final encouragement

"Whitney, I feel like I'm seeing a light everywhere I look. Like an aura or something," I heard Liz say as I flipped the page of my Old Testament final study guide packet. Finals, what are these? How much are we supposed to study for them? Will I forever live in the glory of my golden grade or the shame of my failed one? my innocent freshman mind wondered. I barely heard my roommate's complaints. It had been the second snow day of the week and the storm wasn't letting up. No one could get anywhere, and my motivated mind appreciated the time off to study for this Old Testament final--the dread of every first-semester Grace student. 

I must have mumbled an "I'm sorry" or something, but really I was memorizing years and kingdoms. Liz's little lights in her eyes would be fine. 

A half an hour later, Liz was still laying in her bed. Though she was prone to taking naps, intentional and otherwise, this was a bit different. She had a paper due tomorrow. Her procrastination wasn't usually this blatant, and usually her excuses carried some sort of legitimacy, like a terrible YouTube video, or the idea of putting Reese's on a s'more instead of just chocolate. Or printing out signs about mythical creatures living in the toilets and putting them in all the stalls. But seeing a light? Was this really an acceptable excuse for procrastinating a final paper? Something was wrong. I thought about making her a s'more but she didn't seem very coherent. 

"I...need to go to the bathroom," she said.

Thank God. She was talking. She was moving. She'd be fine. Nothing a little bathroom visit can't fix, right? I returned to my studies and pictured myself getting a 100% and bragging to my friends. Studying for finals is fun! I like being responsible! I am going to carry this motivation with me all the way up through senior year so that even on a random Saturday afternoon when I should be doing ANYTHING but blogging about this very moment, I will pick the responsible choice and do what needs to be done.

I smiled at my impeccable responsibility as the door slowly opened. Liz was whiter than my stomach in January, minus the freckles. She walked slowly, as if her legs would give out and she'd fall into the pile of clothes she wasn't always so prompt at putting away after waiting a month to do her laundry. I stood up, shaken from my prideful stupor.

"Liz...?"

"I just threw up," she declared, eyes seemingly staring at something fascinating in a different dimension. She slowly shuffled over to her bed and gingerly laid herself down. My motherly instincts, cultivated by years of baby-sitting and daycare nose and butt-wiping, kicked themselves into full throttle. 

Unfortunately (or...probably fortunately), Liz neither needed a tissue nor her diaper changed. How does one care for her roommate with a migraine? I helplessly watched Liz moan and grow whiter by the second. The snow continued to whip around outside, taunting my terrible roommate-care abilities. I grabbed a wash cloth and put it in hot water. Or is it supposed to be cold water? Why are my ovaries not helping me out here? Aren't women just supposed to know what to do when it comes to health care?!

Somehow, we ended up with me sitting on the bed, Liz's head in my lap and the hot (that probably should have been cold--I still don't know) wash cloth on her forehead. I massaged her temples. I texted her boyfriend.

"She's not doing well," I texted him.

Grant is a very serious man, especially when it comes to his woman. He was worried, probably more so at the fact that I was taking care of her than the fact that she was moaning and not moving and barfing.

"Should we go to the hospital?" he asked. I glanced outside. The chances of us dying out there were even more likely than me killing Liz tonight with my shameful caring abilities. However, nothing gets in the way of a determined Grant. If he wanted to go to the hospital, we were going to the hospital. Or, more likely, end up in a ditch as we attempted to get to the hospital. 

"I think we'll be fine," I responded, "she feels better after she throws up!" I realized just how un-comforting that text actually was. Before starting a new text to pacify the previous one, Liz sat up.

"I need to throw up again."

"Okay. Good luck." As if good luck is ever an appropriate response to that statement.

"Will you come with me?" she asked, like a five year-old about to walk into a repulsive gas station bathroom after seeing a gigantic woman with grease stains on her shirt walk out of it. Her question surprised me. This was a 22 year-old woman. She needed me to help her puke her guts out? 

This was more serious than I thought.

I felt like I was walking an elderly woman down the hall. Liz would get off course and bounce into the walls, as one would imagine an ADHD 8 year-old boy in a padded room. She tripped over boots someone had left to dry. What was going on?

I stood outside the stall, grateful my gag reflexes were strong and unaffected by the sound of partially-digested food returning up the esophagus and into the toilet. A four year-old once threw up his hot dogs all over my shoulder and back—hearing a few gags and dry heaves were nothing. I walked Liz back to the room, wondering what I was going to say to Grant.

We returned and I desperately texted my friend Rachyl to come and help. I told Liz she was coming and Liz's words still eerily ring in my head to this day.

"Rachyl. Rachyl. Who's Rachyl? I know a Rachyl. Rachyl. Rachyl."

I stared at her, mortified. She kept repeating the name, "Rachyl" as if saying it enough would help her remember who this girl was. My fight-or-flight instinct kicked in--actually it was just flight part—and if Rachyl hadn’t entered the room at that very moment I honestly think  I would have snapped and let Liz fend for herself. But God’s sovereignty allowed her to come in at that moment, which gave me a surge of strength. We stared in horror as Rachyl was asking her questions, Liz's only response being, "Rachyl Rachyl Rachyl." 

Rachyl looked at me. We both knew what needed to be done. Liz had to get to the hospital or we were going to slide into a ditch and die trying. 

Grant was on find-someone-with-four-wheel-drive duty. My job was to break it to Liz that she actually needed to go to the hospital. Once again, she turned into a pre-gas station bathroom five-year old and her eyes begged me, "Will you go with me?"

My heart melted. Was this my last night with my roommate? Visions of brain tumors and unheard-of head conditions flooded my mind. My unstable heart quivered at her question and I bravely answered, "Liz, I will go with you," and it felt like an emotional climax in a war movie or something far grander than it actually was. 

It took us awhile to leave campus, mostly because few people were stupid enough to agree to drive in the whirlwind that was happening outside. Liz threw up three more times before we got out of there. I remember calling my mom from the bathroom as Liz's gags could probably be heard in the background.

"MOM LIZ IS DYING. SHE'S DYING AND THROWING UP AND EVERYONE IS GOING TO SAY I KILLED MY ROOMMATE BECAUSE I PUT A HOT WASH CLOTH ON HER HEAD AND IT WAS PROBABLY SUPPOSED TO BE COLD DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY WALLS SHE HAS RUN INTO TONIGHT? MOM YOU HAVE TO PRAY I THINK SHE'S GOING TO DIE. OR WE WILL ALL DIE IN A TERRIBLE CAR CRASH"

The frightened tears were unleashed and wouldn't stop. Grant was terrifyingly serious and I was an emotional mess. There we sat, in the entryway of the dorm, waiting for the four-wheel drive truck and its driver whom Grant had probably had to bribe to help us out.

"Whitney, am I going to die?"

Yes. Liz was going to die. And we all were going to die.

The truck picked us up and we sat silently. Driving ten miles per hour felt like we were speeding. The snow enveloped us. I couldn't even tell where we were. Liz was throwing up into a backpack, the windows were fogging up, and my heart somehow had a peace about not living to see that Old Testament final. This would be it. I would either die a hero trying to save Liz, or the villain that killed her with my horrendously subpar care-taking skills.

An hour later, we made it to the hospital. The truck wreaked of vomit and poor Ben (the four-wheel-drive owner) would probably smell it for weeks. Liz had grown quiet. Were these her last moments?

We walked to the emergency room, my grief overwhelming me so badly that I forgot that Liz literally needed to be walked. I heard a bang as Liz ran into a wall, face first. Grant stared me down with eyes that still haunt me. He was in Nazi mode and if Liz died, I was dead too. He would never let me live. I clutched her arm tightly; I had lost count of how many walls she had walked into that night. In the emergency room, the doctor asked her questions, her answers mostly entailing moans and "I don't knows," I watched and waited for the doctor to tell us it was too late, she was a goner. I was already planning her eulogy, wondering how Grant would cope with the loss of the woman he loved. 

"Have you been stressed recently?"

"Yeah, I've been really stressed with…bizzles?"

Finals. Dear Lord, she meant finals.  This was it.

The doctor was calm and collected and I wanted to punch him in the balls. Umm, hello. MY ROOMMATE IS DYING. And you're just giving her some fluids and some pain medication?! I would file a lawsuit, surely. Smoke, literal smoke, billowed from Grant's ears. He was furious and terrified. 

I condemned myself each time I worried a bit about my Old Testament final the next day. I was going to fail now, I spent my night killing my roommate and now I was going to fail my final. Some first semester of college. 

The doctor said she would be fine and would be released once her pain level had gone down. I was unconvinced, although the time lapse between vomiting had increased. And some color had returned to her face. Well, maybe she would be alright. Maybe my dear roommate would live. Maybe we could even laugh about this someday. Maybe she didn't have a brain tumor after all! I only let my heart smile because Grant's face was still stone cold. Liz moaned after a puke session.

"Ughhhhh I feel like I'm pregnant again."

I looked at Grant. Was it okay to laugh yet? His condemning eyes hardened as he saw the smile form slowly on my face.

Too soon, Whit. Now he hates you.

I stiffened and replied, “Oh, Liz. You’ve never been pregnant, sweetie.”

“Ughhhhh…..”

I shook off the smile and began rehearsing Old Testament facts in my head, realizing we could all still die on the drive back. Yes, I was for sure a goner one way or another. What’s the point of recollecting Old Testament things anyways?

Needless to say, we made it back. It took Grant a good six months to laugh about the situation, but he finally did. I knew he would. You can’t delusionally say “I feel like I’m pregnant again” and never laugh about it. You just can’t.

Additionally, I cannot remember what I got on my Old Testament final. 

I think we can all learn something from this story: having an action plan for when your roommate is dying of migraine being the primary one. Also, finals will pass and we probably won’t even remember them eventually, whether we did well or horribly. In fact, realistically, we all may die before finals even get here. But even if we don’t, there are things—and people—more important than these exams.

And—maybe this is just me—but a good story is way better than a good grade.

And I feel like bad grades are just like Liz’s delusional comment, “I feel like I’m pregnant again.” It’s not funny then (especially if you are Grant). But you’ll laugh eventually.

That’s all that matters, right?

Happy studying. I have coffee if you need.