The Shift

I’m too warm. There’s a heavy blanket over me. The air is warm, too. I feel around; it’s soft. I make to open my eyes, but they’re sealed shut. I reach up to rub away the sleep. When they open, my vision is hazy, and it takes a good number of blinks before I can make out my surroundings. The room is harshly bright, its walls stark. A single painting hangs on a wall adjacent to the bed, a pastel colored meadow somewhere foreign in an oversized frame. Its cheerfulness mocks me. I glare at it with disdain. A stainless sink is seated in a counter near the door. Beside it an oxygen dispenser hangs on the wall. I bring my hands again to my face and find a tube leading into my nose. I tug impatiently at the plastic around my face, eventually dislodging it from my nostrils. I yank it over my head with an exasperated breath. A dull ache forms at my temples as I try to recall how I got here. My mind spins and vertigo overtakes me, pushing my head back into the starchy pillow. Once I regain my sense of balance I sit up, every part of me aching with disagreement, and swing my feet over the bed, letting them dangle to the floor. It feels goofy to stand, my feet a bit numb and my legs weak. Nausea washes over me, and I steady myself with my hands on the bed, sucking in a breath of sterile air. The ache in my gut leaps up into my throat, and I barely make it across the room to the sink before I vomit all the acid from my stomach into the steel basin below. I turn on the water, watch as the vomit flows down the drain, and swish a handful of the cold water around in my mouth before spitting it into the sink; taking in another mouthful of water, swallowing it this time. It cools my throat, then makes its way down, chilling my empty stomach. I shiver, turn off the water and reach for a fistful of paper towels, blow my nose, and look up into the mirror. Deep circles rim my eyes, a stark contrast to the rest of my skin, which is pale white. I reach up to touch the hollow of my cheek, my heart beating faster with every shallow breath. Something tugs at me and a sharp pain stabs my arm. I wince and grab for it, finding plastic tubing attached by a strip of tape. An IV. I step backward in an attempt to alleviate the tugging sensation, stumbling into a stout woman in boxy scrubs. The juice in her hand spills partially down the front of her light blue shirt. The look on her face shows not annoyance, but concern.