Peanut Butter & Paper Towels
Tags: Dreams, Stroke, Abuse, Seizures, Poverty

Summer 2012

I was angry.

I was tired of pretending the very obviously fake-wood kitchen table was an antique. I was tired of pretending the floors didn’t need to be mopped. I was tired of going to Walmart to fill the cheap shitty house with more cheap shit. But most of all, I was tired of that fucking noise.

“What else do we need?”

Oh my god, we went yesterday. And the day before. And the day before that.

“We don’t need anything.” Except maybe a new fucking life.

“Well we need peanut butter. How’m I supposed to make sandwiches without peanut butter? I’m trying to get healthy and it’s really hard without high-quality protein sources.”

I stared at him. “I don’t want to go to the store. We went yesterday. I’m tired.”

He huffed. “So peanut butter… and anything else? Paper towels?”

Oh. My. God. “Nope. Nothing else. But I’m not going.”

And that noise kept getting louder.

“Plus, we’re basically out of money. We can’t keep spending it by constantly going to the store.”

He threw his arms up in the air. “Right, but you never want to go to the store. We need things. This is how life works. We run out of stuff, then we buy more.”

I really didn’t feel like explaining how a shopping list worked, or how much time was wasted on a 40-minute drive, plus the time it took to park, walk across the stinking asphalt, traverse the fluorescent hell, and have to see the same crowd of pasty white rednecks with their goddamn cargo shorts and bad breath, not to mention the 15 extra minutes he insisted we “check out the DVD section real quick because you never know what new deals they might have!” Every fucking time.

GOD.

I grit my teeth and was finally about to let him have it when suddenly the noise became unbearable. What the fuck is that?

I decided to stop the dream and climb upwards where my eyes were always waiting.

Waking up is almost always like laying on the bathroom floor and reaching up towards a countertop. Sometimes you get up very quickly (enough to make you dizzy) and other times you have to slowly shift your weight against the forces that convince you to lay back down. But the noise was up there, right next to the exit so it was easy to follow. Curiosity is a strong force.

Were my eyes already filled with light? It seemed bright up there. The noise became louder too. I could feel the heat of the light on my face.

That small part of me climbed into my eyes and blinked a couple of times to focus. Why were they left open?

“She’s awake!”

I was actually on the bathroom floor, apparently. A swarm of chirping and beeping paramedics leaned towards my face and immediately intruded me with questions.

“Can you hear me? Can you wake up? Can you hear me?”

I immediately recognized the noise. It was a very loud hissing from my own ears which I’ve heard years before.

Oh, I lost consciousness. SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS

I closed my eyes again, just for an extra second of solitude.

I’m not dead.

The realization struck me and made me open my eyes again. I’m not dead!

“Can you hear me?”

My finger was attached to a blood oximeter and my other finger was pricked by a needle. In the background, I could hear frantic talking and more questions.

“You’re sure she doesn’t have diabetes?” “Can you hear me?” “Can you sit up?” “Did she seem healthy yesterday?” “Does your head hurt?” “Can you hear me?”

“Yeah,” I finally managed to mutter. I put my swollen tongue back in my mouth and realized it was almost completely dry. It tasted awful. I closed my mouth, which also took a substantial amount of effort.

I didn’t dare move my fingers or other parts until I knew I had the strength to.

“Can you sit up?” the closest paramedic asked. I laid there trying to be as motionless as I could. Please just leave me alone. Just a few more minutes. I didn’t die.

I wasn’t sure how much time had passed for myself, but for the paramedics, it was too much time. “Let’s get you sitting up so we can ask you questions.”

So insistent! I sighed. I located my limbs and moved them by twisting my torso first. I let gravity allow my arms to prop themselves underneath as I leaned into a sitting position. Okay, I did it, can I go back to sleep now?

For the first time since waking up, I saw John. He looked panicked talking to some paramedics, sweaty and completely pale. He tried to rush over but someone stopped him and continued to question him.

“Do you have any history of diabetes?” Asked the paramedic in front of my face.

“No.”

“Does anyone in your family have a history of diabetes?”

“Yes.”

“Type 1 or Type 2?”

On and on. It was so difficult to keep my eyes open. I wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. When the questions stopped I started to slump back down to the floor. I’ll just sleep right here, this is good enough

“Oh, no no no! You need to stay awake, okay. Keep awake. I know it’s hard but you have to try.” He turned to John. “No sleeping for at least 12 hours.”

12 whole hours. They can’t be serious.

The paramedic looked at me closely. “It’s important you stay awake.”

I couldn’t catch much else of what they were saying, or what had been said, or what anyone did or looked like. It took most of my energy to stay awake. But I was also angry.

The chirps and beeps from the paramedics faded down the stairs. Boots stomped and doors opened and closed.

Then it was just me. I didn’t die.

And the dreaded footsteps up the stairs. John appeared again and rushed over.

“Are you alright? I’ve never been so scared in my life. I thought you had died. I couldn’t catch you. Is your head okay?” And other questions. I barely listened.

I didn’t want to answer anything. I didn’t want to talk, or interact, or do anything. My head rolled and I finally looked into his eyes.

They were wide, still full of fear and panic. His face seemed to have shrunk into his cheeks a bit but the color was returning, starting with his nose.

And, for the first time, I sensed actual concern for my wellbeing. It was refreshing. Although it didn’t take more than a moment for me to question if his fears were solely for my own wellbeing, or if he was just afraid of losing someone he depended on. Again. Like his mom. In any case, I had never seen him like that before.

“I haven’t been that scared since my mom…” he trailed off. I knew it.

I wanted to lay in bed, but he insisted I lay on the couch to watch TV. It was better to make sure I didn’t doze off. He kept asking me about my head. I frantically tried to remember what had happened.

Crackers, the toilet… a dream!

“I had a dream,” I blurted out.

“What was it?” He usually hated hearing about my dreams, but this had piqued his interest.

“We were together and…” and you were making me extremely mad “… and we were in the kitchen talking about groceries…” and I realized how miserable I’ve been and I’m not sure how much longer of this I can take “… and it was just our regular life.” I sighed.

“Just our regular life?”

“Yeah, I had… it was just a regular day.”

“You make that sound like it was a bad thing.”

A brief moment of panic. “No, no. It… it was just our life.” Eh, who am I kidding. He doesn’t care. “It was just normal.” I’d become an expert in hiding the truth without actually lying. I changed the topic.

“What happened to my head?”

“You mean it doesn’t hurt?”

Why does everyone think my head hurts? I shook it slightly.

“Wow.”

“Why?”

“You fell backward. I mean, I tried to catch you but I couldn’t. I tried to grab your hand but you fell anyway. And you landed right on the floor.”

“From standing up?”

“Yes, you fell straight back.”

I didn’t remember standing. My memory searched and searched, replaying fragments as my mind fit the pieces in a logical narrative. John settled me into the couch, “but not too comfortable!”, and then put on some bright, stimulating cartoons. My eyes watched, but not my mind. I was too busy collecting pieces of memory.