Check my Vitals

A Story by Tree

DC looks just as depressing from the fifth floor murky windows of Howard University Hospital as it does on the street level. There is the same amount of ashy street walkers and flashy college students as there were yesterday. The same amount of people walking past each other without a care. A false hello between nicotine breathed strangers here and there. DC looks just as depressing here from this bed, as it did from my seventh floor dormitory window. Difference is I could jump out of that seventh floor window if I’d wanted to. And I did want to.

“Excuse me, Ms. Coleman I’m here to check your vital signs.”

Wrapping the flimsy night-gown against my ashy legs, I climbed back into bed, looked down into my lap and tried to sit still so that this new nurse could write down some numbers that said I was still alive.

“So Ms. Coleman, it looks like you haven’t been eating or sleeping much. Are you a college student?”
“Yes sir.”
“I saw your parents earlier. They said you’re a good kid. So why are you here?”
“Because my girlfriend saved my life.”

Numbers mean everything to these people. A six day stint, in the Five South ward of Howard University Hospital Psychiatric Center, all because of one night and nearly twenty-one years of fighting. I almost lost the battle that night. I wished I had.

“How did she do that?”

My face slickened with a warm wetness that reminded me of yesterday. Of how her fists banged against the barrier and told me to open the f*****g door. But I couldn’t because both my hands were busy. One was shaking the other, as I pressed the kitchen knife to my wrists. Why had I gone in there again? Peace. To find peace. Rest in peace.

“I don’t know. She just saved me.”

Dreaming that night I remembered that I hadn’t even wrote a letter. Figures I’d forget to leave an explanation for why I had wanted out. I thrashed in between those starchy white sheets. I was hot. I usually sleep naked, but I was too shy to strip for the camera monitoring my thrashing in the corner pocket of my bare room. Someone was always watching, and always knocking. At 6 am, it started again. “Excuse me, Ms. Coleman…”. More numbers, more questions, and more vitals.

At breakfast I choked down orange juice and fiddled with dry toast. My back curved, hovering over my tray, protecting it from the other patients trading bacon for juice cups. Two big windows shoved the eight o' clock sun down my throat. I wasn’t hungry anymore. Two more windows I couldn’t jump out of. Five minutes later I saw wet spots collecting on the crusty wheat bread. Wiping my face I giggled to myself. For once my mood had improved something.

“Excuse me Ms Coleman…”

Again with the f*****g numbers. More numbers, more questions, more vitals. All to prove I’m still alive. I was still alive. Balling up in the common area I watched the court TV blur through my hot/wet eyes. The spider web cracks in the screen stood as a reminder that someone hadn’t been happy here. They probably got tired of watching Maury and Jerry Springer. They threw something right at some derelict looking for baby daddy number five. I suddenly got the urge to run down the short hall, and through the heavy gray doors to my room. At least in my room I could count on my one bed, one dresser and a spotty toilet. I sat up and turned to run back to the solace of my room and ran right into the arms of another patient. I had slipped. Those damn socks. Gray, one size fits all non-slip socks. Yet, I had slipped into the arms of Mary. Toe to toe in our gray socks, I watched her gown rise and set as mine did.
“You sad?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“To get over low spirits, you must play.”

Play? I felt the walls closing in and I thought I was in for another panic attack. I spun back into the common room and backed into the long table where we shared our meals and played bingo for shampoo and potato chips. I turned and sat back down in the worn out couch some kindred spirit had bitten a chunk out of, and sat in the room full of women who saw themselves in me. We sat there and shared stories of stolen innocence, forgotten promises, and unmet purposes. I asked.

“Why are you here?”
“Because I accidentally put battery acid on my two Excedrin.”
“Because I smoked five bags of crack yesterday.”
“Because I’ve been raped and robbed twice within the last week.”
“Because I’m just trying to figure out what the f**k is going on.”
“Because we got a sickness. We all do.”

Looking out the window that night DC hadn’t changed a bit. It still looked murky and gray. It still looked depressing. I was still depressed. I still wasn’t going to sleep or eat. I probably wouldn’t showered again, since the maintenance person had thrown out my soap bar and I’d ran out of the giant paper towels they’d given me to blot myself with. My blood pressure would be low. I wouldn’t get my two pills to help me sleep because I hadn’t eaten one piece of dry wheat toast. I’d still have more questions than answers. I was still going to cry.

“Excuse me Ms. Coleman. Why are you here?”
More numbers, more questions, more vitals.

One answer. “Because I want to live.”