I Sang Along with Michael Jackson in the MRI Machine
For legal reasons, I can’t write explicit details about getting hit by a car as a pedestrian in the crosswalk with the blaring walk signal, nor about my injuries.
Shock and denial had me believing that since there was no bloodshed or broken bones, I was (going to be) alright. I’m the freak of nature who walked (limped) home two blocks after getting hit.
Well, MRI results and sleepless nights due to agonizing pain and visual mind replays of a car grill coming at me deem that to be magnificently incorrect.
The silver lining is that even in the depths of depression, I can laugh—in the sense that people text LOL even though they did not “laugh out loud—at the moments of absurdity that have since spawned from that life-altering event. Let’s start with the absurdity of getting hit by a freaking SUV in the crosswalk! On the other hand, I jaywalked on busy Fulton St., dodging bikes, buses, ambulances, and cars yet walked away unscathed.
Despite being in visible pain, swollen and limping, I offered my friend Gina a tour of my apartment when she arrived to take me to the hospital. We’d seen each other since I moved into my new home months earlier, but she hadn’t seen it yet.
The whole hospital corridor caught a peek of my red panties through the back of my hospital gown when I hobbled out of the bathroom back to my gurney. I didn’t care about modesty even though that was before the drugs had kicked in.
Gina said she could tell when the drugs kicked in. Later, looking at my droopy eyes in the photos, I could tell too.
My father, who walks with a cane due to MS (multiple sclerosis) jumped up and ran around á la shocked baby mama learning disappointing paternity results on Maury.
Over a month later, my father hollered when I told him I still wasn’t OK, as if it were the first time learning I’d been hit by a car.
When my father calls for his weekly check-ins, he whispers as if he doesn’t want to wake my newborn baby. I will never give him a grandchild, but he has six thanks to my siblings.
The amount of sweet potato I left on the peel broke my heart. Being right-handed, I couldn’t maneuver the peeler with my left. It takes more strength and dexterity than I realized. I used a knife to peel it as I would a pineapple. Like Julius on Everybody Hates Chris, I tried to calculate how much money I lost since I paid for the potatoes by the pound.
Paying per pound is the same reason I hate buying whole fish versus fillets at the fish market, though I do. Y’all are charging me for the head, fin, tail, and bones that I won’t–nay CAN’T–eat! I do enjoy the eyes, on the rare occasion I fry the fish.
It was only after the potato peeling struggle that it dawned on me to wrap the potato in foil and bake it so I could easily slice through the flesh. My usual and preferred method is to peel, cut into cubes, drizzle olive oil, sprinkle cinnamon and nutmeg, then bake until tender.
The nurse and I laughed when she left off the numbers after the decimal point when she weighed me on the digital scale during a follow-up appointment. She winked and said, “You know, gotta account for the clothes.” The kind gesture in the form of a laugh was appreciated in what was sure to be a bleak appointment.
My aunt spent a week with me to caretake and help me. I asked her to clean my gross tub. I gave her a tutorial on how to use the extended automated brush with a rotating head and interchangeable parts. I purchased it pre-injury to make cleaning easier. Even though I could use it with my left hand, the vibrations irritate my back.
It was quiet for a bit, so after hobbling to the bathroom door, I saw my aunt on her knees scrubbing the tub with a towel. She found the towel, used for cleaning blinds and windowsills, amongst the cleaning supplies. “I don’t trust the brush,” she said.
I refused to let my aunt rub me down in turmeric, as suggested by her close friend. I have white walls (for now), nice furniture, and bamboo sheets that shan’t be forever tainted orange like our current Commander-in-Chief. I am more than willing to sip hot turmeric tea with a dash of black pepper to activate the turmeric’s anti-inflammatory properties.
It took me 56 seconds to unlock the two locks on my front door with my left hand. I’m quicker now, but the hand-eye coordination was that of a baby.
Seeing that the security desk was vacant when I went there seeking help to open a new jar of sea moss gel, I asked a female resident in the lobby returning home. She looked at me funny, but obliged after I explained my injuries.
There was water spillage everywhere the first time I watered my plants with my left hand. No need for them to go hungry just because I don’t have an appetite.
Despite my dress being backwards at the doctor’s office, I was complimented on my chicness. I realized the black, one bare shoulder maxi dress was backwards when I attempted to put a tissue in the pocket, and the pocket was facing the wrong way. After wrestling to put it on, I didn’t have the energy to fix it. Assuming they’d have me change into a hospital gown for the X-rays, I’d remedy the situation then. They did not. I did not.
At the same appointment, they did require I remove my jewelry and bralette because of the little metal adjustment pieces on the spaghetti straps. Post-X-ray, I just let my titties hang under my backwards dress for the rest of the injury assessment. I felt more naked not wearing my necklaces and earrings than not wearing a bra(lette).
With my shoulder injury, I can’t even wear a bra. Fastening the clasps shocks me with jolts of pain.
The Lyft driver looked like he was on the verge of tears because I was on the verge of tears (or was I actually crying?) from pain as I exited the car.
I sang along with Michael Jackson to “The Lady in my Life” in the MRI tunnel. They gave me earplugs and over-the-ear headphones to combat the noisiness of the MRI machine.
I’m not claustrophobic; I wasn’t scared, and I remember listening to Michael Jackson, Luther Vandross and Stevie Wonder before either crying myself to sleep, passing out, or disassociating from the pain. My aunt said I was in the MRI tunnel for over 20 minutes. The thin padding did little to alleviate my excruciating and searing back pain.
As mandated by my physical therapist, I have to take daily morning walks to start my day with mental clarity. I’m scared of moving cars and crosswalks, so I walk in the nearby cemetery.
I stopped visiting my mother’s grave in my teens, but now I take daily walks in a cemetery.
I have the worst sense of direction. I get lost at the doctor’s office trying to find the exit. It’s a big deal that when a car pulled up to ask me how to exit the cemetery, I was able to give directions. Confidently.
Only a few days prior, I did, in fact, get lost in the cemetery after getting spooked. Not because I was walking amongst the dead, but because the sound of passing cars was too close for comfort, so I walked deeper into the grounds not to hear them anymore. I took too many turns and had no idea where I was. “Auntie, why didn’t you use GPS?” asked my niece. Because I didn’t know you could use GPS in a cemetery.
I recognized one of the cemetery groundsmen when we crossed paths.
When I heard music, I turned to see a woman dancing and singing off-key at a grave. Because of my poor eyesight and the sun, I couldn’t tell if she had set up a tripod to record herself. I really hope she wasn’t making content for Tik Tok.
This list was mostly conducted after, or rather during, another sleepless night due to pain. I’ve watched the sun come up several times. My weighted blanket can only do so much. I don’t take melatonin; magnesium upsets my stomach, though it gets the job done by knocking me out without warning.
I found a Spotify sleep playlist. Certain megahertz frequencies supposedly induce relaxation and sleep. I don’t know if it actually worked or if my body finally gave in to the exhaustion. I remember seeing the digital display of 3:38 am.
I’d rather tap away on my phone in the dark than wrestle to lean over to turn on the bedside lamp, or worse, get up out of bed to turn on the overhead light to read. ‘Tis time to purchase a book light so my physical therapist can’t throw shade about how long I spend reading a book.
#love #family #writing #health #life #depression #PTSD #MentalHealth #MichaelJackson #hospital #Recovery #Cemetery #Walks #MRI