The phone buzzed twenty-six times on my bedside table. Moaning, I turned my aching body and grabbed the phone with my uninjured hand.
"John?" a shrill voice demanded.
"Hey Natalie."
"Where have you been?" Natalie asked.
"I overslept," I replied. "What's up?"
"Nothing much! How are you, baby? Excited for next weekend? I hope you got off work because I have a lot of plans. What's new with you?"
Suddenly, images flashed across my mind. Red and blue lights. A shattered windshield. Glass protruding from my left hand. Spinning. I had made it home late after a trip to the doctor where they told me my arm was broken and my body bruised, but that I would recover. "I will recover," I reminded myself.
"Hello?"
"Sorry, I'm here." I said. "Hey, I gotta get ready for work. Talk to you later."
I hung up the phone, wincing at the stinging in my shoulders and the aching in my neck. Sitting up, I realized I could not work like this. I dialed the number for my boss.
"Hey boss, I don't think I can come in today. I am in a lot of pain."
"What did you do?" came Rob Weston's husky voice through the phone.
"It wasn't my fault. There was a drunk driver."
Rob breathed out a long sigh. "At some point, you're going to have to stop blaming other people for your problems. We have a show in two days, and the world won't stop turning for you. I'll see you in twenty minutes."
I stumbled to the bathroom to get ready.
When I entered Studio A an hour late, Rob Weston's glare sent shivers down my aching spine.
"I need you to hang three ellipsoidals on that beam," he grumbled.
The ellipsoidals were set lights used to shine a hard light at something. I picked one up with my bruised but not-broken arm and began climbing the seven-foot ladder. As the ladder wobbled, a coworker came to assist me. As soon as the light was up, I excused myself to the bathroom and slipped out of the studio.
In the bathroom mirror, I examined the cuts on my face. One went through my eyebrow, and a red gash slit across my cheek. My right eye was dark purple, and my arms and legs were covered in scrapes and bruises. How could they not see my pain? My neck ached, and I was too dizzy to stand, so I slid down the wall to the damp bathroom floor. Every muscle called on me to sleep, and after a minute, I gave in and embraced the darkness that followed.
When I awoke hours later, it was already time to go, and I asked my roommate to come get me.
Heavy silence hung in the air of Brian's car.
After a few minutes, he asked gently, "So you're really hurting, huh?"
I glanced at my friend. Could he see me?
"All over," I replied. "Everything's spinning, and moving at all hurts me. I think I need to take it easy for a few days."
There was another long pause before Brian spoke.
"I'm sorry you're feeling that way," he said. "But health is a choice. I get hurt too sometimes. In fact, I got a paper cut yesterday that has just been driving me crazy. But you don't see me staying home and doing nothing. You know why? Because I choose health."
The next morning, pain was running across my body like tiny ants. "There is no way I can work today," I thought, relieved that I could rest. The relief fled as Brian entered my room and pulled me out of bed.
"I'm not letting you lose this job."
In Studio A, chaos had possessed the production crew members, who were walking somewhat unnaturally in and out of the room, dragging tool carts behind them. Before I could slip to the bathroom, my boss motioned for me to come over.
"Listen," Rob Weston said. "I know you've got a lot going on. I know you're..."
He lowered his voice.
"— in pain. But this show is extremely important. I'm gonna need your all today. Could you please hang that 5K?"
The 5K was the biggest set light our crew ever used. It was incredibly heavy, even for someone in good health. I shook my head in disbelief and hauled the ladder to where I would hang the light. After a few steps up, my coworker handed me the 5K, but when I reached down to grab it, my arm instantly gave out and the light crashed on the floor. The world spun as I remembered the shattered windshield and flashing lights. Rob Weston's eyes sent daggers into the cuts on my face.
That night, I called to tell Natalie I was fired.
"What happened? I thought they loved you!"
"Yeah, me too. Natalie, there's something I need to tell you."
I took a breath.
"I got in a car accident a couple days ago. I broke my arm, my head is spinning, and my whole body hurts."
A long pause.
"Natalie?"
"I'm still here, trying to process everything."
Another pause.
"John, I am here for you, okay? I love you."
The next morning, someone knocked aggressively on my brain and on my bedroom door. A sleepy Brian opened the door and said, "Your mom is here."
My heart leapt as a slender figure with wide eyes entered from behind him.
"John! Why on earth didn't you tell me?"
I smiled a little. "I guess I was afraid of what you'd think. I've always been so strong..."
My smile faded. She wasn't listening. Instead, her eyes bounced from my clothes on the floor to the empty bag of chips by my bed. She muttered something about the mess and began picking up trash.
"Mom, I can barely move. Brian has been helping me –"
"You shouldn't burden him with your problems."
I said nothing. She sighed and sat on the edge of my bed.
"You know, you can be strong again," she said, "if you work at it. When was the last time you exercised?"
"I'm going back to sleep," I mumbled.
Word spread about the accident. A friend texted to say he was sorry about what happened and then invited me to go rock-climbing with him.
"My arm is broken," I reminded him.
A few minutes passed before he texted back, "At some point you're gonna have to stop acting like a girl and toughen up."
Later, Natalie texted.
"John, I'm so sorry, but I can't come this weekend. All of this has just gotten too much for me. Maybe we should take a break."
With each rotation of the earth, my pain worsened. I stopped trying to get out of bed because I physically couldn't. With only Doritos and Cosmic Brownies for comfort, my mom said I was gaining weight. What is the point? I thought. I wished I could disappear.
One morning, I heard subtle footsteps in the distance, and I wondered if death was on its way. I imagined what death would say when he saw me, and I considered how I would respond. Perhaps I'd thank him for taking away my pain.
Instead, my sister, Sarah, opened the door, took one look at me, and burst into tears. She rushed over and wrapped me in a gentle embrace.
"John, I am so, so sorry," she said. "I hate seeing you hurting. Come live with me and Mark until you recover. We'll take care of you."
I started to cry.
"I'm here, John. You are not alone. I am here."
Her tears relayed to me what no one else had been able to say – that my pain was real. I hugged her tightly and realized that for the first time in weeks, my room was no longer spinning.
"You're going to get through this," she whispered.
I looked at the ceiling. The world stood still.
My boss was wrong. They were all wrong.
"John?" a shrill voice demanded.
"Hey Natalie."
"Where have you been?" Natalie asked.
"I overslept," I replied. "What's up?"
"Nothing much! How are you, baby? Excited for next weekend? I hope you got off work because I have a lot of plans. What's new with you?"
Suddenly, images flashed across my mind. Red and blue lights. A shattered windshield. Glass protruding from my left hand. Spinning. I had made it home late after a trip to the doctor where they told me my arm was broken and my body bruised, but that I would recover. "I will recover," I reminded myself.
"Hello?"
"Sorry, I'm here." I said. "Hey, I gotta get ready for work. Talk to you later."
I hung up the phone, wincing at the stinging in my shoulders and the aching in my neck. Sitting up, I realized I could not work like this. I dialed the number for my boss.
"Hey boss, I don't think I can come in today. I am in a lot of pain."
"What did you do?" came Rob Weston's husky voice through the phone.
"It wasn't my fault. There was a drunk driver."
Rob breathed out a long sigh. "At some point, you're going to have to stop blaming other people for your problems. We have a show in two days, and the world won't stop turning for you. I'll see you in twenty minutes."
I stumbled to the bathroom to get ready.
When I entered Studio A an hour late, Rob Weston's glare sent shivers down my aching spine.
"I need you to hang three ellipsoidals on that beam," he grumbled.
The ellipsoidals were set lights used to shine a hard light at something. I picked one up with my bruised but not-broken arm and began climbing the seven-foot ladder. As the ladder wobbled, a coworker came to assist me. As soon as the light was up, I excused myself to the bathroom and slipped out of the studio.
In the bathroom mirror, I examined the cuts on my face. One went through my eyebrow, and a red gash slit across my cheek. My right eye was dark purple, and my arms and legs were covered in scrapes and bruises. How could they not see my pain? My neck ached, and I was too dizzy to stand, so I slid down the wall to the damp bathroom floor. Every muscle called on me to sleep, and after a minute, I gave in and embraced the darkness that followed.
When I awoke hours later, it was already time to go, and I asked my roommate to come get me.
Heavy silence hung in the air of Brian's car.
After a few minutes, he asked gently, "So you're really hurting, huh?"
I glanced at my friend. Could he see me?
"All over," I replied. "Everything's spinning, and moving at all hurts me. I think I need to take it easy for a few days."
There was another long pause before Brian spoke.
"I'm sorry you're feeling that way," he said. "But health is a choice. I get hurt too sometimes. In fact, I got a paper cut yesterday that has just been driving me crazy. But you don't see me staying home and doing nothing. You know why? Because I choose health."
The next morning, pain was running across my body like tiny ants. "There is no way I can work today," I thought, relieved that I could rest. The relief fled as Brian entered my room and pulled me out of bed.
"I'm not letting you lose this job."
In Studio A, chaos had possessed the production crew members, who were walking somewhat unnaturally in and out of the room, dragging tool carts behind them. Before I could slip to the bathroom, my boss motioned for me to come over.
"Listen," Rob Weston said. "I know you've got a lot going on. I know you're..."
He lowered his voice.
"— in pain. But this show is extremely important. I'm gonna need your all today. Could you please hang that 5K?"
The 5K was the biggest set light our crew ever used. It was incredibly heavy, even for someone in good health. I shook my head in disbelief and hauled the ladder to where I would hang the light. After a few steps up, my coworker handed me the 5K, but when I reached down to grab it, my arm instantly gave out and the light crashed on the floor. The world spun as I remembered the shattered windshield and flashing lights. Rob Weston's eyes sent daggers into the cuts on my face.
That night, I called to tell Natalie I was fired.
"What happened? I thought they loved you!"
"Yeah, me too. Natalie, there's something I need to tell you."
I took a breath.
"I got in a car accident a couple days ago. I broke my arm, my head is spinning, and my whole body hurts."
A long pause.
"Natalie?"
"I'm still here, trying to process everything."
Another pause.
"John, I am here for you, okay? I love you."
The next morning, someone knocked aggressively on my brain and on my bedroom door. A sleepy Brian opened the door and said, "Your mom is here."
My heart leapt as a slender figure with wide eyes entered from behind him.
"John! Why on earth didn't you tell me?"
I smiled a little. "I guess I was afraid of what you'd think. I've always been so strong..."
My smile faded. She wasn't listening. Instead, her eyes bounced from my clothes on the floor to the empty bag of chips by my bed. She muttered something about the mess and began picking up trash.
"Mom, I can barely move. Brian has been helping me –"
"You shouldn't burden him with your problems."
I said nothing. She sighed and sat on the edge of my bed.
"You know, you can be strong again," she said, "if you work at it. When was the last time you exercised?"
"I'm going back to sleep," I mumbled.
Word spread about the accident. A friend texted to say he was sorry about what happened and then invited me to go rock-climbing with him.
"My arm is broken," I reminded him.
A few minutes passed before he texted back, "At some point you're gonna have to stop acting like a girl and toughen up."
Later, Natalie texted.
"John, I'm so sorry, but I can't come this weekend. All of this has just gotten too much for me. Maybe we should take a break."
With each rotation of the earth, my pain worsened. I stopped trying to get out of bed because I physically couldn't. With only Doritos and Cosmic Brownies for comfort, my mom said I was gaining weight. What is the point? I thought. I wished I could disappear.
One morning, I heard subtle footsteps in the distance, and I wondered if death was on its way. I imagined what death would say when he saw me, and I considered how I would respond. Perhaps I'd thank him for taking away my pain.
Instead, my sister, Sarah, opened the door, took one look at me, and burst into tears. She rushed over and wrapped me in a gentle embrace.
"John, I am so, so sorry," she said. "I hate seeing you hurting. Come live with me and Mark until you recover. We'll take care of you."
I started to cry.
"I'm here, John. You are not alone. I am here."
Her tears relayed to me what no one else had been able to say – that my pain was real. I hugged her tightly and realized that for the first time in weeks, my room was no longer spinning.
"You're going to get through this," she whispered.
I looked at the ceiling. The world stood still.
My boss was wrong. They were all wrong.