At much too early an hour, I shuffled—half-eyed—into the hallway and found Dave and Evelyn. “She’s not feeling well. I’m getting her some grapes,” Dave said.
I felt Evelyn’s forehead. Too hot. Concerning. As I entered the kitchen, a sound emerged from her body that left no doubt about what was coming next. Dave and I turned to her at the same time. Her mouth was full, cheeks puffed like an overzealous hamster. And then—it was on.
Like the McCallister family racing to the airport, chaos unfolded at double-speed. Dave pointed to the sink, but it was too tall for her. I yanked open the drawer to the garbage can, and in it went—the vile offering.
“Why did you hold it in your mouth and not just let it fly?” I asked her the next morning, as she played with My Little Ponies. The queen pony had just descended the mountain to deliver commands to the lesser ponies. “I want our house clean,” she said matter-of-factly.
Part of me felt bad for creating a little clean freak. But also—what a kid. Sacrificing her own comfort, tolerating that awful “yucky water” taste, all to keep the house up to code.
Her nighttime fears have been mounting lately—of her closet, of seeing her reflection in the shower window, of mysterious sounds. So I offered to move her to the room across from ours. Her quiet, “Yes. Thank you,” meant it was on.
For much of the day, beds were unscrewed and reassembled, sheets changed, nails undone from walls, and pictures repositioned. We built her a new home. At one point, I went to check on her. She was lying on her bed, her ankles crossed, with a graphic novel in her hand and music playing on her speaker, like a tiny teenager.
“Can you add this to my playlist?” she asked, referring to Young Folks by Peter, Bjorn and John.
Seems like she’s adjusting well.
Honestly, I should’ve been an interior designer. Not the fancy kind, but the kind who Tetris-es everything a million ways until it feels just right. Or maybe I’m just trying to distract myself from all the treatment plans and progress notes still waiting for me.
Right now, I’m in the hammock under hanging lights. It’s nighttime and warm—the kind of sticky that feels like a sauna freshly shut down. I’m feeling the pull to set up our projector and watch movies outside.
Yikes. A giant bug just dive-bombed my screen, drawn in by the computer light. I swiped at it and actually heard it thud into the nylon of the hammock.
The book club has done it again. I’m 31% into Broken Country, a novel I’d never heard of—and I can’t put it down. Each chapter moves through time—past, present, future. There’s a purposeful murder looming in the future, and some steamy romance in the past. I’m completely tangled in the plot and counting on the author to untangle me.
I plan to wind down with an episode of The Pitt—because nothing says self-care like light drama and traumatic life or death decisions—and then practice a little Spanish and forget all about I almost got taken out by a flying bug in a hammock.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 