My Nine Lives

This is the time when I roll over and snuggle in on my stomach, but I need to find the source of my irritation first. Gliding my hand over silky smooth satin sheets, I search for a blaring siren demanding compliance, but I can’t find it. Finally, I slide my index finger across the screen, again. My eyes are refusing to open because sleep is gluing them together. Not today, please, it’s Saturday.

 In frustration I grab the phone and tuck it underneath the pillow. This should muffle the annoying sound next time around, but by now I think I’m out of snoozes. I’ve gladly counted them.  Before my head hits the pillow again a gaping yawn shoots warm, tickling spray from the back of my throat. I huff the yawn out, smack my cracking lips and defiantly wrap myself back inside the comforter.

Rubbing the side of my head into the pillow is the last thing I remember. A blast has sounded off right next to my ear. All my nerve endings tingle in shock. I leap off the bed, eyes bewildered, gritty, white drool caked onto the side of my mouth and understanding that I must now take full control of my bladder to get to the bathroom in time! Blinding yellow glare beaming in through my bedroom window becomes an instant headache. Forget about finding my bed slippers, I need to get to the toilet!

On my way around the bed my kneecap crashes into the iron bed frame with a deep, hollow thud. It is the disturbing clatter of bone and metal, again. A throbbing pain shoots up and into my thigh, but still, I press my bottom lip between my teeth and hurry towards what I assume is the bathroom door. I fling it open, and rubbing the knee I desperately crash-land onto the toilet seat, in time to save my underwear.

I thought I was dreaming when my head nestled under the pillow beside the phone.

I mean…it is Friday morning. How could I miss the popping of toast and the fragrant caramelizing of onions with sweet, sweet maracas music of bacon sizzling inside the kitchen, before my head found its way under the pillow?

When Pearl walks in my spirits soar. I lean forward anticipating her usual nose kisses, but afterwards I always find it irresistible to fluff her soft and tabby coat a little. She enjoys it as much as I do. Usually she’d go away after this but this morning she is behaving overly-affectionate, brushing against and rubbing her head on my leg, and trilling more.

 This happens now every Friday morning; I wake up confused and contemplate how much harder and harder it’s getting for me to finish the week, but I sigh and get up. I wash my face, brush my teeth and hurry into the kitchen where I am expected to finish things off with over-easy eggs as my usual Friday morning breakfast compliment.

Something feels different. I am also a bit light headed. I know I’m tired, however, I expect the steam and bitterness of my coffee to ground me into normalcy, and so I greet Chris by the counter, as usual, eager for my freshly brewed and as black as midnight cup of high mountain coffee.

He plants a familiar kiss on my forehead, but stepping back in concern he rubs his greying beard with his thumb and evaluates the rest of my face, “You look pale this morning. Are you feeling ok love?” he asks.

 I close my eyes and let the warm and earthy aroma of my coffee work its magic. It’s more important than answering him. He knows it, but when I open my eyes it is just in time to see the back of Chris’s hand approaching my forehead, and he checks me for a fever.

 I direct him to the real problem, sarcastically, “Good morning dear. I just banged my knee on the frame again; I’ll be a few shades darker there.”

“I’ll do the eggs, never mind,” he says.

I really feel like letting Chris finish up since he offered but my conscience won’t allow it. He makes breakfast every work day and on Friday, I only do the eggs.

I test the coffee with a quick slurp. It is way too scalding to enjoy, so I let it rest on the counter and affectionately rub the back of my fingers on his cheek for all his effort, “No, it’s fine hun. I can do it.”

I get the eggs out of the fridge and over easy away. After savoring breakfast I drag myself back into the bathroom hoping to be wrong about the calendar and it really is actually Saturday morning.

On my way out the door I constantly remind myself that I’m walking into a jungle on the other side. I shouldn’t because when I do my anxiety increases, but Chris grabs my hand and pulls me back inside, we keep having this conversation, “Sharon, are you sure you don’t want to call in today?” he asks.

“I can’t call in on a Friday Chris, how will that look?”

“You can retire,”

“Hun, I want my full pension, the same way you have yours. Let’s not talk about this anymore, ok?”

 Next week Friday, we’ll have this conversation again.

This time I brush his lips with a kiss, throw my lab coat over my shoulder and this time, when I turn around I won’t turn back. The temptation to stay home today is overwhelming. It’s off again into the trenches.

I’ve decided not to take the highway even though I’m already late. Hopefully it’s still early enough for me to get ahead of the traffic.

I took the scenic route instead, which is still longer and will make me even later but I’m already out of sorts. I’d like to lean back and cruise beside the waterfront, but with a slightly heavier foot I must make up for lost time. Suddenly a trumpet blast from a sedan behind me reminds me how I woke up this morning. I quickly glimpse into the side view mirror and immediately swerve back into my lane, simultaneously slamming my foot on the brake. I brace for the impact but screeching tires stop the car behind the bumper of a yellow Chevy Camaro just in time for my eyes to bulge. It is as if it magically appeared. I didn’t see it at all!

I grip the steering wheel so tight my fingers start to tingle. The car behind me pulls up beside me. The driver rolls his window down and embarrassingly so do I and apologize, “Sir I am so sorry!”

I expected some road rage but ended up with the opposite. Stunned and confused he asks, “Ma’am, are you ok? I saw your head lean to the side right before you swerved.”

Well, I don’t remember that, if it even happened at all that is. He’s acting weird and fidgety, like he wants to jump out. It could be a trick. I roll the window up, lock the doors and this time, I’m keeping my eyes on the yellow Camaro in front.

 I am unfathomably late but surprisingly when I turn into the parking lot no one is in my spot. I toss my lab coat on the back seat on my way out and shut the door. It’s just too hot for a whole day in it. It’s strange because the sky is grey and muggy. Maybe it’s just the humidity. If they insist there is a spare in the lab.

Inside the building, the first thing greeting me is a sign on the elevator door saying, ‘out of order,’ My husband is always right. I think I should’ve called in today.

 Should I turn around and go back home, or should I wait to see if someone will come to fix the elevator, because I don’t need anyone to remind me about my battered knee.

I guess being here means I’m already at work so I grit my teeth and hug the leather purse under my arm,  holding on to the cold metal railing in preparation of climbing the daunting Mount Everest. When I try to bend the knee, pain stabs me in the joint and I get the message: it’s not going to carry me up six flights of stairs, not today.

Feet treading briskly and heavily behind me quickly get my attention and I turn around, happy to see my assistant Winston breezing in. He almost fell on his face when he pushed the glass door open, but he ran towards the elevator. Winston can read, still I shout to him, “Winston, it’s out of order!”

He bulldozed his way in with so much purpose he had to lean forward to stop. I should ask him if he ran all the way to work, but I won’t.

He puts both hands on his knees, heaving valuable oxygen and pumping steam out of his mouth in the air conditioned lobby like a manifold. Blinking sweat out of his eyes he turns his head to the side and fans me off. So I wait for him to recalibrate. When he finally catches his breath he turns around and asks, “Hi Sharon, what time is it?”

“Eight thirty, the elevator is broken, come this way. I need your help. What did your calendar tell you this morning?”

“I overslept. They fixed the elevator last night, unless you want to burn some calories. As you can see…I won’t be joining you.” he says, and ripping the sign off the elevator door, he crumples it and throws it in the trash.

Thank God, by the time I drag my foot to the elevator the doors slide open, proving Winston right and I don’t know which one of us is happier.

 I follow him in, but Winston turns around and sees me hobbling, “Again?” he asks.

“Yup,”

“Looks like I got here just in time,” he says, but when he presses the button and the elevator doors gently close, something as familiar to me as an elevator ride becomes alien to my body, and I feel like I’m rocking in a boat on choppy seas. If there’s something still wrong with the elevator only God can help us now.

 Or, maybe it’s an earthquake. Cautiously, I rest my hand on the mirrored wall and Winston’s hand lands on my shoulder but when he talks to me he sounds like he is speaking through a tunnel,  “Sharon, are you ok?” he asks. He sounds as concerned as Chris this morning.

I wonder, “Is it me or is the elevator shaking?” Not wanting to cause an unnecessary panic, I panic, and blurt it out, “Is it an earthquake?” but before he responds the doors open and before they fully do I squeeze through them, scraping my arm on the door, and almost falling over on my way out.  My chin crashes into my knee but it is the sharpness of biting my tongue in the process which is alarmingly painful.

Never mind, I need to get down, via the stairs!

On the verge of me shouting, ‘It’s an earthquake!’ Winston grips my arm like a vice, pulls me upright, and stares at me strangely.

He whispers, “Sharon, are you ok?” so softly I struggle to read his lips. He repeats and I hear him.

 At this point I really can’t say if I am or not, but there was shaking. Unfortunately If I ask any of the brilliant people on this floor gaping at me through glass walls I might confirm that I’ve lost some screws today if it didn’t happen. I’m all out of embarrassment for today. I’ll keep my mouth shut, my head down, and hopefully strut well enough to also hide my limping leg.

Finally I get to the lab. Winston flips the light switch on over the top of my head before I could and for the second time today my vision blurs. I’d also usually hear his footsteps and bantering behind me. Is this deliberate or something else?

“I’ll set up, you go drink some water…or something,” he says, and while he stands in front of me with an outstretched hand waiting for the keys to the storage room there are words unspoken in his eyes but understood.

My problem is that if Winston believes I shouldn’t be inside the lab he will without question make a report. These viruses are nothing to sneeze at, literally. So…I refuse to give my assistant the keys. If anything goes wrong that’s on me too, I’ll set up on my own.

***

 The skin on the side of my face feels grainy and cloth-like. Is there something wrong with my hand?  I glide my hand over it, again, but it’s only possible for a few seconds before I lose strength. It feels like tape. Why is there tape stuck to the side of my face? It was an earthquake, I knew it! I have to find Winston. Maybe if I shout, “Winston, where are you?” I say it but it doesn’t sound right.

A whispering voice replies, “Sharon my love,” it’s not Winston, its Chris. What is he doing here? “Chris, there was an earthquake, where is everybody?” it doesn’t sound right, am I injured?

I hear him intermittently, and there is so much concern in his voice, “Sharon, do you know where you are?” he asks, but…if Chris is where I am right now…I know where we can’t be: in the lab. He has no clearance.

It’s so blurry, I can’t focus on anything. I hear Chris again, speaking in a muffled voice, “Sharon, something very serious happened. Sharon my love, you are in the hospital, you had a stroke. Rest, I’ll be here.”

He also says he’s holding my hand, he says it, but I only feel tears on the left side of my face… shit!

***

It’s a different feeling being forced into retirement. Life is suddenly more precious. My colleagues and Winston got me to the ER in time but today my right foot is still heavy. My right arm tingles a lot. I’ve lost eighty per cent of hearing in my right ear. Sometimes I have double vision and coffee just doesn’t taste or smell the same anymore. I’ve resorted to herbal tea but drink cautiously due to a much weaker bladder. Chris says coffee the way I liked it is too much strain on the heart, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I can enjoy this glaring golden sunrise with him on the bedroom balcony, only if I wear shades. This is where he brings me my chamomile and peppermint tea. This is where we love each other after waking up to see another sunrise. I don’t know how much time I have left, or as if Pearl would say, I don’t know how many lives I’ve already used. She never leaves my side. I believe I already used eight all in one day, but as I watch the golden sun disappear behind the house with Chris by my side, I’m forced to contemplate the inevitable sunset. Everything that matters to me is what I have right now, until the sun sets on me.

THE END