And the saga continues… Or begins, really. A mere three hours after departing the homestead, I arrive at Le Hospitale fairly late in the evening, belly considerably less full of biscuit than it was 100 miles ago. Despite sleeping a good bit of the trip, I was exhausted; apparently even sleep takes a lot of energy when your organs are starting to see mirages of oxygen molecules. Nevertheless, I was still in the weirdly calm, slightly stoic, almost professional “let’s do this” mode to which I tend to default when I sense things are about to – or already have – hit the fan a bit. But I felt – and looked – like shit.

See? I told you. LIKE SHIT. Now, I *don’t do* sick pictures. To each his own, but if anything, I really only take pictures of my provisions, surroundings and such as inspired; I’m just not into the emo-patient “look how sick I am thiiiissss timmmmee, guyyyss” thing – makes me feel punier than I already do. But I knew I just kind of had to look like shit this time; not like when you walk in to your coffee table and are *certain* that your tibia has just been cracked clean in half, but upon inspection (and even days later, when you’re still hindered by a slight twinging limp), you barely have a bruise to show for it.

So much so, in fact, that I knew it was as good a time as ever to ask my mom to take a picture – a “before” picture, if you will, complete with gloomy and listless disposition. I didn’t, but I did want to be able to look back objectively at what I look like “sick” once I was better – because no matter how sick you really are, when it creeps up on you slowly (vs. the insta-misery, hot on Wednesday, *not*on Thursday variety), especially when your “normal” includes a certain calibrated white noise of general malaise, you just look in the mirror and see “I need to do something about those roots”, or “OK, just get ready and go run your errands, but tonight it’s tweezer time”. I mean maybe a “hmm… these (genetically-always-there-even-when-healthy) dark circles are taking craploads more concealer just to tone down”, or a “do I normally have to use this much blush? Am I going to look like a Groupon clown when I step into natural light?” but that’s about it – no stepping out of the shower and gazing into the mirror all wistful and Lifetime-like, or recoiling in horror and fatalism.

Not to stretch the before-and-after thing too far, but it’s kind of like when you take twenty years to gain 100 lbs instead of two – it’s a few pounds here, a few more there, and all along, you just see you, until you’ve got a flattened, 2D pixel cluster staring back at you confirming that the plane seats haven’t gotten smaller, or that your cosmetic routine has left you aesthetically tilting at windmills – pale, sallow, sunken and parched…just with really, really pink and slightly shimmering cheeks.

Point being, that’s the only reason there’s any photographic evidence of my shitty-looking-ness this go round – but also, that I’m really not usually trying to be all “fake it ‘til you make it!” (gag) and “I feel PRETTY!” when I respond to concerned comments and questions about the aforementioned pronounced shadows and marked pallor with befuddlement; I’m sincerely caught off guard and confused because all I remember being concerned about when I left the house was the oops-not-quite-dry-but-no-time-to-fix-it nick in my nail polish.

So – I Charlie Brown Shuffle into admitting, catch my breath and go through the motions. Yes, sorry, here’s my hospital card.  Phone number same, Address same, haha, yes, I couldn’t pronounce the street name until I moved there either. Yep – Insurance the same, Emergency Contacts all the same.  Get the raised eyebrow upon confirming that yes, I have a clearly-from-here, bless-your-heart, honey-dripping southern accent, but no, seriously, I don’t want to be on the clergy list; and no, I don’t want to be on the master patient list and yes, seriously, I would like a password for anyone who calls for information. Get a familiar yet acutely uncomfortable crinkled forehead and puppy-dog eyes of gaurded pity upon confirming that yes, I’m 26 and have a notarized Healthcare Power of Attorney, Living Will, and DNR with caveats and here are copies for your files.

Slow half-smile and nod as I’m told it’s a shame I’ve had to think about these things, and give my canned (but honest) response that we’ve all got our crap, my life’s pretty great otherwise, it’s the way the cookie crumbles. Hear Charlie Brown Teacher telling me how wonderful and brave I am. Check fatigue-induced hypersensitivity when wanting to scream “pllleeeeasssee just give me my papers, I’m not a freaking hero, I didn’t willingly sign on for this, and my options are literally ‘do all – or even just some of – the things’ or ‘off oneself’, so which would you choose and do not actually answer that”.

Continue smiling and nodding, receive paperwork, receive barcoded inmate patient ID wristband. Return to lobby to await transportation (I’m booked now, so I’m a liability now, so I can’t just go to my room lest I slip on a rubber glove and crack my skull. I am infinitely grateful for this policy as it allows me to receive needed help without having to ask for it and accept said help without admitting said need.) Drift in and out of sleep; check phone – nope, no breaking news, on NPR or facebook, since last checking 4 minutes earlier. Hahaha, another grumpy cat, oohh, when will I ever get sick of that thing, probably never. Try not to think about what may or may not await me when I get upstairs; focus instead on…

Oh forget it – self, once you get there, you’ve got at least another 5 hours until lights (kind of) out. Just faceplant in your pillow, queue up Cooper and pretty deserts in your mental View-Master, and turn on your brain static. Not that you should care, but strangers won’t judge you. Sure, you always feel bad when you’re here, but you actually look like shit this time, too.