By Elaine Ferrell
It’s Saturday morning after the Insurrection at the Capitol, one of the too-many things spiraling in a loop in my head. Did I buy enough toilet paper? Do the kids need haircuts? When will we get vaccines? I’m halfway down the stairs cradling an overflowing laundry basket. “Mommy, can I help?” my 4-year-old son asks while I’m still descending. Suddenly, the room spirals and my foot sears with pain.
On my butt. Dirty laundry everywhere. My tumble causes my 3- and 4-year-old both to wail at the top of the stairs. “Ahhhhh!” “Mommy!”
I try to form words through tears. “It’s OK. Mommy’s OK.” Unconvincing.
I try to fight through the pain. Try to rise, fail, and cry some more.
My husband calms them and rushes down the stairs to help. “Can you move? Should we go to the hospital?” I convince him that we shouldn’t – let’s not burden the overworked staff; he can’t come in with me due to the current pandemic; we’re uncomfortable asking someone to watch the kids. More spiraling thoughts.
But I limp to the medicine cabinet and change my mind. It really hurts. What if it’s broken?
So, I persuade him to take me. We pile into the car. He must help me put on my shoes and my coat, and for the sake of survival and our marriage, I let him.
Eight minutes later, he hands me off to the ER attendant, who gets me a wheelchair. He wheels me inside as my family drives away.
Under the mask, I clench my teeth and taste the salt of my now-bleeding lip. But who cares? Thousands of people are dying from coronavirus and my ankle just hurts.
The ER is eerily empty. I was expecting much more chaos. This is a welcome change from the snarl inside my head.
I am pushed into the waiting room in front of the TV – an educational program about mudskippers, fish that can walk on land. (Under the mask, I smile at the irony since I momentarily cannot.)
The ugly mudskippers flop onto the mud. I marvel at their stamina, their apparent ease in pushing themselves onto land. I, meanwhile, am trapped in this locked wheelchair.
These grotesque creatures emerge from the swamp. They fend off threats with just their mouths, whereas we humans spew deadly diseases and violent hatred through ours.
Ridiculously, I’m envious of these creatures’ ignorance of the current political vitriol, of their exemption from this chaos.
The nurse calls my name and wheels me to a bed. I feel my jaw relaxing, my body surrendering to the circumstances.
“I’m surprised it’s this quiet,” I tell her.
“Coronavirus cases are another wing,” she says, “and we’ve been very busy.”
I let the nurse help me emerge from the chair and flop onto the bed.
For now, the tumbling layers of chaos in my head unfurl. I try to enjoy this moment of peace in this frenzied world.