staggered up and groped for the switch. In the bright dorm-room light we found ourselves clotted with blood.
“Jesus!” Archie screamed.
“Oh, my God.”
“Oh, gross, do something!”
“What should I do?”
“Get a towel!” he said.
“Could you please get the towel?”
“Gross!” he yelled. “Gross!”
He was jumping and wiping himself off, clawing at his clothes. I found a washcloth and held it to my head.
“Why did you do that?” I said miserably.
“It’s supposed to feel good,” he said.
“I can barely hear out of it.”
“Get it to stop bleeding!”
As we headed for the showers, hustling out of my room, Archie pulled the door closed behind us. It locked.
“Oh, no!”
“Hey, cut the moaning.” He reared up on one leg and kicked. The door frame ripped and cracked and splintered. He kicked at it again and again. Finally the door fanned open, and a chunk of wood dangled and dropped to the floor.
“Oh, God, why did you do that?”
“Stupid door,” Archie said.
“What’s so stupid about it?”
“Screw this, I’m taking a shower,” Archie said.
Through the night my ear throbbed as if mounted on my head with a nail. The messed-up door rattled and banged. First thing in the morning I visited the campus doctor. She took one look and referred me to an off-campus specialist, and I was able to get an appointment immediately. My balance was a little off but I rode my bike in slow motion. The specialist cleared out some of the dried blood and peered at my eardrum and promptly told me it had been perforated. In addition to the perforation there was a large area where the tissue had been pulled apart, like layers of baklava. “How in the world did this happen?” he asked.
“It’s kind of unpleasant, but—well, my boyfriend was kissing my ear,” I said, “and then I guess he created some kind of giant plunger with his mouth.”
“Time to get a new boyfriend,” the doctor said.
He said it might take a few months to heal, maybe longer. He said to keep it dry in the shower and when swimming. He said the chances of permanent hearing loss were slim, but I might have ringing or crackling in my ears for some time to come. He whisked out more of the dried blood with a tiny vacuum. It hurt.
The bill was $127. I didn’t have it. I had only $56, to be used for miscellaneous necessities. All afternoon while Archie was out on his bike, I fretted.
“You’ll help me out with it, won’t you?” I asked Archie that evening.
“It’s a farce,” he said. “They’ll never make you pay.”
“What about part of it?”
“I don’t have it right now. I’m working full time and I owe my brother a thousand bucks for the car.”
“It doesn’t seem fair I have to pay it all.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” he said. “Don’t.”
Meanwhile, a large man in overalls came to fix the door frame. No small job. It involved several hours of fitting and drilling. A few days after Archie left, I found an envelope under the door. It contained a bill for $210, saying that failure to remit would result in the withholding of any transcript generated by my current undertaking.
I could be resourceful. This past winter, Mom was in and out of the hospital for tests. Something was wrong with her endocrine system. She started reading medical journals, coming to her appointments ready with the answers. “I’m convinced that the paresthesias and tetany I’ve experienced recently are a result of primary aldosteronism. My hypertension is resistant to medication. I’m highly edematous, and the levels of K in my urine are always high. I’d recommend a CT scan to detect the presence of adenomas in the adrenals and, if negative, pursue secondary aldosteronism as a sequela to renal vasoconstriction. Are we on the same page?” Doctors weren’t wild about her approach, and she was gloomy.
“Is it possible,” I’d said, “that you’re playing out your relationship to your absent mother with
“Jesus!” Archie screamed.
“Oh, my God.”
“Oh, gross, do something!”
“What should I do?”
“Get a towel!” he said.
“Could you please get the towel?”
“Gross!” he yelled. “Gross!”
He was jumping and wiping himself off, clawing at his clothes. I found a washcloth and held it to my head.
“Why did you do that?” I said miserably.
“It’s supposed to feel good,” he said.
“I can barely hear out of it.”
“Get it to stop bleeding!”
As we headed for the showers, hustling out of my room, Archie pulled the door closed behind us. It locked.
“Oh, no!”
“Hey, cut the moaning.” He reared up on one leg and kicked. The door frame ripped and cracked and splintered. He kicked at it again and again. Finally the door fanned open, and a chunk of wood dangled and dropped to the floor.
“Oh, God, why did you do that?”
“Stupid door,” Archie said.
“What’s so stupid about it?”
“Screw this, I’m taking a shower,” Archie said.
Through the night my ear throbbed as if mounted on my head with a nail. The messed-up door rattled and banged. First thing in the morning I visited the campus doctor. She took one look and referred me to an off-campus specialist, and I was able to get an appointment immediately. My balance was a little off but I rode my bike in slow motion. The specialist cleared out some of the dried blood and peered at my eardrum and promptly told me it had been perforated. In addition to the perforation there was a large area where the tissue had been pulled apart, like layers of baklava. “How in the world did this happen?” he asked.
“It’s kind of unpleasant, but—well, my boyfriend was kissing my ear,” I said, “and then I guess he created some kind of giant plunger with his mouth.”
“Time to get a new boyfriend,” the doctor said.
He said it might take a few months to heal, maybe longer. He said to keep it dry in the shower and when swimming. He said the chances of permanent hearing loss were slim, but I might have ringing or crackling in my ears for some time to come. He whisked out more of the dried blood with a tiny vacuum. It hurt.
The bill was $127. I didn’t have it. I had only $56, to be used for miscellaneous necessities. All afternoon while Archie was out on his bike, I fretted.
“You’ll help me out with it, won’t you?” I asked Archie that evening.
“It’s a farce,” he said. “They’ll never make you pay.”
“What about part of it?”
“I don’t have it right now. I’m working full time and I owe my brother a thousand bucks for the car.”
“It doesn’t seem fair I have to pay it all.”
“That’s what I’m telling you,” he said. “Don’t.”
Meanwhile, a large man in overalls came to fix the door frame. No small job. It involved several hours of fitting and drilling. A few days after Archie left, I found an envelope under the door. It contained a bill for $210, saying that failure to remit would result in the withholding of any transcript generated by my current undertaking.
I could be resourceful. This past winter, Mom was in and out of the hospital for tests. Something was wrong with her endocrine system. She started reading medical journals, coming to her appointments ready with the answers. “I’m convinced that the paresthesias and tetany I’ve experienced recently are a result of primary aldosteronism. My hypertension is resistant to medication. I’m highly edematous, and the levels of K in my urine are always high. I’d recommend a CT scan to detect the presence of adenomas in the adrenals and, if negative, pursue secondary aldosteronism as a sequela to renal vasoconstriction. Are we on the same page?” Doctors weren’t wild about her approach, and she was gloomy.
“Is it possible,” I’d said, “that you’re playing out your relationship to your absent mother with
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