"No, I'm fine." Caitlin gave her default response after having had multiple seizures the night before. I sensed the fatigue in her voice as she gathered her teaching materials together. She hid her leg braces underneath a long, loose skirt, took up her bag full of rescue medications, and proceeded to go about her day as normal. A mysterious, constant state of sadness seemed to surround her no matter what her mood was at the time; her void black eyes spoke the volumes of emotions buried within her like diamonds in a mineshaft. "Are you?"
"Not good. I didn't get much sleep." The rest of my words stayed within my head and clumped like a stale mundane potion. As if reading my mind, Caitlin wrapped her little arms around me and tightened her grip with a motion that I mistook for a flinch, but her intentions were clear.
"I hope your state improves. Good luck with the bands. My class will visit in a week to learn about the instruments, so make sure they practice." With that, she left for Mindcrack. I drank a second cup of coffee to make sure I had the energy to lead Mindcrack's band and guitars, then I made my way to the shower. The hot water ran over my head and body and washed away the grit from the day before and allowed me to start fresh. My mood quickly faded when I saw a residual trickle of blood that resulted from Caitlin hitting her face when she started convulsing in the shower just last night. I had to use the rescue medication she kept on her nightstand and monitor her breathing. Thankfully, she came to in a more or less okay state and woke up the next day in good spirits, but I still was rattled from the incident.
The Mindcrack beginning guitar players awaited my instruction. After warming up their fingers, I taught them how to play five basic chords: A, D, E, G, and C. Emilia Roth managed to produce a dissonant clashing of strings; Trevin Albright strummed with a naturalness and ease that even I could not match. The others fell somewhere along that spectrum; I strode towards Emilia, a girl of about twelve or thirteen wearing a Mindcrack cheerleading T-shirt and disheveled blond hair. Her guitar playing sounded nothing like a guitar, just a dissonant clashing of strings
"What was that supposed to be, Emilia? I thought you were playing guitar, not torturing creepers."
"Sorry, Mr. Lowell. I'm tired because my mom dragged me to the hospital to see Riley and Adrian. Riley's in the hospital nearly half the time, which is normal for her, but seeing Adrian that sick was new to me." The latter name piqued my interest. Caitlin took a particular interest in Adrian, though I was never sure why. He seemed a nice, quiet kid, but unremarkable. What Caitlin saw in him I never did. Emilia looked at me intently and went on. "Adrian was miserable. He didn't say anything or even seem to know me. The nurses hurried around him like bats. They asked if he ever needed anything and he said 'No, I'm fine' every single time, even though he wasn't. I just wanted him to ask for something to make himself feel better."
"That must be hard." I strummed my guitar. I had more to say, but I could never say it. "Play that." Obligingly, Emilia somehow played the bright chord with a plaintive air as if crying through her instrument for her brother. The phrase "No, I'm fine" took me back to this morning and several incidents throughout my life with Caitlin. If she could say nothing else at the moment, she'd say "No, I'm fine" and ask me to leave.
"Now, play the A chord." She faltered again and again, then set her guitar down and threw up her hands.
"I can't do this! It's too hard."
"You can. Try it again and again until it happens." The girl tried and tried again; she still produced the same sound. I left her to master the chord. When I went on my computer, I found these messages:
ar5679@mindcrack.net: Bonjour. Je m'appelle Adrien. Je suis onze ans. Ça va mal.
ar5679@mindcrack.net: I meant that for my language teacher! Sorry.
I disregarded the messages. Adrian was not one of my students. I turned my attention to the class and led them in a song. It sounded more or less good, so we advanced into the guitar method. Within minutes, the class complained that their fingers hurt; I told them to shut up and get on with it. They sighed and obliged, playing halfheartedly. When the period ended, they placed their guitars on the racks and headed out. My phone rang with this text:
Caitlin: Make sure you remember to take care of yourself and your students, mon petit copain.
Reluctantly, I let my eyes fill with tears, which receded as quickly as they came. I noted the way Caitlin dragged her feet as though her body weighed as much as a stack of iron blocks, the feeling of her small, delicate hand gripping mine as she steadied herself to ascend stairs without handrails, how she quickly rummaged for her inhaler when she needed it, but, most of all, how she would drop these needs for anyone and would not allow anyone else to take them up, not even me.
As the day progressed, my stomach churned. I drowned my reading sickness bag in lava and packed up to go to brass band rehearsal. Caitlin waited for me outside the school and leaned on her cane with a straighter, taller posture usually reserved for performance. She tied her hair back and beamed at me. Enthusiasm painted her pale face; her eyes danced and seemed to reflect light for the first time. I hurried over to meet the new woman, but my foot had other plans in mind.
I felt my ankle contort and twist beneath the force of my stride. The injured ankle hurt me, but seeing that pain reflected in Caitlin's face pierced my heart like a sword. She went over to me and paused, unsure what to do. Several times she breathed in to say something and then gave up. Unable to say anything myself, I screamed a slew of incoherent insults.
Caitlin's eyes filled with tears. She hid her face and retreated into the building. Several students from the track team flocked to comfort her, but she never seemed to notice them. I wanted them to dry as quickly as they came, but she went without a word.
I lay there to fester in my pain. I hate being unable to run and fight almost as much as I hate seeing anyone I love hurt. As if on cue, Caitlin strolled out with ice and bandages. She deftly wrapped the bandage around my foot and placed ice on it.
"I'd let you rest, but we have to get to rehearsal," she said.
"Well, thank you for twisting the sword in my heart." I complained. "I can't walk with this foot." Without a word, Caitlin extended her cane and handed it to me. I started to protest, but she stopped me.
"I've done without a cane before and I'll do it again if it means sparing you any pain." With that, we set off for rehearsal.
When we finally got there, we parted to go to our sections. I warmed up my trumpet and carefully moved around the stand so I would not knock it over and make a scene. I took out my music and led the other trumpeters in a B flat scale and noticed that one of them, a certain man I recognized from the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra, breathed every two measures.
"You shouldn't breathe so much, Kent. And dude, you look horrible!" I noted the green tint on his face.
"I know. May I sit down?" He still panted after playing the simple scale.
"No. You can stop playing, though." Grudgingly, Kent obliged. I heard the French horns and flugelhorns through the wall playing mellow long tones. Suddenly, the lowest tone disappeared from the sound and a thud followed. My heart raced.
"It's that simple! Just stand." Landon, the principal hornist, went on about the importance of professional appearance. Caitlin flushed with indignation as she tried to get to her feet, but fell down again. As usual, she said nothing while her face spoke volumes. The others looked at each other uncertainly, but did not help Caitlin or call Landon out. He said, so to that she could hear "I thought spazzes weren't allowed." At Landon's comment,my blood boiled so hotly I had to grip the door frame to prevent myself from charging and attacking him. Out of nowhere, Caitlin's eyes glimmered like torches.
"First of all, I have ataxic cerebral palsy, not spastic. Secondly, I don't know why you treat me like this or what you have against me. I've put up with your cutting remarks for too long and I won't do it any longer." She propped herself on the chair Albert retrieved and scrambled into it with the ardor of a sniper climbing into a tree. As much as I admired her strength, I hated to see her have to be that strong. Before Landon could say anything more, we congregated as an ensemble.
Halfway through "Anyway you want it", I heard a flugelhorn frack. Mark cringed and massaged his hand, which bent itself into some painful positions. I asked if he needed anything. He muttered "No, I'm fine," and sank into his seat sheepishly. I was so frustrated I punched a hole in the wall, much to the conductor's alarm.
"Mr. Lowell, control yourself!" How could I? I didn't even think to raise my fist! "Leave if you must." I stormed out of the room enraged. Behind me, I heard a light, halting tread.
"Are you okay?" Caitlin looked up at me with concerned eyes. "Do you need anything? I can't walk too far because my asthma is bad this time of year, but I can still help." Why, Caitlin? Why do are you always so self-sacrificing when there is so little of you to sacrifice?
"No. I'm fine." I sank to the ground in defeat and fumed.
"I can tell you aren't, but, if you insist, I won't do anything. I'll be with Alex if you change your mind." Caitlin left for her vocal student after she puffed on her inhaler. "Hang in there, Steve. I know it's hard, but you're strong." Strong? How could I be? How could she see strength when I was at my lowest? I groaned when a call interrupted me.
"Hello." It was Alex.
"Hi. Is this Steven Lowell." Ugh! I switched "this" and "is". I thought I outgrew that when I was ten. Alex giggled.
"Oh, hi! I'm on my way to see Miss Caitlin, only the best, nicest, most perfect person in Minecraft! I miss having Adrian going with me since he is in middle school, but the local villagers help me on my way, so I'm surviving."
"She is already on her way." I intended to hang up, but an impulsive word slipped past my lips. "Aren't you a little young to walk by yourself all that way?"
"Everyone asks that! I suppose I am, but I have a sword and I'm on good terms with the local villages, so I can manage." Poor Alex. She's so young and is so independent, like I was. Since me and my three brothers were in a room together, I sometimes left and camped outside the house because I couldn't stand Trevor and Dylan fighting. Cory would sometimes intervene if he wasn't already asleep. He could sleep through a creeper storm. He would say something like "Guys, stop. You're upsetting Steven" and then help me go to sleep. They would stop, apologize to me, and go at it again in the morning. Alex hung up impatiently after getting in a witty last word while demanding that I say something.
I made my way to the house along the path. My ankle shot pain everywhere as if to remind me not to walk on it. Suddenly, I felt an arrow penetrate my back and the clanking of bones. I heard three skeletons. They all closed in and one arrow whizzed at my head and would have hit me squarely in the head and another in the heart if not for the two archers above me. Their arrows pierced the skeletons' with a precision only few have achieved. Two crutches hit the ground. I picked them up and fumbled around with them afraid that I would injure myself further. After crushing my bad foot, I winced in pain. No one responded. I stubbornly tried to figure out the crutches when I just ended up tripping over them and stumbling around like a sixth grader trying to play the flute.
The archers descended. The older of the two, Mindcrack senior Brendan Albright, helped me to my feet and taught me how to walk with the crutches: with my good foot on the downbeat and the crutches on the upbeat. The younger, after descending, gave me an ice pack. If they had not noticed, I would have been in pain a good while longer. Then, I saw the younger pull off her mask to reveal another familiar face.
"Emilia? What are you doing here?"
"I thought I'd have a test run with a new archery technique. Miss Netherfield sometimes uses this technique and seems to have a great deal of success with it, so I thought I'd try. The nurse finally got Adrian to eat something. He's doing so much better. I think Alex would like to hear that."
"I think she would. By the way, I finally figured out how to play a G chord that sounds like a chord." With that, we parted ways. Emilia was known widely for stubbornly plowing through obstacles in order to get what she wanted, like me.
I came home to find Alex running up to me with her bright, sunny face. To my surprise, she held a note that said Vocal Rest. Can't speak. So excited to perform my solo. Can't wait. written in pink glitter gel pen on lime green paper so bright it seemed to glow. To my surprise, it did not bother me as much as black writing on white paper. Alex asked me why I was on crutches by writing on the notepad.
"I got hurt during combat," I lied. Luckily, Alex seemed to buy it. She went on her way, but only after she gave me a flyer for the Creative Fun choir bake sale: All proceeds benefit the Creative Fun music program, it said. I pocketed it and strolled straight home. I never planned on going to the bake sale before, but, when Alex asks for something, resistance is futile. She can charm the most coldhearted creeper into not exploding. I saw Caitlin on the path and she waved to me. She did not have her cane with her, most likely because she does not use it around the house.
Caitlin got back to me and told me dinner was ready. She put one arm around my shoulder and another on my waist, and, as she leaned in, her phone sang something in French. She pulled away and answered. Jilted, I I could vaguely decipher the words on the other end.
"Bonsoir, Monsieur. Ça va?"
"Ça va, Mademosielle. Où est Alex?" They went on talking in English and in French. When Caitlin hung up, she repeated her gesture, and I readily took her up in my arms. She buried her face into my shirt and stayed there. To my surprise, she started to cry.
"I'm so sorry for what you had to put up with last night. I can't help it and I have never been able to. I know it taxes you so much and you'd probably want me to go off in the woods to die because I've been a burden." The last words shocked me. All those years of putting up with the Ender Dragon for a master and she thinks I want her to die? That was absurd. She looked up at me tearfully, half-hiding her face as if ashamed to be noticed.
"Caitlin! No! I wouldn't want you to die. It hurts me when you think that." Hurt wasn't the right word to describe the anguish and agony I felt whenever pain afflicted Caitlin. It felt like a thousand swords entering my heart at once and having each of them slowly twist. She led the way into the house, but lost her balance and tripped on the threshold. After slipping several more times in her futile attempts to right herself, I attempted to do it out of sheer impatience. Instead, she fell forwards and cried more, insisting that I leave. I offered to assist once more. "I'm sorry about that. Do you want me to help you?"
"No, I'm fine." She eventually found a handhold and, using the climbing techniques she knew so well, eventually got to her feet. "Dinner is ready," she said. On busy days, she will heat the furnace so it is barely warm and roast some meat and carrots. She retrieved a loaf of bread from the chest and sat down offering me the bread. With that, we sat down to dinner. Realizing how hungry I was, I wolfed down two steaks, a loaf of bread, four carrots, and guzzled a bucket of milk. I noticed nothing else, just my ravenous appetite. When I was done, I noticed that Caitlin chewed tentatively and swallowed small amounts at a time instead of swallowing one mouthful at once. Seeing as how this peeved me, I asked her to swallow everything at once. After shaking her head, she returned to nibbling a carrot slice. When she finally finished, she rose and started E-mailing her students. She sang under her breath while typing away.
It was clear that she wanted to be left alone, so, taking up my sword and my pickaxe, I headed to the mineshaft. It was a siren's call I could not resist. I breathed in the cool, humid air at the entrance and descended into the depths of the cave. When I mined, I did not think, I just did. I struck the stone in the hopes of finding diamonds. I had no such luck, though I did find coal. Deeper and deeper my pickaxe took me. I heard the moan of a zombie, the twang of a skeleton's bowstring, and breathed in the cold, humid air. My skin prickled with delight. A drop of water hit my head as I looked into the expanse before me. Like my younger self, I impetuously sprinted a random direction, not caring whether I would return or not, and I mined away.
My pickaxe struck the stone with a satisfying clack. I cleared a path for myself looking for the light blue treasure much coveted everywhere in Minecraft: diamonds. However, I did not just want any diamond. I wanted the perfect diamond, one worthy of resting on Caitlin's finger. She needed this, but not as much as I did. My foot screamed in agony, so I just found cold water to quell its cries in. I heard a hiss behind me and, luckily, my sword hit the creeper. Thinking I would need the gunpowder for later, I stored it in my inventory. Suddenly, Everything's Alright started running through my head. "Short steps, deep breath. Everything is alright."
It led me further and further in. My intuition guided me. I just plowed through stone after stone. Without any conscious thought, I moved as fluidly as water. Each limb bent to my will as easily as my enchanted diamond sword cut through my enemies. Everything around seemed to blur, leaving me with my thoughts, until I bumped into what I thought were two zombies. Instinctively, I held my sword and held it towards the figure. The larger of the two shrunk away and yelped, so I lowered my sword. The figures slowly crept into the light. One was Alex, a girl with a red ponytail and lively green eyes that darted around looking for opportunities to strike. Knowing she was on vocal rest, I did not engage her. The other, who had black hair and pale skin, I did not recognize. Her eyes had a kind of rainbow effect. Ender particles floated around her. Alex prodded her and the other girl introduced herself.
"I'm Emmeline Netherfield, the sixth of the Netherfield sisters. After the Ender Dragon was slain, my kind was displaced. Do you know the slayer of the Ender Dragon?" That was wrong. She was the eighth. Vivienne died fighting the dragon and Caitlin was with me.
"I am the slayer and...what do you mean by displaced? And..." I had a million things to say. Just who are you? Why are there Ender particles floating around you? How did "displacement" work? Why are you with Alex?
"And what?" Emmeline grew impatient. She twirled an arrow in her fingers while Alex pursued a creeper with her sword. "What is someone of your kind doing instead of worshipping the Ender Dragon? Actually living a life with an individual identity and not serving an evil dragon like she's supposed to?"
"I didn't mean it like that! I just wanted to know who you were and why you're here at this time of night. How old are you?" I meant to leave that last part off.
"Alex told me there were seven Netherfield sisters, not six. She said you claimed the sixth as your own, that her name is Caitlin, and that she is a music teacher.... I'm not sure. I'm fifteen years old if that helps. I only trust this kid out of sheer desperation, so I hope what she says is true." Alex stood eagerly at Emmeline's side and wrote something down on another sheet. Alex's words were true. However, I didn't want to wake Caitlin to introduce her to some random girl that claimed to be her sister. On the other hand, although Emmeline and Alex could fare well without me, I kept them close by. There are worse things than mobs in life and I didn't want either girl to fall victim to them.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Wednesday, October 7, 2015
Easing Into the Radar (Caitlin)
I sat in the doctor's office awaiting Andrew's advice. Hopefully, I wouldn't need a cane. I never have, but that doesn't mean I never will. Anxiously, I gripped Steve's hand awaiting the verdict that I thought would determine the course of my life. He squeezed back as if to say "I'm here for you, Caitlin."
Occasionally, when I could not stabilize myself on the walls of an ordinary restroom stall, I needed to use the large one for the grab bars. I felt guilty because, according to outward observers, I did not need them. That little spot on my cerebellum ruined my life for as long as I could remember. At least now, my arrhythmic gait and frequent falls had a name: ataxic cerebral palsy. However, I could never display it like the Ender Dragon egg in the same way that others did.
"Are you nervous?" Steve looked at me with concern. He seemed to share my anxiety, though I wasn't sure why.
"Nervous is an understatement." In those four words, I described my past of trying to stay out of sight and out of mind. The years of hiding from my sisters, getting tormented by my peers, and having to play in the pit as a clarinetist in marching band because I could not march came to the surface. Sometimes, I wished I could lock my cerebral palsy in a vault and toss said vault into the void.
"I understand that you want to fly under the radar, but...it'd do you good to be noticed."
"Want to? I had no choice!"
"You do now." At that point, I burst into tears out of sheer emotional overload. Andrew came as if to prophesy my death.
"It would greatly benefit you to have a cane for balance and AFOs to correct your foot position." The word "benefit" means "receive an advantage, profit, gain". How could I receive an advantage, profit, or gain from having "cerebral palsy" slapped across my forehead? Without another word, Andrew turned his attention towards something else. He left the room saying he needed to get something. Steve attacked me, not with sword, but with a tongue sharper than diamonds.
"Get over yourself and stop being such a whinging wimp. It's not like you died." With those words, he stole my voice. I could only look down at my splayed legs and envy his effortless tread. I wanted to say I wish you wouldn't be so aggressive, that you'd care more about how your words affect others, but my voice was absent in that moment. What I could muster came out in a foreign language that I was ashamed to speak.
"Non. Zut! Ça va mal." Steve looked at me confusedly. He took me by the arm without a word and led me out the door.
When we got home, I collapsed into another tearful outburst. I cried so much I had an asthma attack; therefore, I was even more upset. Taking up his enchanted diamond pickaxe, Steve left without a word. Upon taking out my clarinet, I played a B flat, which came out in a crackly rasp. Cringing at my subpar intonation, I replaced it with a reed that I had sharpened to perfection. The B flat was smooth and in tune, but I was still dissatisfied. Dispassionately, I played a plaintive sarabande. I played the passage again and again until my embouchure tired. A playful xylophone leitmotif sounded, alerting me that someone from the DuPont family was trying to reach me.
"Hi! This is Alex. I'm coming for my vocal lessons. In choir, we are singing something about loving ourselves for who we are. The notes are hard. I hope I can hit them." I prepared the study for Alex's arrival. I uncovered the piano, set up two music stands, washed my face, and drank some hot water to relax my vocal cords. An insistent rap on the door indicated that Alex had arrived. Gracefully, she skipped in, planted herself in the chair, and placed her glittery, pink binder on the stand.
"Let's start with Alouette." Alex handed the accompaniment to me. I plucked the keys as Alex sang the words. When I played the final chord, she asked if it was good.
"It was good, but I know you can be great. Sing it with more bite. The lyrics are about plucking the feathers out of a lark." Alex sang Alouette with an aggression that matched the impact of a pickaxe hitting stone.
"Diminuendo here. You were crescendoing." Alex obliged and sang it again. She pulled up the piece titled "For Who I Am" and handed the accompaniment to me. I took the tempo slower than written. Alex belted out the following words:
It's hard to see that I'm beautiful
When society is throwing standards around.
I know I shouldn't envy and compare
Myself to the ideals I shouldn't be bound.
The world is sometimes harsh and unfair,
And sometimes I think that nobody cares.
But I need to be strong and love myself
For who I am (For who I am)
For who I am (For who I am)
My feet could not strike the pedals with the precision that the piece demanded. Eventually, I gave up on the pedals and just plucked the keys. Deftly, my hands moved across the piano while my feet dangled stationary and flaccid. Alex ran out of breath several times; I reminded her to breathe from the diaphragm. When she stopped, she gasped for breath, her face red. I let the vocalist take a break.
I advised Alex to exaggerate her mouth movements to make the lyrics more articulate. The vocal lesson continued until Alex bade me goodbye; at that moment, Andrew came with a cane and leg braces in tow while contemplating Alex's song. Somehow, Alex sang the song I needed to hear without asking me what I needed. With her song, she taught me more in a moment than I could ever do in a lifetime. While contemplating the vocal lesson, he handed them to me to try on. I loathed this moment, yet I tried my hand at moving with the cane. My steps were markedly stronger, more regular, and less deliberate. The AFOs stabilized my ever-sliding feet. I looked down at the purple and white plastic that seemed to glow against the black leggings under my dark green skirt and at the matching lavender-colored cane. If only they were concert black so that they would blend into the shadows.
Steve tramped into the house in more or less good spirits. He showed me the forty-eight iron ingots, twenty gold ingots, and twelve diamonds he mined from the cave and went on to boast of his victories over armies of skeletons, zombies, and creepers. It sounded as though the sun king had arrived during his speech, but after plucking an arrow from his backside, he sat down with a penitent air.
"I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I only said that because I envy how strong you are."
"You're probably only saying that out of pity."
"Anyone who helps a student out of hours has the courage to slay the Ender Dragon a thousand times over." I found myself smiling and blushing at this comment.
"It was merely one of the many basic obligations of being a teacher. As for the AFOs and the cane, I'll most likely think of them as armor." With that, I assembled my bow, which was resting on the coffee table, and set out with Steve to fight the battles of my life.
(A/N: This post was written to conclude World Cerebral Palsy Day.)
Occasionally, when I could not stabilize myself on the walls of an ordinary restroom stall, I needed to use the large one for the grab bars. I felt guilty because, according to outward observers, I did not need them. That little spot on my cerebellum ruined my life for as long as I could remember. At least now, my arrhythmic gait and frequent falls had a name: ataxic cerebral palsy. However, I could never display it like the Ender Dragon egg in the same way that others did.
"Are you nervous?" Steve looked at me with concern. He seemed to share my anxiety, though I wasn't sure why.
"Nervous is an understatement." In those four words, I described my past of trying to stay out of sight and out of mind. The years of hiding from my sisters, getting tormented by my peers, and having to play in the pit as a clarinetist in marching band because I could not march came to the surface. Sometimes, I wished I could lock my cerebral palsy in a vault and toss said vault into the void.
"I understand that you want to fly under the radar, but...it'd do you good to be noticed."
"Want to? I had no choice!"
"You do now." At that point, I burst into tears out of sheer emotional overload. Andrew came as if to prophesy my death.
"It would greatly benefit you to have a cane for balance and AFOs to correct your foot position." The word "benefit" means "receive an advantage, profit, gain". How could I receive an advantage, profit, or gain from having "cerebral palsy" slapped across my forehead? Without another word, Andrew turned his attention towards something else. He left the room saying he needed to get something. Steve attacked me, not with sword, but with a tongue sharper than diamonds.
"Get over yourself and stop being such a whinging wimp. It's not like you died." With those words, he stole my voice. I could only look down at my splayed legs and envy his effortless tread. I wanted to say I wish you wouldn't be so aggressive, that you'd care more about how your words affect others, but my voice was absent in that moment. What I could muster came out in a foreign language that I was ashamed to speak.
"Non. Zut! Ça va mal." Steve looked at me confusedly. He took me by the arm without a word and led me out the door.
When we got home, I collapsed into another tearful outburst. I cried so much I had an asthma attack; therefore, I was even more upset. Taking up his enchanted diamond pickaxe, Steve left without a word. Upon taking out my clarinet, I played a B flat, which came out in a crackly rasp. Cringing at my subpar intonation, I replaced it with a reed that I had sharpened to perfection. The B flat was smooth and in tune, but I was still dissatisfied. Dispassionately, I played a plaintive sarabande. I played the passage again and again until my embouchure tired. A playful xylophone leitmotif sounded, alerting me that someone from the DuPont family was trying to reach me.
"Hi! This is Alex. I'm coming for my vocal lessons. In choir, we are singing something about loving ourselves for who we are. The notes are hard. I hope I can hit them." I prepared the study for Alex's arrival. I uncovered the piano, set up two music stands, washed my face, and drank some hot water to relax my vocal cords. An insistent rap on the door indicated that Alex had arrived. Gracefully, she skipped in, planted herself in the chair, and placed her glittery, pink binder on the stand.
"Let's start with Alouette." Alex handed the accompaniment to me. I plucked the keys as Alex sang the words. When I played the final chord, she asked if it was good.
"It was good, but I know you can be great. Sing it with more bite. The lyrics are about plucking the feathers out of a lark." Alex sang Alouette with an aggression that matched the impact of a pickaxe hitting stone.
"Diminuendo here. You were crescendoing." Alex obliged and sang it again. She pulled up the piece titled "For Who I Am" and handed the accompaniment to me. I took the tempo slower than written. Alex belted out the following words:
It's hard to see that I'm beautiful
When society is throwing standards around.
I know I shouldn't envy and compare
Myself to the ideals I shouldn't be bound.
The world is sometimes harsh and unfair,
And sometimes I think that nobody cares.
But I need to be strong and love myself
For who I am (For who I am)
For who I am (For who I am)
My feet could not strike the pedals with the precision that the piece demanded. Eventually, I gave up on the pedals and just plucked the keys. Deftly, my hands moved across the piano while my feet dangled stationary and flaccid. Alex ran out of breath several times; I reminded her to breathe from the diaphragm. When she stopped, she gasped for breath, her face red. I let the vocalist take a break.
I advised Alex to exaggerate her mouth movements to make the lyrics more articulate. The vocal lesson continued until Alex bade me goodbye; at that moment, Andrew came with a cane and leg braces in tow while contemplating Alex's song. Somehow, Alex sang the song I needed to hear without asking me what I needed. With her song, she taught me more in a moment than I could ever do in a lifetime. While contemplating the vocal lesson, he handed them to me to try on. I loathed this moment, yet I tried my hand at moving with the cane. My steps were markedly stronger, more regular, and less deliberate. The AFOs stabilized my ever-sliding feet. I looked down at the purple and white plastic that seemed to glow against the black leggings under my dark green skirt and at the matching lavender-colored cane. If only they were concert black so that they would blend into the shadows.
Steve tramped into the house in more or less good spirits. He showed me the forty-eight iron ingots, twenty gold ingots, and twelve diamonds he mined from the cave and went on to boast of his victories over armies of skeletons, zombies, and creepers. It sounded as though the sun king had arrived during his speech, but after plucking an arrow from his backside, he sat down with a penitent air.
"I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I only said that because I envy how strong you are."
"You're probably only saying that out of pity."
"Anyone who helps a student out of hours has the courage to slay the Ender Dragon a thousand times over." I found myself smiling and blushing at this comment.
"It was merely one of the many basic obligations of being a teacher. As for the AFOs and the cane, I'll most likely think of them as armor." With that, I assembled my bow, which was resting on the coffee table, and set out with Steve to fight the battles of my life.
(A/N: This post was written to conclude World Cerebral Palsy Day.)
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Everything Will Be Okay (Caitlin)
[A/N: Trigger warning for ableism and strong ableist language]
I prepared every ounce of my being...for a sixth grade math class. Mindcrack teachers substitute for each other as needed. Having a science teacher substitute for a combat instructor is not all that unusual at Mindcrack. Since no one else wanted to substitute for sixth grade math, I pitched in. It was right before music with the rest of the day dedicated to preparing for the next day, decompressing, and getting my brain to function properly. I had already tripped in the hallway rushing to the sixth grade classroom because I woke up with horrible muscle pains. When I stepped through the door, I found nearly an entire class of eager
I prepared every ounce of my being...for a sixth grade math class. Mindcrack teachers substitute for each other as needed. Having a science teacher substitute for a combat instructor is not all that unusual at Mindcrack. Since no one else wanted to substitute for sixth grade math, I pitched in. It was right before music with the rest of the day dedicated to preparing for the next day, decompressing, and getting my brain to function properly. I had already tripped in the hallway rushing to the sixth grade classroom because I woke up with horrible muscle pains. When I stepped through the door, I found nearly an entire class of eager
My first thought was: Did they really need so much synthesized glowstone in here? How can students concentrate in this light? The first few students entered. Two of them, Lydia and Adrian, I recognized from the track team. The rest of the students poured in. Today, I would be teaching how to solve equations with operations and variables on either side. I started roll call.
..."Adrian Roth?"
"Here." Adrian smiled zealously, ready to start the day. He pulled out his math sheets, one of which appeared to have a peanut butter stain.
"Here." Caleb had his head on the desk in shame. Apparently math is not his forte.
"Esther Zhang?"
"Here." She appeared disinterested. Esther, a brilliant student, excels in combat, but hates the structure of average combat training classes. She is a regular attendant of Steve's combat club. I know, however, that she is not a math person. Esther produced a halfheartedly done sheet of homework; I collected their homework for the teacher to grade later.
I went on to teach about the topic of the day. Math came like a second language: easily when applied to my native language. Some of the students tilted their heads confusedly. Others readily jotted down notes. A cluster of students was talking; I reminded them to direct their attention to the board. They refused to comply. Steve had taught me to pick out the ringleader to break up these clusters. I found that the most likely candidate was the boy in the red shirt, so I sent him to the office. After letting the students work by themselves, take a break, or play games on their phones, the bell rang. I made my way through the busy hallways to the usual music classroom. I felt drained by the time I had finished teaching the math class. My head throbbed. Suddenly, I regretted eating a large breakfast. Now I know how Steve feels when he has to sight read.
When I got to the room, I found that another teacher had tampered with my items. My binder looked like it had been rummaged through and the new papers were definitely not mine. Everything was out of place. How could I teach if my setup had been destroyed? It sent me into a panic,but I had to pull myself together. I had to do it for my students.
I told them about today's special event. Today, we would visit the band room to try to get a sound of various brass instruments. They sat restlessly while I gave a brief introduction and read the announcements. Adrian looked especially excited about having chicken tenders for lunch. Yuki rolled her eyes at the track team announcements.
Steve greeted them affably as he usually does with other people and gave an introduction about embouchure, hand placement, and role in an ensemble for each of the instruments. It was as if he rehearsed this script a thousand times. (I made him do it.). I assisted each student try out their instrument of choice. Caleb (a different Caleb) seemed best suited to euphonium, Adrian to trumpet, Katelyn to trombone, Yuki to horn, etc.... I found that this class is mostly suited for euphonium, which I found surprising. Collectively, the class has a trumpet player personality with a bit of horn awkwardness.
When I dismissed them, I went back to the teacher's lounge to decompress. I never realized how tiring listening to sixth graders blow sour notes on brass instruments was until now. My phone uttered a marimba melody, which meant that Dr. Chen was trying to reach me. I rummaged through my purse to find my phone and found two inhalers: one for maintenance and one for rescue, an epinephrine injector, Benadryl, a purple notepad that served as my seizure diary, a potion of slowness, a syringe, anticonvulsant medication, a horn mouthpiece wrapped in a piece of old sheet music, a jar of clarinet reeds, a half-eaten bag of banana chips, and a DART card, but no phone. After listening further, I found it in my back pocket and unlocked it.
Dr. Chen: Hi! This is Dr. Betty Chen texting to remind you that your neurologist's appointment is at 15500. This is an automatic message.
I took up my purse full of medical supplies and stayed in my room. A trumpet fanfare sound indicated that Steve texted.
Steve: I need to stay late to help a student. Good luck at your appointment.
Me: I understand. Thanks.
I headed to the neurology clinic. Getting there would take an hour in my best shape. I dodged haphazardly shot arrows, tripped, and didn't think to roll. Again, my arms bent backwards when I tried to break my fall. I ended up with a few scrapes, but nothing serious. Redstone debris from nearby construction happened to fall where I did; every cut stung like a diamond sword made a cut across my nerves. I continued on. The terrain grew steep and treacherous as I progressed.
Eventually, my legs bent backwards and gave out. I was going to be late if I didn't move, but, at this point, I didn't care. My new pants suddenly felt itchy and stiff. The air was thick with smoke. Minecarts darted along the tracks with their passengers. Signs flashed in a myriad of colors, alerting hordes of pedestrians to buy their products and services.
Creeper Cola: An explosion of happiness (Does not contain sulfur)
Get smart with our tutoring services.
In a collision and need provisions? Call ###-####.
Trade with local villagers! We are not scammers.
Buy weapons and armor here!
We brew for less and give you more!
A vendor passed by and offered me grilled shrimp on a stick. I declined his offer, but he kept trying to prod me into eating his shish kebab of death. That was enough to make me break into a sprint. I had to demonstrate runs for the middle school track team, so this was not all that foreign to me. Dodging yet more obstacles like redstone spills, errant bottles, and unaware passengers, I made considerable progress. However, when I reached the door of the Blooming Rose Neurology Clinic, I collapsed again. I couldn't move. Every joint in my body screamed with pain. Luckily, a nurse on break noticed me and helped me to my feet. When I found the nearest chair, I collapsed in it. A nurse called me and directed me to the exam room even though I know the way there. With her hair in an immaculate bun, Dr. Chen directed her attention towards me.
"Hi! How was your day?" She always started our appointments like that.
"It was tiring and fun as usual. My students tried playing brass instruments."
"Were they any good?"
"Some were outstanding. Adrian has the makings of a trumpeter and he's a great track runner. I'd say he's the best on the team. Anyway, I'm here to tell you that I have some concerns." Dr. Chen inclined her ear towards me and listened as I told her about the seizures. I gave her my notepad and she read it as diligently as I would like my students to read the directions on their worksheets. "And my arms and legs to tend to bend backwards when I fall. Do you find that weird?" She concentrated and wrote some notes on a clipboard. After that, she looked up. I asked if I could use the restroom here. She pointed me in the general direction.
Ever since my ICU stay, the staff gave me some of their diapers. Mine was only slightly damp, but starting to become itchy, so I changed quickly and got back to Dr. Chen. Ever since then, I've been more confident. I didn't have to suddenly stop a lesson to prevent an accident or inconvenience other students anymore. I got back to the appointment; Dr. Chen directed me to another room. She told me to lie down and got out a needle.
"I'm going to need to draw some blood." My heart beat faster as she cleaned the area with an alcohol wipe. To my horror, I heard myself cry and felt my limbs thrash. I started to panic as nurses tried to pin me down. I couldn't escape. I couldn't breathe. A scream echoed off the walls as a symphony of pain. It was in some way my own and, in some way, not my own. I felt a needle pierce my arm. I am accustomed to sword and arrow wounds as every Minecraftian is, but needles cause an entirely different kind of pain. The slightest pinprick is enough to send me into a full-blown crying, screaming, and limb-flailing meltdown. Dr. Chen stood back calmly while the staff were shouting, holding me down with their gloved hands, thus aggravating my latex allergy and only making it worse. I ended up having an asthma attack, or so I thought. A horrible red rash spread across my limbs and burned as if I were swimming in lava.
When they stopped, a nurse called Steve to tell him about what happened. Since I could do nothing else, I steeled myself to listen. I realized that my airway was narrowing and that the staff would do nothing about it.
"We have deemed Caitlin Netherfield as hostile and aggressive."
"What? That doesn't sound like her at all."
"She forcefully tried to prevent our staff from performing a blood draw."
"That's...not right." What they said was both a truth and a lie. I wasn't trying to prevent them, but I, as a ranged fighter, can understand that it is harder to hit a moving target.
"Of course it isn't. She was attacking us." I don't know if flailing my limbs at no one in particular counts as attacking. The world faded into a black sea of pain.
I awoke in my own home gasping for air. Steve held the used epinephrine injector in one hand and tried to touch me with the other. I batted it away and curled into a ball. I did not want him to see me like this. He awkwardly scuffled out of the room; I stayed with my thoughts, releasing them as notes. My intonation wasn't the best and I had no vibrato or dynamic contrast, but I sang anyway. I sang "A Dream is a Wish your Heart Makes" from the Disney Cinderella movie. Though the plot as inane and illogical, it brought me comfort. Vivienne and I frequently watched it together while eating cheese pizza with no sauce. She gave me the hope and strength to climb one block higher, run one more lap, and live for one more day. I had lived and that's what counts. No matter how terrible life got, I loved it.
I wished for freedom, for a chance to prove myself to the world, to be able to take initiative instead of just standing in the corner helplessly, for freedom. More importantly, I wished for everyone I loved to be safe and thrive. I never really cared about my own wellbeing, but others meant the world to me. I listed off people I cared about.
Steve
Andrew
Dr. Chen
My music class
The middle school track team
My sisters, no matter how much pain they had inflicted upon me in the past
The nearby villagers
I rocked from front to back hugging my knees and gradually increased in intensity and tempo. This was the part of me that I hid like a mineshaft concealing its diamonds from the unworthy. For this part of me, I was called insane, a madwoman, inhuman. I an indeed, not human, but I have humanity. I have feelings, compassion, empathy, and other characteristics those around me have failed to recognize.
Suddenly, I saw my younger self right outside the band room. She had just run out of band class to decompress and started to rock. People stared, pointed, and laughed. Others shot the girl with a fusillade of insults.
"I told you she was crazy!"
"She should really be on the short bus."
"I know, right?" They did not stand down. They fired and fired at the defenseless girl. She sobbed into her arms and continued to rock. I tried to move, but I was powerless, just a bystander, a passive observer.
"Do you think she can talk?" The truth is that I can talk, just not under extreme stress, which the younger me had obviously experienced in this memory.
"You're not retarded, are you?" That comment shocked me to my core and continued to resonate into today. I looked at the kid who said it. He was about five feet tall, had blue eyes, and wore a cyan T-shirt and blue jeans. The younger Steve found me at my most vulnerable and strewed my essence, my autonomy, and my identity across the furthest reaches of the known world with those words. The current Steve looked at me with shock and anger.
"Just forget about that. It was a long time ago." He tried to dismiss my innermost pain with that phrase.
"Here's the thing. I cannot forget anything anyone says about me. Even if I wanted to, I can't just dismiss the day you shattered my life like it never happened."
"It's just words. Can't you learn to forget?"
"If 'it's just words', then you are a petty, selfish coward and might as well leave!"
"Fine. I will." With that, he stormed out of the room. I was alone again, with my thoughts and my voice. Every part of my body cried out from weariness. My phone protested by buzzing and producing an obnoxious piano riff. It was 21000. Who would call or text at this hour? The call was from a familiar number, so I answered.
"Hello? I need some help urgently." It was Sylvia Roth, another third clarinetist in the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra. She sometimes called and kept me up at night. I lashed out on bad days, yet she kept calling.
"It's late. Call me again in the morning."
"But it's an emergency. I need your help and quickly! My son is hurt."
"I'm a music teacher, not an EMT! And why are you, his mother, not there helping him?" I hung up. Sylvia called again.
"Well, the EMTs are not there yet. He's roughly located at 99.45, 235.55, 22. I can't be there because Riley is medically complex and is now sick." Adrian was hurt. My colleague/friend's child was hurt. My student was hurt. I could have said that it wasn't my job, but it was. When those students took their seats in my classroom, they became my children. It sank in after a few seconds; I ran in an all-out sprint on the way to those coordinates. Andrew told me to take care not to exert myself too much and risk damaging my joints or having an asthma attack, but, for once, I didn't care. I tossed his words into the wind and ran.
The wind blew in my face. My lungs burned. My feet pounded the ground and launched me into the next step. I had one goal: Get to Adrian. Thinking of him made me run even faster, much like a track athlete nearing the end of a race. I heard crying in the distance and saw an 11 year old boy in creeper pajamas lying on his side and coughing up large volumes of what looked like blood. Tears streamed from his eyes, one dark brown and one twilight blue. The boy was definitely Adrian. I saw a few bystanders, some who glanced at Adrian, but did nothing. I could understand their uncertainty, but the scene still angered me. None of them were calling 911 or asking if there was anything they could do.
I had no idea how to comfort this boy. Nothing seemed right for this incident. Each cliche, each useless platitude had something wrong with it. If I said "You'll get through this" and he died the next day from blood loss, I wouldn't know how to live with myself. I made a quick search through what I could say and do. I bend down in a place where Adrian could see me, but not directly in his line of sight. Positioning one's self in direct sight suggests aggression.
"Help...me...." A raspy whisper sounded from his throat. I could do nothing but comfort him, so that's what I did.
I produced a wad of tissues from my bag and began wiping his face, both to dry his tears and get the blood off his chin. His crying turned into words. "I'm going to die," he said over and over again.
"Everything will be okay." I ran my hand through his soft brown hair the way Steve does after I fall for all the various reasons I stumble to the ground. I could never forget what he did, but I can also never forget what he does now. Adrian coughed more quietly now. Out of nowhere, the girl with red hair confronted me.
"Do you know Adrian?" I studied the girl. She looked like she could be a Mindcrack student, but I wasn't sure I ever saw her in my classes. Then, when I saw her Creative Fun-issued sword, I knew she was in fifth grade.
"Yes. We're friends. Adrian was in a sniper duel with a skeleton and got bitten by five cave spiders. " Right when she said that, I fired some arrows at a skeleton. It fell.
Alex produced another tissue. We conversed all while helping Adrian. The EMTs arrived with the sirens on their minecarts wailing. Alex and I put our hands up and stepped back. Immediately, the EMTs carried Adrian away. I tried to make my way back home, but my legs gave out. I felt my throat begin to tighten, so I used my inhaler. Being able to breathe made me feel somewhat better, but it didn't change the fact that pains shot through my knees like arrows. I chugged half a healing potion and, within moments, I regained my strength and continued on. My phone produced a trumpet fanfare.
Steve: Where are you? I'm so worried. :(
Me: I was helping Adrian.
Steve: It's 22500!
Me: Adrian was in a sniper duel with a skeleton and was ambushed by cave spiders.
Steve: Did he live?
Me: Yes. He was in bad shape, though. Don't expect him to show up to school tomorrow. I don't think he'll run or fight for a week.
Steve: Too bad. He loves track and combat club.
With that, I headed home and collapsed in bed. The next day, I received an E-mail from Sylvia at 6000.
sylvia_roth@fhl.net: My son, Adrian Roth, is unable to make it to school because he is in the hospital receiving blood transfusions. For those of you that don't know, Adrian was ambushed by cave spiders and was bitten several times. My colleague, Caitlin Netherfield, who is his music teacher, found him in excruciating pain. This is a mass e-mail for all of his teachers. Below is the doctor's note:
Patient: Adrian Roth
Age: 11 years, 3 months, 5 days
Admitted for: Combat Injury
Explain: Adrian was ambushed and bitten by several cave spiders. He started coughing up large amounts of blood due to blood vessels breaking in the stomach and lungs. Cave spider venom is a pain-inducing agent and a blood thinner.
Treatment: Two platelet transfusions a day for two days, two red blood cell transfusions a day for three days, 1 bottle of regeneration potion a day for three days, pain medication (non-narcotic) as needed
Discharge:
What to Avoid After Discharge: Contact sports for 2 weeks, Running for 5 days, Any form of combat for 3 weeks
Any Other Recommendations: Give extra iron (in the form of pills and food, NOT from an iron ingot) for eight weeks when Adrian accepts food. If not, put it in his IV.
Issued By: Andrew Lai
Primary Healthcare Practitioner: See Above
Thank you for understanding.
With faith, hope, and love.
Sylvia Roth
I received another E-mail from Adrian.
ar5679@mindcrack.net: hey! i feel horrible because i'm sick. just wanted to let you know. it kind of hurts to do anything. what will i miss?
Adrian
netherfieldc@mindcrack.net: Here is the worksheet on different types of percussion instruments. I hope you feel better soon!
I took my daily anti-seizure medication: one large blue pill, two blue green pills, and a teaspoon of slowness potion to wash it down with and inhaled my maintenance medication. I felt sluggish when the medications took effect, but I was so used to the sensation that I didn't mind. Taking up my many bags, I sorted my lesson plan and headed towards Mindcrack. Steve had already left long ago, so he was not there to greet me in the morning. However, for some reason, I didn't mind.
With that, I went on to teach music to Mindcrack's newest (and finest) generation of students. I crossed my fingers that Adrian would make it through his hospital stay without complications. Though I still have to deal with my own issues day to day, I saved one of my students from potential death. For once, I treated my students like family instead of just people sitting at desks taking notes. Just for these moments, I would live one more day and hope for everything to be alright in the end simply because it will be.
I went on to teach about the topic of the day. Math came like a second language: easily when applied to my native language. Some of the students tilted their heads confusedly. Others readily jotted down notes. A cluster of students was talking; I reminded them to direct their attention to the board. They refused to comply. Steve had taught me to pick out the ringleader to break up these clusters. I found that the most likely candidate was the boy in the red shirt, so I sent him to the office. After letting the students work by themselves, take a break, or play games on their phones, the bell rang. I made my way through the busy hallways to the usual music classroom. I felt drained by the time I had finished teaching the math class. My head throbbed. Suddenly, I regretted eating a large breakfast. Now I know how Steve feels when he has to sight read.
When I got to the room, I found that another teacher had tampered with my items. My binder looked like it had been rummaged through and the new papers were definitely not mine. Everything was out of place. How could I teach if my setup had been destroyed? It sent me into a panic,but I had to pull myself together. I had to do it for my students.
I told them about today's special event. Today, we would visit the band room to try to get a sound of various brass instruments. They sat restlessly while I gave a brief introduction and read the announcements. Adrian looked especially excited about having chicken tenders for lunch. Yuki rolled her eyes at the track team announcements.
Steve greeted them affably as he usually does with other people and gave an introduction about embouchure, hand placement, and role in an ensemble for each of the instruments. It was as if he rehearsed this script a thousand times. (I made him do it.). I assisted each student try out their instrument of choice. Caleb (a different Caleb) seemed best suited to euphonium, Adrian to trumpet, Katelyn to trombone, Yuki to horn, etc.... I found that this class is mostly suited for euphonium, which I found surprising. Collectively, the class has a trumpet player personality with a bit of horn awkwardness.
When I dismissed them, I went back to the teacher's lounge to decompress. I never realized how tiring listening to sixth graders blow sour notes on brass instruments was until now. My phone uttered a marimba melody, which meant that Dr. Chen was trying to reach me. I rummaged through my purse to find my phone and found two inhalers: one for maintenance and one for rescue, an epinephrine injector, Benadryl, a purple notepad that served as my seizure diary, a potion of slowness, a syringe, anticonvulsant medication, a horn mouthpiece wrapped in a piece of old sheet music, a jar of clarinet reeds, a half-eaten bag of banana chips, and a DART card, but no phone. After listening further, I found it in my back pocket and unlocked it.
Dr. Chen: Hi! This is Dr. Betty Chen texting to remind you that your neurologist's appointment is at 15500. This is an automatic message.
I took up my purse full of medical supplies and stayed in my room. A trumpet fanfare sound indicated that Steve texted.
Steve: I need to stay late to help a student. Good luck at your appointment.
Me: I understand. Thanks.
I headed to the neurology clinic. Getting there would take an hour in my best shape. I dodged haphazardly shot arrows, tripped, and didn't think to roll. Again, my arms bent backwards when I tried to break my fall. I ended up with a few scrapes, but nothing serious. Redstone debris from nearby construction happened to fall where I did; every cut stung like a diamond sword made a cut across my nerves. I continued on. The terrain grew steep and treacherous as I progressed.
Eventually, my legs bent backwards and gave out. I was going to be late if I didn't move, but, at this point, I didn't care. My new pants suddenly felt itchy and stiff. The air was thick with smoke. Minecarts darted along the tracks with their passengers. Signs flashed in a myriad of colors, alerting hordes of pedestrians to buy their products and services.
Creeper Cola: An explosion of happiness (Does not contain sulfur)
Get smart with our tutoring services.
In a collision and need provisions? Call ###-####.
Trade with local villagers! We are not scammers.
Buy weapons and armor here!
We brew for less and give you more!
A vendor passed by and offered me grilled shrimp on a stick. I declined his offer, but he kept trying to prod me into eating his shish kebab of death. That was enough to make me break into a sprint. I had to demonstrate runs for the middle school track team, so this was not all that foreign to me. Dodging yet more obstacles like redstone spills, errant bottles, and unaware passengers, I made considerable progress. However, when I reached the door of the Blooming Rose Neurology Clinic, I collapsed again. I couldn't move. Every joint in my body screamed with pain. Luckily, a nurse on break noticed me and helped me to my feet. When I found the nearest chair, I collapsed in it. A nurse called me and directed me to the exam room even though I know the way there. With her hair in an immaculate bun, Dr. Chen directed her attention towards me.
"Hi! How was your day?" She always started our appointments like that.
"It was tiring and fun as usual. My students tried playing brass instruments."
"Were they any good?"
"Some were outstanding. Adrian has the makings of a trumpeter and he's a great track runner. I'd say he's the best on the team. Anyway, I'm here to tell you that I have some concerns." Dr. Chen inclined her ear towards me and listened as I told her about the seizures. I gave her my notepad and she read it as diligently as I would like my students to read the directions on their worksheets. "And my arms and legs to tend to bend backwards when I fall. Do you find that weird?" She concentrated and wrote some notes on a clipboard. After that, she looked up. I asked if I could use the restroom here. She pointed me in the general direction.
Ever since my ICU stay, the staff gave me some of their diapers. Mine was only slightly damp, but starting to become itchy, so I changed quickly and got back to Dr. Chen. Ever since then, I've been more confident. I didn't have to suddenly stop a lesson to prevent an accident or inconvenience other students anymore. I got back to the appointment; Dr. Chen directed me to another room. She told me to lie down and got out a needle.
"I'm going to need to draw some blood." My heart beat faster as she cleaned the area with an alcohol wipe. To my horror, I heard myself cry and felt my limbs thrash. I started to panic as nurses tried to pin me down. I couldn't escape. I couldn't breathe. A scream echoed off the walls as a symphony of pain. It was in some way my own and, in some way, not my own. I felt a needle pierce my arm. I am accustomed to sword and arrow wounds as every Minecraftian is, but needles cause an entirely different kind of pain. The slightest pinprick is enough to send me into a full-blown crying, screaming, and limb-flailing meltdown. Dr. Chen stood back calmly while the staff were shouting, holding me down with their gloved hands, thus aggravating my latex allergy and only making it worse. I ended up having an asthma attack, or so I thought. A horrible red rash spread across my limbs and burned as if I were swimming in lava.
When they stopped, a nurse called Steve to tell him about what happened. Since I could do nothing else, I steeled myself to listen. I realized that my airway was narrowing and that the staff would do nothing about it.
"We have deemed Caitlin Netherfield as hostile and aggressive."
"What? That doesn't sound like her at all."
"She forcefully tried to prevent our staff from performing a blood draw."
"That's...not right." What they said was both a truth and a lie. I wasn't trying to prevent them, but I, as a ranged fighter, can understand that it is harder to hit a moving target.
"Of course it isn't. She was attacking us." I don't know if flailing my limbs at no one in particular counts as attacking. The world faded into a black sea of pain.
I awoke in my own home gasping for air. Steve held the used epinephrine injector in one hand and tried to touch me with the other. I batted it away and curled into a ball. I did not want him to see me like this. He awkwardly scuffled out of the room; I stayed with my thoughts, releasing them as notes. My intonation wasn't the best and I had no vibrato or dynamic contrast, but I sang anyway. I sang "A Dream is a Wish your Heart Makes" from the Disney Cinderella movie. Though the plot as inane and illogical, it brought me comfort. Vivienne and I frequently watched it together while eating cheese pizza with no sauce. She gave me the hope and strength to climb one block higher, run one more lap, and live for one more day. I had lived and that's what counts. No matter how terrible life got, I loved it.
I wished for freedom, for a chance to prove myself to the world, to be able to take initiative instead of just standing in the corner helplessly, for freedom. More importantly, I wished for everyone I loved to be safe and thrive. I never really cared about my own wellbeing, but others meant the world to me. I listed off people I cared about.
Steve
Andrew
Dr. Chen
My music class
The middle school track team
My sisters, no matter how much pain they had inflicted upon me in the past
The nearby villagers
I rocked from front to back hugging my knees and gradually increased in intensity and tempo. This was the part of me that I hid like a mineshaft concealing its diamonds from the unworthy. For this part of me, I was called insane, a madwoman, inhuman. I an indeed, not human, but I have humanity. I have feelings, compassion, empathy, and other characteristics those around me have failed to recognize.
Suddenly, I saw my younger self right outside the band room. She had just run out of band class to decompress and started to rock. People stared, pointed, and laughed. Others shot the girl with a fusillade of insults.
"I told you she was crazy!"
"She should really be on the short bus."
"I know, right?" They did not stand down. They fired and fired at the defenseless girl. She sobbed into her arms and continued to rock. I tried to move, but I was powerless, just a bystander, a passive observer.
"Do you think she can talk?" The truth is that I can talk, just not under extreme stress, which the younger me had obviously experienced in this memory.
"You're not retarded, are you?" That comment shocked me to my core and continued to resonate into today. I looked at the kid who said it. He was about five feet tall, had blue eyes, and wore a cyan T-shirt and blue jeans. The younger Steve found me at my most vulnerable and strewed my essence, my autonomy, and my identity across the furthest reaches of the known world with those words. The current Steve looked at me with shock and anger.
"Just forget about that. It was a long time ago." He tried to dismiss my innermost pain with that phrase.
"Here's the thing. I cannot forget anything anyone says about me. Even if I wanted to, I can't just dismiss the day you shattered my life like it never happened."
"It's just words. Can't you learn to forget?"
"If 'it's just words', then you are a petty, selfish coward and might as well leave!"
"Fine. I will." With that, he stormed out of the room. I was alone again, with my thoughts and my voice. Every part of my body cried out from weariness. My phone protested by buzzing and producing an obnoxious piano riff. It was 21000. Who would call or text at this hour? The call was from a familiar number, so I answered.
"Hello? I need some help urgently." It was Sylvia Roth, another third clarinetist in the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra. She sometimes called and kept me up at night. I lashed out on bad days, yet she kept calling.
"It's late. Call me again in the morning."
"But it's an emergency. I need your help and quickly! My son is hurt."
"I'm a music teacher, not an EMT! And why are you, his mother, not there helping him?" I hung up. Sylvia called again.
"Well, the EMTs are not there yet. He's roughly located at 99.45, 235.55, 22. I can't be there because Riley is medically complex and is now sick." Adrian was hurt. My colleague/friend's child was hurt. My student was hurt. I could have said that it wasn't my job, but it was. When those students took their seats in my classroom, they became my children. It sank in after a few seconds; I ran in an all-out sprint on the way to those coordinates. Andrew told me to take care not to exert myself too much and risk damaging my joints or having an asthma attack, but, for once, I didn't care. I tossed his words into the wind and ran.
The wind blew in my face. My lungs burned. My feet pounded the ground and launched me into the next step. I had one goal: Get to Adrian. Thinking of him made me run even faster, much like a track athlete nearing the end of a race. I heard crying in the distance and saw an 11 year old boy in creeper pajamas lying on his side and coughing up large volumes of what looked like blood. Tears streamed from his eyes, one dark brown and one twilight blue. The boy was definitely Adrian. I saw a few bystanders, some who glanced at Adrian, but did nothing. I could understand their uncertainty, but the scene still angered me. None of them were calling 911 or asking if there was anything they could do.
I had no idea how to comfort this boy. Nothing seemed right for this incident. Each cliche, each useless platitude had something wrong with it. If I said "You'll get through this" and he died the next day from blood loss, I wouldn't know how to live with myself. I made a quick search through what I could say and do. I bend down in a place where Adrian could see me, but not directly in his line of sight. Positioning one's self in direct sight suggests aggression.
"Help...me...." A raspy whisper sounded from his throat. I could do nothing but comfort him, so that's what I did.
I produced a wad of tissues from my bag and began wiping his face, both to dry his tears and get the blood off his chin. His crying turned into words. "I'm going to die," he said over and over again.
"Everything will be okay." I ran my hand through his soft brown hair the way Steve does after I fall for all the various reasons I stumble to the ground. I could never forget what he did, but I can also never forget what he does now. Adrian coughed more quietly now. Out of nowhere, the girl with red hair confronted me.
"Do you know Adrian?" I studied the girl. She looked like she could be a Mindcrack student, but I wasn't sure I ever saw her in my classes. Then, when I saw her Creative Fun-issued sword, I knew she was in fifth grade.
"Yes. We're friends. Adrian was in a sniper duel with a skeleton and got bitten by five cave spiders. " Right when she said that, I fired some arrows at a skeleton. It fell.
Alex produced another tissue. We conversed all while helping Adrian. The EMTs arrived with the sirens on their minecarts wailing. Alex and I put our hands up and stepped back. Immediately, the EMTs carried Adrian away. I tried to make my way back home, but my legs gave out. I felt my throat begin to tighten, so I used my inhaler. Being able to breathe made me feel somewhat better, but it didn't change the fact that pains shot through my knees like arrows. I chugged half a healing potion and, within moments, I regained my strength and continued on. My phone produced a trumpet fanfare.
Steve: Where are you? I'm so worried. :(
Me: I was helping Adrian.
Steve: It's 22500!
Me: Adrian was in a sniper duel with a skeleton and was ambushed by cave spiders.
Steve: Did he live?
Me: Yes. He was in bad shape, though. Don't expect him to show up to school tomorrow. I don't think he'll run or fight for a week.
Steve: Too bad. He loves track and combat club.
With that, I headed home and collapsed in bed. The next day, I received an E-mail from Sylvia at 6000.
sylvia_roth@fhl.net: My son, Adrian Roth, is unable to make it to school because he is in the hospital receiving blood transfusions. For those of you that don't know, Adrian was ambushed by cave spiders and was bitten several times. My colleague, Caitlin Netherfield, who is his music teacher, found him in excruciating pain. This is a mass e-mail for all of his teachers. Below is the doctor's note:
Patient: Adrian Roth
Age: 11 years, 3 months, 5 days
Admitted for: Combat Injury
Explain: Adrian was ambushed and bitten by several cave spiders. He started coughing up large amounts of blood due to blood vessels breaking in the stomach and lungs. Cave spider venom is a pain-inducing agent and a blood thinner.
Treatment: Two platelet transfusions a day for two days, two red blood cell transfusions a day for three days, 1 bottle of regeneration potion a day for three days, pain medication (non-narcotic) as needed
Discharge:
What to Avoid After Discharge: Contact sports for 2 weeks, Running for 5 days, Any form of combat for 3 weeks
Any Other Recommendations: Give extra iron (in the form of pills and food, NOT from an iron ingot) for eight weeks when Adrian accepts food. If not, put it in his IV.
Issued By: Andrew Lai
Primary Healthcare Practitioner: See Above
Thank you for understanding.
With faith, hope, and love.
Sylvia Roth
I received another E-mail from Adrian.
ar5679@mindcrack.net: hey! i feel horrible because i'm sick. just wanted to let you know. it kind of hurts to do anything. what will i miss?
Adrian
netherfieldc@mindcrack.net: Here is the worksheet on different types of percussion instruments. I hope you feel better soon!
I took my daily anti-seizure medication: one large blue pill, two blue green pills, and a teaspoon of slowness potion to wash it down with and inhaled my maintenance medication. I felt sluggish when the medications took effect, but I was so used to the sensation that I didn't mind. Taking up my many bags, I sorted my lesson plan and headed towards Mindcrack. Steve had already left long ago, so he was not there to greet me in the morning. However, for some reason, I didn't mind.
With that, I went on to teach music to Mindcrack's newest (and finest) generation of students. I crossed my fingers that Adrian would make it through his hospital stay without complications. Though I still have to deal with my own issues day to day, I saved one of my students from potential death. For once, I treated my students like family instead of just people sitting at desks taking notes. Just for these moments, I would live one more day and hope for everything to be alright in the end simply because it will be.
Friday, July 24, 2015
The Bringer of Peace (Steve)
Rehearsal began as usual in the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra. I came twenty minutes early, ran through my major scales in various modes, and, in the process, I accidentally hit my trumpet on my music stand and it fell over. Other trumpet players, mainly first trumpets, glared at me; naturally, Kent made a show of it.
"Can't you play anything without making a scene or knocking over your music stand? Even Hot Cross Buns would be nice," Kent chided me like I was six years old and woke up after wetting the bed for the millionth time. "You shouldn't be in this orchestra and your band does terribly every single competition. I mean, they were lucky to get bronze!" He went on berating me and the Mindcrack bands. My face flushed, my eyes stung, and I felt a lump form inside my throat. Kent had insulted me before, but not like this. This cut more deeply. I wanted to retort, but the words never came to mind.
"Shut up, Kent. Even if Steve knocks over his stand sometimes, he's still a good musician. You're just an egotistical trumpeter," Mark retorted.
"Says another trumpeter!" Kent was at it again. "And your notes are mushy and inarticulate!"
"Please direct your attention to Kent, the bringer of big egos!" Every wind player and percussionist applauded. Some cellists, violists, and second violins joined at the peak. Mark gestured towards Kent as if he were an idol. I laughed, which lifted my spirits. The first violins turned up their noses and complained loudly about how stupid wind players are just as Mark raised his sword. Unlike them, the second violins backed Mark up with retorts of their own. A cellist threw his bow at Kent. The flute section talked amongst themselves saying "That was so inappropriate! Kent is just horrible." A bassoonist mentioned the possibility of Kent having Asperger's Syndrome. Some of my students have the disorder, but they don't act like Kent. Caitlin turned towards the trumpet section after fixing her reed for the tenth time.
"Stand down, Mark. There is no need to let a nuisance like Kent get to you. Kent, stop belittling others. Even if Steve's band isn't the best, they still try their best to play. You're not exactly principal yourself. Ella is. She would never belittle her section like that. Steve, don't listen to Kent. His ego is so big it distorts his self-image." Calls of assent rose from the other sections. Mark likened Caitlin to Venus, calling her the bringer of peace. After the traumatic ICU visit, she bounced back and came to my aid. No one had ever done that for me before. Come to think of it, I needed her as much as she needed me, if not more.
We started playing "The Planets" when the conductor cued us to start. Epic swells from the trumpets, trombones, and horns culminated into a bright and aggressive section. I articulated them staccato and not marcato, but I went on. In the second movement, The lines sickeningly swirled on the page; some notes seemed to pulsate at the rate my head throbbed. A wave of nausea washed over me when I came to a divisi. I played what I could while focusing on the two measures with all of my might. When a rest appeared, I counted in my head. The angelic choir of flutes came in. Third clarinets backed them with low notes. They could use more dynamic contrast. I came in once again for the subsequent movements. During the Jupiter movement, I pushed too much air through my horn and drowned out the tuba. Other trumpets did this as well. When the conductor cut us off, Ella advised us to write a lower dynamic at the part we blasted; I did so gingerly to avoid knocking over my music stand again.
After listening to the flutes, I realized how horrible I really felt. It may have been my imagination, but my skin looked to be tinged green. My stomach churned as if someone were attempting to make butter inside of it. The room seemed to spin and distort. I couldn't play through the piece anymore because I was so nauseous. I tried to keep the contents of my stomach where they were. Charlie, our C tuba player interrupted rehearsal by raising his hand.
"Steve doesn't look to good. He might puke on his music stand at any minute." Charlie voiced his honest concerns. I felt myself gag. It was twenty minutes away from break and there was no way I could make it if I played any more.
"I don't care." The conductor raised his baton and we played again. I dropped my trumpet and placed my hand over my mouth while writing in my music. I spurted vomit through my fingers for the next five minutes and ended up getting violently sick on an unoccupied patch of floor. Mark and Ella were taken aback. Kent made exaggerated airing out motions and pinched his nose. The conductor stopped and called a janitor. He asked me to go home and rest until I was better. I got to my feet and started on the journey home. About a kilometer from the building, I realized that I felt too weak to walk home. I sat and cried helplessly with my head between my knees. When I got my phone out to text Andrew about the incident, a message from Caitlin appeared.
Caitlin: How are you doing? I feel bad about what happened.
Me: Horrible. Don't feel bad. It was my fault.
Caitlin: It isn't. Your ability to push through a bad situation is admirable.
Me: But I can't go on. >:(
Caitlin: Let Andrew know about this.
Me: I will.
Me: I threw up at rehearsal.
Andrew: Did you make it to a bathroom or wastebasket?
Me: I made it to somewhere other than my music stand.
Andrew: Was that somewhere a waste receptacle?
Me: It was the carpet.... :,( So embarrassed.
Andrew: I can see why. Try taking peptic syrup as it states on the package before rehearsal.
Me: Can you pick me up? I don't think I can make it to my house.
Andrew: I'm with another patient, but Sofi might be able to help.
I already take peptic syrup before performances, but it seems to be helping less and less. I don't know what is causing this problem, but I wish it would stop.
Dr. Chen: How is Caitlin doing?
Me: Good, but I'm not so well myself. Ever since she joined the MCSO, she just blossomed.
Dr. Chen: Good to hear that! What plagues you?
Me: I threw up forcefully at rehearsal. It's happened before, but not like this. It's getting out of hand.
Dr. Chen: That is a cause for concern. I'll see if I can squeeze you in sometime.
Me: Thanks.
Sofi arrived on a pig with a carrot on a stick. She asked me if I needed a ride. I went on the pig, which trotted gently along, but made considerable progress. I suddenly felt sick again and begged her to stop. Reluctantly, the woman in pink obliged and I vomited into a trash can. I took some peptic syrup and we resumed riding. Her auburn hair and emerald green eyes glistened in the sunlight like a newly polished horn. She intimidated me and had no intention of making me feel at ease. When she arrived at my home, I dismounted. I heard her mutter something about hitting Andrew--and I wasn't entirely sure if she was joking.
I sat down at my computer to see if any students or parents emailed me. Naturally, some people did.
mp3523@mindcrackemail.org: When is the concert?
Me: Tomorrow at 7:00
roadrage@minecraft.net: YOUR A HORRIBLE TEACHER AND SHOULD BE FIRED. YOU'RE DESK IS DISORGANIZED AND YOU DONT EVEN BOTHER TO ANSWER IN COMPLETE SENTENCES! MY CHLD GETS BAD GRADES BECAUSE OF YOU AND ITS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!
Me: He earns grades. He doesn't get them.
I closed my computer. The light felt better here, but I wanted to sleep. The scenery faded into black as I drifted into a deep slumber.
Caitlin appeared in a flash of white light. She wore a long white dress with a gold belt and her hair was in a loose bun with tendrils of hair framing her face. The sight not only stunned me because she looked absolutely beautiful, but because Caitlin can barely tolerate anything more than a ponytail at the nape of her neck for more than half an hour. In a similar way, Andrew does not like it when food touches on his plate; adamantly he claims that a "haphazard pile of chaos" is "not edible".
She leapt gracefully and bounded with great agility. Naturally, I followed. That's what made me realize it was a dream. Real Caitlin expended so much energy walking she would need to lie down for an hour after walking a long distance, supporting me during combat, or standing for a particularly long music selection. Even then, she avoided combat due to the risk of being an easy target during a seizure, having an asthma attack from sustained exertion, or not being able to run fast enough from a zombie. Dream Caitlin was not bogged down by asthma, epilepsy, and cerebral palsy. The dream version could move as she pleased with almost no effort. We could have many adventures together, side by side.
I saw several glimpses of a normal Minecraftian life with this apparition as my guide. Visions of wedding, a family, and growing old together passed by. Seeing Caitlin run after two little boys and laugh tugged at my heartstrings. Would she be able to do that? I saw us dancing together in our old age and laughing at each other's jokes effortlessly. Then, the memories turned bittersweet. I saw figures dressed in black surrounding a nether brick coffin. They tossed flowers into the coffin as if to form a bed for the deceased. Caitlin stepped into the coffin and closed her eyes, but I only noticed now that she had blue eyes instead of black.
That was Vivienne, not Caitlin. I had no idea I grieved her death until now. Since I had forgotten that name long ago, I subconsciously expected Caitlin to be Vivienne. I wanted her to be the fearless, headstrong trumpeter I had in my head. Instead, I got a shy, awkward clarinetist/hornist. At that moment, the funeral melted into a hospital setting. I saw hospital staff rushing around trying to intubate Caitlin. Tears welled in her eyes. What started out as a bad cold quickly turned into pneumonia. I remember startling the receptionist and rushing to Caitlin's side. I would have gladly slain another Ender Dragon with my bare hands, but seeing her fight her own body made me feel powerless. I hate it when bad memories make my dreams weird.
When I woke up, I noticed that I had wet the bed. Part of me thought Way to go, idiot. You forgot to put on a diaper. Another part of me thought You should have outgrown it by now.
Failure.
Loser.
You'll never measure up to your brothers.
*smack*
He fell on his face again.
I was about to cry when Caitlin walked in. When she noticed, I looked down at my soaked pants. I buried my face in my hands and let loose a sob. The memories came back.
You'll never learn.
Just try harder and you'll get it. Everyone else does.
It's so much work to be your friend.
Who could forget how to tie their own shoes?
Idiot.
You need sped.
It's not your fault.
I understand.
The last two cut through the storm like an Efficiency V diamond pickaxe through iron ore. Caitlin volunteered to wash the sheets. She put the wet sheets in a cauldron and added a mixture of potions while I watched. At that point, I felt...something I had never felt before. I can't describe it precisely.
Then, I remembered that I had mined a diamond and I knew how to use it.
(A/N: It's a long post. The story kept getting more interesting, so I had to keep writing. Give me feedback with the newly added reactions!)
After listening to the flutes, I realized how horrible I really felt. It may have been my imagination, but my skin looked to be tinged green. My stomach churned as if someone were attempting to make butter inside of it. The room seemed to spin and distort. I couldn't play through the piece anymore because I was so nauseous. I tried to keep the contents of my stomach where they were. Charlie, our C tuba player interrupted rehearsal by raising his hand.
"Steve doesn't look to good. He might puke on his music stand at any minute." Charlie voiced his honest concerns. I felt myself gag. It was twenty minutes away from break and there was no way I could make it if I played any more.
"I don't care." The conductor raised his baton and we played again. I dropped my trumpet and placed my hand over my mouth while writing in my music. I spurted vomit through my fingers for the next five minutes and ended up getting violently sick on an unoccupied patch of floor. Mark and Ella were taken aback. Kent made exaggerated airing out motions and pinched his nose. The conductor stopped and called a janitor. He asked me to go home and rest until I was better. I got to my feet and started on the journey home. About a kilometer from the building, I realized that I felt too weak to walk home. I sat and cried helplessly with my head between my knees. When I got my phone out to text Andrew about the incident, a message from Caitlin appeared.
Caitlin: How are you doing? I feel bad about what happened.
Me: Horrible. Don't feel bad. It was my fault.
Caitlin: It isn't. Your ability to push through a bad situation is admirable.
Me: But I can't go on. >:(
Caitlin: Let Andrew know about this.
Me: I will.
Me: I threw up at rehearsal.
Andrew: Did you make it to a bathroom or wastebasket?
Me: I made it to somewhere other than my music stand.
Andrew: Was that somewhere a waste receptacle?
Me: It was the carpet.... :,( So embarrassed.
Andrew: I can see why. Try taking peptic syrup as it states on the package before rehearsal.
Me: Can you pick me up? I don't think I can make it to my house.
Andrew: I'm with another patient, but Sofi might be able to help.
I already take peptic syrup before performances, but it seems to be helping less and less. I don't know what is causing this problem, but I wish it would stop.
Dr. Chen: How is Caitlin doing?
Me: Good, but I'm not so well myself. Ever since she joined the MCSO, she just blossomed.
Dr. Chen: Good to hear that! What plagues you?
Me: I threw up forcefully at rehearsal. It's happened before, but not like this. It's getting out of hand.
Dr. Chen: That is a cause for concern. I'll see if I can squeeze you in sometime.
Me: Thanks.
Sofi arrived on a pig with a carrot on a stick. She asked me if I needed a ride. I went on the pig, which trotted gently along, but made considerable progress. I suddenly felt sick again and begged her to stop. Reluctantly, the woman in pink obliged and I vomited into a trash can. I took some peptic syrup and we resumed riding. Her auburn hair and emerald green eyes glistened in the sunlight like a newly polished horn. She intimidated me and had no intention of making me feel at ease. When she arrived at my home, I dismounted. I heard her mutter something about hitting Andrew--and I wasn't entirely sure if she was joking.
I sat down at my computer to see if any students or parents emailed me. Naturally, some people did.
mp3523@mindcrackemail.org: When is the concert?
Me: Tomorrow at 7:00
roadrage@minecraft.net: YOUR A HORRIBLE TEACHER AND SHOULD BE FIRED. YOU'RE DESK IS DISORGANIZED AND YOU DONT EVEN BOTHER TO ANSWER IN COMPLETE SENTENCES! MY CHLD GETS BAD GRADES BECAUSE OF YOU AND ITS ALL YOUR FAULT!!!!
Me: He earns grades. He doesn't get them.
I closed my computer. The light felt better here, but I wanted to sleep. The scenery faded into black as I drifted into a deep slumber.
Caitlin appeared in a flash of white light. She wore a long white dress with a gold belt and her hair was in a loose bun with tendrils of hair framing her face. The sight not only stunned me because she looked absolutely beautiful, but because Caitlin can barely tolerate anything more than a ponytail at the nape of her neck for more than half an hour. In a similar way, Andrew does not like it when food touches on his plate; adamantly he claims that a "haphazard pile of chaos" is "not edible".
She leapt gracefully and bounded with great agility. Naturally, I followed. That's what made me realize it was a dream. Real Caitlin expended so much energy walking she would need to lie down for an hour after walking a long distance, supporting me during combat, or standing for a particularly long music selection. Even then, she avoided combat due to the risk of being an easy target during a seizure, having an asthma attack from sustained exertion, or not being able to run fast enough from a zombie. Dream Caitlin was not bogged down by asthma, epilepsy, and cerebral palsy. The dream version could move as she pleased with almost no effort. We could have many adventures together, side by side.
I saw several glimpses of a normal Minecraftian life with this apparition as my guide. Visions of wedding, a family, and growing old together passed by. Seeing Caitlin run after two little boys and laugh tugged at my heartstrings. Would she be able to do that? I saw us dancing together in our old age and laughing at each other's jokes effortlessly. Then, the memories turned bittersweet. I saw figures dressed in black surrounding a nether brick coffin. They tossed flowers into the coffin as if to form a bed for the deceased. Caitlin stepped into the coffin and closed her eyes, but I only noticed now that she had blue eyes instead of black.
That was Vivienne, not Caitlin. I had no idea I grieved her death until now. Since I had forgotten that name long ago, I subconsciously expected Caitlin to be Vivienne. I wanted her to be the fearless, headstrong trumpeter I had in my head. Instead, I got a shy, awkward clarinetist/hornist. At that moment, the funeral melted into a hospital setting. I saw hospital staff rushing around trying to intubate Caitlin. Tears welled in her eyes. What started out as a bad cold quickly turned into pneumonia. I remember startling the receptionist and rushing to Caitlin's side. I would have gladly slain another Ender Dragon with my bare hands, but seeing her fight her own body made me feel powerless. I hate it when bad memories make my dreams weird.
When I woke up, I noticed that I had wet the bed. Part of me thought Way to go, idiot. You forgot to put on a diaper. Another part of me thought You should have outgrown it by now.
Failure.
Loser.
You'll never measure up to your brothers.
*smack*
He fell on his face again.
I was about to cry when Caitlin walked in. When she noticed, I looked down at my soaked pants. I buried my face in my hands and let loose a sob. The memories came back.
You'll never learn.
Just try harder and you'll get it. Everyone else does.
It's so much work to be your friend.
Who could forget how to tie their own shoes?
Idiot.
You need sped.
It's not your fault.
I understand.
The last two cut through the storm like an Efficiency V diamond pickaxe through iron ore. Caitlin volunteered to wash the sheets. She put the wet sheets in a cauldron and added a mixture of potions while I watched. At that point, I felt...something I had never felt before. I can't describe it precisely.
Then, I remembered that I had mined a diamond and I knew how to use it.
(A/N: It's a long post. The story kept getting more interesting, so I had to keep writing. Give me feedback with the newly added reactions!)
Saturday, July 18, 2015
Blog Survey (A/N)
I want to figure out how to make these musical misadventures worth reading. Take the survey here if the embed doesn't work.
Survey Maker
I won't post until at least 10 respondents complete the survey.
Update: I recant. I'll post some new content when I can.
Survey Maker
I won't post until at least 10 respondents complete the survey.
Update: I recant. I'll post some new content when I can.
Nuisance Illnesses (Andrew)
Colds are nuisance illnesses for most of my patients; they rarely see me for "little" colds. They just sip tea, stay at home, and deal with it because viruses cannot be cured with antibiotics. Note how I said "most" of my patients, which represents "most" people. For Caitlin, there is no such thing as a little cold.
Steve, my longtime friend, called me again telling me that Caitlin had more seizures, is having difficulty breathing despite having used her inhaler multiple times, and that he is on the verge of freaking out. Frankly, I was too, but I had to keep a brave face for my other patient. She was in for a routine well check. I realized that I had left him hanging for too long, but my friend needed me.
"Well, what are you doing standing around? Get her to the hospital!"
"Um...she might panic and her breathing will get worse..."
"I'll call a specialized nurse to make her more comfortable. We don't want to repeat last time.... Anyway, I hope all goes well. I have to get back to my other patient." I hung up. Jenny Albright, my patient, told me about the crick in her neck from her office job. I advised her to sit further from the screen and use the zoom function on her word processor and referred her to a masseuse. Other general practitioners would have referred her to a chiropractor, which would leave Jenny wasting her hard earned gold ingots on unnecessary medical testing. I'm not in the medical field for money.
I sipped my coffee and saw another patient, Mark Navoa. He saw me for the recurrent cramps in his hands. Focal dystonia, what Mark has, is not uncommon in musicians, especially professionals that practice for hours at a time. I found the problem in his breathing and posture. He looked at me in disbelief, but he felt somewhat relieved to not have to go to a musculoskeletal specialist. What shocked me, however, was this concern of his.
"I'm worried about Steve". As his stand partner in the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra, he probably notices Steve's health fluctuations without identifying them as such. He possibly notices the subtle changes I don't, so this caught my attention.
"Why? You can tell me. I'm his doctor and we're also good friends."
"Well, he forgot to oil his valves, forgot his music, seems to be more frazzled than usual, snapped at his students twice in one class period, had to vomit twice during an hour-long piece, and is going sharp on everything. I'd say this is unusual, even for your average band director with a sick girlfriend, wife, or whatever Caitlin is." Now that I think about it, it is not uncommon for Steve to rush into the doors of Mindcrack with a half-eaten strip of bacon dangling from his mouth, messy hair, and a disorganized music folder. I wasn't sure if this state was brought on by the stresses of being a teacher or something more. He called again.
"She's in the ICU, intubated, and awake. It's horrible, just plain horrible. She just wrote 'Make it stop'. I'm not sure what to do at this point." He spoke shakily. I hung up and called Natalie, the learning disability liaison nurse at Grass Block Hospital.
"Hi, Natalie. Can you see a patient, Caitlin Netherfield? She is in the ICU in Bed 3B."
"Dr. Lai, I can't. I don't see any documentation of a learning disability on her medical records. Plus, I'm seeing another patient" I hung up and got back to Mark.
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience. People are hard to deal with." Since Mark was due for a blood test, I referred him to a phlebotomist. He obliged and, when his appointment ended, he had one last statement.
"I understand. By the way, tell Steve and Caitlin 'Hi' from the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra. We miss our first trumpet and third clarinet."
"I will do that." As my last patient walked out the door, I ran in a full sprint towards Grass Block Hospital. I was out of breath and drenched in sweat when I arrived, so I washed myself in the sink and donned some scrubs. Then, I made a "mad dash" to the ICU. I stopped at the desk of a nurse and signed in. It looked like a chicken wrote it, but I needed to make sure Caitlin was okay if Natalie didn't bother to check.
What I saw shocked me. It's one thing to see a patient intubated, but it's another to see your best friend on the verge of crying while his girlfriend is intubated and in distress. Caitlin had a variety of devices in and on her body. She wore her usual mint blouse and a diaper, which looked like it had been used. She wrote something down on her whiteboard and showed it to Steve. He obliged and called a nurse. Presumably upon Caitlin's request, the staff erected a privacy screen. When the screen vanished, Caitlin turned to Steve, wrote something else, and pointed to me.
"What are you doing here? Don't you have patients to see?" Steve looked at me bewildered.
"You have been diagnosed with distress and grief. I prescribed the presence of a friend." Caitlin drew a smiley face on her whiteboard, then erased it and drew some music notes, a mouth, and wrote "Everything's Alright" in quotes.
"All right, but I'm not any good." Steve sang her request. His voice was soft, yet it was warm, rich, and carried through the unit along with his genuine love. I watched and my eyes welled up. For the first time, I did not fight the feeling. I cried. "...But I don't mind. If you're with me, then everything's alright." Caitlin wrote "I would kiss you if I didn't have a tube down my throat. Thank you."
To that I replied "The doctor is right with you". For the first time since today, amid the chaos in the background, everything was alright.
Steve, my longtime friend, called me again telling me that Caitlin had more seizures, is having difficulty breathing despite having used her inhaler multiple times, and that he is on the verge of freaking out. Frankly, I was too, but I had to keep a brave face for my other patient. She was in for a routine well check. I realized that I had left him hanging for too long, but my friend needed me.
"Well, what are you doing standing around? Get her to the hospital!"
"Um...she might panic and her breathing will get worse..."
"I'll call a specialized nurse to make her more comfortable. We don't want to repeat last time.... Anyway, I hope all goes well. I have to get back to my other patient." I hung up. Jenny Albright, my patient, told me about the crick in her neck from her office job. I advised her to sit further from the screen and use the zoom function on her word processor and referred her to a masseuse. Other general practitioners would have referred her to a chiropractor, which would leave Jenny wasting her hard earned gold ingots on unnecessary medical testing. I'm not in the medical field for money.
I sipped my coffee and saw another patient, Mark Navoa. He saw me for the recurrent cramps in his hands. Focal dystonia, what Mark has, is not uncommon in musicians, especially professionals that practice for hours at a time. I found the problem in his breathing and posture. He looked at me in disbelief, but he felt somewhat relieved to not have to go to a musculoskeletal specialist. What shocked me, however, was this concern of his.
"I'm worried about Steve". As his stand partner in the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra, he probably notices Steve's health fluctuations without identifying them as such. He possibly notices the subtle changes I don't, so this caught my attention.
"Why? You can tell me. I'm his doctor and we're also good friends."
"Well, he forgot to oil his valves, forgot his music, seems to be more frazzled than usual, snapped at his students twice in one class period, had to vomit twice during an hour-long piece, and is going sharp on everything. I'd say this is unusual, even for your average band director with a sick girlfriend, wife, or whatever Caitlin is." Now that I think about it, it is not uncommon for Steve to rush into the doors of Mindcrack with a half-eaten strip of bacon dangling from his mouth, messy hair, and a disorganized music folder. I wasn't sure if this state was brought on by the stresses of being a teacher or something more. He called again.
"She's in the ICU, intubated, and awake. It's horrible, just plain horrible. She just wrote 'Make it stop'. I'm not sure what to do at this point." He spoke shakily. I hung up and called Natalie, the learning disability liaison nurse at Grass Block Hospital.
"Hi, Natalie. Can you see a patient, Caitlin Netherfield? She is in the ICU in Bed 3B."
"Dr. Lai, I can't. I don't see any documentation of a learning disability on her medical records. Plus, I'm seeing another patient" I hung up and got back to Mark.
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience. People are hard to deal with." Since Mark was due for a blood test, I referred him to a phlebotomist. He obliged and, when his appointment ended, he had one last statement.
"I understand. By the way, tell Steve and Caitlin 'Hi' from the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra. We miss our first trumpet and third clarinet."
"I will do that." As my last patient walked out the door, I ran in a full sprint towards Grass Block Hospital. I was out of breath and drenched in sweat when I arrived, so I washed myself in the sink and donned some scrubs. Then, I made a "mad dash" to the ICU. I stopped at the desk of a nurse and signed in. It looked like a chicken wrote it, but I needed to make sure Caitlin was okay if Natalie didn't bother to check.
What I saw shocked me. It's one thing to see a patient intubated, but it's another to see your best friend on the verge of crying while his girlfriend is intubated and in distress. Caitlin had a variety of devices in and on her body. She wore her usual mint blouse and a diaper, which looked like it had been used. She wrote something down on her whiteboard and showed it to Steve. He obliged and called a nurse. Presumably upon Caitlin's request, the staff erected a privacy screen. When the screen vanished, Caitlin turned to Steve, wrote something else, and pointed to me.
"What are you doing here? Don't you have patients to see?" Steve looked at me bewildered.
"You have been diagnosed with distress and grief. I prescribed the presence of a friend." Caitlin drew a smiley face on her whiteboard, then erased it and drew some music notes, a mouth, and wrote "Everything's Alright" in quotes.
"All right, but I'm not any good." Steve sang her request. His voice was soft, yet it was warm, rich, and carried through the unit along with his genuine love. I watched and my eyes welled up. For the first time, I did not fight the feeling. I cried. "...But I don't mind. If you're with me, then everything's alright." Caitlin wrote "I would kiss you if I didn't have a tube down my throat. Thank you."
To that I replied "The doctor is right with you". For the first time since today, amid the chaos in the background, everything was alright.
Thursday, July 16, 2015
Strong and Steady Wins the Race (Caitlin)
The students urged me to crank up the tempo on the count and clap activity. I obliged as they had developed quite the sense of rhythm. They clapped in as much unison as a classroom full of sixth graders can manage. Since we had approached our wind instrument unit, I popped in a video on breathing exercises. After fumbling with a few cables, it finally played. Everyone breathed in for one count, out for two. I continued. Two in, four out. Four in, eight out. At that point, Jenna, one of my snarky students, cracked an asthma joke, to which I responded more wittily than I had intended.
"If it weren't for these videos, my asthma would probably be worse. By your logic, if I can do these, so can you." Whoops of assent and giggles arose from the rest of the class. After getting them to settle down, we continued breathing. Some of the students became lightheaded; I stopped at this point and distributed the worksheets. I could see that Caleb was holding his head, so I let him have a break. He made his way to the couch to recover from his headache. Soon, he raised his head.
"May I go to the nurse? I have a headache." He rolled over on the couch and moaned. I permitted Caleb to leave. I glanced at the clock and realized there were ten minutes left in class, the students were bored, and I had nothing left to teach, so I let them socialize for the remainder of the time. I pulled my new Redphone 4 out of my pocket and saw that received a text from my neurologist and my general practitioner.
Dr. Chen: 4:00 is fine?
Me: Sure! The track team already knows.
Dr. Chen: Thank you for confirming.
Andrew: So Betty will see you again?
Me: You know her? And Dr. Chen's name is Betty?
Andrew. Yes....
Me: I think it's going to rain today.
Andrew: Me too. I can smell it. Have you seen an allergist yet?
Me: No. Steve says I don't need one.
Andrew: You need an allergist. Doctor's orders.
Lately, I have been having more seizures and different types as well. They rarely occur when I teach and, when they do, they are myoclonic seizure clusters in my arms/legs. My phone chimed. I took more anticonvulsant and staggered to my feet from my chair. My legs were sore and weak between my pacing and the myoclonic seizures. I took a few painful, wobbly steps to the door and continued to make my way to the track. When I approached a minecart road, I tripped over a speed bump. I tried to get up, but I fell down again. How would I get through this and, Minecraft Symphony Orchestra rehearsal, and Impulsive Brass Band rehearsal? I wasn't sure, but, like everything else, I just pushed through. When I tried to break my second fall, I noticed that my elbow bent backwards slightly. Was that normal in ataxic cerebral palsy or yet another issue that needs yet another doctor? A few concerned students passed me by; at that point, I got up and hobbled/limped to the track.
The middle school track team greeted me with eager smiles. I recognized Caleb, Jenna, and Devon from my music class. The others only knew me from track. Nevertheless, they seemed relieved when I arrived. My colleague, Brynna Chazen, demonstrated a new warm-up while I verbally narrated the steps. The students took to the track while I anticipated my own race.
"If it weren't for these videos, my asthma would probably be worse. By your logic, if I can do these, so can you." Whoops of assent and giggles arose from the rest of the class. After getting them to settle down, we continued breathing. Some of the students became lightheaded; I stopped at this point and distributed the worksheets. I could see that Caleb was holding his head, so I let him have a break. He made his way to the couch to recover from his headache. Soon, he raised his head.
"May I go to the nurse? I have a headache." He rolled over on the couch and moaned. I permitted Caleb to leave. I glanced at the clock and realized there were ten minutes left in class, the students were bored, and I had nothing left to teach, so I let them socialize for the remainder of the time. I pulled my new Redphone 4 out of my pocket and saw that received a text from my neurologist and my general practitioner.
Dr. Chen: 4:00 is fine?
Me: Sure! The track team already knows.
Dr. Chen: Thank you for confirming.
Andrew: So Betty will see you again?
Me: You know her? And Dr. Chen's name is Betty?
Andrew. Yes....
Me: I think it's going to rain today.
Andrew: Me too. I can smell it. Have you seen an allergist yet?
Me: No. Steve says I don't need one.
Andrew: You need an allergist. Doctor's orders.
Lately, I have been having more seizures and different types as well. They rarely occur when I teach and, when they do, they are myoclonic seizure clusters in my arms/legs. My phone chimed. I took more anticonvulsant and staggered to my feet from my chair. My legs were sore and weak between my pacing and the myoclonic seizures. I took a few painful, wobbly steps to the door and continued to make my way to the track. When I approached a minecart road, I tripped over a speed bump. I tried to get up, but I fell down again. How would I get through this and, Minecraft Symphony Orchestra rehearsal, and Impulsive Brass Band rehearsal? I wasn't sure, but, like everything else, I just pushed through. When I tried to break my second fall, I noticed that my elbow bent backwards slightly. Was that normal in ataxic cerebral palsy or yet another issue that needs yet another doctor? A few concerned students passed me by; at that point, I got up and hobbled/limped to the track.
The middle school track team greeted me with eager smiles. I recognized Caleb, Jenna, and Devon from my music class. The others only knew me from track. Nevertheless, they seemed relieved when I arrived. My colleague, Brynna Chazen, demonstrated a new warm-up while I verbally narrated the steps. The students took to the track while I anticipated my own race.
Wednesday, July 8, 2015
The Impulsive Brass Band (Caitlin)
Steve convinced me to audition for a group called the Impulsive Brass Band. He said that it wouldn't be so hard because I had already made it into the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra for clarinet. However, the horn was different from a clarinet in every way imaginable. We walked into the room to sign up and parted ways. Steve had two cases for his trumpet and Eb cornet. A line of people with instrument cases lined up at a table labeled "Impulsive Brass Band Auditions", so I followed them. With their confident strut, they seemed like they owned the building. One of them looked down at me with obvious contempt.
"Do you really have to walk with your feet so far apart? It's annoying when people do that." I kept my mouth shut. Another said "Can you move any slower?" another said. They hurled insult after insult. The ensemble would find it hard accept me. Having been recently diagnosed with cerebral palsy, I felt relieved that my movement problems had a name. However, I don't have the courage to share it. Since it is fairly unusual to diagnose this at my point in life, I felt alone. I didn't have any of the support from childhood. I wanted to cry into Steve's arms and have him tell me everything was all right, but something told me I had to move on. I reached the table after he left. I picked up a form. I filled it out as follows:
First and Last Name: Caitlin Netherfield
Age: 19
Instrument: F horn
Years of Experience on Instrument: 6
Residence Coordinates: 69, 153.79, 144
"Do you really have to walk with your feet so far apart? It's annoying when people do that." I kept my mouth shut. Another said "Can you move any slower?" another said. They hurled insult after insult. The ensemble would find it hard accept me. Having been recently diagnosed with cerebral palsy, I felt relieved that my movement problems had a name. However, I don't have the courage to share it. Since it is fairly unusual to diagnose this at my point in life, I felt alone. I didn't have any of the support from childhood. I wanted to cry into Steve's arms and have him tell me everything was all right, but something told me I had to move on. I reached the table after he left. I picked up a form. I filled it out as follows:
First and Last Name: Caitlin Netherfield
Age: 19
Instrument: F horn
Years of Experience on Instrument: 6
Residence Coordinates: 69, 153.79, 144
Occupation: Music teacher at Mindcrack MS/HS
Race: Human
Any Medical Concerns? Read the attached list.
I wrote a quick list of my medical issues and attached it to the form because this section only had two lines. I guess not many people with medical issues audition for the Impulsive Brass Band. I was given a number and told to go to a room, but that piece of information got lost in the whirlwind around me. The bright lights, ticking clock, the stench of various perfumes in the air, and chatter of people made my eyes sting. I wanted to run. I felt like I was surrounded by an army of creepers. The clock ran like a metronome and none of the other sounds followed the tempo. At that point, my emotions and rationality fought over the reins. I tried to breathe, but the air came in as a wheezing gasp. I tried to press the trigger that released the medication, but my hands shook too much. I saw Steve in the crowd and tried to signal him. He ignored me. I tried again, failed, and pursued him into the audition room. He sat down to play his selections. A bright, penetrating tone projected out of the bell of his trumpet. I tapped him on the shoulder.
"Do you mind?" He apologized for the interruption and continued playing. I could die now and his concern was the audition? I left him to his current priority--with a plan. Unfortunately, my number was next. I couldn't play like this! I made my way to the audition room and placed my music in front of me. I puffed on my inhaler until I could breathe normally and began to play my selection. The judge seemed by the delay. It did not come out the way I wanted it to, yet I played on. I was told to live on, so I might as well play on. The audition concluded with a strong low note. I felt tired after the audition, but also satisfied. This would be mine. I would claim my own identity in this brass band.
Race: Human
Any Medical Concerns? Read the attached list.
I wrote a quick list of my medical issues and attached it to the form because this section only had two lines. I guess not many people with medical issues audition for the Impulsive Brass Band. I was given a number and told to go to a room, but that piece of information got lost in the whirlwind around me. The bright lights, ticking clock, the stench of various perfumes in the air, and chatter of people made my eyes sting. I wanted to run. I felt like I was surrounded by an army of creepers. The clock ran like a metronome and none of the other sounds followed the tempo. At that point, my emotions and rationality fought over the reins. I tried to breathe, but the air came in as a wheezing gasp. I tried to press the trigger that released the medication, but my hands shook too much. I saw Steve in the crowd and tried to signal him. He ignored me. I tried again, failed, and pursued him into the audition room. He sat down to play his selections. A bright, penetrating tone projected out of the bell of his trumpet. I tapped him on the shoulder.
"Do you mind?" He apologized for the interruption and continued playing. I could die now and his concern was the audition? I left him to his current priority--with a plan. Unfortunately, my number was next. I couldn't play like this! I made my way to the audition room and placed my music in front of me. I puffed on my inhaler until I could breathe normally and began to play my selection. The judge seemed by the delay. It did not come out the way I wanted it to, yet I played on. I was told to live on, so I might as well play on. The audition concluded with a strong low note. I felt tired after the audition, but also satisfied. This would be mine. I would claim my own identity in this brass band.
Our results came a week later. I made it as the fourth horn out of four; Steve landed the piccolo trumpet part and the position of principal trumpeter.
"You have a good low register and...you're not egotistical.", he commented. "It takes a player like you to be able to carry the horn section."
"Thanks. Your high register and leadership style will make a great principal trumpeter." I took out my horn to practice. For once, I belonged somewhere and I wanted to prove it. I ran through a random piece of sheet music. Steve turned out to have the trumpet part for the same piece, so we practiced together while skipping over multi-measure rests. We complimented and constructively criticized each other along the way.
"Firm up on that note."
"Your high A is at least ten cents sharp. Don't overblow."
"Don't shove your hand into your bell so far."
"That's forte, not fortissimo."
"That's the note!"
"Much better!"
When our impromptu rehearsal ended, I asked Steve if he wanted to have dinner at Tomato Garden with me tomorrow. It wasn't much considering what he had done for me, but I had to do something. He mumbled something indistinct and I wasn't exactly sure how to take that.
When our impromptu rehearsal ended, I asked Steve if he wanted to have dinner at Tomato Garden with me tomorrow. It wasn't much considering what he had done for me, but I had to do something. He mumbled something indistinct and I wasn't exactly sure how to take that.
Saturday, July 4, 2015
Melody and Harmony (Steve)
I managed to find a school, Mindcrack Middle and High School, to student teach at. By a stroke of luck, Caitlin and I managed to become music teachers at this school. I was concerned about how she would do managing sixth graders, but she quickly allayed my concerns. She taught general music, a basic course that teaches students how to read music, about various instruments, and what music is all about. Her students loved the class, her teaching style, and her humorous comments. She occasionally helped with the middle school track team. Despite her apparent lack of involvement, she quickly garnered the students' favor.
I, on the other hand, taught band, guitar, and did simulated combat after school. After years of student teaching under my not so patient professor's watchful eye, I still was not prepared for what followed. About fifty high school students poured into the band room awaiting my instruction. They eyed me while I rummaged for my score. When I finally found it, I introduced myself awkwardly. I spent two weeks reviewing the script with Caitlin, who had it down in a day. Then, I listened to the other students' introductions. Morgan aka Mo Mo plays the saxophone, Ali Ann plays flute, Liam plays clarinet, Alex plays baritone...
I lost track of time, so I hastily distributed the music. The sight read went well for the most part. It fell apart halfway through the song, but such a thing is expected from high school students of varying talent levels. We tried again at a slower tempo. The flute section got lost, the clarinets were out of tune, and the bassoonist...was a bassoonist. If I hadn't been trained to listen to a band, I would have not heard them over the trumpet section stomping them into the ground. I pointed these out. They listened fervently. However, the music swam before my eyes in a jumbled mess. It sapped my energy.
The cycle seemed to continue forever. The beginning band received their instruments and enthusiastically produced sounds on them. What they lacked in skill they made up for in eagerness. Kyle tapped out something that resembled a rhythm on a drum pad while Andreas managed to produce a tone on his flute. Middle school intermediate band was chaotic, but not as bad as I thought it would be. They managed to stumble through a few measures of Dragon Fight. Hannah blew penetrating, yet not overwhelming notes through her trumpet; I thought she was better than some of the high school students. The intermediate guitar class plucked out some melodies and chords with me.
By the time the day was done, I felt horrible. I remember having the flu when I was young, but this was worse. Glowstone lighting, reading scores, and signing papers caught up with me. Caitlin visited me after the day. She asked me if I was sick, to which I said "No, I'm just tired". We walked home after that, but the sunlight made it even worse. I ended up vomiting into a bush. Someone nearby grumbled about sloppy drunks. I took a deep breath and regained my composure. Caitlin asked me if I was sure of the absence of illness. I said yes and described my past history and connection between reading and the symptoms that ensued. She looked at me concerned.
"And this has happened for how long?"
"For as long as I can remember, but it got worse after fighting the dragon".
"Can this possibly be a form of dyslexia? One of my students has it. He's brilliant and has a great ear, but it causes him pain to read music. I give him breaks as needed."
"Are you sure he's not just trying to get out of it?"
"Getting out of it? He is willing to suffer horrible headaches, even migraines, to be able to carry out his passions. You, of all people, should understand what that is like." I was always told that I needed to try harder and it worked for me, so why shouldn't it work for him? Toughing it out never hurt anyone. I had survived by myself since the age of seven because my family never wanted me. One of my brothers had a seizure disorder, but of less severity than Caitlin's. It was clear that his needs took precedence over mine and the house had too many mouths to feed, so I had to be the one to go. I came to terms with having low self-esteem. I used music and sports to compensate for how I felt about myself. Why didn't Caitlin do that? She let herself be beaten, dragged, and abused and remained in that doormat-like state for all her life, yet she never seemed to break. To be honest, I both envied and pitied Caitlin. She remained an outcast and refused to step out against her tormentors. I don't know if it was by choice or by limit, by bravery or by cowardice. Anyway, I knew this: She is strong in a way I never could be. Her self-esteem was not built on championships or awards, but in the faith that someone thought she was worth it. Even if she never found that someone, she would cling onto that belief like a critical handhold when climbing. In the end, I just envy the quiet, unwavering strength within her. I contemplated this as we went to rehearse with the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra.
I, on the other hand, taught band, guitar, and did simulated combat after school. After years of student teaching under my not so patient professor's watchful eye, I still was not prepared for what followed. About fifty high school students poured into the band room awaiting my instruction. They eyed me while I rummaged for my score. When I finally found it, I introduced myself awkwardly. I spent two weeks reviewing the script with Caitlin, who had it down in a day. Then, I listened to the other students' introductions. Morgan aka Mo Mo plays the saxophone, Ali Ann plays flute, Liam plays clarinet, Alex plays baritone...
I lost track of time, so I hastily distributed the music. The sight read went well for the most part. It fell apart halfway through the song, but such a thing is expected from high school students of varying talent levels. We tried again at a slower tempo. The flute section got lost, the clarinets were out of tune, and the bassoonist...was a bassoonist. If I hadn't been trained to listen to a band, I would have not heard them over the trumpet section stomping them into the ground. I pointed these out. They listened fervently. However, the music swam before my eyes in a jumbled mess. It sapped my energy.
The cycle seemed to continue forever. The beginning band received their instruments and enthusiastically produced sounds on them. What they lacked in skill they made up for in eagerness. Kyle tapped out something that resembled a rhythm on a drum pad while Andreas managed to produce a tone on his flute. Middle school intermediate band was chaotic, but not as bad as I thought it would be. They managed to stumble through a few measures of Dragon Fight. Hannah blew penetrating, yet not overwhelming notes through her trumpet; I thought she was better than some of the high school students. The intermediate guitar class plucked out some melodies and chords with me.
By the time the day was done, I felt horrible. I remember having the flu when I was young, but this was worse. Glowstone lighting, reading scores, and signing papers caught up with me. Caitlin visited me after the day. She asked me if I was sick, to which I said "No, I'm just tired". We walked home after that, but the sunlight made it even worse. I ended up vomiting into a bush. Someone nearby grumbled about sloppy drunks. I took a deep breath and regained my composure. Caitlin asked me if I was sure of the absence of illness. I said yes and described my past history and connection between reading and the symptoms that ensued. She looked at me concerned.
"And this has happened for how long?"
"For as long as I can remember, but it got worse after fighting the dragon".
"Can this possibly be a form of dyslexia? One of my students has it. He's brilliant and has a great ear, but it causes him pain to read music. I give him breaks as needed."
"Are you sure he's not just trying to get out of it?"
"Getting out of it? He is willing to suffer horrible headaches, even migraines, to be able to carry out his passions. You, of all people, should understand what that is like." I was always told that I needed to try harder and it worked for me, so why shouldn't it work for him? Toughing it out never hurt anyone. I had survived by myself since the age of seven because my family never wanted me. One of my brothers had a seizure disorder, but of less severity than Caitlin's. It was clear that his needs took precedence over mine and the house had too many mouths to feed, so I had to be the one to go. I came to terms with having low self-esteem. I used music and sports to compensate for how I felt about myself. Why didn't Caitlin do that? She let herself be beaten, dragged, and abused and remained in that doormat-like state for all her life, yet she never seemed to break. To be honest, I both envied and pitied Caitlin. She remained an outcast and refused to step out against her tormentors. I don't know if it was by choice or by limit, by bravery or by cowardice. Anyway, I knew this: She is strong in a way I never could be. Her self-esteem was not built on championships or awards, but in the faith that someone thought she was worth it. Even if she never found that someone, she would cling onto that belief like a critical handhold when climbing. In the end, I just envy the quiet, unwavering strength within her. I contemplated this as we went to rehearse with the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra.
Friday, July 3, 2015
Into the Woods (Steve)
Trigger Warning: Death of a friend, mentions a suicide attempt
Andrew may be a brilliant doctor and great friend, but, in his words, he "lacks punctuality with mundane or irrelevant tasks". We consensually agreed to this as Caitlin does not like traveling alone and Andrew would know what to do if she had a problem along the way. I removed my trumpet from its case and played half of my major scales. Music should soothe my nerves, I thought. My stand partner, Mark, turned to me with a smile that spread from ear to ear.
"Where have you been? The ensemble missed you and I had to endure an earful of Kent's ego." He rolled his sheet music into a cone and yelled "Hey, guys! Steve's back!" through the makeshift megaphone. The other musicians mulled around, unaware that Mark shouted through a sheet music megaphone. I told Mark about defeating the Ender Dragon. He looked at me with surprise and skepticism, but, when I held up the egg, he became transfixed. Urging other musicians to look at the egg, they crowded around me until even the first violins joined. Our concert master (first of the first violins) yelled "All hail Steven Lowell, slayer of the Ender Dragon!" Cheers erupted from everyone, well...almost everyone. The conductor, literally, cut our celebration short.
"All right. We need to get this song ready for concert in a week. Your ruckus won't help with that. Turn to measure 157." We quieted down and those who played raised their instruments to ready position. The horns came out rich and mellow, but someone was slightly out of tune on their G. I rested for 300 measures. 1-2-3-4, 2-2-3-4, 3-2-3-4, I counted. The flutes came in at measure 220 with trilling and sixteenth notes and then rested for what would be another 500 measures. When the trumpets came in, I raised my horn to my lips. The music markings seemed to blur and sway. I felt sick to my stomach. As we progressed, my nausea intensified and a headache set in. I could only read two measures at a time. Luckily, the piece was familiar, so I managed to stumble through the passage. When break time came, I slowly made my way over to the trash can while holding my hand over my mouth. I leaned over and took a deep breath. I sat down next to a flutist and recovered from my nausea after vomiting in the trash can. The flutist asked me if I was okay. He offered to drive me home. I refused and decided to continue.
I took my phone out to see if anyone tried to contact me. Andrew texted several times.
C is ok. Fear of IV. Will go 2 neuro @ 3:45.
Upd8: Nearly done. C vomited from contrast. Will go on.
C had another seizure. Probably from fatigue/hunger.
Also an asthma attack. Not a good day 4 her.
Dr. Chen is worried about C
Y this happening? Should not happen. Especially not to C.
U may want 2 see the neuro 4 ur TBI.
I responded:
k
I had nothing else to say. Caitlin had been treated horribly, neglected, bullied, and physically assaulted. Despite this, she was kind-hearted and gentle to everyone, even her tormentors. I would give her the world if I could, but I can't. Then, I thought about this: What if Caitlin and I form a one-sided relationship as caretaker and patient? I didn't want that. I wanted her to flourish and thrive on the surface, to contribute to the beauty. When break ended, we returned to our seats. My phone vibrated. I ignored it. As if yelling my name while poking me in the back, it vibrated more incessantly until it stopped. Rehearsal ended half an hour later. I checked my phone and my heart nearly stopped when I read it.
C melted down in w8ing room. Lights r 2 bright. Loud ppl and clock. Almost did so myself.
The neurologist might be understanding, but people in the waiting room might not be. Shielding my eyes with sheet music, I stepped into the blazing sunlight and walked home.
Hutch greeted me at the door by licking my face. I flopped down on the couch and Hutch placed his head under my hand, which dangled from the edge. I sat there and stroked him nervously. I texted Andrew.
Worried. How is C?
He replied
Bttr thn I wld do in her place.
I headed to the mineshaft. I didn't intend to find any diamonds, just to ease my worries. The cold air of the cave welcomed me like an old friend. I produced my diamond pickaxe and searched. Passing by the coal and iron, I discovered a vein of gold. I learned that it was not good for armor the hard way, but golden apples were a godsend. After more perusing, I felt an arrow in my knee. I charged the skeleton that shot them, killed it, and collected its bones and arrows as spoils of war. Fencing worked for me like this: Charge, strike, and keep striking until the enemy falls. Thinking about parries and thrusts would prevent me from fighting. I fought until I backed myself into a corner surrounded by skeletons. Suddenly, I found an arrow whiz over my head and strike a skeleton. The archer shot clumsily, but accurately. I escaped while I could.
At the entrance stood a familiar and comforting face. The wind played with her obsidian locks. Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight like black diamonds. More importantly, her independence glowed like glowstone. She greeted me at the entrance, bow in hand and broke my trance.
"Can we head back now? I need to find a restroom." She pointed to a nearby village.
"Okay." We headed away from the village because that route would take longer. My sense of direction utterly failed and we wound up in a forest. Caitlin's face contorted with distress and pain. She snuck off somewhere nearby and returned a minute later to yell at me.
"Why did you mislead me?" Her gaze turned sharp and cold like the void itself.
"Sorry. I just...got lost."
"Got lost? You have taken this route 54 times prior to now and you just get lost? I will not stand for this."
"It's just a flute! I mean fluke!" Caitlin continued to fire her verbal arrows, each one striking me in the heart. Unfortunately, it was not just a fluke. I felt like I was wired to be forgetful and let other people down. I had the chance for someone to be proud of me and I blew it. These scenarios came to mind. I had failed these people simply because I was wired to do so
During an intense spleef match in high school, I neglected to help Caleb, an injured player. An unearthly cracking noise preceded his cry of agony. He begged for someone to guard him. As the captain, I ordered anyone but me to do it. When I could have stayed by his side, I ran with glory splattered in my eyes. I could focus on nothing else but points. After undermining the others and basking in the tainted spotlight, I was named the spleef team MVP. I hated the title and myself. When Caleb congratulated me on his crutches, I silently blamed myself for the incident and forced a "Thank you".
A close childhood friend of mine even died because of my inattention. It seemed that Luke and I were destined to be together despite our two grade age difference. However, we wound up surrounded by zombies in an alley. Being a coward at the time, I fled and hoped Luke could face down the army. He slayed them all--at the cost of his life. I remembered the last words he uttered with a dying breath: "You're my hero". He said that when I was anything but. I couldn't live with myself after that incident. Later that night, I honed my sword and planned to drive it right through my chest. Right before I struck, Andrew entered my room and said "Hi, Steve". I barely knew him at the time, but his presence saved my life. I knew, at that moment, that he would be my best friend. I couldn't fail Caitlin like I did with Luke. I just couldn't.
After looking for her, I saw no sign of her anywhere. Then, I remembered to look up. Her feet dangled above me.
"Hey." Caitlin waved from atop a tree. My heart pounded. It could pose danger to her if she had a seizure in a tree.
"Get down! Are you insane?"
"Perhaps I am."
Something told me this was only the beginning of our journey.
Andrew may be a brilliant doctor and great friend, but, in his words, he "lacks punctuality with mundane or irrelevant tasks". We consensually agreed to this as Caitlin does not like traveling alone and Andrew would know what to do if she had a problem along the way. I removed my trumpet from its case and played half of my major scales. Music should soothe my nerves, I thought. My stand partner, Mark, turned to me with a smile that spread from ear to ear.
"Where have you been? The ensemble missed you and I had to endure an earful of Kent's ego." He rolled his sheet music into a cone and yelled "Hey, guys! Steve's back!" through the makeshift megaphone. The other musicians mulled around, unaware that Mark shouted through a sheet music megaphone. I told Mark about defeating the Ender Dragon. He looked at me with surprise and skepticism, but, when I held up the egg, he became transfixed. Urging other musicians to look at the egg, they crowded around me until even the first violins joined. Our concert master (first of the first violins) yelled "All hail Steven Lowell, slayer of the Ender Dragon!" Cheers erupted from everyone, well...almost everyone. The conductor, literally, cut our celebration short.
"All right. We need to get this song ready for concert in a week. Your ruckus won't help with that. Turn to measure 157." We quieted down and those who played raised their instruments to ready position. The horns came out rich and mellow, but someone was slightly out of tune on their G. I rested for 300 measures. 1-2-3-4, 2-2-3-4, 3-2-3-4, I counted. The flutes came in at measure 220 with trilling and sixteenth notes and then rested for what would be another 500 measures. When the trumpets came in, I raised my horn to my lips. The music markings seemed to blur and sway. I felt sick to my stomach. As we progressed, my nausea intensified and a headache set in. I could only read two measures at a time. Luckily, the piece was familiar, so I managed to stumble through the passage. When break time came, I slowly made my way over to the trash can while holding my hand over my mouth. I leaned over and took a deep breath. I sat down next to a flutist and recovered from my nausea after vomiting in the trash can. The flutist asked me if I was okay. He offered to drive me home. I refused and decided to continue.
I took my phone out to see if anyone tried to contact me. Andrew texted several times.
C is ok. Fear of IV. Will go 2 neuro @ 3:45.
Upd8: Nearly done. C vomited from contrast. Will go on.
C had another seizure. Probably from fatigue/hunger.
Also an asthma attack. Not a good day 4 her.
Dr. Chen is worried about C
Y this happening? Should not happen. Especially not to C.
U may want 2 see the neuro 4 ur TBI.
I responded:
k
I had nothing else to say. Caitlin had been treated horribly, neglected, bullied, and physically assaulted. Despite this, she was kind-hearted and gentle to everyone, even her tormentors. I would give her the world if I could, but I can't. Then, I thought about this: What if Caitlin and I form a one-sided relationship as caretaker and patient? I didn't want that. I wanted her to flourish and thrive on the surface, to contribute to the beauty. When break ended, we returned to our seats. My phone vibrated. I ignored it. As if yelling my name while poking me in the back, it vibrated more incessantly until it stopped. Rehearsal ended half an hour later. I checked my phone and my heart nearly stopped when I read it.
C melted down in w8ing room. Lights r 2 bright. Loud ppl and clock. Almost did so myself.
The neurologist might be understanding, but people in the waiting room might not be. Shielding my eyes with sheet music, I stepped into the blazing sunlight and walked home.
Hutch greeted me at the door by licking my face. I flopped down on the couch and Hutch placed his head under my hand, which dangled from the edge. I sat there and stroked him nervously. I texted Andrew.
Worried. How is C?
He replied
Bttr thn I wld do in her place.
I headed to the mineshaft. I didn't intend to find any diamonds, just to ease my worries. The cold air of the cave welcomed me like an old friend. I produced my diamond pickaxe and searched. Passing by the coal and iron, I discovered a vein of gold. I learned that it was not good for armor the hard way, but golden apples were a godsend. After more perusing, I felt an arrow in my knee. I charged the skeleton that shot them, killed it, and collected its bones and arrows as spoils of war. Fencing worked for me like this: Charge, strike, and keep striking until the enemy falls. Thinking about parries and thrusts would prevent me from fighting. I fought until I backed myself into a corner surrounded by skeletons. Suddenly, I found an arrow whiz over my head and strike a skeleton. The archer shot clumsily, but accurately. I escaped while I could.
At the entrance stood a familiar and comforting face. The wind played with her obsidian locks. Her eyes sparkled in the sunlight like black diamonds. More importantly, her independence glowed like glowstone. She greeted me at the entrance, bow in hand and broke my trance.
"Can we head back now? I need to find a restroom." She pointed to a nearby village.
"Okay." We headed away from the village because that route would take longer. My sense of direction utterly failed and we wound up in a forest. Caitlin's face contorted with distress and pain. She snuck off somewhere nearby and returned a minute later to yell at me.
"Why did you mislead me?" Her gaze turned sharp and cold like the void itself.
"Sorry. I just...got lost."
"Got lost? You have taken this route 54 times prior to now and you just get lost? I will not stand for this."
"It's just a flute! I mean fluke!" Caitlin continued to fire her verbal arrows, each one striking me in the heart. Unfortunately, it was not just a fluke. I felt like I was wired to be forgetful and let other people down. I had the chance for someone to be proud of me and I blew it. These scenarios came to mind. I had failed these people simply because I was wired to do so
During an intense spleef match in high school, I neglected to help Caleb, an injured player. An unearthly cracking noise preceded his cry of agony. He begged for someone to guard him. As the captain, I ordered anyone but me to do it. When I could have stayed by his side, I ran with glory splattered in my eyes. I could focus on nothing else but points. After undermining the others and basking in the tainted spotlight, I was named the spleef team MVP. I hated the title and myself. When Caleb congratulated me on his crutches, I silently blamed myself for the incident and forced a "Thank you".
A close childhood friend of mine even died because of my inattention. It seemed that Luke and I were destined to be together despite our two grade age difference. However, we wound up surrounded by zombies in an alley. Being a coward at the time, I fled and hoped Luke could face down the army. He slayed them all--at the cost of his life. I remembered the last words he uttered with a dying breath: "You're my hero". He said that when I was anything but. I couldn't live with myself after that incident. Later that night, I honed my sword and planned to drive it right through my chest. Right before I struck, Andrew entered my room and said "Hi, Steve". I barely knew him at the time, but his presence saved my life. I knew, at that moment, that he would be my best friend. I couldn't fail Caitlin like I did with Luke. I just couldn't.
After looking for her, I saw no sign of her anywhere. Then, I remembered to look up. Her feet dangled above me.
"Hey." Caitlin waved from atop a tree. My heart pounded. It could pose danger to her if she had a seizure in a tree.
"Get down! Are you insane?"
"Perhaps I am."
Something told me this was only the beginning of our journey.
Friday, June 26, 2015
The Battle Continues (Caitlin)
The Ender Dragon must be vanquished by its own, an ancient prophecy had said. This is why Vivienne turned against the Ender Dragon after faithfully serving all her life. She wanted better for us, even for Alisha, who hated her for showing kindness to me. I don't want to be tied to a dragon, she said to me. I thought she meant this literally, but now I understood her words. I kept folding the same paper over and over again. Grief and uncertainty roiled inside me like a stormy sea. I saw Steve out of the corner of my eye, like a light in the distance. He may have slain the physical dragon, but my soul still wrestled with its raw hatred and darkness. I would vanquish it when the time came and now was not the time.
The anti-seizure medication tried to make its way up my throat, yet I kept it down. I had no appetite and suffered excruciating pain from having fallen without Steve around to help me. He left, presumably to see Andrew, but he left me to suffer. I lost my balance on the hardwood floor and couldn't breathe for a minute. Paralyzed with fear, I lay there helplessly. Fear clamped its hand over my mouth; I couldn't speak. Perhaps he didn't really care about me.
I tried to breathe deeply as I did when panicked, but I couldn't. It felt like an eternity lying here. When I regained some breath, I slowly struggled to my feet and walked normally (read: painfully slowly) to bed. I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn't. Pain lingered in my limbs. I examined them and found several bruises on places where I fell. Upon regaining the ability to breathe normally, I fought the pain. As an old Minecraftian proverb read, there was no point in losing a battle before it began. Steve came through the door with papers in tow. He sat about a foot from me.
I pulled out my clarinet to play right as Steve eyed the bruises on my right arm. Knowing that it was not good to play after I fell, I dismantled it and safely set it in my case. He opened his mouth to speak and proceeded.
"What happened?" Before I set the case in a drawer next to another instrument case, I tried to read his expression. He wanted to read me, but just wasn't sure how. I wasn't sure what he wanted from me: a good, obedient housewife, a refugee, or something else entirely. All I knew was that I am free, but lost and confused. I still hurt from falling, so I told him about that. However, I didn't tell him about the dragon that I still wrestled with. The dragon must be vanquished by one of its own. He appeared shocked and concerned to say the leased. "Did you have another... atonic seizure?" He pursed his lips with fear. "Or worse?"
"No. I just lost my balance on the floor and got the wind knocked out of me. It still hurts, but I'll be fine." Or would I? He left the room and returned with an ice pack. I placed it on my back, which apparently, suffered the most damage.
"Would you like a hug?"Steve spread his arms, inviting me in. I went limp when he embraced me. I wanted the moment to last forever, just us, safe with each other. We didn't want to worry about seizures, meltdowns, or asthma attacks. We just wanted to exchange our warmth in a cold, cruel world. After letting go, my fear and anxiety melted like ice next to glowstone. The waging war's fires inside my soul cooled like lava changing into obsidian. He kissed me on the cheek and said "You're beautiful." This was different than all other compliments to my appearance. Other people said I was pretty, cute, or nice, but Steve said I was beautiful. The word was all-encompassing. Those two words made me certain that he loved me not only for my appearance or my personality, but for me.
Of course, as with anything good, it didn't last. I smelled something acrid and burning, which turned out to be a brewing stand going haywire. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't a pre-seizure aura. When I went back, Steve handed the stack of papers to me. I examined each one carefully, then plucked out a self-examination packet. It resembled the emotion tests I took at school. Later, I would go to Andrew for a gait analysis and to discuss the test. Steve left, saying he had to get his dog back from the boarding center.
I got started on the test, quill in hand. Some of the questions caught me off-guard, some of them made me cry, and some left me confused. I had always thought something was wrong with me, but I was never sure what. This would help me to give whatever I suffered. It would have a name and I could inform people of that name. People understand labels as it is human nature to categorize. It only served to hurt me as a non-human, but now it will help me. After completing two hundred questions about what I did, I came to a checklist titled "Please check off and explain anything in the list that is applicable to you." I checked off "asthma", "severe allergies (shellfish, latex, and any antibiotic that ends in -cillin), "epilepsy", and "incontinence (Can't hold it for more than 5-10 minutes due to strong urge)". Seeing these things, the problems that plagued me stared me in the face. I folded more cranes. and hung them with string as I saw fit. I named them Lorelai, Marcinia, Samantha, and Alisha. Strangely enough, the cranes I left in the End weren't important to me except for one: the lapis lazuli crane. I tried to teach Steve how to fold paper cranes when we were in high school. He was proud of having finally folded that one crane and let me incorporate it into one of my hanging crane flocks.
"I'm home!" Steve announced his presence. "Did you miss me, Hutch?" He turned to Hutch and scratched him behind the ears. The dog licked Steve's face in response and approached me cautiously. Hutch sniffed, cocked his head, and then wagged his tail. Hutch had shiny, soft gray fur, gleaming eyes, a bushy tail, and stood slightly less high than a block on all fours. I had always liked dogs hearing about them, but I rarely saw them. Hutch stayed faithfully at Steve's side. "And I can never forget Caitlin!" He embraced me and handed me a piece of meat for Hutch. The dog gently accepted the meat and I scratched him behind the ears. "You have MRI and CAT scans scheduled for next Friday at 2:00 pm. Then, you will have meet a neurologist at 4:00. If you need me, I'll be rehearsing with the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra from 1:00-3:00 pm. I have "
"Okay. How are MRI and CAT scans conducted? Do they hurt? Are there needles involved?" I had horrible needle anxiety for absolutely no rational reason. I had to work up all my courage just to get a flu shot and, having almost had a meltdown, I didn't plan on getting one again. Since Steve would not be with me at this time, I felt more nervous. What if I had to interrupt his rehearsal because I couldn't do the test? Anxiety gripped me like a vise. My heart beat faster. The nausea from the anti-seizure medication worsened. I flapped my hands to clear my head.
"Caitlin, stop. You'll worry yourself sick."
"I know, but I can't help it." I went to fold cranes. I named them Alexa, Andreas, and Barrett. They flew in the back. I folded more cranes. I turned to a wastebasket thinking I would vomit, but I didn't. Steve headed to the kitchen to make dinner. I cut vegetables and apples and he prepped the chicken. After removing the gizzards and some other internal organs from the chicken, he set them aside. Unexpectedly, Hutch strolled in with a wagging tail, stood up on the counter, and wolfed them down. "Is he allowed to do that?"
"He's trained to do that. That's his dinner. Who uses chicken gizzards anyway? It'd be like eating poisonous potatoes." I laughed, genuinely laughed, for the first time in forever. Steve's sense of humor swept my soul off its feet. I showed a timid grin while he beamed with delight. "You have a pretty smile. You should show it more often."
"You do too." I caught a whiff of cooking chicken. "Let's see if the chicken is done."
"It'll be ready in an hour according to the recipe."
"Right. What will we do in the meantime? Do you want to play a duet?"
"Sure! Just let me get my trumpet." We hurried into the bedroom to get our instruments (clarinet and trumpet respectively) and sat down on two chairs with music stands. "What do you want to play?"
"I don't know. What do you want to play?" The selection of selected study books overwhelmed me. I selected a clarinet duet book and flipped to a passage in E. Steve looked uncertainly at the key signature. He volunteered to play the bottom part, but I insisted that I play it. Clarinets can play the low E, but trumpets cannot. We stumbled through the first page of music. Something about my reed was off, yet I couldn't quite identify what it was. Steve played the high C about five cents sharp. We stopped at measure 75. He rubbed his temples afterwards. I asked if anything was wrong and he gave no answer. He took the chicken out of the furnace.
"Um...can you carve this chicken for me?" Steve looked embarrassed at his inability to carve a chicken. I did so, as I have carved many chickens in my lifetime. We sat down to eat the dinner we prepared. In my water glass, I saw a reflection of myself. The scars had mostly faded, yet were still there in my head.
The anti-seizure medication tried to make its way up my throat, yet I kept it down. I had no appetite and suffered excruciating pain from having fallen without Steve around to help me. He left, presumably to see Andrew, but he left me to suffer. I lost my balance on the hardwood floor and couldn't breathe for a minute. Paralyzed with fear, I lay there helplessly. Fear clamped its hand over my mouth; I couldn't speak. Perhaps he didn't really care about me.
I tried to breathe deeply as I did when panicked, but I couldn't. It felt like an eternity lying here. When I regained some breath, I slowly struggled to my feet and walked normally (read: painfully slowly) to bed. I tried to fall asleep, but I couldn't. Pain lingered in my limbs. I examined them and found several bruises on places where I fell. Upon regaining the ability to breathe normally, I fought the pain. As an old Minecraftian proverb read, there was no point in losing a battle before it began. Steve came through the door with papers in tow. He sat about a foot from me.
I pulled out my clarinet to play right as Steve eyed the bruises on my right arm. Knowing that it was not good to play after I fell, I dismantled it and safely set it in my case. He opened his mouth to speak and proceeded.
"What happened?" Before I set the case in a drawer next to another instrument case, I tried to read his expression. He wanted to read me, but just wasn't sure how. I wasn't sure what he wanted from me: a good, obedient housewife, a refugee, or something else entirely. All I knew was that I am free, but lost and confused. I still hurt from falling, so I told him about that. However, I didn't tell him about the dragon that I still wrestled with. The dragon must be vanquished by one of its own. He appeared shocked and concerned to say the leased. "Did you have another... atonic seizure?" He pursed his lips with fear. "Or worse?"
"No. I just lost my balance on the floor and got the wind knocked out of me. It still hurts, but I'll be fine." Or would I? He left the room and returned with an ice pack. I placed it on my back, which apparently, suffered the most damage.
"Would you like a hug?"Steve spread his arms, inviting me in. I went limp when he embraced me. I wanted the moment to last forever, just us, safe with each other. We didn't want to worry about seizures, meltdowns, or asthma attacks. We just wanted to exchange our warmth in a cold, cruel world. After letting go, my fear and anxiety melted like ice next to glowstone. The waging war's fires inside my soul cooled like lava changing into obsidian. He kissed me on the cheek and said "You're beautiful." This was different than all other compliments to my appearance. Other people said I was pretty, cute, or nice, but Steve said I was beautiful. The word was all-encompassing. Those two words made me certain that he loved me not only for my appearance or my personality, but for me.
Of course, as with anything good, it didn't last. I smelled something acrid and burning, which turned out to be a brewing stand going haywire. I breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't a pre-seizure aura. When I went back, Steve handed the stack of papers to me. I examined each one carefully, then plucked out a self-examination packet. It resembled the emotion tests I took at school. Later, I would go to Andrew for a gait analysis and to discuss the test. Steve left, saying he had to get his dog back from the boarding center.
I got started on the test, quill in hand. Some of the questions caught me off-guard, some of them made me cry, and some left me confused. I had always thought something was wrong with me, but I was never sure what. This would help me to give whatever I suffered. It would have a name and I could inform people of that name. People understand labels as it is human nature to categorize. It only served to hurt me as a non-human, but now it will help me. After completing two hundred questions about what I did, I came to a checklist titled "Please check off and explain anything in the list that is applicable to you." I checked off "asthma", "severe allergies (shellfish, latex, and any antibiotic that ends in -cillin), "epilepsy", and "incontinence (Can't hold it for more than 5-10 minutes due to strong urge)". Seeing these things, the problems that plagued me stared me in the face. I folded more cranes. and hung them with string as I saw fit. I named them Lorelai, Marcinia, Samantha, and Alisha. Strangely enough, the cranes I left in the End weren't important to me except for one: the lapis lazuli crane. I tried to teach Steve how to fold paper cranes when we were in high school. He was proud of having finally folded that one crane and let me incorporate it into one of my hanging crane flocks.
"I'm home!" Steve announced his presence. "Did you miss me, Hutch?" He turned to Hutch and scratched him behind the ears. The dog licked Steve's face in response and approached me cautiously. Hutch sniffed, cocked his head, and then wagged his tail. Hutch had shiny, soft gray fur, gleaming eyes, a bushy tail, and stood slightly less high than a block on all fours. I had always liked dogs hearing about them, but I rarely saw them. Hutch stayed faithfully at Steve's side. "And I can never forget Caitlin!" He embraced me and handed me a piece of meat for Hutch. The dog gently accepted the meat and I scratched him behind the ears. "You have MRI and CAT scans scheduled for next Friday at 2:00 pm. Then, you will have meet a neurologist at 4:00. If you need me, I'll be rehearsing with the Minecraft Symphony Orchestra from 1:00-3:00 pm. I have "
"Okay. How are MRI and CAT scans conducted? Do they hurt? Are there needles involved?" I had horrible needle anxiety for absolutely no rational reason. I had to work up all my courage just to get a flu shot and, having almost had a meltdown, I didn't plan on getting one again. Since Steve would not be with me at this time, I felt more nervous. What if I had to interrupt his rehearsal because I couldn't do the test? Anxiety gripped me like a vise. My heart beat faster. The nausea from the anti-seizure medication worsened. I flapped my hands to clear my head.
"Caitlin, stop. You'll worry yourself sick."
"I know, but I can't help it." I went to fold cranes. I named them Alexa, Andreas, and Barrett. They flew in the back. I folded more cranes. I turned to a wastebasket thinking I would vomit, but I didn't. Steve headed to the kitchen to make dinner. I cut vegetables and apples and he prepped the chicken. After removing the gizzards and some other internal organs from the chicken, he set them aside. Unexpectedly, Hutch strolled in with a wagging tail, stood up on the counter, and wolfed them down. "Is he allowed to do that?"
"He's trained to do that. That's his dinner. Who uses chicken gizzards anyway? It'd be like eating poisonous potatoes." I laughed, genuinely laughed, for the first time in forever. Steve's sense of humor swept my soul off its feet. I showed a timid grin while he beamed with delight. "You have a pretty smile. You should show it more often."
"You do too." I caught a whiff of cooking chicken. "Let's see if the chicken is done."
"It'll be ready in an hour according to the recipe."
"Right. What will we do in the meantime? Do you want to play a duet?"
"Sure! Just let me get my trumpet." We hurried into the bedroom to get our instruments (clarinet and trumpet respectively) and sat down on two chairs with music stands. "What do you want to play?"
"I don't know. What do you want to play?" The selection of selected study books overwhelmed me. I selected a clarinet duet book and flipped to a passage in E. Steve looked uncertainly at the key signature. He volunteered to play the bottom part, but I insisted that I play it. Clarinets can play the low E, but trumpets cannot. We stumbled through the first page of music. Something about my reed was off, yet I couldn't quite identify what it was. Steve played the high C about five cents sharp. We stopped at measure 75. He rubbed his temples afterwards. I asked if anything was wrong and he gave no answer. He took the chicken out of the furnace.
"Um...can you carve this chicken for me?" Steve looked embarrassed at his inability to carve a chicken. I did so, as I have carved many chickens in my lifetime. We sat down to eat the dinner we prepared. In my water glass, I saw a reflection of myself. The scars had mostly faded, yet were still there in my head.
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