Whispers In My Brain

My eyes were closed tight blocking the afternoon sunlight that peaked from my bedroom blinds, willing myself to fall back to sleep. 

If I just fall back to sleep, maybe I will wake up and feel better. Maybe this will all go away, I thought.

Just then, she woke me. As if she were right next to me in my bed shouting in my ear, I heard her, my Aunt Maureen, shout, “BRIGID, WAKE UP! WAKE UP!” 

Her voice was so crisp and clear and loud, it felt like her lips were pressed against my right ear.

My eyes shot open. My heart now was pounding, fluttering, buzzing, skipping beats all at once. I gasped for breath and slowly glanced to my side baffled. 

Is she here? Is she dead? She is dead. She can’t be here. But, I hear her. Wait, did she die? 

I felt drugged, confused, distorted.

Her voice did not fade. Another shout. This time, her message was not clear. But that voice is unmistakeable. As my eyes scanned the room, I laid terrified to move my head, feeling the surge of pain up my spine like shock waves into my brain. 

She isn’t here, I thought. 

My Aunt Reen, who died of an aggressive cancer two years ago, could not be here but she is speaking to me. Screaming in my right ear drum. And I am awake. I am not dreaming.

Is this what it feels like to lose your mind? Is this a psychotic break? Is this all a dream? An apparition, supernatural experience? If so, I am not comprehending the message. Am I dying? How do I explain this to anyone? What now?

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Twenty-four hours before, I was in my classroom, my students not yet with me, dry heaving into a trash can. The fluorescent lights felt brighter. The stale, moldy school building air had a more pungent aroma, and my head felt like it was on fire, like someone struck a match and my scalp was slowly sizzling. It did not feel like one of my typical migraines but I came to teach that day anyway willing it away with Advil and nausea meds. 

It wasn’t long before my protein bar came back up and I found myself curled up in a ball around the little trashcan on my floor, hoping a student or colleague wouldn’t walk in. But, he did.

“Brig, what the hell! You ok?” My friend James did just that. 

Popped his head in with his coffee and much to his surprise, there I was hugging a trashcan in my teacher garb with watery eyes and sweat smearing my makeup. 

All I could do was shake my head no. As he made his way over, I finally got out, “I think I have the flu or something. Maybe I should go.” I grab a chair and look like I’d fail a DUI test.

“Ya think? Get out of here. Damn, you are unsteady. I’ll just walk you to the nurse.”

I felt like a child. My vulnerability beat out my stubbornness and need for control, and I let him take me by the arm. I felt too shitty to care how this looked, weak and needing help.

Deb, the old motherly nurse, took my temp and said, “Yep, low grade fever. You should really go, hun. I’ll call the office and they’ll handle your subs.” 

I remember worrying about my sub plans. I don’t remember how they got done. But, I do remember walking down that hall slowly. My buddy James trailing me to see I made it out. Telling me to feel better. I did not return for 456 days. 

Somehow I drove home, must’ve been like cruise control, because I certainly wasn’t in control and don’t remember that ride. 

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My dead aunt is no longer screaming. But as I lay there in my bed deciding my next move, I see movement in my corner. Black, flickering shadows erratically circling in my corner. I blink. I blink again. They are still there, and they have multiplied. I see bats in my corner right in between my closet and my beloved rocking chair passed down from my Mommom Rose. 

I have laid in bed many nights staring at it, picturing generations of women in my family rocking babies, myself included. Baby Owen first, and then Baby Hope, now in Kindergarten and Pre-K. I see that chair and I can smell that sweet delicate baby shampoo mixed with milk and I feel the warmth. Now, it is empty and surrounded by what appears to be bats. 

First, my Aunt Reen and now bats in my room. Terror engulfs me. I am not ok. This is when I call my mom. Whether you are 3 or 33, it is mom.

“Mom, I am still feeling bad in bed. I’m feeling a lot worse. I don’t know… feeling loopy.” She’s the most anxious woman I know, so I spared the details. “Can you pick the kids up from school, please? I need to figure out what to do.”

“BRIGID, I don’t like the sound of this.”

She emphasizes my full name as she does when she is serious. 

“I am telling your father, too.” She calls out to him and repeats my words but with her motherly worry. “We both think you need to get to a doctor or hospital. I love you.” 

“I will call Jeff. He will take me if I ask. Don’t worry. I will do Urgent Care. I think it’s the flu and I need meds. Love you.”

If she knew bats were infiltrating my room and her dead sister was speaking to me she’d die of a heart attack and then I would really be screwed. 

I take a deep breathe and call Jeff. He has called me dramatic before. We’ve had fights over it. I’ve gotten it in my head to rehearsal my words to him before I speak to assess how it sounds. I don’t want to sound dramatic. How do I say this without sounding insane? Looking back, I know now I should never have to rehearse words like this. And my fear of fitting his stereotype cost me some precious time.

————————————————————-----

I am laying on my side in fetal position staring at the white wall. I have been in and out of a sleep state, but at the time that the ER doctor finally came to speak to us about my MRI results, my eyes were open but I wasn’t there. I was like a prop, no feelings, no affect, and too weak to sit up. 

“It looks what we are seeing may be a mass. We don’t know what kind and she needs more testing.” The doctor said this without much empathy.

The most peculiar part of this moment now looking back is my reaction. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t hysterics. It was an odd unperturbed curiosity, like it was not me who she was speaking of. Like I was watching a movie.

Well that’s something. Look at the plot twist here with this bat seeing teacher, lady. Wonder how that’ll play out.

It was not long before I was in an ambulance on my way to University of Pennsylvania Hospital. Turns out the ER I hobbled into was not equipped for batgirl. In fact, they thought I was pregnant or had Lyme’s disease for the first few hours there.

My sister, a nurse, made calls and found a way to get University of Pennsylvania Hospital to see me, and time was of the essence. 

I am told I was fading. In and out of consciousness. That morning, I thought I was going to teach Shakespeare in front of 16 year olds all day. By 9pm, I was on oxygen on a stretcher in the ICU. Within minutes, they read the results, they did their doctor talk, and they made a guess in order to give me treatment. 

Herpes Simplex Virus Encephalitis. Not a mass. The doctor, who I actually do remember looking like a George Clooney type, pulled no punches when he said the previous hospital completely misread my results and also me.

“All of the signs are pointing toward Encephalitis and though we won’t officially know for a couple days, we want to give you the anti-virals, seizure medication, along with antibiotics, to keep you alive. We will help you.”

Turns out my psychological thriller film of a day made complete sense to him. The pain, the vomiting, the bats, and even my aunt, my aunt’s voice I have not heard in two years. My brain was inflaming, under attack by the herpes virus, and as a result, I was having Simple Partial Seizures. Instead of a cold sore because I was run down that month, the virus chose my brain. 

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My head and eyes are still throbbing. 

There is a rhythmic beeping of hospital machines, muffled conversations and sneakers squeaking. I hear a voice again, clear and close in my ear. Panic sets in instinctually. 

“You are still here. You are alive. You are going to be ok. You keep sleeping, sweetie. I love you.” It’s a whisper. I stir and blink, afraid I am alone with this voice, afraid to open my eyes for what I will see, but there is a hand and I squeeze it tight.

I take a deep breath and exhale two days of pure terror. I didn’t need to open my eyes to know who it was. I wasn’t alone.

A single tear ran down my face and all I could manage was, “I know, Mom.”