Words made me faint

A short history of falling down.

I asked the dentist to blindfold me once I saw the scalpel he was going to use to cut a small hole in my gum. After the stabbing, he planned to drill a metal screw into my jawbone. I told the room that I could cope well enough with invasive procedures as long as I was pretty much ignorant of how my body was being cut, burned or scraped.

When I donate blood, I ask for a napkin over my elbow. I’d actually rather the gynae tell me about their holiday home than talk me through what to expect next. I’ve been through this dance before. Get in and get out. All that exists for me in such moments is the diaphragm and lungs.

It all went well with the scalpel, I think. That’s the last of the drilling and stitches. In about a year’s time, all the other parts of the treatment plan ought to be crossed off the list.

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I fainted twice, many years ago, reading a novel about a young woman undergoing cancer treatment. Words made me faint. It was My Sister’s Keeper. I nearly gave up on reading the book because I was risking my skull, but the second chance romance plotline soon emerged. A crackling cosy fire built up just for me.

Another time, I fainted on the Dart. It was packed. There was no fresh air. A couple noticed and helped me not fall on the dirty floor. They looked after me until my stop.

A few years ago, I think around 2016, I had a few sudden episodes of bone-tired waves crash upon me. I remember texting a friend from a bench in the IMMA gardens telling her I had to cancel on her. An hour later I made it to the bus stop at the train station and then to a bed. In the city centre a few weeks later, I cancelled more plans while stumbling to the Kildare Street bus stop because there aren’t that many benches around anymore. Spaces for composing oneself are in short supply these days.