Hair dye put me in the emergency room again. I stagger in, not allergic, just hysterical, in a Nepalese hoodie, muddy boots and (beautifully espresso brown) hair on end. It is a dark and stormy night, but not as dark and stormy as my soul.
I don't know what to tell them, the people who ask what is wrong. That I woke up in a panic? That I've eaten too much iron, that I nearly bled dry a week ago, that my back is in a twist, that I'm shaking, that it's not really the psych ward I need, that hair dye nearly made me faint once before, that maybe it's exactly the psych ward I need? That there is a full moon behind the snow clouds and praying didn't help this time? That the hospital has my dead father listed as my next of kin?
I'm scared and alone and maybe that is precisely my problem. But it is my body that tries to bring me to my knees, demanding a ransom that it refuses to specify. Demons are dancing. And the emergency room is staffed by 25-year-olds and I'm not sure I can trust 25-year-olds with exorcism.
But someone strong opens the door, speaks to me with kindness as I stagger in, takes my hand and calms me down. Someone to lean on, at last. I put my shaking life in his hands without a second thought. He carefully checks that I'm not dying, tells me that I'm in fact healthy and strong, then gently asks me if I have ever had a panic attack.
I think that is the moment I fall in love. The cardiogram printout shows my heart beating slowly and surely for him.
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