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As the officer led us back to our cell, Haleigh and I quickly realized this wasn’t a one-small-cell-Mayberry-kind-of-town situation. It was much larger, with guests ranging from prostitutes to petty criminals, and it was hot and smelled atrocious.
Worst of all, there was no Andy Griffith to watch over us.
We were completely on our own.
Trying to keep some distance from the others, Haleigh claimed a spot on a bench away from everyone, and I followed quickly after. I sat down next to her, but I didn’t say anything. I knew she was mad and needed time to process, so I leaned my head back and closed my eyes.
I wanted desperately to just fall asleep and put an end to this crazy night, but with all the other women talking and moving around, there was no way that was going to happen. Since sleeping wasn’t an option, I let my mind drift, and it wasn’t long before I started thinking about how much my life had changed over the past year.
It all started with a tingle near my temple.
Then, months later, a faint pain behind my right eye.
When the dizzy spells started, I knew my fate had been sealed.
After my mother had died, my father did his best to pick up the pieces, but from the stories I’d heard, it wasn’t easy for him. He was a new dad who’d just lost the love of his life and was trying to raise a newborn—something he knew nothing about. Dad had been completely overwhelmed, and there were many times when he considered throwing in the towel and asking my grandmother to take over.
But then, Theresa, who worked with my dad, had come along.
She’d also noticed that he was struggling and began stopping by with casseroles or other easy-to-reheat foods. Most times, she’d end up staying for dinner and then helping to tidy up. Slowly but surely, she’d swept Dad off his feet, which wasn’t exactly hard to do.
Theresa was young and beautiful, and she’d made life easier for him. They’d gotten married, she helped raise me, and eventually, they had a couple of kids of their own—Josey and Jacoby. We were like most typical families who did everyday kinds of things, and I was happy.
But as I grew older, I became more and more curious about my mother.
My grandmother had told me stories about her, and my dad would share one from time to time, but neither of them had ever mentioned how she’d died. They’d simply said there were complications and never anything more.
But then I’d started my period, and my father took me for a checkup. During the appointment, he casually mentioned to the doctor that my mother had died from vascular complications with her heart. He went on to tell her that he was concerned that I might have the same issue, especially since I’d started having migraines.
The doctor told Dad that the likelihood was very slim but sent me for some blood work and a few scans.
That’s when the doctor found it—a small aneurysm in the left lobe of my brain.
My father was reassured that it was minor, and more than likely, I’d never have an issue with it. Even if I did, it wouldn’t be until I was in my late forties or fifties. After that, my father said nothing further about it.
He’d thought I wasn’t concerned over the doctor’s diagnosis and that I’d let it go.
I hadn’t.
I couldn’t help but think the worst. I’d been positively terrified and just knew I was going to die.
I’d gone to my school library and started reading up on everything I could find on brain aneurysms: the causes, the symptoms, and the effects of a ruptured aneurysm. Needless to say, what I uncovered was a little overwhelming, especially for a thirteen-year-old.
I’d voiced my concerns to my friends, Theresa, my grandmother, and even my favorite teachers. They’d all assured me that I was worrying for no reason and that I was going to live a long, healthy life.
I had wanted to believe them, I really did, and decided to let it go. I convinced myself that my friends and family were right, but when the symptoms from my research started to creep in, I knew they had all been wrong.
So, I went to a neurologist, and he sent me for a scan.
I went like he’d ordered, then watched the radiologist as she studied the screen. The second I saw her face twist into a grimace, I knew it was bad. I’d barely made it home before my neurologist called to request a follow-up appointment.
I could’ve made the appointment and found out if I’d been right about my suspicions, but I didn’t. Not because I was scared of what he might’ve told me—I already knew it wasn’t good—I wasn’t ready to give up my last sliver of control. I would find out the results when I was ready and then decide what to do about it. I would be the one with that power—not my aneurysm—but that didn’t mean I wasn’t terrified.
