Rough Day

I have always felt that it would be easy to let the way the day starts set the tone for the day, but I have never wanted to be that kind of person.

Rough start?
  Overslept?
  How water heater out?
  Hair dryer suddenly not working?
  Kids uncooperative?
  Running late?
  
Shrug it off.
The worst is already behind you.
The day can only get better.

And so, when my day got off to a rough start -- when a piece of my already-squished-nearly-flat (FACT:  regular bread squishes in a way gluten-free bread does not...and my bread had a rough trip!) gluten dose got stuck in the toaster (at the breakfast buffet in the hotel I typically stay at while working in St. Louis) -- I decided NOT to let that define the rest of my day.  

After fishing the flattened piece -- barely 1/3 of a slice of bread -- out of the crumb catcher under the industrial toaster (yuck) under the watchful eyes of not one, not two, not three, but FOUR curious hotel guests, I retreated to my table, where I buttered and then ate the bread and picked at the rest of my breakfast.  

I couldn't decide if I felt queasy because of where that piece of bread had been or because that's just the way things are right now.

I returned to my hotel room.
I caught a few Pokemon (that hotel has TONS of them!).
I dried my hair.

I went to the bathroom.
My stomach hurt, and I felt really queasy.
I sat on the bed in my hotel room and reviewed my schedule for the day.

My stomach hurt, and I felt really queasy.
But, I had a jail visit scheduled with my client and I knew I needed to leave in order to arrive on time.

I had a tightly scheduled day:  client visit at the jail, team meeting with death penalty resource counsel from out of town, back-to-back source interviews with important (and reluctant) witnesses.
I went to the bathroom again.

I couldn't help bur worry about what it would be like to be locked in the bowels (pun intended) of the jail in a visiting room with my client while my stomach was...as it was.

Feeling as though I had very little option, I headed toward the jail -- a 45 minute drive from my hotel.

About twenty minutes after I departed, I suddenly felt much worse.  
I knew I needed to find a bathroom -- and fast.

I pulled off the highway and stopped at a gas station in what was definitely not the best part of town.  I didn't care.  I am pretty sure I was wild-eyed as I looked around the tiny store that served the gas station for a bathroom.  A kind woman working there pointed toward the back room.  I ran for it.  Later, as I was leaving, I saw a sign that said "Employees Only."  

I sat in my car for a few minutes after that stop.  I was shaky, and still felt slightly nauseous.  And I was late.  I texted the superintendent of the jail to tell him I was running about 15 minutes late.  

I resumed my drive toward the jail, all the while wondering how -- if -- I could really visit my client.  

Ten minutes later, I knew I was going to have to stop again.  This time, as I pulled off the highway, I saw many signs for restaurants and gas stations and I hoped they would be close to the exit.  There was a McDonald's just off the exit, and thankfully, I got there in time.

I sat in my car for a few minutes after that stop.  I was shaky, and still felt slightly nauseous -- but I also thought maybe the worst had passed.  But by that time, I was running even later.  Not my style.  I texted the superintendent of the jail again, to explain that I would be even later than anticipated.  He responded "take your time."

I drank some water, thinking that staying hydrated was really important, all the while hoping that the water wouldn't go right through me.

By the time I arrived at the jail, I was feeling better. 
I can do this, I thought.
The worst has passed.

I processed into the jail and spent two hours with my client.  While my stomach made some pretty funky noises, it otherwise behaved.  My client joked that I needed some "jail food" to silence it.  I grimaced, thinking jail food is the last thing I need.

Drinking water as I went, I drove directly from the jail to the attorney's office where I -- along with the attorneys  representing my client -- were scheduled to consult with a brilliant man who has dedicated most of his life to the defense of indigent capital defendants.  He had traveled there specifically to meet with us that afternoon.

I was early, and I wandered down the street the attorney's office building was on, considering whether or not to have lunch, and if so, what to have.  I bought a giant bottle of water and marveled at the fact that I seemed to be both queasy and hungry at the same time.  I wondered if I could trust my stomach.  None of the many options looked good, although I remember thinking that the gluten-free vegetarian me could have done quite well there, had I wanted to eat.  Instead, I decided to snack on some gluten free crackers I had and some salted cashews (I don't know why, but salted cashews are my friend these days).

I remember thinking we might get done with our meeting early enough for me to pick up a gluten free pasta from one of the restaurants -- linner (lunch/dinner), as we call that in my house.  I remember thinking maybe my stomach would feel more trustworthy later.

About two hours into the meeting, I suddenly started to feel sick.  Saliva pooled under my tongue -- that distinctly pre-vomit feeling and a wave of heat washed over me as strong cramps gripped my abdomen.  Even though we were discussing something that directly pertained to my role in the case, I excused myself and walked as quickly as I could -- unsteadily -- to the restroom.  I wasn't sick, but I did have to urgently use the bathroom.  

After, I leaned against the counter in the bathroom, waiting for the feeling to pass.  The cramps continued.  And when wave after wave of dizziness washed over me, leaving me faint and breathless, I bent forward, allowing my head to hang low.  I ran my hands -- which I had washed in cold water but not yet dried -- over the back of my neck.  I breathed deeply.  I actually contemplated laying down on the bathroom floor.  As the minutes crept by, I kept hoping whatever it was would pass.  Eventually, I started to feel a bit better.  I knew I needed to get back to the meeting.

I can do this, I thought.
The worst has passed.

I returned to the conference room.  The attorneys had moved on and were now discussing something less directly relevant to me.  I thought "Good.  I'll just sit here and listen."   I didn't feel very good, but the worst seemed to have passed.  

Twenty minutes later, I knew the worst had not passed.  I was dizzy, faint.  I bent over, rummaged around in my bag for something, anything -- hoping my head would stop swimming, that the world would stop spinning.  Nothing helped.  Certain I was going to vomit, I nearly ran from the conference room to the bathroom.  When I didn't vomit, I found myself almost wishing I would, thinking that if I did vomit, maybe I would feel better.  At the same time, I wondered what, exactly, I would vomit.  Bile, probably, I thought.  

The abdominal cramps were intense, crushing, and left me breathless and having to use the bathroom again and again.  I just sat there, trying not to cry, wondering how to make things better.  It couldn't be any worse, I thought.

What is happening to my body?

Could this be gluten?
How could it not be gluten?

Eventually, I returned to the conference room.  One of the attorneys (the one I have known for nearly 20 years -- the one who drove me home the night I witnessed our client's execution) took one look at me and stood up.  I grabbed hold of the table.  I hung on, knowing I looked terrible -- ashen, hair stringy and sticking to me, sweaty, unsteady.

I cannot recall exactly what I said -- something incoherent, I think, about a clinical trial for Celiac Disease, eating gluten, having had a few similar episodes before (looking back, that is laughable, as this was unlike anything that had happened yet)...the attorney I know well offered to call me a cab, to drive me to my hotel.  Either or both probably a good suggestion.  The logistics of that loomed large…the meeting would end, my rental car would be stranded.  I would have to sit there and wait while everyone got organized…and all I could think was that I had to get out of there.

I wasn't sure what was going to happen, but I knew I could not trust my body.

I waved him off.  I shoved my things into my bag.  I walked unsteadily to the door, then out of the office, to the elevator that opens nearly directly into the attorney's office space.  I stood there, hanging on to the elevator shaft while I waited for the elevator to come -- knowing the attorneys could likely see me standing there through the glass walls of the conference room -- holding on for dear life.  I didn't care.  All I could think was that I had to get out of there.

Down the elevator.
Across the street.
Halfway down one block.
To the parking garage.

I instructed myself every step of the way, as I walked hunched, like a wizened old person.  I sat in my rental car, the air conditioning as high as it could go, as cold as it could go.

I wondered if I could drive.
I wondered if I should drive.
I wondered if I would have to stop...to find a bathroom somewhere, anywhere.

All I wanted was to get back to my hotel.  As I sat in the cold of my rental car, taking big, deep breaths, the dizziness started to subside.  I texted the first witness I was supposed to interview and cancelled, apologizing, explaining that I had gotten sick.  She did not respond.  I briefly wondered how many weeks, months, it would take to rebuild the tenuous relationship I had formed with her.  

As I sat in the cold of my rental car, taking big, deep breaths, I decided that the cold air seemed to be helping.  I decided I could drive, carefully.  I did not think I would be able to sleep, but I wanted to lay down, to let go of all responsibility for the day.  Mercifully, traffic was light, and I arrived at my hotel in about thirty minutes.

I parked close to the entrance of the hotel and gathered my things just as a huge, crushing cramp grabbed hold of my abdomen and saliva pooled under my tongue.  I rushed for the door, stumbling in.  I was dizzy, nauseous, unsteady.  

I went directly up to my room, falling onto the bed.  I laid there, shivering so hard my teeth were chattering while I dripped sweat.  How is that even possible?  I turned the heat up in my hotel room -- way, way up.  I took out my contacts, set an alarm for the last possible minute to contact the other witness I was supposed to interview.

I texted with a very good friend who lives about two hours from St. Louis.  With a history in corrections, she likes to keep tabs on where I am when, especially when I am in the inner city streets of St. Louis.  I knew she would be relieved to hear I was not planning to conduct the interviews I had scheduled, but I also knew she would be worried about me.  She offered to come.  I thanked her, but asked her not to, knowing there was little she could do for me.  And then I curled under the covers, giving in.

When I cancelled with the last witness I was supposed to see that day several hours later, I tried not to hear the recrimination in her voice:  "But you said it was very important that we meet."   I explained, again, that I was sorry to have to cancel, but that I wasn't feeling well, all the while thinking understatement.

Hours later, the worst had passed.
I can do this, I thought.