Food Poisoning

During finals of one semester, the night before an exam I ate some tainted corn and as a result I fell ill with food poisoning. For the initiated, you know what I’m talking about: vomiting until there’s nothing left, and then dry heaves for hours. My roommate at the time gave me the helpful advice to “Just go back to bed and get some sleep,” which was totally impossible due to the fact that I was desperately ill and intensely worried: In another of my courses, one of my classmates had missed an exam because of illness and had brought a doctor’s note to class, only to be told that there would be no exceptions and he would be receiving an F.

Of course, in the morning when it was clear that my situation was dire, my roommate remained no help, proposing the same advice and adding that “grades aren’t everything” (the last I heard of him, he was making twice my salary and working half as much) and it was my neighbor who came to my rescue and took me in his car along with a large pot – his saintliness was tempered by an “automobile cleanliness is next to Godliness” thinking – to the emergency room.

The hospital was in a predominantly African-American part of town, and, because I almost felt like an interloper, while filling out the forms I nearly checked the “Caucasian” box. My neighbor remained with me, holding the pot at the ready, but once they called my name, he bid me adieu and I was led into a sterile white room.

While you might imagine the sterility of a clean, white hospital room to be reassuring, for some reason all I could think was that I was in a mental ward. The sickness had driven me into a state of despair, partially because of my fear of the damage that this would have on my future: If the professor of the class final I had that day was as unforgiving as the other one, my GPA would be forever marred, I would be blocked from attending the graduate school of my choice, and, in my mind, I wouldn’t have the opportunity to enter the “Heaven-on-Earth” known as Engineering.

After what seemed like a very long time, there was a knock on the door and a tall white (Caucasian) doctor strode in wearing a white lab coat. He had a long, aquiline nose with a pair of round metal spectacles perched on the bridge. I feared the worst, but then he said in a voice much louder than I expected, “Well, how are you!”, and I croaked weakly, “Not so good.” With a broad grin he sat on a chair next to the bed I was sitting on and, putting his palms together and slowly rubbing them said, “You didn’t happen to have corn last night, did you?”

“Well, now that you mention it, I did.”

“We’ve had a few cases in here like that this morning. Keep your head up, son. You look fine, but just in case, we’ve got just the thing!”

“Actually, I don’t feel so great. I’m an emotional wreck since…”

“Of course you are,” he broke in chuckling, “but let’s get an IV in your arm, which will likely be nothing more than a placebo, and if it isn’t then you’ll be good as new!”, and with a hearty laugh and a loud slap on my back he turned and left the room. With only the knowledge that I was to expect an IV but with no idea when it would arrive, I leaned back and contemplated the ceiling, worrying in desperation about the future.

Again, after what seemed like a long interlude, the door opened and a slender Hispanic nurse came in and said sweetly, “¿Pobrecito, tienes mal?”

“Uhhh… What?”

The sweetness evaporated and she said, “I asked if you felt bad, but if you’ll only speak English, suit yourself,” and then she jabbed a needle into my arm, hooked up the IV, and was gone. I then realized that my off-white appearance suggested to her that I was also of Hispanic heritage and, disgustingly, ashamed of it. Perhaps she’d seen my hand hesitate over the “Caucasian” box on the forms – had I accidentally grazed it with the tip of my pen? In her mind, I was a faux Anglo – if I were black, one in her position might have accused me of being an Oreo, if I were Asian, she might have branded me a banana, but I was neither … Maybe a jicama?

Again, I was in solitary confinement.  I waited and waited and studied the patterns on the ceiling, and then I waited until I couldn’t stand the room any more. I’d lain there for so long that I was uncertain if I would be wobbly on my feet if I tried to leave. I sat up, and while I felt a little woozy, I was highly motivated to escape what felt increasingly like a padded cell. I swung my feet over the side of the bed and down to the industrial tiles of the floor, gripped the wheeled stand holding the IV bag, and rolled it towards the door.

Opening the door, I peeked out and got a serious glare from my nurse who was seated down the hall filling out some paperwork. “¿Que? Or should I say, what?”, she questioned me with disdain.

“Can I come out to the lobby?”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m feeling claustrophobic and depressed. That room is too much for me. And by the way…”

“¡Basta!”, she broke in, shaking her head and turning back to her paperwork, she said over her shoulder, “You can go into the lobby and watch TV. And try not to tip the stand over – YOU might break it.”

I wanted to clear things up – I wanted to shout “I am not a jicama!” – but the risk seemed too great and my desire to escape my cell was overpowering. Not waiting for her to change her insulted mind, I gripped the stand with both hands and shuffled into the lobby.

 There was a large crowd of people that I assumed were patients and their relatives from the neighborhood chatting on the sofas and chairs but I spied one last opening and sat down. “How ya doin’, lil’ brotha?”, asked an avuncular gentleman in the seat next to me, and he briefly put his arm around my shoulder, and I felt like a member of the extended family. However, I soon slipped back into a funk. I wasn’t well and my concern about my final remained acute. In fact, despite the kindness extended, I felt increasingly despondent, but I hoped a little TV would take my mind off it.

On the TV, the show’s host, a sharply dressed man in spectacles resembling my doctor’s, moved to the center of the stage to much applause. He carried himself with dignity, and as he spoke into the microphone, the applause died and a hush fell over the lobby. “Our next act is really something special – something we’ve never seen on Soul Train before. Please welcome,” and he mentioned a name that I couldn’t hear as one of my fellow lobby-mates, as if in a revival meeting, shouted, “Hallelujah!”, and the room broke into spontaneous applause and statements of approval.

While this wasn’t my favorite genre, I considered myself open minded and I looked forward to this opportunity to expand my horizons: even if it was difficult, the cultural immersion would take my mind off of the situation. But as I watched the many happy people smiling and dancing and singing along, I couldn’t have felt more unmoored, as if I were observing this as a homesick alien from outer space with any remaining joy sucked out of me and into them. I may as well have been trying to cheer myself up by trying to appreciate the following “mullet haiku” that has bewitched me for years:

Sweat stained tank top

Hair smells like gas

Somehow I get laid

And my inner alien was having none of it: “This is rock bottom,” I told myself, adding, “Just be patient – the next one cannot be worse.”  

Just when I thought it would never end, it finally did. And the audience’s response was over the top – loud hootin’ and hollerin’, and inside my mind I was full of hope for the coming salvation of the next song. Although my academic fate still hung in the balance, I’d made it through the tainted corn, my no-help roommate, the unsympathetic doctor, the insulted nurse, and now this, so I felt like I was due.

The presenter again took center stage and spoke: “I’ve been doing this show for many, many years. And in all that time, I can tell you this with total honesty: That was the finest performance to grace this stage – EVER.”

And then it was clear that I’d just reached the edge of the precipice.