On Saturday night my father had joked:
“You know, tomorrow is the fifteenth.
Beware the curse — the Ides of March!
The dinner party, which had featured
a circle of family and loved ones, had
all laughed, groaned, rolled their eyes.
I woke up today, Sunday the fifteenth,
at seven thirty-two a.m.
Quite late for me, an elderly millennial.
The second my feet hit wood floor
a raging headache tore through my skull.
"Uh oh," I uttered, at which I realized,
Oh no. I think. Even talking hurts.
What’s going on with me? What's off?
I then recall, that I’d tried my first
doctor-prescribed sleep aid
before tucking in last night—ughh.
She’d told me
at the appointment
she'd prescribe me
a beginner's dose.
"You know, sixty percent
of my patients love this!
And about forty percent—
well, it’s not for them."
"Try it on a weekend night,
and if you like it, great!
And if you don’t?
Eh. Throw it out."
With her kind voice
and casual shrugs,
she'd made it
sound so simple.
And now,
I suspect I know
which group I belong to:
the Mortal Forty.
I manage to pull myself down
the stairs, one thump at a time
I blearily punch buttons
on the coffee machine
'til a cup of brew streams out.
I sloppily ready our kid for church.
I drive with ginger touch to my mom’s.
I wait for her to emerge from the door.
I shut my eyes, seeking slight comfort.
Then I beg my kid
to text Grandma,
and she does:
“Like can you drive?
Mommy’s sorta tired.”
I heave myself
out of the door,
go to passenger seat,
gently tuck myself in.
I’m feeling worse than ever,
not sure that I'll make it;
I guess I might not.
She arrives,
takes my keys and seat.
She drives us all
to Congregation for services.
When we park,
instead of the church lot,
she drives us deep into
a chichi neighborhood.
She instructs:
“Di, you’re staying here,
you can't come in.
Get some rest.”
And this sounds
great,
a relief,
really.
But then we realize
this isn't the type of 'hood
to condone sleeping strangers
loafing creepily, looking ill,
in an unknown car.
“You’re gonna have to hide,”
Mom says helpfully.
My teen grins: "How awkward!"
"Ugh, mrghhphle" I reply.
They take off for service;
I strategize.
I need to “hide," and soon.
That means transporting
myself into the relative
privacy of the tinted glass rows.
This means crawling
into the back seat —
or the far-back cargo hold.
I weigh my options:
Lie across three contoured seats,
tall seat belt stalks digging into
my tender ribs?
Or lay flat on a rubber mat with
edges that prohibit a full extension?
I pick the mat in the way back,
which I instantly regret.
I did not fully calculate
how cold it would be
in the SUV trunk,
which lacks floor insulation.
But now
I’m committed,
so I stay,
shivering.
I hear froufrou ladies
walk by on a morning circuit.
I peek up.
I can tell by their
Lululemon jackets
and leggings
and fancy trainers
that they would not hesitate
to call the cops on me.
I cower down.
Don't peer in!
“This is ridiculous,” I exclaim,
prompting me to remember
that mere talking hurts
like knives penetrating cranium.
I slip on my daughter’s
neon pink hoodie,
the overpriced one
she'd begged for.
I hide my eyes
under my wrist.
I try for long minutes
without success
to fall asleep; no luck.
Too soon, they’re back.
Mom drives me in silence
back to my parent's house.
"OK your turn, you ready?"
She hands me the keys.
I stare dejectedly. "Umm.."
She sighs. "Okay, let's go."
Next thing I know, our trio
is back at my house
miles away.
And I'm getting into PJs
I am lying down,
my pale skin to pillow.
I fade in and out from there
never quite sleeping but
also not lucid, ever.
What have I done, Di?!
I think. I add with conviction:
And this is why I've never
and will never do drugs.
I manage to stay conscious
until a mid-proper nine p.m.
I hoist myself into bed:
"By my own bootstraps!"
I chuckle blandly to myself.
I slip on my sleep mask.
At length,
I fall into a sleep
pierced by
strange dreams.
"Beware the Ides of March."
Clearly the warning applies
to more than Julius Caesar.
I won't laugh next year —
March 15th, I've my eye on you!
