I learned to swallow four pills in a single gulp, but the benign medication had no side effects and no results. Cramps would wake me around four AM, forcing me out of bed and into the bathroom for relief. Dreams and restless thoughts made it hard to fall back asleep as my bedside clock ticked toward morning, finally dozing off just before mom would lightly shake my shoulder and say, “time to get up.” Out the door by 7:30 to make it to first period precalculus where I would try to catch myself nodding off before the teacher. Forgot to pack my lunch dose as I rushed, maybe that’s why I continued to regress, guilt myself into remembering.
During free period I googled “Inflammatory Bowel Disease” and found message boards with stories of other people’s experiences, some horrific, though complaints of similar symptoms were validating: bad mornings, increased urgency, loss of appetite. Lots of differences between lists of food allergies, but some recurring problems were nuts, raw vegetables, hot sauce, coffee, and popcorn. Need to pay more attention to what I consume, manage energy efficiently if I have any chance at practice after school. Soccer season starts in September, last chance for seniors to stand out—flourish in front of an audience, win a scholarship, and step the legend of their youth into the fall.
Before practice started I tried to find Alice amidst the dismissal swarm. Through a momentary tunnel in the crowd I saw her in a yellow dress, standing, talking, eye contact, then lost to crowd static. I started navigating the crowd, but got hit in the stomach by a swinging backpack, stunned and out of breath, no one noticed. I took a moment to let the impact subside, then continued toward where she was, body coming through, but when I arrived, she was no longer there.
At practice I could barely sprint twenty yards without having to stop, hold my sides and catch my breath. How does a bad stomach affect my lungs? Our gym teacher who doubled as our soccer coach saw me panting and said, “looks like you partied too hard this summer, time to get in shape.” I took him aside and told him that it wasn’t from partying, that I was sick and that I got diagnosed with Inflammatory Bowel Disease a couple weeks ago, and that now I was taking medication so I should be better soon. Then he looked at me skeptically and said, “never heard of it, but if you’re not in shape, you can’t play.”
Practice over, Tom and I changed out of cleats back into sneakers, “have some leftovers from last weekend, wanna go to the park?”
“I thought you had to run home to let your brother in?”
“He’s going over to a friend’s house actually, so it’s all good.”
Cross the bridge over the FDR Drive and into East River Park, down to the tree-shaded esplanade along the waterfront, complete with benches. “This looks good for a roll up spot, covered by these bushes,” said Tom, sitting down on a bench with green paint chipping, broken panel, bare skin would get a splinter. Tom took a nug out of a dub sack and broke it up with his fingers. I walked to the railing and looked out at the river as it reflected the afternoon angle of late summer sunlight, Brooklyn on the other side, Domino Sugar factory, not much of a skyline. Tom twisted then sparked the joint, took a couple puffs and passed—pwuhh pwwuhhh, inhale deep like the rivers. He knows somethings up, told coach but can’t tell my friend?
“So I got some bad news, I’ve been going to see some doctors and they say I’ve got Inflammatory Bowel Disease, it’s this stomach thing that’s been making me sick and tired, and I gotta run to the bathroom a lot.”
“Yeah you haven’t been yourself, I was surprised when I took the ball from you and you didn’t try to get it back.”
“It’s ruined my stamina, that was the first thing I noticed that made me get an appointment.”
“But the docs got it figured out then?”
“The pills they gave me don’t do anything at all, but I think there are a bunch of other medications for me to try.”
“Well tell them to give you the good stuff, cause your team needs you.”
“You’re probably gonna have to carry us for a few weeks.”
“Need someone to feed me the ball.”
“That freshman Sam is pretty good.”
“Yeah, he’s got skill, but opponents are going to push him off the ball. He’ll be a beast after puberty’s done with him though.”
“Umar’s been playing great in goal, maybe you can win some one nils.”
“He’s looking good, but he’s gonna have to fast for Ramadan.”
“Oh yeah, I forgot, can’t even drink water during the games.”
Harsh last inhale pwwuhhhhh burnt down to the crutch.
“Alright, she’s kicked. Let’s make moves and slide like grease.”
Departing from the park, we floated down East Houston Street’s procession of Jewish delectables, beckoning with a salty waft from Katz’s pastrami, Russ & Daughter’s cured fish, Yonah Schimel’s knishes, “Potatoes should be easy for me, wanna stop here?”
Combination of munchies and soccer practice picked up my appetite, I housed a spinach knish, dipped in deli mustard, and then went back for a classic plain potato.
“Did you see Alice today? Seems like she’s avoiding me.”
“Ah, I didn’t wanna say anything but I saw her leave with Simon.”
“Damn, figured. Are you gonna hang with Jess this weekend?”
“Yeah, her parents are upstate for a couple weeks, wink wink.”
“Nice, she should throw a party.”
“She’s nervous about that after Mason broke the table in her backyard last time.”
“Makes sense, that party got out of control after Daniel put on Sandstorm.”
“Yeah, buncha first time drunks. She might be down for a small get together though, I’ll ask.”
“That’d be dope,” I said while chewing my last bites.
“Two knish in like ten minutes… your appetite seems pretty good.”
“The weed helped.”
“You ready?”
“Yeah let’s go.”
We descended into the underground and swiped our student MetroCard. Glutton sentenced to thirty minutes without a toilet, hopefully less if the train arrives quickly. The rrrrumble comes first, then the light down the tunnel, growing to gggrrrrowl and finally screeeeching as friction increases, then the slide stops. Step inside. Restarting with a jerk balance test, the trumble resumes, though now we are immersed and I feel each jostle, bump and stop. I put my face in my hands and covered eyes and ears as well as I could, frantic meditation, amorphous vermillion swells and swirls on the dark canvas of my inner eyelids… Tom tapped me, “What’s up? Are you okay?” “Yea, it’ll go away.” Stagnant at station, then again tremulous restart and roar, clench, stopped again, and my stomach is impatient to pass this food through, and I am impatient with this train, starts and stops, starts and stops, uncomfortable until Bergen street, where I ascend into daylight out of some subway scuttle, Starbucks around the corner? Bathroom might be occupied. Run home for relief.
That night at the dinner table, I told my family—father, mother, sister—that I still didn’t feel like my stomach was healthy.
“I think we should take his diagnostics and go get a second opinion from someone who specializes in IBD.” said father, “Mount Sinai is supposed to have the best gastroenterology department in the city.” I could tell by my sister’s skewed eyebrow across the table that she suspected maybe I just didn’t want to go to school. After dinner, father and I searched on the internet to look at Mt. Sinai gastroenterology and made an appointment with the head of the department, Dr. Lloyd Mayer.
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