Life after moving into my own place didn’t suddenly fill with sunshine and rainbows. The trailer was nearly fifty years old and in a horrible state of disrepair. The walls and surfaces were sticky with nicotine and the grey-tinged brown carpet was originally a pale, sky blue. Roaches shared territory with the mice, laying claim to every nook and cranny. They scattered when I switched on the lights, revealing the filth on which they feasted. Dishes caked with dried, gummy food leavings were stacked precariously in the double-sink, spilling over onto the countertops. Ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts, and trash littered the surfaces and floors alike.
I grimly set to work clearing what I could to make room for my belongings. I spent precious savings on cleaning products and insecticides. My depression became regrettably overpowering, and I was unable to fully invest myself in cleaning my “new” home. I gave up and accepted that I was hardly able to clean up after myself, let alone the home’s previous occupant.
As months passed, I remained in a vicious cycle of depression, anxiety, and undiagnosed ADHD. I’d have my days of extreme highs where laughter and joy were effortless, smiles lifting my face easily. Following these were days of extreme lows. The fall was more like a gradual sinking, ground steadily crumbling beneath me before giving way. I battled with an ever-present craving for nicotine as I’d quit with my best friend, Rebecca. Every task became more difficult to accomplish, and the weight settled ever more heavily on my shoulders. I’d begin to question what I was doing with my life. Where was I going? Would I forever be scraping shit from kennel floors for a wage that scarcely paid my bills? Was I to remain alone in this farce I referred to as a life?
These thoughts and more swirled darkly in my mind until I was overwhelmed by their burden. I found myself in the Pit, time and again. Bruised and filthy, I’d lay curled tightly into a ball as my body resumed daily functions on autopilot. I’d shrink away from the simplest of household chores, call in sick to work with some excuse or another, and silence my phone’s alerts. Just when I thought it was time to fill in my Pit, burying myself with my despair, I’d find something that would shine its light down into the hole. Guided by this light, formed by either the encouragement of a friend or that spark of hope I still held for a brighter future, I’d begin the arduous climb.
This is the best way I can describe my mind’s endless cycles. I entertained thoughts of suicide many times, stopped only by the imagined child I hoped to one day mother. I dreamt of a family filled with unconditional love and laughter. I longed for a home of my own and the chance to travel the world. These ambitions and desires are what have kept me alive.
My chest has always ached with emptiness. My parents offered conditional love that was alternately dangled and snatched away depending on their particular moods. Books and movies portrayed fantasy worlds in which a soul mate and/or a child fill the space in one’s chest so perfectly that I clung desperately to the hope that I would find one or both some day. Twice was the closest I ever came to feeling the ache dull enough to bear that I was willing to suffer nearly anything in exchange. I can make excuses and try to explain my reasons for returning to the arms of what I now know to be my abuser, but this is all I can say about it. He gave me a taste of something I felt I needed to survive.
I apologize; it seems I’ve wandered into another subject.
Ahem…
After months of continuously wondering where my life was going, I began to research the various programs offered by the local campus of the community college, PRCC. I was already taking some of my basic prerequisite classes. I was looking for something that wouldn’t take too long to complete but also provided a less than miserable career path. I found the Surgical Technology program and was filled with a sense of excitement. A surgical tech scrubs in with surgeons on various surgical procedures, handles the instruments, and assists when needed. The program itself was only a year long-January to December-with a certificate, but I already had most of my prerequisites necessary to obtain my Associate’s Degree with it.
I anxiously applied to the program, received an interview offer, and was accepted in the Fall of 2018. Beginning around my twenty-fourth birthday in January of 2019, I found that the program was more difficult than I’d anticipated. I had shifted my work schedule to accommodate my classes, so I was working twelve-hour shifts Friday through Sunday while in class Monday through Thursday. Unused to needing to study, I learned quickly that it was necessary for success in this program. The teachers were demanding and accepted nothing less than the best, and I strived to prove myself worthy of the career for which I studied.
With tax and grant refund money I purchased the trailer I’d been renting from my aunt. I continued to pay a small fee monthly in rent for the lot on which it stood. Now that the home was my own, I felt more willing to make permanent changes and improve things. I bought the supplies for a fence for my pets, an entire bathroom remodel, and other things needed for repairs.
Clinicals began that Summer, and I fell so deeply in love with surgery. I went starry eyed as I held skin and muscle to the side with a retractor and watched the surgeon clamp, cut, and suture. I once had the opportunity to hold a heart in my hand while the surgeon performed his work with the delicate tissues underneath. I was a part of saving lives, and I couldn’t wait to graduate.
My rotation at Merit Health Wesley proved the most fortuitous. I was there for only two weeks, and I was offered a job halfway through. Pending graduation and my score on the certification exam, I had a position as a surgical tech at the hospital beginning in January of 2020. I acquired a second job at the Applebee’s across the road from Animal Medical Center as a waitress in the evenings. I pushed myself to my limits to reach the goals I’d set for myself.
I was so entranced with how wonderfully things were going that I forgot the usual pattern of my life. I was completely taken by surprise when things fell apart, though I should have expected as much.
Twice had showed up at my door one day early that Summer, and I silently let him inside. He stood at the threshold silently as I waited for him to make some pitiful excuses mixed with his usual false promises. The whirls and flips I used to feel in his presence had been reduced to an almost imperceptible flutter in my belly. I had locked my emotions away to prevent myself from falling into the Pit while in school.
When he spoke, I was unsurprised to find my foresight to be accurate as usual. I allowed the silence following his monologue to stretch almost painfully before giving in. I told him I would not allow him to treat me as he had in the past. I was willing to give him just one last chance to prove himself. “Actions speak louder than words” was the cliché phrase I used.
He threw himself into the repairs of my trailer using the things I’d bought in the Spring. The disgusting carpet was torn up and replaced with faux wood vinyl pieces. Leaky faucets were replaced with shining pieces. His endeavors to prove himself to be a new man faded even more quickly than they had in the past. He’d come home later and later until his nights were spent elsewhere entirely.
I spent my Fourth of July with an old coworker and some friends drinking Mike’s Hard Strawberry Lemondades and sitting in a chair in the creek. It had been a wonderful, sunshine-filled day of fun and laughter, much needed after a difficult semester. I pulled into my driveway to find a strange vehicle parked there. I immediately felt the heat suffuse my body as rage poured over me. Twice had been leaning into the window on the driver’s side, and he quickly turned to me with a hand outstretched pleadingly. I asked him who the hell was at my house. He refused to answer, instead telling me I needed to calm down. I repeated myself until I grew impatient with his evasion. Putting my truck in reverse I slowly backed away from the rear of the vehicle. Twice turned back to the unknown person in the driver’s seat, and I threw my gear into drive before stomping my foot on the gas pedal. I slammed into the rear of the car with jarring impact and shifted back into reverse, prepared to repeat the oddly satisfying maneuver.
Twice turned to me with a comically shocked expression. I quirked a brow questioningly, knowing he’d correctly interpret the expression. He rushed to me and reached for the door handle. I’d already locked it and rolled my window up until it was only cracked enough for sound to escape. He said, “It’s just Michael, and he was just leaving.” I told him I didn’t give a single fuck. I had explicitly told any and every person in his circles that no one was welcome at my home. I refused to have dopeheads and thieves spend their time anywhere near me. That being said, Michael Madden was a known thief, meth addict, and suspected murder.
He growled his frustration and said I’d have to pay for the damages. I laughed both with humor and disbelief before asking which one of the present meth-heads would be phoning the police. He asked that I let them leave without causing any further trouble. I really wish I could say that I let it go then. Unfortunately, I wasn’t quite satisfied that my point had been made sufficiently. I backed away and pulled around to the side before thrusting my truck in reverse once more and ramming it into the side of the vehicle. Twice had placed himself in my view and slammed his hands on the hood commanding me to stop. He erred in this move, as I decided he was the one I preferred after all. I shifted once more into Drive and floored the gas as he ran. I tried my very best to run the bastard over with my truck. After a few moments, I pulled to the side and parked. I told everyone to get the fuck off the property before I called the police myself for trespassing.
Judge as you feel you must, but walk the path I’ve tread before doing so. That blatant disregard for my feelings was the final straw for me. I was not to be trifled with. I felt I’d made my point and released some pent up anger all at once.
The teachers had begun to call me out on the tiniest of things. I was told that by one teacher that my personality was abrasive when I pointed out that she’d graded multiple questions wrong causing me to lose valuable points. Though I was right and her erred grading literally affected my future career, she didn’t care for criticism cast her way.
A mere three or so weeks remained before final exams and graduation were to take place when it all truly came to a head. I scrubbed in on a breast lumpectomy where they used a little tool/machine to detect the presence of cancerous cells in the remaining lymph nodes of the surrounding breast tissue. At the end of the surgery, my preceptors, veteran surgical techs at Forrest General Hospital who had proven to be lazy and uncaring, left me to finish. While they searched for lunch and the nurse went with the patient to post op, I was left to gather the instruments and take them to be sterilized. I removed the condom-like cover from the sentinel node probe and wrapped the cord up before placing it with the rest of the instruments on the cart and wheeling it out of the room.
The following day, I was called into the office of my instructors. My gut was churning with anxiety, as it always did in the presence of any authoritative figures. I sat and clenched my hands together, wringing them tightly as I struggled to remain still and emotionless. My mind raced with thoughts as I tried to puzzle out what I’d done wrong.
The instructors questioned me about the surgery involving the probe the day before. I stuttered as I explained what occurred, still not understanding what had gone wrong. They asked why I’d placed the probe with the instruments instead of handing it back to the nurse. Filled with confusion, I informed them that she had left the room with the patient and I thought I’d done as I should. I was trembling with nerves at the severity of their tones and expressions. I was informed that a search had been in progress for the astoundingly expensive piece of equipment before it was found that morning. The director of the program, Mrs. Allhoff, was the main speaker in this encounter. The other instructor, Mrs. Little, remained silent through most of the conversation, though she kept the look of contempt on her face.
I was released from the room following the stern criticism of my poor decision making. Shortly after, the instructors proceeded to take a survey of the class, asking that everyone write down what they thought they should do with a sentinel node probe at the conclusion of the lumpectomy surgery.
Nearly every person in the class put the same answer: put it with the instruments to take to sterilization. The teachers were stumped by the realization that they’d omitted such vital information from our curriculum. Unfortunately for me, an example had to be made.
I met with the teachers the following Monday evening, having been told to await my sentence before resuming clinicals. The instructors began with their assessment of my “behavior” throughout the program. They’d told me in various ways before that something about my personality rubbed them the wrong way. They’d received a complaint that I wouldn’t listen to a preceptor and ignored instruction. Another said I was incompetent in a simple procedure I should have known more about. More criticism followed as the tears spilled over my cheeks, flowing uncontrollably. This was all news to me. They ended their onslaught with notifying me that I was to be used as an example. They couldn’t allow me to remain in the program after “losing such a valuable piece of equipment.”
I was absolutely devasted that I lost what had become my dream job through what I believed was no fault of my own. Any student would have done the same thing, but my teachers had already been searching for the perfect excuse to get rid of me. I still don’t know why they couldn’t just put up with my presence for another few weeks, but I’ve spent countless hours trying to piece together the ill-fitting puzzle with no success. All I can assume is that things happen the way they are meant to happen.
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