I must have cried out in my sleep because when I jerked myself awake, Melissa was beside me saying, “It’s alright, love. I’m here.”
“Am I still in one piece?” I cried.
“Whatever’s the matter, kid? Of course you’re in one piece.”
“Don’t let them take my arm! I need it to play guitar. Don’t let them. Please,” I begged her. My mouth was dry, and I was terrified.
“Shh, honey, you had a nightmare. Your arm is fine. All you did was dislocate your shoulder.”
“Oh, God. I thought I was in hospital in Basra being operated on without anesthetic. And they—it was horrible. All those people. It’s our fault.”
“Calm down.” Melissa knew one of my main torments was the obsessive fear that parts of my body, especially my hands, were coming off.
“But it really is happening. It really is our fault. All those people that we’ve killed and maimed—and we cannot make it stop. No matter what we do.” I continued to weep.
“I know,” Melissa said. “How’s your shoulder?”
“My shoulder’s okay, but my arm!” I felt a dreadful, OCD panic.
“Listen to me,” Melissa said, holding my good arm securely. “Your arm is fine. You dislocated it. It is not coming off. Your arm is not coming off. I am telling you, as a medical doctor, there are plenty of things holding it on. It is not possible for it to suddenly fall off. It is not coming off now, nor will it come off at any time in the future.”
I wiped my eyes and thought about Ernest Hemingway writing in A Farewell to Arms that the world breaks everyone, but that some grow strong at the broken places. But just thinking about the title freaked me out. A farewell to arms, Jesus Christ! Why the hell did he have to name it that? Arms safe, hands safe, fingers safe.
“Where are you?” Melissa asked.
“I’m right here,” I mumbled, barely hearing her. I was unnerved, thinking that maybe I had to specifically mention “thumbs.” Didn’t God know that in my heart when I said “fingers” I also meant “thumbs”? Couldn’t God actually see into my heart?
“No, you’re not. You’re off on some other OCD plane. I can tell now, you know.” She held onto me as frantic sentences raced through my head and I only saw blood spurting out where my hands should be. And it felt like being knocked down by a giant wave and churned beneath the cloudy, choppy sea, unable to breathe, not knowing which way was up to the salvation of air and sky. “Amanda, do you want me to give you something to sedate you? Has it ever been this bad before? I hate to see you in so much pain, love.”
I saw her frowning with concern, and her words finally registered. I experienced a sudden, acute freak-out in my heart and blurted out, “Do you really?”
“What do you mean, really?” Melissa asked.
“You’re always so calm.” I realized how daft I sounded, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“Oh, love.” She kissed my forehead. “That’s just my training. My first priority is to make sure you’re alright and that I’ve done everything I can for you to keep you safe. I react afterwards.” I don’t know how she knew what I meant. “Love, you wouldn’t really want me to fall apart instead of helping you. And who do you think is going to sit here watching you sleep?”
“You are?” I nearly wailed.
“Amanda. Look at me.” She held my head with both hands, making sure that I was really seeing her. “Do you know where you are?”
“Fucking hell, of course I bloody know where I am,” I snapped, offended. “Do you really react afterwards?” I was unable to let it go, which describes OCD in one sentence.
“I’ll be right back.” When she sat next to me again, she gave me Valium and water. “You’re having a really bad panic attack. Shh.” She tried to get me to lie down, but I was too agitated. “Take a few deep breaths.”
Gradually, my thoughts slowed down. I still felt haunted but didn’t care as much if the nightmare I was running from caught up with me. My brain felt deliciously sludgy. I scrunched down under the covers, my eyes closing. Before I fell asleep, I started dreaming out loud. “I was listening to Stiff Little Fingers in my Walkman. I’d tried to get the driver to take the prison bus through the drive-thru at McDonald’s.” In my mind, I was standing at the empty site of an earlier ACT UP demonstration after my release, listening to “Johnny Was” in my earphones and remembering how mad the cop driving the prison bus had been when all the other prisoners started chanting that they wanted McDonald’s, too. I remember Melissa laughing softly as I conked out.