I peer up into his eyes, incredibly grateful to see their placid blue right now. “How’s Mr. Gutierrez?”
“He’s in stable but rocky condition. Come on, I’ll take you to him.” Julian takes the duffel I’ve packed for Mr. Gutierrez and my bag, slings them over his shoulder, and leads me by the hand through the doors. The calming neutrals transition to pure white, the light symphonic music replaced by beeping machines and intercom announcements, secured doors and keypad locks.
This is the true face of the hospital, and it fills me with dread.
I swallow. “So, what’s an akinetic crisis?”
“I didn’t know, either, until I started reading more on the disease. Essentially, akinesia is the absence of movement, and it’s often a sign of dopaminergic withdrawal. Sometimes an akinetic crisis is triggered by medication resistance, but luckily in Mr. Gutierrez’s case, it was a GI infection that caused it.”
“How’s that lucky?”
“Because we can treat the bacterial infection he has with antibiotics, which in turn will help his body accept his medications again. Medicationresistance is much harder to remedy. Diarrhea leads to poor medication absorption, so when he told me he’d been suffering from a stomach virus all week, I suspected that might’ve triggered the crisis.” He leads me down a hall lined with patient rooms and busy, serious-faced nurses. “Without his medication, his body began the process of shutting down. The risk of choking is very high, and eventually, the akinetic immobility would’ve affected his ability to breathe.”
I press a hand to my mouth. “Oh my God.”
Julian stops outside of a patient room, the name on the door identifyingFranco Gutierrezinside. He runs both hands down my arms. “He’s going to be okay because we caught it in time, though he may be here for the next few days recovering. He’ll be really glad to see you, Nomi.”
Julian knocks lightly on the door, then sticks his head in. “Mr. Gutierrez? Quit napping—someone wants to see you.”
“Julian! Don’t wake himup!”
He turns to me, grinning. “Just kidding, he’s awake. Go on in. I’m going to chat with his doctor.”
I enter the small room. Mr. Gutierrez is hooked up to an army of machines, his burnished skin sallow against the hospital gown he’s wearing. Beneath the cannula fitted to his nose, he still manages to smile. “My friend. Thank you for coming.”
“Always, Mr. G.” I rush to his side and take his hands. “Though you should’ve called me sooner. Your house—” I pause, not wanting to criticize, but not knowing how to put it, either.
“Looks like it belongs to a madman, I know.” Mr. Gutierrez grimaces. “I’m sorry you had to see that. I get so… I don’t know. Proud isn’t the right word.” He thinks for a moment. “Angry, maybe. Resentful. I hate needing so much help. I get so angry at my body for standing in the way of my life.”
My eyebrows soften, and I squeeze his hands, careful not to upset the IV taped there. “I understand.”
Mr. Gutierrez smiles sadly. “I know you do. You’ve been sick lately, too. Yes?”
I blow out a long breath, then nod. When Mr. Gutierrez was a new client, he struggled to trust that cannabis could offer relief until I shared my story with him. It’s easier talking about my health with someone who faces their own body’s betrayal every day. “How can you tell?”
“You’ve lost weight, and your eyes look sad.”
“Iamsad.”
Mr. Gutierrez swallows. “I am, too.”
We sit there, witnessing each other’s feelings of helplessness, and saying nothing. Because sometimes, witnessing without platitudes is what you need most. I get why the people who love me want to solve my chronic illness; I wish wanting to solve it was all it took. But part of coming to terms with it is accepting that sometimes, you’re not okay, and it may be a long time before that changes. It looks like you’ve lost hope, which makes others feel so uncomfortable. But when hope’s based on denial, that hope can haunt you, sour your days, push you toward a never-ending hunt for the cure so you can finally go back to normal. That kind of hope prevents acceptance, which has been far more healing for me than hoping to exhaustion ever was.
“Does Julian know?”
I shake my head.
“Nomi,” he says simply.
“He won’t understand.” My eyes find Julian outside the glass window, where he stands, chin in hand, listening thoughtfully to the on-call neurologist. “He’ll panic. He’ll make me into his patient and try to fix me.”
“People never grow if we don’t challenge them to try.”
“But what if he doesn’t respect the choices I’ve made?”
“What if he does? He’s come a long way, Nomi.”
“I want to be Nomi,justNomi, with him. Not Nomi who can’t eat. Or Nomi crying in the bathroom. Or Nomi who shits fire.”
