moretta

 I don’t know. I really don’t know. Originally this was just going to be a bunch of puns about rodeos and cowboys, but it did its own thing and became sort of depressing??

 

 

Shazza is sprawled on the sofa, chewing her faithful gum, and flicking endlessly through television channels, doing her best to channel her inner 90s teen, while I cautiously stand next to the plug so I don’t disconnect my phone from where it’s charging.

“Mate, what even is this,” she says, squinting sideways at an image corrupted by static, “You need to remember your Netflix password asap, and stop doing damage to yourself to get out of gym.”

“Fuck off, Shaz. S’low blood pressure.”

It’s after 7:30 on a Thursday night, I’m cycling through all my various passwords on the Netflix app on my phone, trying to remember what seemed like a good password at the time. Obviously too good, as I have now forgotten it entirely.

I can hear Mum in the other room, chatting on the phone – probably my Auntie Liz – and the half-second words of each flick-through on the TV, and I stumble backwards, catch myself at a weird angle with a well-placed foot.
I insert another password, pleasework, then everything goes muffled.
I look up, but darkness is creeping through the edges of my vision, tunnelling in.

“Shaz?”

“What?”
I don’t know what to do here, but I’m already wobbling again.
“I’m going to sit down now. I can’t hear anything anymore. I can’t – I can’t see.”

“Mate-“

I use the wall on one side to steady my slide down to the floor. I can feel Shazza walking up to me, then desperate steps back and forth, and more.

I still can’t hear or see anything, darkness, eerie quiet.

 

20 minutes later, I am in my mother’s car on the way to hospital while Sharon holds my hand.
The vibration of the car is very slowly turning into a rumble I can hear.

Mum is on hands-free with Dad, letting him know we’ll be in A&E.

 

40 minutes later, we’re waiting to be seen. 
I’m not bleeding, so I’m a little further in the queue than Mum would like, but I’m ok.

I’m starting to see again.

It’s blurry, but it’s there.

Shazza’s still holding my hand. She looks terrified.

 

Two hours later, I see a frazzled-looking, but calm-exuding doctor, who, after a couple of easy cognitive tests, explains that I fainted without losing consciousness, that my brain decided that was the right thing to do in the moment.

“So I rebooted because I stumbled?”

“Basically. Your ankle is recovering from a sprain. Half your brain told you to lose consciousness because of the pain, and the other half said, ‘No. We don’t do that.’ This was the compromise.”

Excellent.

“So I’m ok.”

He nods, “It’s not unusual, and there are no lasting effects.”

“Will it happen again?”

“That’s unlikely, if this is the first time you’ve experienced it. ”

 

Sixteen days later, it happens again.

 

A month and a half later, it’s happened a total of six times, and I am back in A&E. This time it’s lasted an hour, and I need to hang onto my mum when she moves in order to get anywhere. No worse fate for a teen.

It’s a different doctor, and she sends me up for an MRI immediately.

I’m so tired that I could fall asleep the minute I lie down, but even with headphones and the top 40 being pumped directly into my eardrums, the machine is loud.

Presyncope – fainting without losing consciousness – has a number of causes, can be a symptom of a number of things.

“We’ll figure it out,” says the radiology nurse, “We always do.”

 

I get a specialist assigned to me, whose first free appointment is in another three months.

My parents are furious that it will take that long.

I’m just resigned.

 

My blood pressure drops dangerously low.

Mum starts putting sugar in my tea, and Dad keeps bringing me awful-tasting sports drinks.

 

Four months in. I’m officially classed as “chronic” by the specialist, but there’s no condition or disease after that.

All that means is I’ve had whatever this is for 3 months or more.

I think they need to redefine their definition.

 

“Alright,” says the doctor , tucking her hair into a ponytail, “Buck up, this won’t be quick, but it won’t be too bad.”

“I feel like if I buck that will be bad,” I joke, eyeing the largest needle I have ever seen.

“It’ll be fine. You got the anaesthetic, you’ve got your mother, just try to relax and it’ll be over in about half an hour.”

She makes me curl up in the foetal position, on one side, with my head on two pillows.

It’s unpleasant, but not actively painful. She doesn’t nick bone, she doesn’t hit anything she shouldn’t.

I spend the first ten minutes trying not to breathe in too much and move anything I shouldn’t, until she tells me to relax, and to trust her.

Every so often, the doctor will move something, or change hands. My mother smiles and chats aimlessly at me. Work, the upcoming weekend, the Aunties.

I drift, a little dizzy, dozing in that area between consciousness and sleep. I feel drained, even though I haven’t done anything to feel that way. At Ieast I know the tired bit is just me and not the presyncope. 
I'm starting to be able to tell.

At the forty five minute mark, my mum asks, gently, “So sorry. It’s been more than half an hour, is everything ok?”

“It’s fine, I just want to try and reduce the pressure a bit. Cerebrospinal fluid should be lower than hers is. I just want to bring it down a bit further.”

An hour in, my back and hips are starting to ache due to the position I’m in, and I’m exhausted. I want to go home.

She reluctantly pulls the needle out, unsatisfied with the pressure.

She reiterates what the pamphlet on lumbar punctures said, that I should be ok, but headaches are a normal after-effect, take paracetamol, drink lots of fluids.

I go home feeling ok, with an ache in my back, but nothing else. I sit in front of the television and  drink water and watch NCIS reruns until my eyes burn.

 

Nobody really described the intensity of this “headache”.

I spend the whole weekend, all 48 hours, in a dark room with an icepack, desperately trying to remember why I shouldn’t be taking more painkillers.

I lose track of time.

Mum answers texts for me – I’m ill, try again Monday.

 

Shaz comes round on the Monday night. That’s nice, anyway.

I show her the bruise, a thin purple line running the length of my spinal column, spreading outwards at the puncture site like a river and lake. Or a trail to an airplane crash.

“Cool. Gross, but cool.”

 

Seven months and twenty three days, back with the specialist.

It’s some sort of dysautonomia. Not narrowed down very far, since I reached that conclusion on my own with Wikipedia.

Still, better than nothing.

He tells me to go to A&E immediately if I have difficulties swallowing.

I tell him I could have figured that out on my own, thanks.

Mum doesn’t say anything.

“Tell them you’re my patient,” he says, reading the room, “You’ll be seen sooner and they’ll let me know you’re there.”

 

As we find out, it works.

 

Thirteen months and six days later, I find myself in the same foetal position, for a second lumbar puncture, to double check, and to lower my CSF pressure.

The doctor recognises me, grins as she sits down.

“Back on the horse, eh?”

I joke again, taking a last swig from my Lucozade bottle, “Not how I like to be referred to, but ok.”

The nurse chuckles. His smile is kind, he’s new on this floor.

I smile back.

“She’s really good at this, you’ll be fine.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo,” and I know now it won’t be the last, “Let’s get it over with.”

While I lie there on my side, I stop counting the days.

I decide it’s not worth doing the individual count, it won’t help.

 

Depression, anxiety. These are often comorbid with chronic diseases.

The school finds me a counsellor. Dad finds me a psychotherapist.

I talk to both.

I think it helps.

Shaz is proud of me, in her own way, though sad she’s not enough.

“I get it, you know, that I don’t get what it’s like. Still, I’m here.”

I need the reminder, sometimes.

 

I end up back in hospital with tremors. Always nice to meet a new symptom.

While I’m there, I lose vision and hearing again. Brian, the nurse, is my main daytime contact for a week.

Mum and Dad still have to work.

He tells me about his parent’s farm, and his original dream of being a jockey, but he couldn’t stand the cruelty to horses, or anyone or anything in pain.

He’s built like a pro-wrestler, but he’s a softie.

 

When I finally get diagnosed, it’s just a flood of relief. It’s been twenty six months since that initial bout of presyncope, and all I wanted to know was what.

Mum’s more of a how do we fix this, and Dad’s gone with how to fix the house around this.

Knowing what is enough for now. It’s not just me.

 

My blood pressure crashes again, and I’m too weak and shaky to do much for a while.

The nurses welcome me back with a teddy.

 

Shazza places the teddy onto the bedside table, then elbows me into sharing my bed, sprawls out next to me and on top of me, remote control in hand, and flicks through the television channels, looking for something to watch until Brian bustles through, makes sure I have my IV in properly despite the jostling.
Shaz raises an eyebrow at me, “You didn’t tell me you stayed in hospital so long for the view.”

Brian smiles at her, flirts back for a minute, leaves to get on with his duties.

“There’s a joke about riding a cowboy in there somewhere,” I tell Shaz, “Or lassos and ropes. You always did like men with broad shoulders.”

She laughs, “Text me when you think of them, yeah?”

We go back to flicking through the channels.

“Mate,” she says, wrinkling her nose at the hospital’s entertainment offerings, “Have you got your laptop? Did you ever remember your Netflix password?”

 

Fiction! Based on vaguely real events, but very much fiction.

This week has been complete madness from beginning to end to new beginning. Glad I got my previous entry in (by the skin of my teeth!), and apologies to everyone - there has been no down time, and therefore no comments, but you had some wonderful entries!
Here is my Write Off entry.


Be-beep. Be-beep. Be-beep. Be-beep. Click.
Rosalie turned to face her alarm clock. Was it really 7 am already?
Theo gave a sleepy sigh and rolled over, going back to sleep. That was alright. He didn't need to be up yet anyway.
She sat up, staring down at him in the darkness. He didn't look like an angel. He didn't look peaceful. He looked, she thought fondly, like someone had just stolen his favourite toy and was refusing to give it back.
With a sigh, she got up and padded to the bathroom. The bedroom's carpet flooring might be difficult to clean, but it was a wonderful feeling to be able to walk on it in the morning without getting frozen by the morning cold.
She went through her morning routine on automatic pilot.
Yesterday had been Theo's last day. Today, he was leaving. She keeps thinking should have done something special, like a party or a big meal with all his friends and family or something, but he hadn't wanted any of that. They had had supper with his parents, he had gone to the pub for a pint with his best mate, but that was it. The last thing he had done before going to bed was check his e-mails whilst on the phone to his baby sister – who would “always be my baby sister, no matter how old you get and how many boyfriends you have, but if you stay single until I get back then I don't have to worry about bashing people's faces in for breaking your heart after sleeping with you. Yes, of course that's a valid concern.”
She didn't even put on a robe to go downstairs. It wasn't cold and her nightie (and old rugby shirt of Theo's that he no longer wore because it was too big) was long enough to be decent.
She made pancake batter before doing anything else. They were Theo's favourite food, and who was she to deny him something so simple?
She checked the fridge, made sure they still had whipped cream (which they did), checked the window sill, made sure they still had mangoes (which they did) and checked the dryer to make sure Theo's lucky boxers were dry (which they were, of course). Everything was fine. Just like she had planned it. She folded the last of the laundry neatly into a basket which she put next to the stairs and stopped, for a moment. Routine was nice, but who was she fooling, really?
At 11.30, in less than 4 hours' time, she would have to drive her husband to the train station, watch him board that 11.55 train to London, where he would meet the other men and women the RAF had called back and they would take another train to King's Lynn, in Norfolk, where they would be bussed to Marham, where they would then decide what to do with him. He would call her in the next few days to tell her where was being deployed to. She hoped it wasn't Afghanistan again.
Theo plodded downstairs, stifling a yawn and stretching as she got to work with making breakfast. They were young. Not as young as they had been, but 35 was still young, and Rosie believed that, while the RAF had taken away some of their years, she and her husband had stayed young in order to make up for that lost time. And now she was rambling.
“Pancakes,” Theo exclaimed sleepily, “excellent.”
She smiled from across the kitchen island, pouring more batter into the pan. He sat down at the counter opposite her, watching the pan carefully.
“Ah, proper pancakes, I approve. None of those crap things.”
“Crêpes, Theo, not crap. They're really good. Well, we'll have to get Marie to make them for you at some point, hers are absolutely delicious.”
“But your pancakes are better.” He smiled that disarming smile at her, still sleepy but utterly loving. She blushed, still, after all this time, and ducked her head, poking at the pancake with a spatula.
“That remains to be seen.”
Theo stood up and set the table, stopping to give her a kiss on the cheek as he collected the mugs.
She ignored his off-key humming as he wove his way around the kitchen, getting out the rest of the breakfast foods. She smiled as he prepared the mangoes (“Mangoes! I love mangoes.”) and brought her a sliver over.
It was that newly-wed feeling all over again, she thought, as he fed her the sliver.
“Tea or coffee?” he asked, hugging her from behind as she flipped the pancake.
“We have been together for, what, sixteen years?”
“And five months.” He added proudly.
“Right. Since you got so drunk that you ended up in the kitchen in my digs, on the floor, on one knee, singing the chorus of 'I Will Always Love You', with Mike making those awful noises in the background.”
Theo smiled and smiled, “And you kissed me to shut me up. I'm glad Mike stuck to the harmonies instead of trying for the lead vocals – maybe you would be making pancakes for Mike today.”
“Right, harmonies. So, sixteen years and five months,” she said, “and you still don't know what drink I like in the morning?”
He brought out the coffee machine, “Well, you never know when you'll change your mind. Your mother told me that when she was pregnant with you, she didn't like the taste of coffee any more and that I should watch out with that for yours.”
Well. That explained a lot.
“Besides, I used to drink tea before I realised you had 'real coffee' every morning.”
“You drank tea?” Sixteen years and she was still learning about him.
“But you hate the taste of unsweetened tea, which is how I liked it, so I stopped.”
She got the pancake onto the stack of other ones, put the pan down, walked over to where Theo was, and kissed him soundly, holding his face in her hands.
“I love you.” she said, hoping he would know how much she meant that.
“I love you too.”
He didn't break eye contact. She knew he meant it just as much.
The rest of breakfast went by much too quickly for Rosalie. Oh, it was a wonderful meal, with laughter and good food, but by the time they were finished it was almost 9.30.
They had slowly eaten their mango halves and then moved on to the pancakes, which Theo had covered with more mango and whipped cream. There was no denying her husband was odd, but she wouldn't have him any other way.
She could tell he was nervous about leaving because, without her prompting him, he put the dishes in the dishwasher and dealt with the coffee machine filters. He normally did that at the weekend.
He even took the laundry basket upstairs without her having to mention it.
“Rosie?” he shouted from upstairs as she made him sandwiches for the journey up to the base. “Where are my lucky boxers?”
Yes, that was her husband. She could have laughed.
“In the basket with the clean clothes.”
She heard footsteps as he walked across the landing, probably naked.
“Aha!” came a familiar cry of triumph, “Got them!”
“Well done, dear. We shall celebrate with cake!” she shouted, buttering a slice of bread.
“There's cake?”
His voice was nearer, probably by the stairs, tempted by the offer of cake.
“Not yet, but there can be.”
She knew where he was going with this.
“Yes please! Any chance of lemon drizzle?”
She could almost see the puppy-dog look.
“I'll see what I can do.”
“Excellent. Cake!”
And with that, his footsteps retreated all the way to the bedroom, probably to finish getting dressed.
She shook her head in amusement, then went to check on their lemon situation. Of course they had lemons. She had bought them when she had gone to buy mangoes, water bottles, Terry's Chocolate Orange and whipped cream.
She finished making the sandwiches then dealt with the cake, the measuring keeping her mind off Theo's imminent departure.
Once the cake was in the oven, she made her way upstairs to find her husband in the study, on the computer, looking focused.
She had a shower and got dressed slowly, trying to make herself relaxed. It wasn't working.
According to her alarm clock it was 10.17, which meant she had just over an hour with her husband left.
Theo walked in, counting something on his hands.
“Forgotten something?” she asked.
“Not yet. I just realised I hadn't packed a suitcase, so I was going to do that.”
She nodded, “An excellent idea. Don't forget toothbrush and toothpaste.” Like you did last time.
He gave her a hug and a kiss. He knew what she was thinking.
She went downstairs. She brought in the mail – a couple of ads and the telephone bill – and sat down with the newspaper. Death, disaster and war. She hoped, for the ten-thousandth time, that Theo would never be one of the soldiers she read about in the paper.
The cake came out beautifully and Theo came down before she could call him, just as she was adding the drizzle on top. He said, as he stole a bit of the topping, that he had followed his nose.
She bumped his hip with hers to reprimand the nicking of lemon sugar, but said nothing.
Her mother – and his, for that matter – would be proud if they had known she had made the cake without consulting the recipe. But she had made it so many times for him that she knew the recipe off by heart. It was his favourite after all.
They sat down with a huge slice of cake each. 10. 53, according to the microwave.
“Have you packed a comb?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Underwear and socks?”
“Of course.”
“Tickets, money, phone, keys?”
“In my jacket pocket, in my wallet, in my pocket, in the bowl in the hall.”
“Alright then.” She poked at her cake with the fork, watching the slice wobble before it collapsed on itself and fell on its side.
“This is delicious.” said Theo, looking happy as he sat back in his chair, piece of cake half-devoured.
“Of course,” she replied, flipping her hair back in mock-vanity, ruining the sarcasm with a grin, “what else would it be?”
He grinned at her, a stripe of lemon rind stuck in his teeth.
It wasn't funny, but it made her giggle anyway.
They laughed until it was time to go.
He double-checked he had his travel documents and packed his lunch away in the backpack (“Terry's Chocolate Orange! Yes!”), taking two bottles of water with him, just in case.
She went to start the car as he collected his suitcase from upstairs.
They drove in silence, but try as she might, Rosalie couldn't think of anything to say that didn't sound stupid. She felt 19 all over again, on their first date alone.
She parked outside the station, feeling slightly desperate.
They walked in, the clock said 11.47 and she couldn't see his train on the platform yet, which meant they had enough time to say goodbye properly.
He leant his suitcase and backpack against the barrier and the moment he turned round he swept her into a kiss.
“Remember I love you, alright?”
She nodded, hugging him closer, “And I love you. Don't die, please.”
“I won't. How could I die when I know you're here waiting, with cake?”
Her laughter was forced out despite the tears that were welling up.
“I'll call you tomorrow.”
Another kiss.
Fighting sobs, she watched her husband walk away from her and towards the RAF for the third time in her life. She couldn't hate them, they had paid for his university fees, so they were partly responsible for making them meet. They had looked after him well so far, and she could only hope they continued to do so.
As the train came into the platform, she could hear the awkwardly strained notes of Theo's singing, “And Iiiiiiiii-eeeh-iiii, will aalwaaays luuuuuhve youuuuuuuuuuuuuu...”
She waved madly at the train as it left the station.
The rest of the day went by without much fuss, punctuated only by the occasional text message.
“I forgot my watch. I knew there'd be something. There always is. Arriving in 10 minutes.”
“Tube is SO CROWDED! It's not even rush hour and I'm squished between a woman with a baby and a man in a business suit.”
“Make sure you remember to post that letter to John, I was supposed to remind you earlier. Oops!”
“You should have spinach pie for supper. Get Toula to come round and make it, you'll have fun.”
“Arrived at the base. I love you, Rosie. I'll see you soon.”
If you were to ask her what she had done that day, she wasn't sure she would be able to answer.
She got home late that night, it was already dark. She had in fact had supper with Toula, but at her house rather than here, because Toula was looking after her nephews for the week while their parents were on holiday. Spinach pie was her speciality, and they had ended with slices of Rosalie's lemon drizzle cake. Toula had hugged her and told her that she was only a phone call away if she was needed.
Rosalie locked the door, dropped her bag on the counter in the kitchen and dragged herself upstairs, chucking her shoes to one side as she undressed.
She reached the bathroom in Theo's rugby shirt and socks, running a hand through her hair. She stopped in her tracks when she caught sight of the mirror.
There was a huge heart drawn out of toothpaste on it. To the left of the heart, also in toothpaste, was a message.
“My love for you will last longer than the heart I drew, and Colgate would be proud.”
She smiled, the first time that day since he had left, and tried to wipe a smudge off. She couldn't.
Theo had covered the toothpaste heart in clear polish. It was permanent.
Rosie bet that he could hear her laughing all the way from Norfolk.

At the eleventh hour, from a phone, with the dubious internet connection of the stately manor home where we're having our family reunion, here it is!
If you would like to read or vote for any of the others, you can do so here: https://therealljidol.dreamwidth.org/999752.html



Nicholas was bored. He rolled his shoulders to try and get some of the blood flowing, but he had been sitting in the uncomfortable chair for too long.
The bonds at his wrists and feet were just slightly too tight, which meant that he had to keep tensing the muscles in his legs and moving his hands about. It was getting tiresome, if he was allowed to say so.
The room was still dark, apart from the little slivers of light filtering into the room from the gap between the door and the door-frame.
Nicholas yawned. It occurred to him that this was the first time since he was small that he hadn't covered his hand with his mouth.
Funny how your brain works in situations like these.
The door opened slowly, with a creak that must have been deliberate.
“Riddle me this, Johnston. How does a man like ye'self get involved with people like me?”
He was a big man, robust, very tall, quite menacing, absolutely.
Nicholas grinned at him, “Through money, of course.”
“Of course.”
The man snapped his fingers and someone brought him a chair.
"You know, I never thought it'd come to this with you, Johnston. I thought you were one of the good ones."
He sat down as though he were a movie-villain, with the chair's back in front of him, straddling it.
Nicholas bit his lip at the clichéd thought, because he was sure that above it all some God of creative writing was currently laughing at him and the situation he was in.
"You're a good man, I think, just in a spot o' bother."
Laughing and pointing, probably, as the man pulled out a heavy looking stick.
"Ye know how much you owe us, right?"
Nicholas nodded, trying to look innocent and probably failing, tie slipping out of his jacket, "A lot, indeed."
"A lot is an understatement, mate. So, how are you gonna pay?"
Nicholas could not hold it in, had never been the type of person to hold it in, and asked, "Cash or credit?"
"You - mate. If you have the money..."
"Oh, no, I really don't. Just a joke."
The big man rolled his eyes.
"Mr Johnston. This is a serious matter."
Nicholas stifled a giggle.
"This is dangerous situation you've got ye'self in."
Don't laugh, don't laugh, don't laugh!
"And I am only here to help you. Failing that, I'm here to do some damage."
Damn. That was a laugh all the way out loud.
The big man scoffed, swinging the stick, “You got something to say, funny man?”
Nicholas had to bite his tongue to stop the laughing and something about phallic objects spill out. There was a great joke in there somewhere.
The man frowned, “Spit it out, Johnston, we 'aven't got all day.”
A gasp for breath, then, “You sound like one of my scripts.”
“What?”
Nicholas shifted in his bonds, trying to loosen the ones at his wrists again. It failed.
“You sound like you're quoting something I wrote. Like one of the bad guys from Motor Cop 2 or 3.”
The man raised an eyebrow at him, “You wrote those films?”
“Yeah. I know, right? They were crazy sequels, but the production company insisted.”
A moment of pause.
“Hey, what's your name, man?”
A very confused, slightly suspicious frown, “Tony.”
“Tony! Perfect! I'll put you in the next film.”
Another pause. The man – Tony, Tony was his name – was still frowning.
“Hey, could you loosen these ropes a bit? I mean, it would hardly help the writing if my hands and feet fell off because of bad circulation, would it? I mean, maybe that depends on the critic you choose to side with, bastard lot, but I would like to think that functioning digits are key to film-writing, at least for me. You can do without food or drink, but my best films are written with fingers typing away - when I'm not romancing some gorgeous woman, you know what I mean?"
The man stared at him for a long moment.
"Do you - do you know why I'm here, Mr Johnstone?
"Of course, I'm simply trying to convey that the next Motor Cop film, or the next Space Mixer film, for that matter, keep an eye out, it's coming out in December and is going to be such a freaking hit, well, they depend entirely on me, with my writing skills, and each phalange intact to type on a keyboard! And my brain, of course, but it would so much easier to write it myself than to dictate, you know? Assistants are great, I don't know what I'd do without Mary, but the actual creation needs to be mine. That ownership, that writing, that's what keepsr going in such a difficult industry. I'm sure you understand, this can't be an easy industry to crack or stay on the top echelons of, am I right?"
Another long stare from the man. Tony. Who then stood up and said, in the tone of a shop clerk exasperated with their latest client continually seeking a manager, “I'll get the boss.”
Nicholas moved his head around to relieve the crick in his neck as the man walked out the door he'd just come in through.
“Is that a no then?”