old habits die hard.

Needless to say, I am somewhat a creature of habit.

I got in the habit of Imogene.  I grew accustomed to her.  I had fastened her to my vital organs, bound her to each one of my thoughts.  And then she was gone.

So I got in the habit of being consciously devoid of her.  I grew accustomed to really feeling that lack of her, to really giving it life. I let the emptiness she left become its own monster.

When I was delivered unfortunately at redemption’s door, I got in the habit of feeling sorry for myself.  I grew accustomed to everyone tip-toeing through my door, afraid to upset the feeble, shaking frame of bones and bruises held together with misery.  Voices were rarely louder than a whisper.  If ever I were touched (which was unusual and infrequent) it was barely more than a brush, a graze. 

Change came bustling into my room today wearing Minnie Mouse scrubs and a ponytail.  And I don’t mean bustling so much as charging, with all the whispering tip-toe of a fucking freight train.

Her name was Dot.  Literally. 

Not Dottie, not Dorothy.  Dot.

Everything she did made a horrible, nerve-wracking noise.  When she washed her hands she turned the faucet to full tilt, letting the water crash like a roomful of fine china. She seemed to rip the paper towels as savagely as she possibly could.  And the rickety folding chair she lugged across the room to be right next to me… I thought I was going into grand mal seizure.  A short 30 seconds of her presence had managed to foster an annoyance akin to anger reminiscent of hatred.  It bubbled hotly under my skin, and all I could do was sit there and project it.  A shabby, shrunken skeleton propped up on too many pillows, scowling. I must’ve looked like a dollar store Halloween decoration.  On clearance.  The day before Easter.

Clearly Dot had the same idea because she laughed as she looked at me, a full-bodied sound that bounced off the tile floors and bare walls.  Imogene had a tinkling bell for a laugh, a gentle breathy sigh.  I missed it.  But Dot laughed with her diaphragm, snapping surgical gloves on with all the gusto of the mad scientist in a B-grade movie.  It only made me scowl harder. 

She grabbed my arm from my lap and extended it towards her while reciting the standard explanation of blood draw.  It shocked me to be handled, her grip was more than I’d felt in forever.  After tying the tourniquet too tight, she let one hand circle my wrist firmly while the other roamed my skin with experience and confidence.

“Actually,” I spat nastily, since my glare was having no effect, “I really prefer the latex-free equipment.”

She never removed the intent of her focus from scanning my arm. “You’re actually not allergic to latex.” Nonetheless, her hand swiftly rose to her mouth and she caught the tip of the index between her teeth, freeing herself from the Glove of Great Offense.  She kept searching until she found what she sought.

Now that her bare skin was on mine, the contact stirred me.  It reminded me of something I couldn’t put my finger on, and the simple feeling of warm and living brought a rush of tears to my eyes.  Almost like fire, almost like something I had felt before but couldn’t specifically recall…

Dot was already drawing at this point, two deft hands unknowingly encouraged more tears and her face peered quizzically at mine.  Very plain, I made a point of noting.  She seemed to be taking mental notes on me too while she filled the little red-topped blue-topped green-topped tubes.

“Why are you crying!” She exclaimed.  “God, with all the shit listed on your chart this should be nothing for you.”

There’s a particular way people ask “why are you crying” that’s less an inquiry as to the origin of tears and more “stop fucking crying”.  Dot asked in exactly that particular way.

“Well it hurts!” I sniffed like a wounded animal and turned my head with all the righteous indignation of a three year old. The way the fresh, red blood hit the culture liquid ballooned and curled, a cool smoky swirl of crimson clouding the muted yellow, looked just like adding cream to coffee, but on a different color scheme.

“Like I said.” She tape-and-gauzed me brusquely and I thanked the powers that be she was on the last step of her process.  “I’ve seen your chart.  You’ve clearly worked pretty hard to destroy your body, I would’ve thought you were used to pain.”

Who says that? My stone scowl crumbled to let my mouth gape open. I’m sure I looked like some sort of dying, flabbergasted fish.  “Has anyone ever told you your bedside manner leaves something to be desired?”

She laughed loudly again and let my barb sail over her shoulder, not even flinching from the razor sharp edge that I will have you know very nearly could have nicked her carotid artery and left her discourteous, insensitive ass bleeding to death at the foot of my bed.  Bemused and unaffected, she asked, “Has anyone ever told you that addiction is stupid and pathetic?”

After a quick glance into my empty bag of tricks and realizing I wore no sleeves in which to hide some, I knew I was out of nasty retorts.

“Look, you obviously had a death wish of some sort,” Little Miss Pleasant-pants continued as she finished gathering her supplies, “If I were her, I would’ve left you there. Jussayin’.”

My hackles were up as she tread dangerously close to the sacred ground that held Imogene’s shrine.  “If you were who?” I carefully prompted her to elaborate.

She was almost out the door at this point but she stopped and turned.  Her nondescript eyes narrowed, squinted at my moronic façade as though she couldn’t tell if I were serious or not. “The girl who brought you in to be treated,” she spoke to me like I was the three year old I behaved as.

“You know,” she said. “Imogene.”  She spun back around and disappeared into the busy world outside my room, leaving the static air inside it thick with pure shock.  I watched her ponytail swing wildly behind her as she bustled away from the chaos and destruction that lay around me in her wake.

And she was gone.

Dot.

What.

The.

FUCK.