Hauntings

and pureed corn molded into the shape of corn

commissioned illustration by Grey von Cannon

As I rode in the ambulance yesterday with my husband, C, lying on a gurney and being given fentanyl for his pain, I felt myself go numb. In such situations, it is best to shut down emotionally; shutting down our feelings helps us from becoming someone else who needs care, and you are the one who made the executive decision to call 911 while your partner of twenty-four years tells you don’t call, don’t call them, but you have already called 911 for him before, and you know when a call is necessary.

I am ostensibly working on novel edits. Today is my first day of coming out of the hypomanic episode I was in for almost three weeks. If you’re familiar with hypomania, I’ll tell you that it’s fantastic, especially for a wretch like me who’s fatigued all the time, who needs to lie down for most of the day. Hypomania took a look at that and said, “Fuck it, I’m in charge now.” I continued to work on the novel (edits due when? Why am I taking so long?) I haven’t told my agent and editor that this book is at an Infinite Jest size based on the word count so far. It likely won’t be that long in the end of the process, but I do admire women who can write a doorstopper of a book. I’ve always wanted to be that woman.

So during the hypomania, I found myself joking more than I normally do; I was hypersexual; I could stay up late. I notified my psychiatrist after my therapist pointed out the hypomania. I was talking quickly and saying things that were the opposite of how I normally felt. I haven’t had an episode in a long time. I’d forgotten to consider the signs. So my psychiatrist eventually told me to push the Haldol dose higher, despite my ongoing fear of tardive dyskinesia. Over time, I felt myself slowing down.

But I had to slow down. Hypomania can turn into mania, and if that happens, you’re fucked. In my case, a few years ago, I blew tens of thousands of dollars on things that I absolutely did not need to buy. Your brain is going too fast. Words become too fast. There’s an urge in your brain that makes you rattle around in your skull.

In the ambulance, I watched C charming the paramedics. The fentanyl was working. He was talking to them as if we were all in a donut shop, eating crullers while C was drugged up on a drug that I hear a lot of awful things about. Most opioids don’t work on C. When he was in the hospital to get a bone marrow transplant, they gave him morphine through an IV, and it didn’t seem to touch the pain. We all have strange bodies, but in November 2024 to January 2025, C seemed to have reached a point where all of the doctors were flummoxed, and called Sloan-Kettering (they did not know why C had randomly become a person with zero white blood cells) and Harvard for advice. I admired their persistence in trying to help this person I love so deeply. I hoped that the puzzle wouldn’t defeat them. (It didn’t.)

I’ve been thinking so much about the story and the characters in my book and the language, THE LANGUAGE, but here’s the elevator pitch: my book is about hauntings.

There are so many ways to be haunted. My grandmothers, in particular. The little tree that I got so that we could have Christmas in the ward with some kind of festivity. The pureed food shaped into what they were supposed to be with molds: the corn, in particular, is always hovering, always asking when we will come back. 💌

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