Transformed

I still have no photographs. This one is from an aspiring photographer. Nine years old.

Shit, puke, shit, puke, like clockwork, every ten minutes. It had gone on for hours, it seemed. I couldn't stand the convulsions any more. There was nothing left to vomit now. I was alone in my apartment. Midnight. There was no one to take care of me.

It was the mayonnaise, I'd determined. I'd gone with Vladi in the hour between class and lab to Watta Burger which was just across the street from the campus. Everybody went there. It was cheap. It was packed.

I don't know why I did it, but when my hamburger came, I decided to try mayonnaise on it instead of catsup. I picked up the little plastic packets beside the mustard, tore them open and squeezed them onto my bun. It was different.

By the end of lab, my stomach was feeling bloated. I thought something might be wrong. By sunset, I was in bed, my stomach distended and gurgling. By nine, I was done for. For the first time, I was sick and on my own. I'd been sick before, but I'd never had to care for myself. I needed help, I thought. There was a clinic on campus. How would I get there? I wanted someone to take me to the car, someone to moan to, someone to talk to the nurses and tell them my pathetic story. I lay, thinking of the injustice of this. I'd never been this sick before. Ever. Did people die of food poisoning, I asked myself? Sure they did. I had chills. I felt feverish. I was too weak to move. I needed a doctor.

I waited. If I tried to drive now, I would surely shit myself or vomit.

I drove across campus and walked toward the old red brick building that was the clinic. The sky was black and filled with small, far, brilliant stars. There was no one about. I felt the loneliness of it, but the magic, too. I had done it. I had brought myself here alone, heroic.

Inside, the clinic was dim and quiet. A nurse was sitting at a desk.

"May I help you?" she asked in a low tone as if there were people sleeping all about. She had a cherubic face, I thought, thinking it odd that I should think this now, like a figure in a Rubens painting, pale, pure. She looked sympathetic. She would help me.

"I'm sick. I've been throwing up and have diarrhea. Every ten minutes."

My voice sounded like a weeping when it came out, all quivery and whiny. Was I doing that on purpose? I stood, knees bent, shoulders hunched, arms crossed across my belly. Was I trying to be more pathetic? Trying to act out how sick I actually felt? Sure. Sure I was. I wanted someone to take care of me. I wanted sympathy.

But even through the pain and the chills and the weakness, I couldn't help marveling, too, that there was a place such as this, a clinic open all night long to take care of things. I stood in the old brick building with its antique windows and wooden desk feeling I was an actor in a movie. This was marvelous, alright. It really was.

A doctor came in to see me, or an intern, anyway. He was young, I thought, not much older than I was. He looked like he might have been sleeping. When he asked me how I felt, I told him my story, but without as much whimpering and whining this time. I could tell it would win me nothing. He was all business. He reached over and pushed on my stomach and asked me a few questions and wrote something down on a piece of paper on his clipboard.

"Well, I think it is probably what you ate, probably the mayonnaise. I'm going to give you something that should make you feel better.

I don't think he knew I was driving because he had given me an opiate to stop the diarrhea and to reduce the pain. I was feeling better before I reached the car. I was ready for bed. If there had been anyone else on the highway, things could have gotten bad. But I drifted and floated down the road with both eyes closed navigating with only an occasional glimpse at the stars. It was OK, I thought. Things were good. I was on my own. I could take care of myself. From now on, this is how it would be. Everything was different.