The Missing
By Rowan MacDonald
Spitting out blood for six months, figure I should see a doctor. To reach the hospital, I must traverse the 501; its bed bugs and junkies and mystery pools of liquid congealed to seats. But fuck, I’m spitting out blood, can barely move and my bones ache.
When I get to emergency, I tell the nurse it’s my heart, that it keeps racing. “All this other shit is annoying too.”
She looks at me, raises an eyebrow. “Cardiac?” she asks. “I see.”
I wonder how the hell to claim on insurance.
“When you say your bones ache,” she continues. “What do you mean?”
I grip my lower leg, illustrate the point. “Feels beyond muscular,” I say. “Comes from deep within.”
She nods her head, scribbles a form, tells me to take a seat. I sit down opposite a man in an orange jumpsuit. He grins at me; silver handcuffs around his wrists, large guards either side. The 501 starts to look a safer option.
I gaze out windows into darkness, light snow beginning to fall. Woman in a wheelchair removes her oxygen mask, attempts to light a smoke.
Orange Jumpsuit stands, helped by his companions. He shuffles away, hands and feet shackled, disappears behind a curtain. I wonder how long his sentence is, how much time he has served. I stare at my body, frustrated at its lack of cooperation. I’m held captive too; just differently. Freedom gone.
My name is called and I walk the corridor, clutching papers. Orange Jumpsuit smiles through a gap in the curtain, one arm cuffed to the bed. I enter a small waiting room, amazed at the efficiency.
I sink into a warm chair, think of whoever sat before me. Leafs game plays on TV in the corner. Nobody watches, probably for the best. I contemplate existence, wait my turn at the gallows. A nurse walks over, gestures to follow.
“Lay down here,” she says. Surface is hard, lights dazzling. I stare at the ceiling, sense movement around me. Machines buzz. I ponder what led to this hospital slab in a faraway land. Nurse sits beside me, grabs my arm, positions it between her legs. I look the other way. She prods my vein, draws blood.
“Please remove your shirt,” she instructs. Electrodes stick to my chest; the beeping sounds.
“Just relax,” she says.
I want to say something like: “How can anyone relax here?” But instead, take a breath, close my eyes. I imagine being home, waves lapping ashore, afternoon sea breeze rustling beach grass in the dunes. No one around.
“Thank you,” she says. “A doctor will be with you soon.”
A goal is scored, beds roll by. Fragile futures, unchangeable pasts. A man emerges, forces a smile, reads a clipboard.
“We have your results,” he says. His voice, monotone; rattles off tests, obscure names for a body that doesn’t feel my own.
“Don’t see anything remarkable here,” he sighs.
It’s my life. My ability to partake in society. Nothing remarkable.
“What about spitting blood?” I ask.
He shrugs his shoulders.
“Good thing is that your heart is fine,” he smiles.
I want to celebrate and commiserate. No answers. No reason for being unable to function like normal people – whatever ‘normal’ is anymore.
“Have you been under stress lately?” he asks.
My thoughts dart to a failed relationship; arguments and secrets chipping away.
“Not really,” I say.
I wander outside; snow falls heavier. Leafs lose their game. I lose my answers. Adrift in a world no longer mine. I dial a cab and wait, then give up. I stumble through flurries, until I’m at the corner.
“Want to join us?” asks a smiling couple. They sway against a pole; brown paper bag and cigarettes in hand.
“I’m fine, thanks,” I lie.
Instead, I join 24 million others; the invisible and missing; those fighting Chronic Fatigue Syndrome/M.E worldwide. I cross the street; leaving one life, and stepping into another.
Rowan MacDonald lives in Tasmania with his dog, Rosie, who sits beside him for each word he writes. Those words have appeared in publications around the world, including most recently: Sans. PRESS, Paper Dragon, Coffin Bell Journal, The Ignatian Literary Magazine and OPEN: Journal of Arts and Letters. His short fiction was awarded the Kenan Ince Memorial Prize (2023). He’s currently working on his first novel.
Artwork Source: untitled, Cyrus Carlson
Artist Statement: My small abstract paintings are typically 4”x6.” Bright and joyful they command small moment of attention in a distracted world
Cyrus Carlson is an abstract painter from the Midwest.
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