Hospital Bag
by Alexi Corbin
by Alexi Corbin
60,000 milligrams of ibuprofen. A bottle of Benadryl. She really means it this time. She wants to die.
She sits in the middle of her bedroom floor, just sitting there, all bent over. That’s normal. She and I are different – I open all the windows and turn on every light whenever I’m home. She likes to sit in the dark.
She’s not moving. I sit on the floor in front of her.
Jenna? I say. She looks at me. Slow.
I’m sorry, she says, but can you call 911?
The pill bottles. The razor.
911, what is your emergency?
She’s fading, right beside me. I stroke her back, ask her questions about the classes she’s taking. She responds less, and then not at all. Why are they taking so long? Stay awake, stay awake.
Firemen come first. Then police. Then the ambulance. Men with yellow notepads. Men with medical equipment. Oversized boots fill up the narrow hall. It’s all wrong. Why are they so big?
They all ask the same questions. Numb.
Are you her roommate?
Yes.
Do you know how much she took?
Did you find her like this?
Has she done anything like this before?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
They help her down the stairs. She’s falling asleep. They carry her. A bunch of big men with a tiny, tiny girl.
The ambulance isn’t moving. Why isn’t it moving? Dying. Waiting. Slow. I call Jenna’s mom. How do you tell a mother that her baby girl doesn’t want to live anymore? I try to pray but forget how.
Hospitals. The smell. Waiting. They let me in. They make her drink charcoal and it stains her teeth and face black. I’m in the way. Immobile.
You can’t fall asleep, Jenna, they say. Wake up! Don’t fall asleep! They seem annoyed. Calm. I hate them. Don’t they know it isn’t supposed to be like this?
She can’t help it. I say. She can’t help it.
If she falls asleep her airway will collapse, they say.
Why did you do this, Jenna, a nurse asks.
She stops breathing.
You need to go now. They push me away. Doctors. Nurses. Questions.
Binge-purge anorexia, I say. Chronic depression. Self-harm. Just got back from inpatient. No, I don’t know her insurance. Yes, her mom will be here tomorrow.
Enough medicine to kill two football players, they say, as if a football player were a standard medical term of measurement for overdose.
We’ll let you know if anything changes. I sit in the lobby, jumping whenever the door opens. Hanging on.
I move her bed to a different corner of her room. I buy a fuzzy purple rug to cover the place where she sat on the floor. It doesn’t do any good. I see her sitting there every time I walk down the hall. The men. The stretcher. Her face as they took her away. I close the door. I wake up in the night shaking. It’s not real, it’s not real.
Today I go into her room. She had packed a hospital bag. Propped up next by the bed. A change of clothes, some underwear. A toothbrush.
She sits in the middle of her bedroom floor, just sitting there, all bent over. That’s normal. She and I are different – I open all the windows and turn on every light whenever I’m home. She likes to sit in the dark.
She’s not moving. I sit on the floor in front of her.
Jenna? I say. She looks at me. Slow.
I’m sorry, she says, but can you call 911?
The pill bottles. The razor.
911, what is your emergency?
She’s fading, right beside me. I stroke her back, ask her questions about the classes she’s taking. She responds less, and then not at all. Why are they taking so long? Stay awake, stay awake.
Firemen come first. Then police. Then the ambulance. Men with yellow notepads. Men with medical equipment. Oversized boots fill up the narrow hall. It’s all wrong. Why are they so big?
They all ask the same questions. Numb.
Are you her roommate?
Yes.
Do you know how much she took?
Did you find her like this?
Has she done anything like this before?
Yes. Yes. Yes.
They help her down the stairs. She’s falling asleep. They carry her. A bunch of big men with a tiny, tiny girl.
The ambulance isn’t moving. Why isn’t it moving? Dying. Waiting. Slow. I call Jenna’s mom. How do you tell a mother that her baby girl doesn’t want to live anymore? I try to pray but forget how.
Hospitals. The smell. Waiting. They let me in. They make her drink charcoal and it stains her teeth and face black. I’m in the way. Immobile.
You can’t fall asleep, Jenna, they say. Wake up! Don’t fall asleep! They seem annoyed. Calm. I hate them. Don’t they know it isn’t supposed to be like this?
She can’t help it. I say. She can’t help it.
If she falls asleep her airway will collapse, they say.
Why did you do this, Jenna, a nurse asks.
She stops breathing.
You need to go now. They push me away. Doctors. Nurses. Questions.
Binge-purge anorexia, I say. Chronic depression. Self-harm. Just got back from inpatient. No, I don’t know her insurance. Yes, her mom will be here tomorrow.
Enough medicine to kill two football players, they say, as if a football player were a standard medical term of measurement for overdose.
We’ll let you know if anything changes. I sit in the lobby, jumping whenever the door opens. Hanging on.
I move her bed to a different corner of her room. I buy a fuzzy purple rug to cover the place where she sat on the floor. It doesn’t do any good. I see her sitting there every time I walk down the hall. The men. The stretcher. Her face as they took her away. I close the door. I wake up in the night shaking. It’s not real, it’s not real.
Today I go into her room. She had packed a hospital bag. Propped up next by the bed. A change of clothes, some underwear. A toothbrush.