s probably what you are thinking. I knew it because other than my personal restroom, I only use QT. Is this strange? Well, I am a strange person but that is an entirely different subject. Now, where were we? 

I rushed into the left side entrance and almost barreled over an elderly woman exiting the restroom. Disoriented for a moment, I apologized and went in to handle my business. Since my hysterectomy, my bladder has been on the fritz. I never really know if I need to go or not until it hits, but then there are times when I think it is an emergency only to find out that it’s actually two drops. 

This isn’t how I imagined my 50s would be. I had a grand plan, you see. At 49, I was living the dream…or the nightmare, however you want to look at it. You can decide at the end. I worked my way through the ranks starting as a middle school math teacher to 25 years later being the head principal of a large urban middle school. Within 6 weeks of being named principal (under hostile circumstances I might add), COVID 19 invaded Texas. When it popped up in China, I thought, “Here we go…another bird flu or maybe it’s pigs this time.” I called a staff meeting on the Friday prior to Spring Break. I fielded as many questions as I could given the limited information provided by the district. The looming question was, will the district close to help prevent the spread of the virus. I gave the provided information with a wink and a smile all the while thinking that there is no way the district will close. Man, I sure missed the mark with that talk. We all know what ensued so I won’t write about it here. Let me just say that it was very eerie to be the only person in a building that accommodates 900 for months on end. Sort of like how Larry felt in Stephen King’s, “The Stand”. 

I turned 50 amidst the pandemic. If you had asked me then, I would have told you that I had the best job in the world. I loved going to work. I arrived before the sun and left after dark. I created so many spreadsheets that I had to create a spreadsheet to manage the spreadsheets. I was ready for the challenge of turning around a school that had been failing for decades. I made it through the remaining months of the pandemic year and the following fall like a champion. A real Rocky Balboa. I knew the answer to every question prior to it being asked, I had the best lawn of all the neighborhood schools, all the blinds in the building were at exactly 18 inches from the window sill, yes I was living the dream. Until I read the email. 

“Please use the link below to provide your vaccination status.” Shit. 

I had walked around like a chicken with its head cut off spouting that I would NEVER get a vaccine and now this. I could read between the lines. Basically, the school district is about to mandate that all leadership staff get the vaccine. Looking like a real ass, I scheduled the appointment and got the vaccine, then completed the form. I truthfully checked the box that said, “Yes, I am vaccinated.”  There. My middle name is compliance. I was the first principal in my cohort to be vaccinated. Being first is super important, at least it is to me. No one else probably gave two shits. 

Next thing you know, we all need boosters. I’m like, well let’s get ‘er done. I immediately scheduled mine and dutifully reported to the Texas Christian University parking lot where the shots were given in assembly line perfection. 

Within 24 hours of the booster vaccine, the bleeding started. I started my cycle 2 weeks early. Hmmm. Then my joints started aching, my head was pounding, and sunlight made me feel like a vampire. I went home and laid on the couch for the rest of the weekend, ordering Uber Eats (with dessert) and not even leaving to feed my Starbucks habit. One hundred days later, I was still on my cycle. 

My doctor advised a hysterectomy, elective but highly suggested. My blood tests were showing severe anemia, even my red blood cells were half formed.  The doc said that robot assisted surgery would be the way to go. Robot assisted surgeries help the patient to heal and get back to their daily lives faster than traditional surgery. That’s what he said. I am so fucking gullible. I didn’t even Google it. 

Let me get to the chase right here. I had the robot assisted hysterectomy in June during summer break. I woke up in the ICU 7 hours later. I was very confused because my doctor told me it would be a 3 hour surgery and I would be going home that night. Lucky for me, I had a morphine drip. You gotta love those. Three days later, I am still at the hospital albeit in a regular room. I could not urinate. I gave it my all but it just wouldn’t happen. This was a red flag but then I assured myself that if it was terrible, someone would surely tell me. My doctor came in on the third evening. The nurse happened to be in my room at the time. His normally pale white cheeks were flaming red. His brows were scrunched. Angry would have been an understatement. He yelled at…well at me, I think. 

“What are you doing here?”

I had no answer. He turned to the nurse, pointed at me and asked the same of her. She said that I was unable to urinate so they had not released me. It was the weekend you see, so he must have been chilling at home with his feet up and patients being the last thing on his mind. He responded in a manner that put me off. 

“Send her home anyway, with a catheter!” 

Okay, what???

First of all, he told me during consultation that this would be easy peasy. I would wake up in 3 hours, go home,  and, “...just be a little sore.” 

Negative. Ghost. Rider. 

I went home with the catheter. I couldn’t get out of bed because of the pain, pain meds, and the bag hanging out of me. A week later, my sister drove me to the doctor’s office to have the catheter removed. I don’t think that the doctor had a protocol for this. He filled my bladder using a sterile catheter. Once it was filled, I looked at him as he sat at the end of the table. My legs were up, perfectly framing his shocked face. I asked him what we would do next and felt a panic when he just sat there silent. Finally, the nurse said,”Go to the restroom across the hall! 

There I was half naked. I had to pee like a racehorse and was terrified that I wouldn’t be able to go. I took off across the hall like The Flash. Nurses and other patients looked with shocked amazement as my white ass disappeared into the restroom and…it worked!! I could finally go on my own again. Awesome. It was June 22nd and I was finally on the road to recovery…or so I thought.

I started walking every day, slow and steady. Not far, something like a mile a day spread out into several small outings. I was in pain, like 7 out of 10. The internet assured me that it was fine. Maybe I was just a pansy? I kept on walking. 

So, there I was about a half mile from home when a gush of liquid ran down my legs and onto the path. Urine? That was my first thought. Great, I now need adult diapers. I waddled home and checked my underwear. It was pink water.  Did my water break? No, duh. I’m not pregnant, I don’t even have a uterus for Christ’s sake. I called the doctor. Have you guessed what happened yet? Probably so if you are in the medical field.

The internal stitches came loose and I was one sneeze away from spilling my guts. Literally. I was rushed to the hospital, given all kinds of antibiotics intravenously, and was vomiting yellow highlighter all over the hospital room and the nurse. Another surgery. This was 2 days before I was supposed to return to work. Panic. Set. In. 

After the second surgery, I developed a seroma and a hernia. I was able to urinate on my own but I had no idea WHEN I needed to go. That switch was broken, I guess.

Now, I am sure you are thinking,”What does this have to do with packing up and moving? Where does QT fit in?”

I returned to work 2 days after the second surgery. I was in so much pain that I was close to passing out. I couldn’t walk more than 100 yards and I couldn’t sit upright for longer than 90 minutes. My school janitor brought in a recliner for me to use in the conference room. All my staff were supportive and compassionate. But still, I was hanging on by a thread. 

During this time, I got a new boss. He didn’t know me, though I had been in the district for 27 years by this time. He was rough around the edges…screaming, banging on the table, continually emailing or texting that I must get to 100% health because the school deserved a principal that was “not sick all the time”. During principal meetings, he expected me to sit and listen for hours. He expected me to walk the length of my school building which is almost a linear mile. The pressure was so intense that I snapped. 

I mean exactly that. I was at work and in pain. So that you can grasp what I am saying, it felt like I was going to explode. The pressure in my abdomen was visible through my clothes. I felt dizzy and nauseous. My boss stopped by the school to harass me some more. Over the school radio, I heard that there is a fight in the gym. He heard it too. 

He looked at me and said, “You see. This school needs a healthy principal. The fight is your fault.” 

I left the conference room and headed to the nurse’s office. I was told one of the children had been injured. I walked in to see a little girl, by little I mean petite for 12 years old. There was blood running into her eyes and off of her chin, making a blood puddle on the tile floor. You may not believe this but,  I heard and felt a click in my brain. It was like a switch had flipped. The breaker box of my brain was smoldering. The school nurse was talking but I couldn’t hear her. The lights were too bright, my ears were full of buzzing bumble bees. Without another word, I turned for the door. The nurse was still talking I assumed, but I couldn’t understand what she was saying. It was the Tower of Babble, because all I could hear was blah blah blah. Like the undead, I walked to my office, grabbed my laptop and other personal belongings, and walked blank faced to my car. People spoke to me as I made the trek to my parking spot, newly painted in yellow that read, “Principal”. 

I felt nothing but the overwhelming urge to be in my bedroom with the door locked. I lived and still live alone so why lock the door? Hell. I have no idea. But I did just that. 

I made one call, that was to human resources. I told them in a monotone voice that I was going on leave for 3 weeks. That was November. My mother, with whom I had not spoken to in over ten years, died in December. Winter holidays came and went. I stayed locked in my room, coming out only for food. Dishes piled in the sink. My friends and family sent messages and emails. I could not respond. Well, I could have. There was nothing wrong with my hands. But mentally, I absolutely couldn’t. 

My boss messaged me to ask if I was coming back after the holiday. I didn’t respond to him. Instead I sent an email to HR. “I will need more time”, I wrote. Yes, I could come back after Spring Break. That’s what I told them in January. Repeatedly, I went back to the doctor with symptoms of pain, anxiety, and depression. I was having panic attacks almost daily. He did everything short of rolling his eyes to dismiss my symptoms. He seemed to exude, “You are faking sick.” No, motherfucker, this is really happening, isn’t it? Maybe I am crazy?

I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist just to make sure that I wasn’t losing my mind. After the first consultation she advised that I not return to work that school year, so I quit. Fast forward exactly one year. 

I can’t really remember most of last year. I didn’t celebrate any holidays. I ghosted every single person I knew except for my family. Some of them were ghosted too. My brother was diagnosed with cancer and had his jaw replaced with his leg bone. He, like me, was single and lived alone. I found the motivation to help him through his health issues and in turn it helped me to realize that I was not on an island.

 The person that I was had died. So now, who am I? 

I was a principal. I had relationships. I loved my work. It all evaporated and I am left with me. 

In the ensuing months, I adopted a puppy and soon realized that she needed her own backyard. We packed up, taking only things that I could carry and of course only what would fit in my car, and we moved to the Piney Woods of East Texas, grouchy bladder in tow.