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We know how to write any essay fast - make an order now and receive your custom paper today! Thousands of students have already saved their grades thanks to the same day essays written by our seasoned professionals. Sleeping on my side was uncomfortable because I had little body fat left and my bones pressed into the skin on my hips, knees, and shoulders.
In sleep, I dreamed of vigorous motion. I had swum competitively for ten years, from age seven to seventeen. I had been riding horses since childhood. At Kenyon, I had been a tennis junkie. Now, as I lost the capacity to move, sports took over my dream world.
I won at swimming in the Olympics, out-pedalled the peloton in the Tour de France, skimmed over a racetrack on a Kentucky Derby winner. When I woke, I felt the weight of illness on me before I opened my eyes. Most of the people around me stepped backward. Linc said my friends asked him how I was, but after one or two get-well cards I stopped hearing from them. Now and then, I called people I had known in high school.
The conversations were awkward and halting, and I felt foolish. No one knew what to say. Everyone had heard rumors that I was sick. Another heard I was pregnant. I missed Borden. At Kenyon, I had often studied in a deli run by a groovy guy named Craig, who cruised around the place in fluorescent-yellow sunglasses.
It was there, in September of , that Borden had first smiled at me. He was a senior, with a gentle, handsome face and wavy black hair. He had torn up his knee running track, and to avoid walking he used a battered bike to get around campus. The bike had no chain, so he could really ride it only downhill, wiggling it to keep it going when the ground levelled out. On the uphills, he stabbed at the ground with his good leg, Fred Flintstone style.
Eventually, some frat brothers kidnapped the bike and hung it from a tree over the Scrotum Pole, a stone marker that had earned its nickname during a legendary fraternity vaulting incident. From the day we met in the deli, Borden and I had been inseparable. Since I left Kenyon, he had sent me off-color postcards and silly drawings, mailed between papers and finals and graduation.
I wrote dirty limericks and mailed them back to him. That summer, he showed up at my door. Of my friends, only Linc visited. Home for the summer in Chicago, he drove Dr. Diesel fifteen hours to my house, where he would sit in a dilapidated denim armchair at the foot of my bed.
The seat on the chair had collapsed, but he sat there anyway, his long thighs pointing up at the ceiling. Each time he saw me after a long absence, a wide startled look would pass over his face.
He once said that he could sense the disease on me. I knew what he meant. I was disappearing inside it. I saw my next physician only once. My jeans slid down my hips as I walked into the exam room, and he watched me tug them up. He asked how often I weighed myself. Often, I replied. After the appointment, I went to the bathroom, and as I opened the door to leave the doctor nearly fell into me.
I was halfway home when I realized that he had been trying to hear if I was vomiting. The next doctor was a pretty, compact woman with a squirrelly brightness. She found that I still had strep and changed the antibiotics. She ran the same tests that everyone else had run, and, again, the results were normal. I fought off the strep, but the other symptoms remained. I kept returning to see this doctor, hoping she could find some way to make me feel better.
In September, I was so weak that on a ride over to her office I had to drop my head to my knees to avoid passing out. When the nurse entered, I was lying down, holding my head, the room swimming around me. The doctor came in. I told her that I felt faint and asked about my blood pressure. She said that it was normal and left, saying nothing else. She then went to see my mother, who was in the waiting room. I returned home, lay down, and tried to figure out what to do.
People told me I was lazy and selfish. Someone lamented how unfortunate Borden was to have a girlfriend who demanded coddling. In the fall of , I sank into a profound depression. I poured the pills onto the bed and fingered them for an hour, pushing them into lines along the patterns on the quilt.
I went back to Dr. He told me to make an appointment with Dr. John G. Bartlett was the foremost authority in his field, Dr. Troshinsky said. If there was an answer, he would have it. At Johns Hopkins, after a lengthy exam and review of my records, Dr. Bartlett sat down with Borden and me. My internists, he said, were wrong. My disease was real. He explained that it was one of the most frustrating illnesses he had encountered in his practice; presented with severely incapacitated patients, he could do very little to help them.
He suspected that it was viral in origin, although he believed that the Epstein-Barr virus was not involved; early lab tests had linked the virus to C. He could offer no treatment. Eventually, he said, some patients recovered on their own.
I dreamed of being ill. In my dreams, I was never healthy again. In the ensuing months, I began to improve. I hitched Newton to a leash and she tugged me through the neighborhood, first one block, then two, then three. My feet, soft from months in bed, blistered. The fever remained, but I was less prone to chills. In the fall of , Borden began graduate studies in political philosophy at the University of Chicago, and I felt well enough to move there with him.
From the airport, we took a cab to Hyde Park, where Borden had rented a one-room apartment. The front door appeared to have been crowbarred for criminal purposes at least once. Inside, there was a mattress splayed across plastic milk crates and a three-legged dresser propped up on a brick.
Roaches skittered over the walls and across the floor. The bathtub was heaped with used kitty litter. A weeks-old hamburger sat on the stove, shrunken into a shape that resembled the head of a mummy. The roaches were in various attitudes of repose around it. The apartment was four flights up, with no elevator, so most days I spent my time inside, reading about the French Revolution and listening to our neighbor throw things at her husband.
The one thing I could still do, however, was write. Shortly after arriving in Chicago, while watching a video of the Kentucky Derby, I had an idea for an article on the impact of overcrowded fields on the race.
I researched and wrote the piece, then mailed it to an obscure racing magazine. I got a job offer: fifty dollars per story, no benefits. I took only assignments that I could do from home and wrote them in bed.
The magazine never paid me, but my bylines drew assignments at better publications, ultimately earning me regular work covering equine medicine and horse-industry issues at Equus. I was growing much stronger, but whenever I overextended myself my health disintegrated. One mistake could land me in bed for weeks, so the potential cost of even the most trivial activities, from showering to walking to the mailbox, had to be painstakingly considered.
Sometimes I relapsed for no reason at all. Living in perpetual fear of collapse was stressful, but on my good days I was functioning much better.
By , I could walk all over Hyde Park, navigate the stairs of the apartment with ease, and, for half an hour on one blissful afternoon, ride a horse. Three years after becoming ill, I wrote to Linc about the curious sensation of growing younger. A ten-hour road trip was risky, but I had grown tired of living so confined a life.
As we set out, the skies darkened. By the time we reached the interstate, a ferocious thunderstorm was crashing around us. Rain and hail hammered the roof of the car and gusts of wind buffeted us across the lane. It was more than an hour before we were able to escape into a rest stop. I sat on the floor of the bathroom, looking out a high window and watching the trees sway.
The rain tapered off. My hands were shaking. We had planned to stop at the New Jersey farmhouse where our friends Bill and Sarah were staying, but we were very late. Borden called them on a pay phone while I waited in the car, watching him through the beads of rain on the windshield. He climbed back in, and we sat with the engine idling. I was frightened by the draining sensation in my body. Should we turn around? I asked. I wanted to believe him, so I agreed. He put the car in gear and we drove in silence.
I felt worse and worse. I think we should turn around, I said, struggling to push the words out. If we keep going, you can rest sooner. He was scared now, leaning forward, driving fast. We entered New Jersey. We have to turn around, I said. My head was pressed against the window, and I was crying.
We turned into the farmhouse driveway. There were rows of melons in the field. Bill took us to a guest room. Borden turned on the TV and left me to rest. By the time he returned to check on me, I was sweating profusely and chills were running over me in waves.
He took my hand and was horrified: it was gray and cold, and the veins had vanished. He spread blankets over me and tried to help me drink a glass of milk. It ran down my cheek and pooled on the pillow. Borden called an emergency room. The nurse thought that I was in shock and urged him to rush me in. But we were far from the hospital, and doctors had never been able to help. I was sure that being moved would kill me. Borden lay down and held me.
Wide awake, I slid into delirium. I was in a vast desert, looking down at a dead Indian. His body was desiccated and hardened, his skin shiny and black and taut over his sinews, his arms bent upward, hands grasping, clawlike. His shrivelled tongue was thrust into an empty eye socket. I lay there and trembled, whispering I love you, I love you, I love you to Borden through clenched teeth. Hours passed. The sun rose over the melon field. I lay exhausted for three days.
Bathing became nearly impossible. Soon, I would lose the strength to speak. Only my eyes were capable of movement. The corpse of the Indian hung in my mind. Borden and I never spoke of it, or of the events of that night, and we never spoke of the future. Over and over, I asked him if I was going to survive. He always answered yes. Late one night, as I walked down the hall, I heard a soft, low sound and looked down the stairway.
I saw Borden, pacing the foyer and sobbing. I started to call to him, then stopped myself, realizing that he wished to be alone. The next morning, he was as cheerful and steady as ever. One afternoon in September, he came in, sat on my bed, and told me that classes were starting and he had to return to Chicago. With Borden in Chicago and my mother at work, I needed assistance to get through the day.
I went through several helpers hired from nanny services. The first one clattered in with stacks of crimson-beaded Moroccan shoes and harem pants. She dumped them on my bed. She prowled through the house, appraising the furniture. When I asked the woman who followed to take Newton into the back yard, she opened the front door and shooed the dog onto the street.
Lying in bed upstairs, I heard the dog barking gleefully as she galloped westward. I called to the woman but got no response. I sat up and looked out the window. The woman was standing high in our apple tree, mouth open, gaping at the vacant sky.
The dog returned; the woman did not. The third helper sympathized and commiserated, then bustled around downstairs while I lay upstairs in bed. I went to the closet and found only a hanger where my taffeta ball gown had been. On a rainy afternoon in January of , I was sitting on the bed reading a magazine when the room began whirling violently.
I dropped the magazine and grabbed on to the dresser. I felt as though I were rolling and lurching, a ship on the high seas. At five the next morning, I woke with a screeching, metal-on-metal sound in my ears.
My eyes, upper lip, and cheeks were markedly swollen. I went to a neurologist for tests. A technician asked me to lie down on a table. He produced something that looked like a blowtorch and pushed it into my ear. A jet of hot air roared out, spinning the vestibular fluid in my inner ear. It triggered such a forceful sensation of spinning that I gripped the table with all my strength, certain that I was about to fly off and slam into the wall. The tests determined that my vertigo was neurological in origin and virtually untreatable.
The doctor prescribed diuretics and an extremely low-sodium diet to control the facial edema, which seemed to be linked to the vertigo. He could do little else. There was a constant shrieking sound in my ears. The furniture flexed and skidded around the room, and the walls folded and unfolded.
Every few days there was a sudden plunging sensation, and I would throw my arms out to catch myself. The leftward eye-rolling came and went. Sleep brought no respite; every dream took place on the deck of a tossing ship, a runaway rollercoaster, a plane caught in violent turbulence, a falling elevator.
Looking at anything close-up left me reeling. Borden called several times a day. He told me about Xenophon and Thucydides, the wind off Lake Michigan, the athletic feats of the roaches.
When I asked him about himself, he changed the subject. Inside was a gold pocket watch. I hung it from my window frame and stared at it as the room bent and arced around it. Weeks passed, and then months. The watch dial meted out each day, the light sliding across it: reddish in the morning, hard and colorless at midday, red again at dusk. In the dark, I could hear it ticking.
Outside, the world went on. Linc got married, my siblings had children, my friends got graduate degrees and jobs and mortgages.
None of it had any relation to me. The realm of possibility began and ended in that room, on that bed. I no longer imagined anything else. If I was asked what month it was, I had to think for a while before I could answer. While I was lying there, I began to believe that we had struck the deer back in , that he had come through the windshield and killed me, and that this was Hell.
Two years passed. In late , Borden took his qualifying exams, and left Chicago. When I first saw him, lugging his green backpack, he was so thin that I gasped. In , by tiny increments, the vertigo began to abate. Eventually, I could read the back of a cornflakes box. My strength began to return.
Instead of sitting on the edge of the tub with a washcloth, I could sit on the shower floor while the water ran over me. The first time I showered, dead skin peeled off in sheets.
Bill took us to a guest room.
Then he was gone behind us. He swabbed my throat, left for a few minutes, and returned with the news that I had strep throat. Eventually, I could read the back of a cornflakes box. I knew what he meant. The more precise they are, the easier it is for the writer to use your guidelines efficiently.
He was scared now, leaning forward, driving fast. By the time we reached campus, half an hour later, I was doubled over, burning hot, and racked with chills. All medication must be signed for and you must chek how it needs to be stored and how many are to be given and what time.
It took me six weeks to write fifteen hundred words, but, four years after the abortive trip to Saratoga, I was coming back. I was disappearing inside it. Give proper instructions. Puzzled by the other symptoms, he prescribed antibiotics and suggested that I see an internist. Sleeping on my side was uncomfortable because I had little body fat left and my bones pressed into the skin on my hips, knees, and shoulders.
He came into my office one night in June, sat down, and slid his chair up to me, touching his knees to mine.