Worst Week Ever

Worst Week Ever

by | Nov 7, 2024 | Writing

Worst Week Ever

The mind is a powerful tool, they say. Tara watches her thoughts turn to reality as if by magic. She wonders if a lobotomy would make life more bearable or electroshock therapy might be enough, it’s come back in fashion.She’d recently had a nerve conduction test, and those zaps felt like repetitively sticking her wet finger in an electric socket. And why would my finger be wet? And why would I do that repetitively?

She spends time every day with tools to help her: meditation, a vision board, visualization, journaling, and a rubber mallet to the head. She doesn’t always make the best choices. 

She feels like she’s been saying for five years solid, “This is the worst week ever.” But she feels that, maybe, just maybe this week takes the cake.

She also complains sometimes, maybe she’s a bit negative, but maybe anyone in her situation would be. She loves to say, “I just want someone to take care of me.” Recently, she had a birthday that put her into the next age bracket. She doesn’t think she was being negative by saying,”I don’t want to age! I don’t want to get old!” 

She’s hoping these thoughts that become reality as if by magic haven’t come true as she opens her health portal and reads the doctor’s note.

“A terminal, debilitating disease is suspected as a cause for symptoms. Tara must see a neurologist as soon as possible.” She remembers that moment quite well. She mutters,  “No. What the fuck?” Then the tears fall slowly down her cheeks–her children.. Grief and fear take over.

But her sick child calls from the other room, “Mommy?” Tara wipes her tears off her face and composes herself. Then, she throws something—anything—angrily across the room and walks in to see her kid.

The kid spiked a high fever, 103.8, a flu-like virus taking over their febrile body. The flu turns into an infected lymph node, and after eight days of fever, pneumonia, and an ear infection. Oxygen level is 92%, respiratory rate is 30, and sounds in the left lung are diminished. Two antibiotics and a follow-up in two days.

Tara’s other child met with the rheumatologist. Their lupus is flared, and the fatigue and joint pain are unrelenting—the nerves are raw, on fire, shooting missiles of pain. Now, even holding a fork feels like a chore. The doctor said, “If we don’t get your symptoms managed soon, we might need to admit you to the hospital.” 

Her 6-month-old puppy had her left eye removed yesterday and has to have a cone on her head for two weeks. It’s squishing her ears, and she can’t smell or touch the ground. So she’s lost her ability to use her other senses that she relied on when her blinded, glaucoma eye was still intact.

Tara is pretty sure this is the worst week ever, and that’s not all.

Tara grapples with the looming suspected diagnosis she read in her chart. Why would the doctor put it in her chart that he discussed it with her and that she fully understood the cause of her symptoms? That’s false. He never told her anything.

“That’s malpractice,” people have told her. Yes, maybe. But then she remembers those thoughts that turned into reality as if by magic, and she wonders if this terminal disease is how her thoughts turned into reality as if by magic. “I want  someone to take care of me,” and “I don’t want to age!” 

Terminal thoughts and she scrambles to visualize better outcomes; she forces thoughts of independence and old age. “If my thoughts turn into reality as if by magic, then I’m going to imagine the best week ever.” She sits there squeezing her brain, searching for positive thoughts and an open mind. She tries to squeeze the scary thoughts out of her head but can’t squeeze hard enough.

She hopes that next week will be the best week ever because she’s done with shitty weeks filled with stress and fear. She’s ready to throw off her shoes and socks and ground herself on the ground outside. But she steps on a small stick, then a sharp rock cuts into the bottom of her foot, and she bleeds.

She sits on the ground, squeezing her foot, thinking to herself: It’s going to get better; life will be blissful… and suddenly, she’s swallowed into the ground. A crevice opens, the Earth beneath her, and she gets pulled into a strange underworld. It’s warm, maybe a little too warm, but she likes it. A man walks up to her. He’s wearing a scarf that says, “Go Devils.”

“Hi, my name is Tom. I’m sorry I’ve been controlling your life down here. I had the wrong Tara. All that stuff was meant for the Tara two streets over. Please forgive me.”

No Hope at the DMV

No Hope at the DMV

by | Nov 7, 2024 | Writing

No Hope at the DMV

Hope walks down the stark hallway. The building was unusually quiet. She finds the sign for the DMV, opens the door, and walks up to the teller. There are no lines.

She says “Hi, my name is Hope and I lost my ID. Can I get a new one?”

The teller looks at the woman named Hope and says, “Sorry, we don’t have any IDs with that name. We have ‘Despair,’ ‘Devastated,’ or ‘We’re All Fucked.’ You pick.”

The woman previously named Hope says, “Are those the only names you have? They are all kind of ugly and gloomy.”

The teller looks at the woman known as Hope on November 4th and says, “Well, We got ‘Misogyny,’ ‘Racist,’ ‘Homophobe,’ ‘Transphobe,’ and here’s a good one. It starts with X but not like the Twitter X, it’s ‘Xenophobe.’ You could call yourself Xena for short.”

The former Hope says, “God, Those are all awful. What else do you have?” she asks, hopefully.

The teller looks at her. The teller’s expression is stoic. “Sure, we got ‘Government Ruling Women’s Bodies,’ ‘White Supremacy,’ or ‘Christian Nationalism.’ You could go by Body, Whitey, Christian, or Chrissy. But that’s all I got. Oh wait, there’s ‘Stripping the Country of its Safety Net.’ You could go by Netty.”

The previously known woman named Hope says “Those are just awful names. Don’t you have something like Sue or Bev or Jennifer?” The teller looks at the woman, sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, honey, All the good names shattered into 70 million pieces all over the floor. I have shard sticking in my feet still, like painful memories of what once was.”

The woman without a name leans her elbows on the counter. “Gee, did it really happen that fast? All gone in 70 million pieces?”

The teller shrugs their shoulders, “Give or take.”

The nameless woman says, “Gee, is there really no Hope?”

The teller shakes their head, “Nah.”

The woman with no ID replies, “Gosh, Those aren’t good names to choose from. Is that all I have to choose from?”

The teller raises an eyebrow. “Lady, you better pick one before the government issues you one. You won’t have a choice soon. Women lose all their rights. They will be controlled by men whether they like it or not. I suggest the name ‘Racist.’ You could call yourself Race. That sounds like a strong man’s name. Strong, manly men with insecurities have all the power now. So just deepen your voice a bit; maybe cut your hair short because the new ruling class has short hair—if you ask me, they really lack flare—and depending on your penmanship, You could try to Macho up your handwriting.”

The woman with no good choices for a name, or anything else for that matter, drops her head into her hands, shaking her head. She says, “How can this be? I had so much Hope in me. These choices are awful. This world you’re describing is horrible.”

The teller shrugs, “Yeah, you’re telling me. Dreams are gone now, too.”

The woman mourning the loss of her name says, “No! Really? Oh, this is terrible, simply terrible.”

The teller says, “Yeah. Well, the people voted, so that’s it. Look, I’m sure this is shocking for you, but I got to get out of here before the passport window closes. So, can you pick a name?”

The unnamed woman replies, “No, No, I can’t. I’ll have to keep looking for my ID. Thank you for your help, and good luck.”

The unnamed woman turns to leave. The teller calls back to her, “They confiscated all Hope IDs. You won’t find it anywhere!”

The woman continues to leave, and the teller shouts, “There is no Hope!”