A constant piercing ring that I have become accustomed to but is nonetheless annoying pulsates my ear drum. It is a high-pitched assault on my constantly running stream of thoughts.
I considered asking my brother, a surgeon, who could not pinpoint a reason behind the ringing the first time I had heard it. It had come and go and a simple web search confirmed it to be a harmless commonality that affects a sizable population.
But I have also been experiencing other symptoms that are alarmingly (no pun intended) similar to the ones I had been feeling 2 years ago before my parents had to take me to the emergency room at 2 am before my 25th birthday. My chest felt heavy, my veins seemed to be constricting, my breathing felt shallow, a tingling sensation raced throughout my body.
Oh no. No, this can’t be- but it can. I -
I stopped writing this a week ago, today. I had scared myself and couldn’t continue without experiencing extreme unease. I pick up today because the tip of my right index finger is no longer depleted of blood and void of any color except a tinge of yellow.
My knees are no longer buckling.
My skin doesn’t feel as though it is stretched tightly across my face. In fact, creases are disappearing and making way for cheeks floating up the surface of my face.
My hair is growing.
Open wounds from unknown sources are closed now and are slowly healing.
I do, however, continue to experience a strained walking experience such that my hips jut out a little too much for comfort. Although my blood work came out “normal,” I find myself feeling slightly light-headed at times, off kilter. My head feels heavy and light, all at once for periods of time.
Just yesterday, I had this feeling.
I have picked up this post again. Update: I fell forward about 6 inches from the top of my house’s’ curved staircase such that my face made full impact with the top step’s edge. I was in shock. A deep red liquid came flooding out through my nostrils. My father called my name upon hearing a large thud, came running, screaming and crying, cursing himself for not coming upstairs earlier as he had planned.
My knobby knees were folded underneath me. I had no pants on, revealing my stick-thin spindly legs. A pool of blood formed around me that camouflaged all too well with our maple hardwood floors. My glasses were strewn about and I started screaming. My senses had escaped me and I headed to the Emergency Room.
After a vitals check, medical history roundup, catscan, an IV insertion, and a Tetanus shot, I unleashed a bloodcurdling scream while the reconstructive surgeon worked on my nose.
This surgeon who also has a daughter who attended the University of Pennsylvania with me, a year my junior, had placed a stint on my nose with the adhesive power of a Biore pore removal strip. He lodged bloody gauze up both nostrils and I was sent home with medications recalibrated for my low weight.
I lost so much blood that I feared the worse - a blood transfusion in sight, again, almost 2 years to the day: to my birthday.
I returned home, head pounding, heart racing, breathing labored.
The next day I was caught working out and all hell broke loose. What is wrong with me? I’m dying, and yet I cannot fathom not working out.
The day after, with ultimatums set and fear high, I looked under my left foot- yellow. Shit. I cannot end up in a hospital. Not again. I can’t stay unemployed, homebound, depressed, any longer, watching my life wither away.
I ran a web search regarding my yellowing feet that were also so flat it felt difficult to walk. Yellowing feet go hand-in-hand with high liver enzyme levels, which I have: A characteristic of severe anorexia, longer hospitalization, necessary and immediate medical intervention, and an indication of multi organ failure.
So, I phone home. I look to old albums and see a dancer, a girl, and adolescent, a budding woman. All I see now is death - an oblong shaped face, too large forehead, markedly dark circles circling my freshly-fractured broken and bruised nose.
And I see supermodel, Gigi Hadid, “phone home” as well in Harper Bazaar’s June/July Anniversary issue ; Her cover story editorial spread was shot in Kennedy Space Center. Her arms are full, cylindrical as opposed to carved, and her thighs are curved not cut.
Hold the phone.
I press the tip of my right index finger onto my earlobes and hear a faint ringing in both ears. Wake Up is calling me, and I am holding the phone. The call hasn’t dropped and I haven’t hung it up.