"Do you have any tattoos?" The technician in the neurodiagnostics lab this morning had a voice soft as my tia's chinchilla coat -- meant to soothe me into sleep as he placed electrodes onto my scalp, my chest. I laughed, "Yeah, I do." My right foot tapping nervously against the bed's rail. He moved my hair to the other side of the pillow, stuck an electrode to my neck. "What a shame." His hands were warm against my neck. "You were a perfect specimen." He was having trouble getting one of the wires to stick behind my left ear. "All this beautiful, long, unruly hair. "Perfect," he said again. "Until the tattoos." I smiled as he turned off the lights, began the process of plotting out my brain. "No. I don't think so."
I attempted to sleep, while the the Irish Catholic tech from Lake Charles, Louisiana waited to see what my unpredictable brain might do. Would it short out like the wiring in an antiquated house? Would they finally catch the ever elusive seizure? If I could just sleep. If I could just sleep because there, that's where I fall -- how could I ever explain falling and not being able to hold onto anything?
Instead, I closed my eyes, and thought of where the day would end. At St. Therese Catholic Church, at my Uncle Martin's rosary. I had no idea if my Uncle Tony or my Uncle Max would be there. No one had called to tell me yes or no. I just knew they had said I was there to represent my grandfather's family. Represent. Represent.
The last time I saw my grandfather alive, he walked up the long sidewalk to my Uncle Mario's door. He was unsteady, his walk crooked. He was thin, shrunken, but he smelled of Marlboros and his uniform never changed, crisp white shirt, ironed Wranglers and cowboy boots. He and Hector sat across from each other, recognizing each other in ways I would never understand. When my grandpa died, I held his hand. Because he had five sons, and four are left, I never thought I would be the one to represent him. And perhaps I don't. I'm just a girl.
I can no longer breathe. The room spins like a tea-cup at Disneyland. I open my eyes. "I don't feel good." I am sure the electrodes have found something. Something has spiked, but no. Everything is boring. The Irish Catholic technician tells me he can recognize the machinations of Catholic guilt. He is one of ten. He never saw his mother. She worked two jobs. His father was only around to hit them. His sisters raised him. Thoughtfully, he begins to peel off the wires. He is no longer Catholic.
After I have buttoned my coat and walked back into the lobby I am alone again. I'm lightheaded and I want nothing more than sleep, but instead I go into the new part of the hospital and have a Coke and wait until I feel safe to drive home.
A perfect specimen?
For years, I have been afraid to drive on the freeways. Will I have a seizure here? Will I have a seizure here? What would happen if I had a seizure now? Tonight I didn't care. I wasn't afraid. I merged from I-40 onto I-25 and the Sandias were glowing like altar candles in the setting winter sun. I wondered how many times my grandparents had seen these same mountains glowing the same way.
I knelt down next to my great-aunt. I took out the rosary my mom gave me during my last surgery and as my hands went over the beads, I felt my grandparents again and for the first time in a long time, I did not wonder will I have a seizure here, or here, or now? I just let myself be surrounded by family, even though this is not a family I know well. I was representing, I was alone, but I was not alone.
A perfect specimen? Not hardly, but maybe, just maybe I can get better.
