Not since medication time at the nurses window.

With a starch, white hospital blanket pulled tight around me, I’d sit in my ochre colored scrubs across the small medical office. Too sick to stand. There, I’d wait for the faux orange flavored medication to fill the hollows of my mouth. As the nurse slammed down on the silent knight with a loud ker-chunk, I’d feel the vibration cut through my thin, goose-bumped skin, and rattle my aching bones as she crushed my pill. The smell of the sublingual treatment nauseated me. Quickly, she’d turn my wrist and double check my armband.

“Open wide, tongue up!”

I’d tilt my head back as far as I could while she poured the sandy, medicinal granulate into my mouth from a small Dixie cup. The chalky powder would stick to the wet of my mouth and begin to paste beneath my tongue.

For what felt like an eternity, I’d wait for it to fully dissolve and ease my withdrawals. I thought about how much I used to love oranges, willing myself to not get sick. Waking up to a cup of freshly squeezed juice with lots of pulp. Peeling and sharing a piece of a clementine with my grandmother. Now, the taste sends shivers down my spine. Somewhere along this titration journey, I associated orange in all facets with bone-aching illness.

At least I had sixteen years to enjoy them.

“Open!” The nurse inspects my mouth, instructing me to move my tongue in each direction to check for hidden medication in my cheek. “Go get a popsicle from the freezer.” She demanded, rolling her blue latex gloves down from the wrists.

I shuffled in my laceless shoes to the refrigerator.

There, only dozens of orange freeze pops remained. Left behind from other sick patients.

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Take care.

The first time it happened was when I saw my distant relative in traffic. Hearing a beep beside me, I looked over to see my dad’s cousin stopped in the lane beside me, waving and smiling. Tammy was the cool cousin of that generation and a hip hairdresser. Growing up, the hairdressers at Adriano’s Salon downtown tore and painfully ripped through my dry layers of thick and frizzy curls. Tammy, with a head full of genetically similar “devil’s curls”, as she called them, would delicately part and effortlessly detangle each section with fruity-smelling L’Oreal spray. Snapping her bubble gum as she combed through the former snarls and tangled knots with professional, delicate ease. My temples tingled as the comb gently tickled down my scalp, parting my dampened hair down the middle.

“Like butter,” she said, winking at me in the mirror.

I beamed back at the sight of her. Rolling down my window, I quickly tried to tame my defiant hairs which stood straight up, refusing the month-long bun streak I’ve subjected them to. I couldn’t manage the time for any other style.

“How are ya?!” she shouted over the music of Kiss FM radio. We began sharing quick updates about each other and our relatives while inching forward in traffic. She had tried to reach me, but for the past month my phone had been almost exclusively on Do Not Disturb. I couldn’t explain why, but I let the calls, texts, emails and messages pile up. Everything seemed so overwhelming to me now, and the guilt of shutting everyone out was unspeakable.

“How’s ya Dad?!” Shielding her eyes from the sun, she folded down the felt visor in her Bronco to get a better look at me and gauge my response; really, and sincerely caring. I froze for a moment, never knowing how to answer. I could be honest, but honesty at this stage is a conversational joy vacuum. I could try sarcasm; however, joking feels like a disservice to funny people everywhere who could pull that humor off seamlessly. I settled for the reflexive Bostonian response when things are going shit-fan terribly.

“Good!” I overcompensated with the head nod of a dashboard bobblehead. Looking forward, we noticed the light had changed and cars were beginning to move forward. After quickly saying our farewells and carrying messages for loved ones, we began to pull away.

“Take care!” she shouted, beeping goodbye twice as I turned. I hung my arm out the window, waving as she faded out of sight in my rearview mirror.

As I veered onto the on-ramp of the highway, my smile slowly began to fade and my stomach turned. Like molasses, I felt it sink and stick around my insides like putty. Those two kind words began to morph, transforming into an ominous warning as I repeated them in my mind:

Take care!

Take care…

Take care.

Before I merged into traffic, panic began to set in as I mentally retraced my steps.

Did I take care of everything before I left?

Did I turn the coffee maker off?

Did his wheelchair lose power?

Did he fall out of bed?

Does he have his phone on him to call for help?

Did he take all of his pills?

Did he have a negative reaction to his new medication?

Did his breathing get worse?

Did he confuse the bursitis in his arm for a stroke or heart attack?

The questions fragmented and multiplied; each was met with one, two, or three other horrific scenarios I couldn’t control from playing out in my mind. A dizzying kaleidoscope of my worst fears uncontrollably spinning before me. My hands shook violently on the steering wheel as I swerved off at the next exit. I felt my lungs and ribs constrict; as if wearing invisible corset, I felt the laces cinch and tighten around me, squeezing and contorting my midsection painfully.

“Siri, call Dad.” I zipped down the long, winding backroad to get home, avoiding intersections and stop lights. After what felt like countless rings and endless, swerving turns, I was greeted by his automated voicemail as I turned onto our hill. My truck roared as I laid on the gas pedal. Seeing the end of the driveway, I inhaled one deep breath, which fought and pressed against the tight lacing for space until I made my way to the front door.

I rushed in to find my dad in a peaceful, heavy sleep in his bed. Many of my imagined horror scenarios faded at the sound of his exhaling snore, which resembled a horse nicker. However, the more stubborn fears required irrefutable proof.

“Dad…Dad…” I called for him softly. He lay motionless, belly rising and falling.

“Dad!” I said, louder and more sternly. Exhaling, he blew air between his lips once more. God dammit.

“DAD! DAD! DAD!” I started shouting, patting his shoulder to wake him. Finally, with a loud inhaling snort, he looked around, his eyes wild before they landed on me.

“Wh-what!…oh, hey…,” He said, blinking a few times.

“Are you ok?!”

“Yeah!” He ran his palm over his bed head, slicking back his gray-streaked hair. “And how are you?” He often offered this response after unintentionally scaring the hell out of me.

My shoulders toppled forward with the relief of my laces bursting open the seams. I tried to manage a fake laugh, but what came out resembled more of a soft sob.

“I’m gonna…make some tea.”

He’s fine.

He’s fine.

He’s fine. I repeated this mantra, willing it to calm my nerves as my insides detangled and unknotted. The stainless steel tea pot rattled, banging and clanging against the walls of the sink as it filled. Its pitch changed as the tap filled the hollow base, ounce after ounce. The weight suddenly seemed unbearable for my unsteady wrist. Setting it down and turning the water off, I grabbed the edge of the sink and extended my fingers outwards, willing my hands to stop trembling.

He is fine! I began pleading with myself to stop overreacting.

He is perfectly fine! Just then, as I stood navel-gazing, a small voice offered a quiet truth I had ignored for so long.

But you’re not.

“Take Care”

by Amanda Izzo

Amanda Writes, Etc.

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Thank you for being here while I get through the hard times, and celebrating with me during the good times! <3

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