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You know.
What happened.
You don’t know, and it’s okay. I couldn’t bring myself to tell you. I’m not sending this letter. I’m about to rip it up or hide it. I just need to keep my hands busy. When I’m not holding something, both of them shake from the meds.
I don’t feel good, Miller.
I don’t want to do the ECT again. Having the seizure from the ECT does make me sleepy after- just like you were.
I love you. Please stay safe. Don’t ride bikes and don’t have any seizures. Love me- okay? Can you please still love me? Even if it’s been a while?
I’ll always love you too.
Your Ezra
Third Quarter
One
Ezra
December 19, 2018
“Are you sure about this?” My mom. Skeptical…or upset.
I peel my eyelids open, looking at the ceiling through the bleary spikes of my eyelashes.
“Yes,” a woman answers. “He woke up from anesthesia. Didn’t know where he was. There was some resistance. So that’s when we increased his sedation. We had the counselor in, and she asked…you know…about his memory.”
My heart beats a little quicker.
“He remembered being here last year…which was a good sign. But he thought that he had finished ECT. He said he was going to play football again. When we asked what year, he said his senior year. That’s how we knew,” the woman says, her voice low and conspiring. “As you know, memory loss can be very normal. It’s something we go over each time. In the consent forms.”
I try to swallow, but my throat hurts. It feels too dry.
“Yes, well, he did that,” my mom says, sounding irritated. I hear the click of high-heels as she steps into my field of vision. We’re in an ECT room. I’m lying on my back, and my mom is talking to a nurse. “He had a standout senior year in football,” my mom tells her. “Now has multiple offers for scholarships.”
The blood drains from my face as my pulse starts pounding again. What is she talking about?
“He remembered being discharged from here last time and staying at your house. When I asked what he’s done lately, he said he has a Jeep he likes and he’s been running. Lifting weights. The memory loss can…range,” the nurse says. “He may recall more this afternoon. Or next week. It could be a month or two. Some people never regain memories of the time before their treatment. Memory loss could go back several months. It’s different for every patient. Since his memory has been affected, we’ll have Dr. Katz call to touch base with you this evening or tomorrow. We may want to discuss moving from bilateral to unilateral. On the paper assessments, he did not score at a significant level for depression. Despite what you—and he—reported. So, unilateral may be more than enough for the remainder of the sessions. Especially given…these side effects.”
I stare up at the ceiling. Popcorn ceiling. I’m so…confused. I got football scholarships?
“Christopher? Are you awake?” My mom is leaning over me now. She’s got her hair curled, and I think she has on a dress.
I frown up at her, feeling...fuzzy. I think something went wrong. The nurse said that…right?
"Did I get a football scholarship?" My voice sounds weird and raspy.
Mom smiles. "Yes, you did. Do you remember which ones?"
"Ones?" The bottom drops out of my stomach.
"Yes. You have several choices." She smiles again.
I look around the room, feeling...nothing. I feel confused. Like I forgot something that I really need to say. But now I can’t remember it. The fuzzy feeling starts to turn to pissed off.
"Why am I here?" I look at the tall nurse, standing behind Mom. "I got scholarships and I forgot about them?"
I don't even notice that I'm sitting up till the nurse puts her hand on my shoulder. "Let's not get so agitated, Mr. Masters. Going home is dependent upon you being awake and calm enough to safely discharge. You don't want to make your mother feel unsafe, now do you?"
I lie back and shut my eyes.
Tightness.
My chest.
I feel like I can't breathe.
"How do you feel? It's okay to be angry. I don't want you being physical," the nurse says in a sing-song, preschool-teacher voice.
I put my arm over my eyes. It's...like I'm falling and I want to grab something. Need to. But I can't.
"How about some more relaxant medication?"
It's better to say yes. At this place. Better if they think you're on board. You don't want to be defiant in a place like this. Even in my current state, I know that.
“We still have your IV placed, so it will be fast,” the nurse promises.
I nod.
I close my eyes after. Think of... I can't think at all. My chest is still tight. Tears build in my eyes as Mom tells the nurse she'll take me home and take care of me.
I'm too tired to be mad.
