Eileen Slovak

Chapter Nine: Grief and Meds Don’t Mix

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and locales are products of the author’s imagination. They are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is coincidental. Copyright © 2024 by Eileen Slovak.

Trish

Pulsating stomach pains wake me. I’m disoriented in the dark bedroom where I’ve been ever since hearing the news about Sean. With the curtains drawn, the only light in my room comes from the bright digital numbers on my alarm clock. One o’clock…a.m. or p.m.? What day is it? The black leotard I’m wearing has left permanent elastic marks on my thighs. The odor of the room is close, musty. I can’t stop shivering, though the room isn’t cold. I peer out from under the pile of blankets. I reach for the prescription bottle on the nightstand, next to my cell phone. Turning the bottle over slowly in my hand, I’m consider it. I could take another pill and drift back into oblivion. Tempting.

      Instead, I set the bottle down and pick up my cell phone. When I push the “on” button it chirps to life with a chorus of dings, bongs, and beeps. So many missed calls, text messages, and social media alerts. I listen to the voice messages first. The professor called multiple times. Genevieve, the Manager at Dance Pro’s Academy, wants to know when she can expect me back at work. Witch! At present, I simply can’t imagine teaching a class filled with giggling, six-year-old girls. Mother has left three messages, frantic at the last. What follows is a curt message from my father: “stop being so damn dramatic, Patricia. Call your mother for God’s sake!”

      I peruse the social media messages. In response to my Facebook status posts about Sean, a series of comments, hearts, and hugs follow. I elect to post a blanket response thanking everyone for their heartfelt concern. On Twitter I posted a poem about life being cut short, which netted several retweets and favorites. On Insta, I added a picture to my story of me looking like crap, so those reactions are mixed. Why do I even care? There are multiple text messages, two from the professor. The first is from yesterday. I hope you’re getting some rest. The weather is too treacherous tonight. I’ll drive up early tomorrow to bring you to the wake. The second is from noon today. Call me. I’m worried. I’ll be there no later than 3 o’clock. That means its Friday. I know it’s selfish. I asked Professor Johnson to come all the way to Boston just to bring me back to Rhode Island where he lives. But he did offer. Besides, I’m in no condition to drive.

      I slip out of bed, weak with hunger and stagger to the bathroom. Washing my hands, I note the tremor. Showering feels like a monumental task. I brace myself on the sink, catching my reflection in the mirror. I am nothing short of ghastly. My jet-black hair is matted to my head. Raccoon-like mascara circles around my eyes are harsh against my pale complexion. I leave this specter behind in search of food. In the kitchen, I rummage through the cabinets until I find my secret stash of chocolate. Ripping the wrapper from a Snickers bar, I stuff it in its entirety into my mouth, gobbling, drooling chocolate. I wash it down with a diet coke. The sugar burst and caffeine set me at ease with a nice buzz. Practicing deep yoga breathing to calm my nerves, I shower and prepare for the ordeal of the day.