We started the day off lying in bed, me not wanting to wake up after my horrible migraine the night before and the caffeinated excedrin kept me up all night, and him impatient to start making preparations but wanting to keep me company at the same time. While I was awake in the middle of the night, I had planned to stay up until Safeway opened to purchase supplies and surprise him with breakfast in bed. That plan failed, as I fell asleep half an hour too early and woke up to his prodding.

Despite my failed breakfast-in-bed idea, shopping together at Safeway while trying to hide our ingredients from each other was surprisingly fun. It seemed that he had much more planned, and while I waited for him to finish picking out groceries, I perused the beauty aisle – so many choices! I also coincidentally ran into my English professor’s husband at the check-out. Jerry? Hey, how are ya, kid.

“I’m going to drop you off at home, I still have one more stop.”

“Are you going to the Chinese store?”

“Close.”

“The Japanese store?”

“Yup.”

“You’re making sushi, aren’t you.” We had been talking about making sushi at home, ever since we realized that we go out almost every weekend for sushi – sometimes even twice in one weekend.

“You’re just ruining this for yourself.”

He left me alone for forty minutes and I got to work. Two eggs, two cups of  batter, and a handful of semi-sweet chocolate chips later, I had prepared a stack of chocolate-chip pancakes adorned with sliced strawberries and bananas, topped with whip cream. I put my hands over his eyes and sat him down. When I removed my hands, his face lit up like a little boy.

“Ooh! Pancakes!”

“Oh wait! I forgot to take a picture!” Luckily he had only eaten half of the pancake.

“Can I borrow your music selection for dinner? It’s very appropriate.”

“Sure, it’s just my Colbie Callait Pandora station.”

Unfortunately, we had to consume our breakfast expediently because the next activity was fast approaching.

The most romantic Valentine’s Day: Part I is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

We’re in bed, arms wrapped around each other. You make me feel so relaxed, like I can forget about all the other burdens in my life. Look at your eyes, they’re so beautiful when they are looking at me. I bite my lip.

“I have something I want to tell you.”

“What is it?”

“Promise me you won’t be scared or stressed or angry with me”

I turn away from you and take a deep breath.

———

“I don’t understand why you want to break up with him. You guys seem to be really close,” my roommate questions me from the bed below.

From my bunk, I hesitate for a moment.

“I just haven’t felt that moment yet, where I knew that I wanted to be with him. I feel like, yeah – we enjoy being together and its fun an’ all. But maybe I’m just wasting my time with someone who I can never feel anything more for.”

“But there’s no reason to break up with him. Just give it some more time.”

“It’s been four months. I’ve been waiting and hoping that that moment would come. That special moment where I suddenly feel something profound. There’s just no spark.”

“What kind of moment are you waiting for?”

——————-

I lay paralyzed on the bed with my head in between my hands. The pain is so much I can barely understand what my mom is asking me to do. He is sitting at the end of the bed, helpless in our exchange.

“Mom, I can’t do it. My head hurts too much.”

“It’ just a headache. You cant get out of your responsibilities! You’re so lazy!”

Her loud voice hurts my ears. It’s like when the feedback from the microphones makes everyone shut their ears and cringe. I let out a cry.

“Stop faking it!” She yells louder. I’m crying heavily now.

“What a cheap strategy for a selfish girl like you.”

“Stop!” He rises from his seat and point his hand at my mom.

“Can’t you see that she’s in pain? Let her rest.”

We are shocked, because he is always so quiet and usually doesn’t stand up for even himself. Dumbfounded, my mom shuts up and closes the door behind her.

————-

“And that’s how I fell in love for the first time.”

“Well Valentine’s Day is coming up, maybe something will happen.”

“Psh. That’s too cheesy.”

—————

My pain is so acute its as if someone stuck a pin behind my brow. I’m crying and screaming under the covers, holding my head between my hands. Eventually, the pain settles down and so do I, only holding back the occasional sob.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

“The light from your computer is bothering me.”

“Ok. I’ll leave.”

You pick up your laptop and make your way towards the door while my heavy eyelids lead me towards somnolence. You’ve done everything you could for me: delivered water, helped me into my sleeping clothes, removed my contacts; and now I’m kicking you out of your own room.  My vision of you blends into the wall and all I can see is a dark brown blur heading away from me. I smile, even though I’m in the most severe pain I’ve ever experienced, because I have found it in the least expected of moments: I realize that I’m falling in love with you.

————-

“Aw, why would I be angry at you? I LO-HOVE you too.”

“That’s a joke, right?”

“Yeah.”

I’m falling in love with you is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

I had spent most of the day volunteering at a free clinic on six hours of sleep and one spring roll. After clinic and ballroom dance practice, I returned to my room to get ready. I was excited to wear my new black top (that is, one given to me second hand by a friend of my mom’s) with my dark sheen jeans from New York Company and try out the mineral makeup I had just bought from Costco. Staring closely into the sharded mirror, which my roommate had recently snapped by leaning against, I started to notice a light pressure pinpoint in the right anterior portion of my head, just above my eyebrow. I must be too hungry, the sooner we eat the better.

While my boyfriend drove us to downtown Sunnyvale’s boulevard of quaint restaurants, most of which were quite full of satisfied patrons enjoying their long weekend, I began to feel mareo, or dizziness (as I just learned today from interviewing a Mexican illegal immigrant about her symptoms). I could barely even walk the two blocks from the parking lot to the pedestrian walkway where the restaurant was located. We had arrived ten minutes late and kept our party waiting and hungry, so of course the polite thing to do was to order the first thing that looked decently satisfying. As soon as I blurted out my order, I excused myself to the bathroom. To my dismay, there were two other women and a man in front in line ahead of me. Stealing into the men’s room as soon as it was available, I waved my hand across the paper towel dispenser scanner, lay the torn sheet in front of the toilet, and squat embraced the bowl. Although a large volume of saliva came out, no vomit extruded. Any observer would’ve mistaken me for a bulemic. The door handle started shaking. Guess a customer must’ve gotten impatient.

I spent the entire dinner either cradling my head or burying it between my boyfriend’s and the chair’s backs. Everyone’s food looked so appetizing, but I couldn’t have any of it. I didn’t touch my salad, except for one lettuce leaf. Amazingly, the manager offered me some excedrin. We left a generous tip.

The car ride back home was the worst part. Finally in private, I started moaning every time the car changed acceleration. My boyfriend stopped the car to make sure I was ok, but I told him to get the worst part over with and hurry home. He obliged, dealing with my groans the entire way.

As I got out of the car, I couldn’t even stand up straight. I hobbled back to the apartment bent over like a hunchback, and only made it with his support. I immediately stripped off my jeans and curled into bed.

“Can you take off my bra?” I felt like an old person, or an invalid.

In the middle of that task, I asked, “Can you turn up the heat?” He immediately started to stand up.

“Wait, finish helping me with my bra first! And then can you get me some water?” (Which he orally delivered to my mouth, like a lactating mother.)

I’ve never experienced such a combination of acute migraine and nausea. I wanted to fucking die.  But as I fell asleep, I realized the silver lining in this whole mess.

Pre-Valentine’s Migraines is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

Den ah had went into de kitchen to fin’ some cereal. Here go dat asshole from my dorm. Das de bitch yell at me free weeks ago ’bout stealin his sleepin spot in our dorm ski trip. Ah would’ve likeded to skin his ass. But den ah might could get in trouble wif de POlice. Ah dun even acknowledge his presence anymore, jus suck mah teef at him. Ah wish I didn’t haf to see’m. Den mah day wouldn’t staht off so bad. Can’ nobody do nuffin ’bout assholes. De wuhld’s jus full ov’em. Wah God can’ takum away, Ah’onno.

I be bikin to biochem class evry day. Today no diffrent. Biochem class so fah away, an i’ss hahd to bike in da rain. Ah’ma be gettin me a raincoat dis weekend. It don’t be steady rainin’ like dis in oduh places, do it? Anuduh girl come late, she has ran to class probly. Ah nevuh seen huh befoe. Da midtem tes not so hahd. Mah frien, she aks me what do ah tink. Ah’m like, i’ss pretty easy. She say i’ss hahd fuh huh.

Ah ain’t go to  dance class today. I be going to anoduh dance class tonight anyways. Allistuh is mah fren, Ah aks him could he be mah dance pahtnuh n he say yes. Da dance team captain, she come tellin me dat class is mandatory, like she know who ah am and what classes I been to.

When Ah got to neuro class, da class done stahted. ah almos fell ’sleep in dat class. I finna jus lay mah head on da desk right dere! Da prof talk to us so fas, ah don’t tink hardly no one can unduhstan him. Da odduhs in de class, dey is some crazy smaht folks. Las quahtuh I liketa failed one class. Ah don’t tink so fah mah grade is very good, but if ah work hahd enough ah might can get bah. Maybe ah should aks foh some hep in dat class.

Mah computuh has a pictuh of Shi Xiao Long, a Chinese Kung Fu stah. He so fine, I wish he were mah baby-daddy.

Ah done finished two exam so fah. Ah ain’t know iss a libry up heuh in de fof flo’ uhda maf buildin. Now Ah’m studyin in da maf library to prepare fo mah ebonics midtum. All dese tesses!

Written for purely pedantic purposes to help myself study for my Linguistics of African American Vernacular English class.

Mah Thusday – ebonics style is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

Only it’s not silent. A small TV in the corner of the ceiling emits the white noise from some news program. The volume is just enough to discern audible phonemes, but not quite for comprehension. That’s ok, no one is watching anyway. The xerox machine rhythmically hums its bland soundtrack.

Outside the late afternoon sun backdrops the beginning of rush hour traffic. The kind of sun right at that angle where you can’t quite block it out of your driving view with the, who knows what those things called anyway.  Dark orange penetrates the blinds of the sole window, and leaves its footprints in neat parallels on the mauve carpet.

Fourty-four black cushioned chairs lined side-by-side, back to back. Always those black cushioned chairs! On them, twenty pairs of eyes, but none of them directed at me. Some young, some old, but most belong to young to middle-aged adults. An old man in a navy baseball cap and black faux leather jacket is the only other Asian – everyone else is Hispanic. Most of them are overweight. No one looks at each other. The children’s occasional hysterics are our only respite.

On the other side of the wall are the nurses. Through the windows peeking into the work room, the fluorescent light reflecting off their bright purple scrubs are the only source of color in this microcosm. They don’t look at us either, only occasionally call a name. Another one of us disappears to the other side.

Description of my experiences at Planned Parenthood clinic

Portrait of a room is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

“What?”

He’s staring blankly at me, clearly distracted. “Oh.. I don’t know, I think it’s in the lecture slides somewhere…”

“You really don’t look like you want to work on this problem set.” Oh underclassmen…

He’s grinning that guilty smile, like he wants to tell me something.

“It’s my birthday this weekend. My boyfriend is taking me to the San Jose Sharks game.”

“Oh cool!” I’m smiling. They had only recently gotten back together, so good for them.

“And then I’m going to donate blood in the blood drive organized by them and Stanford.” He looks so happy and excited…

“Oh..” Try not to show your thoughts, Crystal.

“I don’t know if you know this but…” How am I supposed to explain this to him?

“They don’t exactly…

allow…

menwhohavehadsexwithothermendonateblood.”

There, I said it.

“What do you mean? Why not?”

“They’re paranoid of HIV.”

He’s not responding. Maybe I should keep talking.

“It’s a really stupid rule. It’s just a relic from the old days when they didn’t know what was causing HIV and the blood supply would get contaminated.”

Still no response.

“You see, these days they test for HIV in everyone’s blood after it’s collected, so there should be no risk. But still, they won’t accept you.”

Finally, he’s about to say something.

“What will they do if I show up?”

“They will literally turn you away. They will say, ‘I’m sorry but you cannot donate blood in the US.’”

“But not all gay men have HIV. I don’t have HIV.”

I don’t know what else to say. I can’t explain it to him, because there really is no explanation. I’ve never experienced a silence so loud before.

“Guess I’m not doing that then.”

Read Bad Blood Part I

Bad Blood Part II is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

My goal calendar

This is all part of my project this quarter to become more organized. As evidenced from the clutter of my desk, I am your proverbial messy roommate. Sometimes it’s quaint, and my roommates don’t mind; but sometimes it becomes a problem – like when my boyfriend dropped me off at my dorm on his way up north to a party in San Francisco so I could finish my oceans of homework. When I reached the front door, I realized the keys were inside my room – and I ended up accompanying him to the party after a 30 minute detour. (It ended up well though, because the party had the most exquisite variety of cheeses to offer.) I’m sure my roommates also aren’t too pleased whenever I call and say… can you come back to the dorm, I’m locked out. I’ve always been absent-minded, but I was never motivated enough to do something about it until my quaint traits started to interfere with and frustrate other people’s lives.

General Clutter of my desk

I first identified my goals:

1. Floss every night. I never got into this habit as a kid and my dentist tells me it shows.
2. Get enough sleep (and don’t fall asleep in class). I hate falling asleep during class, because it’s disrespectful to the teacher and also because it’s a waste of my time. I also hate plodding through my day tired.
3. Write. I enjoy writing in this blog, because it helps me to organize and express my thoughts. However, I tend to fall into spurs and lulls; sometimes writing every day, other times neglecting my writing for months at a time.
4. Don’t forget keys. A simple one, but tangible and will make a big impact.
5. Don’t be late to anything. Part of my desire to become more accountable. I grew up pretty much always running late to things. In college I learned firsthand that being late shows disrespect – I hated when others were late on me

Next, I created a method to track my progress.

The goal calendar assigns one start color to each goal and contains one cell for each day of the remainder of the quarter. Each row represents one week, starting from Sat to Fri. The rows are numbered on the left with their academic week numbers (four through six). For each day, I apply the appropriate stars if the goal was completed. By the time I reach the end of one row, I can celebrate on Saturday if all the goals were completed for the week. My boyfriend has offered my reward for completing the week as taking me out to dinner.

The goal calendar works so far, because:

• it’s right in front of my desk, so I see it everyday
• it looks so pretty I just want to make sure it gets used. (colors!)
• putting stickers on the calendar is fun
• investing the 30 minutes to make it furthers my dedication to the overall project
• the rewards are enticing

Finally, I implemented ways to help me carry out the specific goals.

I haven’t fully figured out how yet, but so far I’ve made significant progress on the “forgetting keys” goal.

1. Before we leave anywhere, either my boyfriend or I will remember to ask each about the key. Two people remembering will have a higher probability than one alone.
2. When I enter my room, I will hang my keys on a thumbtack next to the door. It helps that the lights are right there too, so if I have to turn them on then I will immediately remember to hang the keys.
3. If the keys are not there, a cleverly placed note reminds me right as I leave the room.

Unrelated to my goals, but in line with the general process of becoming organized, I created a board of weekly assignments. It’s permanent marker on white board, and lists the recurring assignments I have every week. Once I complete it, I can cross it off with dry-erase. At the end of the week, I simply erase and the assignment list remains – fresh as ever. (Don’t worry, when I need to erase the permanent marker, I can simply write over it with dry erase and wipe of the permanent marker – a useful trick I learned in teaching high school debate.)

my assignment board

I’m not sure how effective these methods will be, since I only implemented them recently, but I will provide an update a few weeks into the project. For now, I’m just looking forward to placing a blue sticker on Monday Jan 25th for the “write” goal.

Project: Organize is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

“Let’s take a gamble,” he whispered.

“Let me come inside of you, and if you are pregnant, we’ll marry and live the rest of our lives together.”

Any objective 3^rd party would look at this situation and warn the girl, “DON’T DO IT! ARE YOU CRAZY?!” In any case, that’s what I wish I had told myself. There’s something numbing about sexual moments that leave any trace of rationality in that fuzzy place far away. It’s there, but you can’t quite make out its outline, like an old friend from long ago. In its place tugs my guilty desire for romanticism and adventure. The thrill of a risk, and the remote chance of abandoning my ivy-grown life for the simple, rustic lifestyle in the Chinese countryside – like one of those princess-meets-peasant type fairytales. Truthfully, I almost wanted him to get me pregnant.

As soon as we finished, I fell back down to reality. Well, not quite. I went to the opposite extreme and obsessed over the paranoid possibility that I was now HIV positive. My researcher-hat thinking took the reins. He came from a low-income, low-education background, I reasoned, both factors associated with HIV infection. He had had one other partner before, and they didn’t use condoms. He’s never been tested for STD’s. I was going to die of HIV.

That was the last time I saw him, because the next day I flew back to school. I immediately made an appointment for an HIV test. The nurse was nice enough, but I was turned off by her – perhaps a little too unfairly.

“Why are you getting an HIV test today?”

“Because I had unprotected sex.” Why else…

“Was this consensual?” Her straight-faced detachment almost annoyed me.

“Yes, of course.” Why is she asking so many questions. I thought I could just get the test and leave.

“Have you thought about taking emergency contraception?”

I hadn’t even thought about the risk of pregnancy. She showed me the relative risks of HIV and pregnancy. In 20 years, she had seen nine students test positive for HIV, while pregnancy? Too frequent to even remember. Pregnancy was the much more real possibility, but somehow in the whole paranoia mess, I had completely neglected it. I just hear so much scare-talk, about how AIDS is so deadly. Everybody’s talking about it nowadays.

Later I thought about what made me so uncomfortable in the nurse’s office. She was just trying to help. I was defensive – I knew I had done something I shouldn’t have, and I didn’t really want to explore why I did. However, I didn’t really have any protection against repeating that behavior – other than vowing to “never again”. There was also the hypocriticalness of my role as a researcher on HIV, someone who should know the risks, someone ultimately hoping to promote safe practices – and here I was encouraging others to do something I couldn’t even do.

I am now an HIV counselor in my school, providing students with counseling and testing. I don’t tell them what to do. I try to understand and reframe their behavioral motivations. Sometimes, prescriptions can only go so far.

Written as an empathy building exercise for my class on HIV.

How I found myself getting my blood drawn to test for HIV… is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

Next. Glance at each slide, condescending to give up the two seconds required to absorb the bullet points.

Next. When will teachers ever learn that if you post the lecture slides, no one will ever bother to come to lecture?

Next. Check the time in the corner of the screen. 8:22.

Eight minutes to brush my teeth and bike across campus. Where is it again? The syllabus is downloading, why won’t it go faster? Whatever. I don’t need good breath to take a final.

Page down. “Course attendance.” Screw that.

Page down. Got it! “Final exam information.”

Release the mouse over the red x button. Three words under “Grading Policy” catch my eye: “Weekly problem sets: 40%”. The pdf disappears.

Did I read that right? Dig through the downloads folder. Damn it, I downloaded too much crap. I can feel my heartbeat in my temples. Page down. Page down. Page down!

Weekly problem sets: 40%

No late assignments.

Shit. The TA’s are probably passing out exams now. Slip on some flip-flops and run out to my bike. It’s raining? Figures. No time to run in and get a jacket.

I hate this hill, and my bike’s too cheap to have functional gears.

“Done with your exam? Turn it in here.” She’s a red head. Probably the head TA. I guess I would know if I ever went to lecture or section.

“Um… Excuse me? I haven’t done any of the problem sets. What will happen to my grade?”

“You haven’t done a single one?”

“No.”

“Well…” She pauses. Nitpicky questions about the final, she was prepared to answer. Obviously she wasn’t expecting this concern. “I suppose your grade will be calculated with a 0 for 40% of the class.”

“So assuming I get perfect on all exams, the highest I can get is still an F?”

“Pretty much, yes. Why hadn’t you done the homework.”

“I didn’t know there was homework.”

“We reminded you in lecture.”

“I didn’t go to lecture.”

Running to the registrar. I hope they will let me drop the class. Why did I not take my bike? I’ll have to take another class to fulfill that citizenship requirement. The rain splatters my leg with each step. I step in a huge puddle. Splash.

——–

I’m sweating.

Thank God. It was just a nightmare. I’m not enrolled in any classes that I didn’t know about. I’ve done all the homework for all my classes. I won’t get an F on my transcript. I relax and breathe deeply. Today is Monday. The sky is dark, I must have slept all day.

Holy shit, what time is it?  My essay was due two hours ago.

———

My pillow is drenched. What day is it? Sunday morning, more than 24 hours before the deadline. I have this nightmare every quarter. Reality never tasted so sweet.

———

Dear Crystal,

We were surprised to see that you did not take the Econ final exam along with your 9am classmates last Wednesday morning; We could not find any communications in which you informed us about an illness or other reason why you would request the opportunity to take the exam a day later along with the 10am students.   Throughout the quarter, we reminded our Econ students that they were required to take exams corresponding to the course in which they are registered. We noticed earlier in the quarter that you were choosing not to participate at 9am lectures using the Student Response System, but this comprised only a very small portion of your grade.  Showing up at the wrong final exam is a more serious concern:  many of your classmates probably would have appreciated an extra day of study time, and indeed on the front page of the 9am (Wednesday) exam, students were asked to affirm that they would not “discuss the contents of this exam with anyone who will be taking the other Econ 1A exam tomorrow morning.”
—

Econ Grade: Incomplete

Maybe I would’ve preferred the dream.

The blurry border between dream and reality is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal

——————————–

Saturday afternoon, she flops onto the couch with her milk and cereal, the sugary kind her health conscious mother never let her have. She digs around the couch. That slob, how hard is it to leave the remote on the coffee table? Yet even as she pulls the remote from under the cushion, she smiles. At least I have a slob to grumble about.

What channel is college basketball again? She usually doesn’t watch basketball alone. In fact, she usually didn’t watch basketball at all, until she met him. Mechanically flipping past commercials and maudlin weekend soaps, Oh wait, Scrubs is on! she finally finds ESPN, but I promised him this morning I would watch the game. Two minutes to tip-off, is that what it’s called?. The TV pans on an enthusiastic sea of red-blazoned fans, and our cheerleaders, what a nostalgic embarrassment.

It’s nice to have the whole apartment to myself. As if on cue, their four year-old thirty-pound rough collie jumps on the couch and plants himself next to her. In response to his whines, she laughs and hugs him. How could I forget about you, boy? She had dreamed of owning a collie ever since she could only play with the neighbor’s dog. Growing up, her eight-member family couldn’t even fit in their modest suburban home, not to mention that all the family pets had died within months. Her sweatpants and blue-lace tank-top are covered in long brown and white hairs, but that doesn’t matter. Now I match the couch and the fuzzy puppy slippers he got me for Christmas.

Too bad I am on call tonight. Usually the staff can handle everything, but New Yorkers have a knack for emergencies, especially in the Bronx District General Hospital. Kids getting shot on the way home, bullets meant for someone else, some things haven’t changed, and not for the better. She lives with him in the twelfth story of a Manhattan high-rise on their dual-elite-alma-mater-professional incomes, and she makes the hour long commute every day. The whole thing was his idea, she blames. He only felt comfortable with her working in the Bronx as long as they lived in a safe neighborhood, and as long as she works during the day. I think it’s voyeurism. He’s not too happy about the train either. Well if we lived there then I wouldn’t have to make such a dangerous commute!

Half-time, the score is 33-27. We’re in the lead, guess our team got a lot better since I was in school. The camera shifts from the band to the most decorated fans. ‘I’ll be back tonight, look for me in the audience’. How am I supposed to pick him out of the hundreds of red dots? Nevertheless, she examines the painted faces carefully. She doesn’t recognize any of them. ::Sigh:: All from a different generation.

It’s a commercial break. Her stomach grumbles. Oh jeez. She developed lactose intolerance when she entered college, but never quite became accustomed to it. Usually he stopped her before she added milk to anything. Leaving the TV on, she plod her way to the bathroom. Might as well attach sponges to the bottoms of my shoes, maybe this place would actually be clean. She walked past their dual-sink, for some ungodly reason he is so meticulous about the cleanliness of his sink! This could take a while. Oh good, I left sudoku in the magazine rack!

The TV buzzes in the background, but she is concentrating on the nine-by-nine grid in her hand. Sounds like the game is back on. Her puppy won’t stop barking. What is he so excited about? A tri-tone beep from the bedroom. Someone sent me a text message. She smiles, its probably him. Another tri-tone beep. Looks like I’m popular. Good thing I plugged in my phone this morning, it was almost out of batteries. Then a series of rapid high-pitched monotone beeps from around her feet. Oh no, she groaned. She always kept her pager around the waist of her pants. Even around her Saturday college basketball sweatpants. But she felt guilty. Am I groaning about the ‘code 1427: sudden high yield influx’, which probably means some poor kids were shot in a gang fight, or having to go into work on a Saturday? I haven’t done that since I was a resident.

Taxi! She liked to take the train to work. It’s relaxing and environmental. But today required haste. Running into the ER, a white coat over her pajamas and sneakers, she suddenly remembers the text message and reaches into her purse. Great, I forgot my cellphone.

“Doctor, so glad you’re here! We need you with bed seven! Patient is a pregnant nineteen year old female with a gunshot wound in the lower left quadrant and heavy hemorrhaging. After you’ve stabilized her there are three other…”

Jesus Christ, when will these kids ever stop? She examines the limp, but full, young girl lying in front of her. The bullet missed her organs by a hair. I can save her, but she’s going to lose the baby. With the speed and precision of – well, an ER surgeon – she gets down to business.

She hears a soft voice. The girl’s? Can’t be, she was out cold. “Doctor?” The girl repeats, louder. “Will my baby be ok?”

“I’m afraid not. Please don’t say anymore, you need to save your energy.”

“Please, I don’t have to live, but save my baby. His father and I are getting married.”

She nods.

“He’s going to grow up to be a basketball star, even better than his daddy.”

“I’ll do my best.” She tries to give the girl a reassuring smile. How could I explain to her that the fiancee was in the next ward, most likely dying from a fatal bullet in the kidney? And that her little basketball star would never even make it past the second trimester? The girl fell back asleep with a pair of pale pink lips, the ends ever so faintly curled upwards. Looks like she bought it, or am I just imagining what I hope?

It is past one a.m. when she leaves the ER. She walks towards the train station, despite her promise to him that she will take a cab at night. It will give me a good opportunity to unwind, she justifies. From disjoint pieces of information from the patients, she deduced that a gang attacked a rival gang leader at home and erupted into a larger brawl.  She had tried to save all their lives, but three boys were in too critical condition to rescue. She really only cared about that girl though. Alright, it was mostly due to luck that a kidney transplant suddenly became available for her boyfriend, but it wouldn’t have happened without my persistence. At least they can now be happily married. And those kids will just go back on the streets, and continue to shoot or be shot, until one day no one can save them anymore. Perhaps it was best for the baby.

The street lamp shines on the hoop and illuminates her silhouette as she opens the gate. As she cuts across the school basketball court, she jumps up in a mock slam dunk. She giggles. You didn’t have to fly all the way across the country to see an all-star, you’ve got one at home already.

She extends her arm for a three-pointer.

A soft rumble. A quick explosion. The night fades together until all she can see is the yellow-lit basketball hoop. Oh yeah, I was supposed to find him at the game. The basketball she shot  is still spinning, faster and faster until it becomes a golden band. And then even the hoop disappears.

——————

He runs up all eleven flights of stairs to their shared apartment on the twelfth floor. She had ignored his calls and texts all day, even after he landed at JFK, but she must be wanting to surprise me. As he opens the door, the collie puppy jumps up and down with its paws grabbing at his fan jersey. An enthusiastic welcome home, but not from whom I expected.

“Honey! Are you home?” Maybe she’s asleep, it is past three after all. He runs into the bedroom and jumps onto the comforters, to find no one under them. Strange, her phone is still here. On top of the dresser where I hid the ring. 21 new texts and 45 missed calls.

“OMG are you going to say yes?”

“Hey honey, did you see me? what do you say?”

“I just saw it on the game! SOO sweet!”

“It’s about time, you two have been together for years!”

His cellphone rings, it’s the hospital number. Oh thank god, she’s at work.

“Is this Mr..”

Who is this, that’s not her voice…

“You are listed as an emergency contact, we’d like you to come in to verify a body”

Hoop Dreams is a post from: The Trouble With Crystal