THIS IS US

Betty Jean

How loss defies life’s order and rewrites our stories

I paced around my bug-infested, studio converted two-bedroom apartment with two fingers to my neck, counting the thumps. I wasn’t sure if it was stress, the questionably tasting weed I had just smoked or a combination of both, but I was absolutely certain that I was about to die of a heart attack. When I realized it was beating too fast for me to keep track, I started to cry. A quiet, bewildered sort of cry that gradually contorted into an uncontrollable sobbing. After deciding against calling 9-1-1 and soaking in the tub for an undetermined amount of time, I was able to quell the shaking that had overcome my body and regain some common sense. A quick google search confirmed it; I had a panic attack. One of the first causes listed was the death of a family member. I thought back to the harsh fluorescent lighting and smell of bleach that overwhelmed my senses the day before and suddenly, it all made sense.

Dehydrated from faces full of salty tears, my aunts and cousins questioned why this hospital we were in didn’t seem to have any fucking water. The fountains were either malfunctioning or we were too stupid to figure out how to get them to work. The hallways stretched into strange turns that would only theoretically lead us to pay two dollars for a bottle of Dasani…