#and I did stumble across some resources for which doctors can treat my illnesses in Europe so I could try to use it as a way to finally

[vaciena]

Can I have a hug

[split-n-splice]

A totally-not-a-date chapter. Next and final chapter is...eheheh...explosive.

[Chapter Guide | Ao3 | FFn ]

Chapter 5 - Dodgy

If someone had told her yesterday that she’d be having fun in a day’s time, she might have laughed in their face. Fun just wasn’t something she had much of these days.

Given the establishment served booze in abundance and she was regrettably under the legal drinking age, Shego had to find her own unconventional way in. The risk was frivolous and made her a touch uneasy, but she was proud of herself nonetheless once she was inside where she turned her focus to searching for Dr. Drakken and his goons.

The casino was like some kind of adult’s Pizza Party-Torium, if the arcade was populated by slot machines and the playground was swapped for table games and a dazzling fountain. The joint was crowded and noisy, and with a funk in the air that made her nose scrunch just as it did at JP Bearymore’s.

Before second thoughts could undermine her resolve, Dr. Drakken had reappeared by her side to tow her by an elbow to where his crew had gathered.

The henchmen were found squandering resources on hypnotic slot machines. Without their jumpsuits, Shego wouldn’t have recognized the trio blending in among the guests. They greeted Dr. Drakken with warm regard despite his withering scowl, and the goons flashed impish smirks when they noticed Shego tagging along to his right.

She wouldn’t exactly call the blue man and his grunts friends, but she grew to enjoy the company of her unscrupulous new acquaintances over the evening. It was in the midst of the bunch that she concluded that for the first time in months, maybe all year, she was having fun – and she wasn’t even obligated to.

Though Shego was too reluctant to openly admit it, it might as well have been written on her face. Once she relaxed and rolled with it, visiting the casino turned out to be a blast.

What little she had on hand had her apprehensive at first to actually put her money where her mouth was, and she tried not to come off nearly as surprised as the goons when she fared better than them. From there, they egged her on – bad influences, the whole lot of them – but she enjoyed the attention when they gave it. Encouragement, cheers, and sore-loser boos from the crew, along with the nice sum of cash stuffed into the utility pouch hidden beneath a pant leg, made the mischievous evening worth gambling with her safety on the rogue doctor. She’d won some and lost some, but she still came out ahead with surprisingly more than she could earn from a whole week of babysitting.

As they were leaving the casino for the evening, crossing the packed parking lot, she almost wondered aloud why she’d never gone to one before. Then she remembered about the whole deal with the age restriction and ID check, not to mention the victimless crime was such a moral grey area that the head of Team Go would rag on her hard if he ever found out. Suddenly opposing him made gambling all the more appealing. It may just be her downfall that there were more thrilling things than money she was betting with.

No sooner had her bossy big brother invaded her thoughts did an arm land heavily around her shoulders, making her forget all about him. Shego would have shoved the tipsy man away if she weren’t in such an amicable mood herself for a change, and she even tried to glare up at Dr. Drakken, but his big crooked smile as he bantered with his goons made her forget to frown.

Whatever trouble she was getting herself into, at least she was enjoying it in the moment. Betting on the strange doctor might not be so bad.

A hoot from one of the henchmen was enough to pull her attention off the blue man beside her. “I like this one, boss!” shouted the drunken goon as he stumbled ungracefully backwards towards the getaway car. “Can we keep her?”

If she weren’t in public, she might have sent a fireball at his heels to remind him she wasn’t their new pet. She almost did anyway – because screw secret identities.

There was a low chuckle from the man beside her then. “I sure hope so,” Dr. Drakken muttered contentedly, and Shego wasn’t sure if he was too buzzed to realize he wasn’t speaking loud enough for the henchman, if he was addressing her alone, or if he was just thinking out loud.

He cleared his throat suddenly and let go, perhaps finally realizing that he’d hung on for too long or that putting an arm around the dangerous young lady in the first place was trying his luck by crossing a line. Either way, Shego took the chance to sidestep to put some much-needed space between them.

“Anyhoozeydoozey, there’s karaoke tonight at the restaurant across from the lodge,” he announced, making a peculiar attempt to entice her as he battled the grin off his face. “Why don’t you come to dinner with us? My treat.”

It was late enough to be thinking of dinner?

Shego looked up, discovering to her dismay that the sky was slipping into twilight. Street lights were already on. She bit her lip to stifle a curse and force back a twinge of guilt for not meeting the boys when she should have. But it was too late now. Way too late. Bedtime too late.

She was already doomed to be lectured later for putting off her responsibilities. So, reluctant to go home once again, she gave Dr. Drakken a nonchalant shrug. “I could eat.” She was famished anyway.

“Splendid. Now – who’s the designated driver again?” he called out dumbly to his bumbling henchmen as they all gathered around the rig. He grunted his dissatisfaction when they glanced between each other, offering him no answer.

Of course all four of the men had indulged, unwittingly drinking themselves a bit silly, though the henchmen silliest of all. Shego meanwhile had been too preoccupied and cautious to join in, not to mention under-aged. Thankfully the chief was aware enough of the fact that he himself may be just a touch too tipsy to get behind a wheel.

So Shego rolled her eyes and held out her hand for the keys. Dr. Drakken studied her open palm for a moment before shrugging and tossing them at her.

As the driver for the evening, she announced she had reign over the radio. Before anyone could even think of singing along to the Top 40’s, one of the henchmen pleaded loudly, “Save the singing for the microphone!” To which she responded with a small blast of lukewarm plasma, shot over her shoulder at him to give him a mild zap.

Maybe being stuck in a car full of intoxicated criminals should have had her ill at ease, but she was remarkably comfortable with it. After the fiery warning, they remembered uphold a healthy respect. Given she’d already put three in their place yesterday, there was really only one she felt any need to worry about anyway. Which – as long as he didn’t brandish a gun again – she was certain she could handle him if he came to be a problem.

The restaurant was certainly no quieter than the ride had been, but there at least she excused the clamor as it wasn’t directly in her ears. The joint was busy and a tad rambunctious, but a table for five was found near a stage that had the rogue doctor twisted in his seat to fixate on.

Burgers were ordered and there was a round of beer that completely missed Shego, but she didn’t mind being left out as the youngest of the henchmen, somewhat of a runt, was seated conveniently next to her and didn’t mind letting her sneak a sip when curiosity got to be too much. She decided to stick to her soft drink after all.

Karaoke made it hard to eat when her focus was continually drawn up to the stage, and she had to wonder what sick satisfaction the grinning Dr. Drakken found in watching it unfold. Some performances were dares and others were premeditated, but just watching strangers go up on the small stage to sing their hearts out made Shego cringe inwardly with secondhand embarrassment.

When a pair of henchmen went up eagerly for a duet, Shego was inclined to duck her head, borderline ashamed to be associated with them. She leaned over to the goon beside her, whose name she hadn’t yet caught, and wryly wondered if they were lovers or brothers. Not that it mattered to her either way, but he confirmed them to be siblings goofing off.

All but physically booting his men from it, Dr. Drakken was keen to take the stage next and that was somehow even worse. Inhibitions lax from alcohol, the blue man was enthralled for his turn in the limelight, whereas Shego was undeniably mortified to be seen in his company now that the tipsy imbecile was swaying on the platform, his jacket tied around his waist and dress shirt having come untucked. His face was flushed an odd shade of purple and he beamed from ear to ear.

As per his request – or rather, command – his henchmen took the music choice into their own hands to surprise him.

When the tune began, Shego found it too hard to nibble uncomfortably at her fries anymore. She heaved an apathetic sigh before hiding her face in her arms on the table instead, anticipating the worse case of second-hand embarrassment yet. She couldn’t watch him crash and burn. She even considered walking out to spare herself, but a gross curiosity kept her anchored.

The henchman beside her elbowed her gently, snickering, “You’d be surprised. The boss ain’t that bad.”

Shego shook her head in her arms. There was no way some dopey mullet-head could pull off We Didn’t Start The Fire. She straight up refused to believe it.

But then he began reciting lines in time with grainy filtered audio, without a stutter or slur. She was staring incredulously up at him by DiMaggio. The brazen doctor threw himself into it with humiliating vigor, doing a little jig on the spot to top it off. She was torn between watching the grinning fool and looking for whatever monitor was feeding him the lines, further bewildered to realize he must have been belting it out rapid-fire from memory as he didn’t spare a single glance to the aid. If he slipped up, she didn’t notice.

Realizing the restaurant had fallen otherwise quiet – cripes, people were listening to him – she felt a new wave of discontent. She didn’t notice she was gawping until the henchman beside her lifted her chin to shut mouth, and he was brusquely shoved out of his chair in turn. She wasn’t sure what to make of the blue man before, and she was even more unsure now.

“How?” she hissed to the henchman climbing back into his seat next to her.

The goon shrugged and answered as if it were obvious, “He’s a mad genius.”

“But is he human?” She recalled being asked earlier if she was human, so maybe…maybe he wasn’t. It was something to ponder. She didn’t have long to entertain the ridiculous notion.

A henchman now seated on her other side spoke up. “We wonder that too sometimes,” he admitted in a chuckle.

As the song came to an end, Dr. Drakken’s hazy stare fell painfully obviously on her. She was still frozen in place when it was over, little doubt in her mind he was something special, but what remained to be seen. The doctor only glanced away for a moment to acknowledge the applause he received, and then beckoned her forward with a finger and a smirk that grew into a devilish grin.

She didn’t have a chance to dismiss the summons.

Suddenly she was being hoisted off her feet by the henchmen on either side of her and deposited on the stage.

“You’re up, missy,” Dr. Drakken cooed, chuckling deviously as he gestured her toward the spotlight.

Eyes flying wide, she planted her feet to resist, but the henchmen’s hands were at her back, pushing her toward their freak ringleader. “No – I don’t – I don’t sing,” she hissed in protest.

“Balderdash. Everyone participates on karaoke night,” he insisted, a little too inebriated at present to realize he was pushing his luck.

Shego strained to control herself, grinding out, “Not me. Watching you guys is enough participation.”

His guiding arm behind the back turned into a hold around the waist to keep her from evading the dreaded spotlight. If he hadn’t crossed a line before at the casino by leaning on her for support, then he sure as hell was now. “Oh, we can find something for you,” he assured, almost pleading. “Don’t be a pill.”

The spell was broken. Shego wasn’t charmed anymore.

Dr. Drakken was something alright – he might be a lot of things – and right now one of those things was a jackass.

Without a second thought, she elbowed him hard in the stomach. “I said no!” she spat as the winded man doubled over, and she made a hasty getaway before his goons could dive for her.

Once outside, Shilo broke into a run.

Only a couple blocks away, she slowed to a stomp, until finally she threw herself down on the curb to let the cool night air sap the rest of the flustered heat from her face. She ran her fingers through her unkempt hair, breathing deep, and picked out some tangles as she glared ahead at the quivering leaves of the trees across the street.

Skipping town with the strange doctor didn’t sound quite so appealing now. She didn’t exist for anyone’s entertainment, and she shuddered to think of what else might be expected of her. Boundaries would definitely need to be set, and if he couldn’t accept her terms, then she’d just have to bust him, because she wasn’t to be toyed with.

At this very moment though, she wasn’t sure what trouble she’d just gotten herself into by acting out against the man. If he was really a seriously bad guy like he claimed, then she couldn’t put it past him to do something brash and terrible and villainous.

Shilo hugged her knees and contemplated which direction was home. She still wasn’t looking forward to seeing her family tonight, but she’d just have to accept that as the inevitable. At least there, she could rest easy with the knowledge they wouldn’t murder her for noncompliance, or enact vengeance in some way, or do anything else purposefully harmful.

She sighed heavily and picked herself up, arms wrapped around herself as she weighed her options – assuming there was ever an option to begin with.

If striking the man was a deal-breaker, then she didn’t need to serve under someone who expected her not to fight back, especially if fighting was in her job description. She hoped that wasn’t the case. Back home, she would only continue to be restricted and heavily burdened and kept on a short leash – probably even shorter than ever, should they catch wind of her recent transgressions. If Dr. Drakken’s promises turned out empty, she could always go home to make amends. A little rebellious stint wouldn’t hurt.

Apologies tasted terrible, but somehow the other option was even less savory.

She wasn’t ready to go home tonight, but she wasn’t ready to accept any deals either. Shilo’s feet were heavy as she carried herself back to the diner anyway. She decided going back inside would be pushing her threshold for humiliation, so she found herself a place to wait: the passenger seat of the SUV. She couldn’t be sure if she was relieved to find it unlocked or not.

Amidst the monotony of waiting, the last thing she wanted was for fatigue to catch up to her, but that was a losing battle. She found it hard to fight to stay awake, watching the passenger mirror for Dr. Drakken or the goons to come stumbling out, but her heavy eyelids slipped shut and she was out for the count before she knew what hit her.

Next thing she knew, she was being shaken awake. She blinked blearily at the dash and stifled a yawn.

“Sheesh, you’re a lightweight,” came a voice from the darkness nearby that was becoming too familiar too quickly. He barked laughter. “Half a beer and you black out!”

Her reply was almost automatic. “It was only a sip,” she grumbled, as if that helped her case.

She blinked away the fog as she got her bearings, and she came to the rapid realization of exactly where she was – and who was next to her – and it came back to her like a blow to her own stomach just what she’d done do him earlier. As of yet there seemed to be no consequence, but she was too on edge by other factors to be relieved, let alone care she wasn’t dead yet.

“Dude!” she hissed in alarm, involuntarily ducking to hide. The windows were tinted, it was dark, and there was no one in sight – but that didn’t alleviate her distress. “You can’t just be showing up in front of my house like this! Are you trying to get me in trouble?” she complained. Maybe this was it – how he got his payback – by getting her grounded – nevermind that she was nineteen. That was underhanded.

Dr. Drakken scoffed. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were a rebel. Was I mistaken?” he wondered wryly, taking a moment of smug satisfaction at her panic. “Just say the word, and you can forget all about curfews and being put in the corner,” he reminded. She was silent, but she wasn’t going anywhere yet. “Well, Shego? Are you ready? I can keep driving.”

“This again?” she retorted in exasperation, snapping her glare back at him.

“Yes, ‘this again.’” The lights of the dash glinted off his spectacles but the knit of his brow gave away the impatient scowl he fixed her in.

Shego groaned and rubbed her eyes. She was distantly relieved he didn’t seem to be too mad at her for earlier, but the relief left her quickly. “Not yet,” she said, turning her miserable gaze upon her dark home. The only light on was the porch light. The illuminated clock on the car radio told her it was half past midnight, which wasn’t as late as last night, but it was late enough. She hoped everyone was asleep this time since no one was storming out to confront her yet.

She unwillingly popped open the door, watching for lights to flick on in the house and feeling more reluctant than ever to go inside. She couldn’t shake the instilled dread of what was awaiting her. More of the same-ol’ same-ol’ drudgery and bullshit rules and smothering. So even when she slipped out, déjà vu crossed her mind as she once again debated on jumping right back in vehicle.

She turned to face the driver, giving herself another moment to act on a whim and never look back.

“I can’t hang around forever,” Dr. Drakken warned as she hesitated there. “Through the weekend at the most, but then I’m out of here. So make up your mind soon.”

Arms crossing, Shego cocked her hip and raised her brow at him. Given the pressure, she wasn’t so sure if she wanted to give him the satisfaction of getting back in his rig now. It was technically only Friday now, so she still had a few days if he’d just be patient. “You got what you came to Go City for, so why stay?” she wondered. “You’re starting to look desperate.”

Dr. Drakken looked her over with an analytical stare. She swore she saw him grimace in the dim blue glow of the dash.

He gnashed his teeth as if chewing on his words before grunting. “So I have a new objective!” he spat out, almost defensively so. His mask was cracking and something less than confident was showing through. He was starting to blather. “I have a good feeling about you, and I can see how you’re not sure about me, but realize you can betray me just as easily as I you. You’re not the only one taking risks here.” His fingers drummed on the wheel.

Shego narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m the objective,” she gathered.

“Affirmative,” grumbled Dr. Drakken. She saw him swallow and frown deeper.

Acting on a whim, she didn’t give herself time to think twice. She should have known better. She climbed back into the rig, even though she knew she wasn’t leaving tonight, and she was kneeling in the passenger seat before she could consider how badly this could backfire or any consequences at all, but momentum alone wasn’t enough to carry her through it.

The startled driver jerked back when she grabbed for his jaw, and he made a noise of annoyance as she made the man face her. She had meant to seek affirmation some other way – affirmation he wasn’t a creep – affirmation she wasn’t the objective in some convoluted sleazy trick – but she didn’t even come close to so much as willing herself to land a chaste peck before she halted. She wasn’t sure what sort of reaction she’d expected, but the doctor was leaning away against the door, pushing her back to keep her at arm’s length with his palms at her shoulders. A grimace twisted his face. It served as a clear enough answer, but cold feet and a rebuff weren’t what gave her pause now.

He certainly hadn’t been expecting an advance, and he wasn’t expecting her to snatch his spectacles off his nose either. Shego she still gripped his jaw in one hand as she studied his face in the half-light.

“You’re familiar,” slipped out of her mouth as her attention was drawn to the scar beneath his eye.

“Funny. I don’t get that often,” he said coldly.

She still wasn’t sure what to make of him. Maybe she’d never know. Maybe she should let it be a mystery. For now, at least.

Dr. Drakken coughed into his fist. “I see we’ll have to discuss boundaries and appropriate conduct later,” he uttered tersely, a small quiver of unease in his voice as he carefully removed her clutch from his face. He plucked his glasses back from her fingers.

The sudden pang of rejection was uncalled for, and it almost incited her temper, but instead it fanned the heat of humiliation in her face.

Shego withdrew abruptly, cheeks hot and palms clammy as she awkwardly scrambled backwards out of the rig. She hoped she wasn’t blushing too noticeably, because the failed advance on the weird man definitely made up for not joining in for karaoke. There were worse outcomes, so she decided to count her blessings.

“Um…goodnight,” she muttered sheepishly in lieu of a farewell.

He nodded. “You too.”

Almost as soon as she’d shut the door, the engine revved and off into the night he went, leaving Shilo alone to her flustered thoughts on the curb.

She drew a deep breath to soothe herself, but it didn’t do much good. She might still have her family to face, but at least she was a little more sure now that the doctor’s motives might be sketchy, but at least they weren’t sleazy. He’d had his chances to take advantage of her or do any number of contemptible things if he’d wanted. It wasn’t much evidence, but it was enough for her to put a little faith in the man.

Whatever brand of evil he was selling was a little more appealing now.

A smile spread across Shilo’s face as a flicker of excitement lit in her and began to burn.

Even if the rogue doctor never amounted to more than a mediocre crook, he still offered her a way out, a way that went against everything she’d been obligated to defend for the past four years. Just the knowledge that she wouldn’t have to strike out alone was encouraging. Her talents, her cursed powers, were wanted , maybe even needed, for something bigger than local hero work now, and if he really had his weird little heart set on taking over the world, as she knew plenty of villains were – well, then, that was all the more challenge.

This could be fun.

That rebellious little fire was snuffed out to a dormant state the instant she recognized a telltale melodramatic throat clearing behind her. She didn’t mean to spin around quite so fast, hair whipping around her shoulders. Her startled gaze landed on Milo, who’d been hovering just behind her, and she glared harshly at him as she drew upon anger to override any embarrassment or surprise.

“How long have you been standing there?” she snapped urgently.

The eavesdropper scoffed and crossed his arms. “Long enough,” he sneered. “Tramp.”

Shilo raised her warm hand in threat, but he didn’t back down. “Have you forgotten what it feels like to be slapped by me already, or do you need a reminder?” Oh, how badly she longed to wipe the look off his face.

“Beat on me all you want, I’m still telling Dad about your secret boyfriend.” As if their father had any say in the matter.

She recoiled nonetheless and played it off. “Uh, ew? As if. The guy’s got a mullet,” she dismissed with an uneasy scoff. She shoved past him and tried to ignore the mocking kissy faces he made after her.

“Just wait until he finds out! He’s gonna love this,” her ropy brother jeered after her, bouncing at her heels as Shilo strode across the lawn to the porch.

She restrained another impulse to smack him, and considered a well-aimed kick below the belt might shut him up longer. If he pressed his luck any further, she just might. “My friends are none of Dad’s business,” she seethed quietly. What was the worse he could do at this point? Kick her out?

Milo dropped his voice as well as they neared the house. “Oh, yeah it is – you know the saying! His roof, his rules,” he said, and Shilo mouthed the mantra along with him with a roll of her eyes. Their father could be such a hard-ass at times, even Milo was whispering to avoid his wrath tonight.

“Well, Dad won’t have to worry about it for long,” she whispered back gravely. “What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

“About that—,” Milo piped, only to clam up suddenly.

Just then, Hugo stepped in front of her, taking up almost the entire doorway with his broad shoulders, barring her entry. He’d obviously been standing just inside, probably also eavesdropping as best he could from his hiding place. “You were serious?” he uttered, mouth agape and eyes huge. “You’re actually moving out? With that – that guy?” He gestured toward the road incredulously.

“Not just a guy – a man!” hissed Milo in a rising pitch. “At least as old as Dad! I think I saw grey hair.” He looked to Shilo then and shrank back in disgust, shuddering with a finger pointed down his throat even as he chuckled.

Her face was scorching hot and she had to clutch her fists lest they see her palms sparking. She was on the verge of losing her cool. “You are so far off, it’s not even funny,” she defended, though she knew she wasn’t convincing. “He’s only in his twenties.” Mid to late twenties, but they didn’t have to know that detail.

Her lavender sibling was still appalled. “And you smooched! Nasty!” he blurted. Interesting talk coming from a freshmen actively aiming for first base.

“Did not!” Shilo spat at him, and gave him a rough shove that almost knocked him down. This was worsening by the second, and she could do little more than hide behind a hand until her hulking brother cleared the doorway, which didn’t seem to be happening anytime soon.

“You what?” Hugo just about boomed for the whole neighborhood to hear. The overprotective head honcho of Team Go stepped onto the porch, pushing up a sleeve of his pajamas as his look of alarm gave way to a hostile glare. Shilo trying to push him back into the house was about as effective as trying to push over a tree of equal girth, which was to say impossible for the likes of her.

“Look, whatever you’re thinking, stop thinking it,” she demanded, almost pleaded.

“That’s a predator if I’ve ever seen one,” Milo retorted in exasperation, definitely not helping the situation.

“Come off it. There’s nothing going on,” she fibbed. “He’s cool. We just talked – about music and stuff.” Put on the spot, her lies were transparent.

“Whatever he’s promising you, don’t buy that baloney for a second,” warned Hugo, and she winced.

She was buying it and they knew it, even if they didn’t know what it was yet.

Her big brother took her by the shoulders to stand her upright and she strained to glare around him to the open door. “Shi, I would love nothing more than to support you even if I don’t always agree with your decisions, but be reasonable – you can’t move in with a stranger you just met and who we’ve never even met. It’s – it’s just not right,” he said, harsh tone faltering back to concern.

“I said that I’m moving out, not that moving in with him,” she spat, anger at his assumptions growing ever hotter. Even if they were probably spot-on.

Hugo shook his head but persisted. “I don’t like what’s going on. You’ve been out past midnight two nights in a row, and you even failed to show up for lessons with the twins. They were crying because you let them down.”

Shilo batted his big paws away and took a hasty step back. She didn’t like stab of guilt she felt, but she disliked head games even more.

At the sound of a familiar hum drawing closer and distant gleam of black, she felt a confidence boost. “You’ll just have to tutor them yourself, because I can’t take much more of you guys,” she snarled vehemently. “Have you ever stopped to consider I might be leaving because you’re such a control freak?”

The herculean man flinched back, sputtering objection, “I’m not trying to control you!” Typical thickheaded Hugo, he willingly forgot ever pressuring her into forming a superhero team to fulfill his own daydreams, or that he was in part to blame for sticking her with raising twins because it was such a woman’s job, to the point she’d been practically a stay-at-home mom since the age of fifteen. He seemed to forget as well that because of his secret-identity obsession, Shilo only had a small handful of acquaintances she might call friends, who she only got to see in school, none of which she’d hung out with since graduating, and it was his alliance with Global Justice that was to blame for the curfew and a buddy system she wasn’t the only one failing to abide by.

When Hugo reached out to grab her again, she took a hasty step back to dodge him. “We all have wants and desires,” he said coolly as if to pacify, but he was floundering, “but we need to put our commitments first. You didn’t even call to say you wouldn’t be coming. We were worried about you!”

His protests grew louder as she backed away down the steps. Creeping into view, she could see the familiar black vehicle’s cautious approach. Dr. Drakken had circled the block. Was it just to stalk her? She shook her head, deciding at this point, she didn’t care if he was. She’d rather be in the company of that stalker than here right now. He was a blessing in disguise.

“You’re telling me who I can and can’t see, what I can and can’t do, and what and when you want me to do things that should be your responsibility too. Sounds a little controlling to me!” Shilo spat up harshly at her brothers, namely Hugo. She turned on her heel to jump down the last two steps. “I’m done – consider me gone. Have a nice life.” Whether it was an empty threat or the real deal, she’d decide later, but the stunning effect bought her precious time.

Not daring to give her brothers a chance to stop her, to pull her back, she broke into a run, sprinting across the lawn before they could react or call out for her. She darted into the street, and Dr. Drakken had barely slammed on the breaks when she grabbed the door and threw herself inside.

When the young men on the porch recovered from their surprise and began to chase after her, Dr. Drakken burned rubber without exchanging a word or even a glance, only taking the hint to get them out of there lickety-split. He sped down the vacant neighborhood roads and only slowed once he met traffic, but her brothers were left in their dust.

“Why’d you come back?” Shego demanded coldly as they fell into line with the lazy stream of traffic. She leaned her head against the window, dismally staring out at the darkened storefronts.

“Well, it’s not because I missed you,” snorted Dr. Drakken. “I just thought maybe you could use a second chance tonight.” He cast a look over to her and grimaced, probably because she hadn’t picked up anything in the time he’d circled the block. He might as well have never dropped her off at all. All it did was stir up trouble. He stifled a groan. “But I see you’re not ready yet,” he noted. “Are you still unsure?”

“I’ll grab my stuff tomorrow when everyone’s gone,” Shego promptly answered. She rubbed her temple miserably, a headache beginning to rag at her. “I just need get away tonight. You can just drop me off anywhere. I’ll find somewhere to wait it out.”

Shego wouldn’t admit it, and she didn’t thank him, but she appreciated he didn’t take the suggestion.

[ajordanart-blog]

Blog #10:Relationships with Pain

Let’s talk about relationships real quick. Chronic illness can be isolating. It is so easy to feel alone in your battles, and in many ways we do have to make a lot of efforts and growth on our own. There are many ways in which chronic illness can make relationships so much harder than they would be without it factored in, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth it to build relationships and trust others. We don’t have to feel alone in our battles, and we do have several places that we can reach out to for support. No one can make the illness go away, and it is our job to make sure we find healthy ways to cope with our problems-- be it mental or physical health related. I started my journey with chronic pain feeling extremely alone. The doctors couldn’t tell me what was wrong, every sign pointed to “you’re healthy, there are no issues,” and it really felt like people were telling me it was all in my head. I wanted to talk about it, but I struggled to articulate why it was hard to get up and do the things I needed to do, why I was late all of the time, and why I didn’t know how to adjust to it yet. The labels lazy and irresponsible were starting to cling to me even though I still had an extremely strong work ethic. I just also had a severe amount of fatigue pulling me back. I was carrying around a heavy weight that continued to grow, and I did not know what to do with it, and it was taking an emotional toll. I also fed into the myth that sharing my issues and frustrations with pain would be a burden for others, so it was better left alone, which is entirely false. There are ways to communicate your frustrations that are healthy for both parties. And truthfully, part of being a good friend means being there for them. There’s nothing wrong with asking for help or asking if someone has the time to listen, especially if you’re willing to reciprocate that and show them the same kind of support whenever they need it.   Knowing your resources and knowing your support systems are so important in being able to continue to stay healthy and continue throughout your day-to-day lifestyle. I have several support systems now, but they wren’t always around in the beginning or in the ways that I needed. And I didn’t always know how to communicate how I was feeling either, which gave me more trouble with getting help or even just helping those close to me understand what exactly it was that had been going on. (It definitely didn’t help that my doctors couldn’t easily explain it to me either, so you can see why this in general was just a big mess for a while on my end.) And “support system” doesn’t have to exclusively mean people who understand or who can offer helpful advice or solid solutions. It definitely factors in sometimes, but a good support system can be found in someone who is just there to hang out, keep you company, and remind you to have fun. So here’s a general list of people who have helped and supported me in ways I didn’t fully expect going into this. Family:

Family can be an incredibly helpful resource if you’re lucky enough to have that. And honestly, for the past 3 years, family is one of the support systems that has simultaneously been the most gratifying but also one of the ones that I struggled the most with, all the way out to my extended family. I’ve had family members tell me I’m faking it or exaggerating, that I’m not trying hard enough, that my fatigue and sheer exhaustion was just laziness, telling me that everyone experiences some aches and pains sometimes and to suck it up, and it was honestly just wearing me down. I had to learn to let go of those opinions. That if this is how anyone felt about me, even if they were family, they were wrong, and it was their problem if they didn’t want to accept my limits and let me accommodate for my own health. I knew my work ethic, i knew I wasn’t lazy, and I knew no one else had the same problems that I did at my age. I cared the most about my immediate family though. Truthfully, my dad didn’t want there to be anything wrong with me, and I looked healthy, so he struggled to accept that I am in debilitating pain often, and that I need to accept my limits, be honest about them, and pace myself, instead of just blindly pushing through these barriers like how he’s apt to do. But he’s also been there to make sure I have access to doctors appointments and the general healthcare that’s been helpful in trying to find solutions to this issue, and over time he’s gotten better about listening and accepting some of the harder stuff that comes with it. (Partially thanks to my mom.)  My mom has been the BIGGEST support. She’s didn’t fully understand the problem at first either, for similar reasons to my dad: I’m young and I appear healthy, and I’m her baby, so she didn’t want anything to be wrong. But she was able to begin to accept it so much quicker because she experiences a lot of the same things that I do, but for different reasons. She’s been my advocate for so long and has helped me research issues, look for doctors, and find solutions. She’s honestly just been a great and understanding companion as well. Her issues stem from osteoarthritis, but we carry pain in similar areas. Mine are just more nerve related, and honestly, it’s nice to have someone who on any scale just kind of gets it. We’re able to in a sense compare notes, talk about what helps, what doesn’t help for both of us, and take turns helping each other out on bad pain days. 

Friends:

There’s that old saying: you can’t choose your family, but you can choose your friends. And I have made many friends in my adult life who have been great, positive influences in not only how I deal with chronic illness, but also in how I treat myself. I have definitely made some draining and un-supportive “friends” along the way and have had to learn how to distance myself from them, but over time, even those friendships became learning experiences. I knew what not to look for in friends and the people who I surround myself with daily. But my best friends are the people I learn from and grow with daily and are honestly who I am most thankful for. My best friends from high school were the first to accept my health issues without pushing back. They were the first to really listen, and even if they didn’t understand, just hearing “I’m sorry dude. But these are your strengths and you’ve got this,” was so helpful. I think a majority of my friends either struggle with mental health or some form of chronic illness. Two of my more recent close friends struggle with chronic pain, one with migraines who is just as affected by weather as I am, and one who is in a similar boat with weird fluctuating symptoms, and more than a year’s worth of doctors appointments that lead to “normal” test results. And again, it is so nice to have people around and compare notes with what helps and what doesn’t help. And, I suppose sometimes misery loves company, but truthfully I think we all have used our problems as an outlet to learn the kind of patience and understanding it takes to help us all be aware of each others strengths and limitations and where we need to encourage one another or meet in the middle.

The same is true for my boyfriend. He’s been one of my best friends for the past seven years and he’s been a major help and support for me to learn how to accommodate for and manage my pain. He’s been there through all the frustration, tears, and just sheer agitation, and has met it with a tremendous amount of acceptance, patience, and understanding. Like genuinely, I am so lucky to have anyone who would even remotely be willing to offer that. I honestly never advocate for people who are struggling to seek out a significant other, because there’s a HUGE misconception that having a S/O will solve your problems. It doesn’t. But having someone in your life who knows you well, knows your strengths, and knows what you’ve been through is extremely comforting. At least in this situation, I’m including Matt as one of my supportive best friends, because, especially in regards to my health, I care way more about the friend aspect of our relationship. 

Pets:

Okay I know this sound silly, but having a pet has been one of the most helpful things in regards to dealing with my pain. I learn from my rabbit every day. She makes me step outside of myself. Taking care of her and having her company is just so therapeutic. It can be inconvenient at times. Like, cleaning out her litter box can be an sever struggle when I’m flaring up pretty bad, same with refilling her hay box and doing any kind of bigger work, but it’s not anything that’s not worth sacrificing for her, and I can usually manage. She doesn’t offer any advice for my health issues, and she can’t technically listen to or understand my problems, but sometimes we don’t need complex solutions or understanding to feel better. Sometimes we just need company.

Online Communities:

If you don’t have anyone else, online communities can be a HUGE help in connecting with others. Especially others like yourself. One of the biggest helpful tools I’ve stumbled across is a Facebook Group. It’s is a smaller group of people all over the globe who each deal with various chronic illnesses who also love fashion and self-expression. It’s an open forum to ask questions, to make self expression posts, to vent, to encourage each other, and to get help with some of the harder issues, because chances are, someone in the group has had a similar struggle. I recently had to ask about barometric pressure changes and if the affect anyone else, and how to deal with the weather as it comes, because it’s something I personally still struggle with, and some of the solutions and affirmations that came from asking truly helped. 

(Name and profile pic is blocked out for the privacy of the user.) Yourself:

You are your biggest support system. If all else fails, and trust me, I’ve been there, you have to learn how to rely on yourself.  If all we do is tear ourselves down, we have no way of helping ourselves back up. We need to make sure that daily we are making a point to build ourself up long-term so that we have a good foundation for our more difficult days. We need to make sure that we are putting in the work, time, and effort to take care of ourselves, understand ourselves, accept our problems and quirks, work on them as best as we can, and help ourselves every day. That way, when there are hard days, even when no one else is available, you have something within yourself to pull from to pick yourself back up. We can either be our own worst enemy or our best friend. That’s something that, regardless of any of these other relationships and resources, we are in control of and we can always improve on.  Overall: Seek out relationships that are healthy. Engage within them as healthily as you can! But most importantly, seek out a good relationship with yourself. Support systems often feel like everything, so it’s important that we invest in them whenever we can! Seeking out support systems is one of the many ways we can encourage ourselves to stay resilient!

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[thisisnotasafari]

Beautiful, yes, but I fell down the side of a mountain like this. Afya (Health)

I had malaria for the first time in September, only one month after arriving in Mahenge. Let me rephrase: I thought I had malaria for the first time, and no one did or said anything to make me think I didn’t. In Tanzania, malaria is like being innocent in our justice system: you have it until it is proven that you do not. And with good reason: The Center for Disease Control estimated that, in 2013, there were 198 million cases of malaria worldwide and more than 600,000 deaths, mostly occurring in the African region, and mostly children whose immunity to the disease has not matured. In 2012, the World Health Organization reported that malaria was the fourth highest cause of death in Tanzania, killing 20.9 million people. It all started one afternoon as I was pacing around my Form I English class. Because of the large number of students in each classroom, I tended to wander up and down the tightly arranged aisles between desks to keep an eye on the students in the back and make everyone nervous that I might steal up behind them. The view from the classroom windows looked out on the rolling plains, as distant as if I was looking at them from an airplane window. Heat shimmered like mist. As I gazed the window, trying to locate the horizon, my head began to vibrate. I felt as if I was in the direct path of the radiating heat waves. I propped myself up on a desk, while one of my students looked on, probably confused, while the weight of my bones threatened to pull me earthward. This spell continued for a few minutes until I made it to the end of class, and then stumbled to the staff room to report my condition. “You have malaria,” I was told cheerfully, as if I had sighted a rare and elusive animal. “You must go to hospital. Go, go now!”

Malaria is a mosquito-borne disease caused by different parasites belonging to the Plasmodium genus that commonly infect a certain type of mosquito. The disease generally begins to show after seven to thirty days of receiving an infective bite (the incubation period), and immediate symptoms include shivering, sweating, headache, vomiting, aching muscles, fatigue, and fever. Here’s where it gets complicated: in many countries, including Tanzania, education about malaria is prevalent and immediate treatment is generally available, but in other places where the disease is common, these symptoms are often attributed to other illnesses, a flu or fever, perhaps, and left untreated. In cases where malaria is not diagnosed or treated within days, serious organ failure and abnormalities in the blood can occur, as well as the onset of cerebral malaria,  (potentially causing loss of consciousness, coma, seizure, speech difficulties, deafness, blindness, and ataxia, or difficulty with movement). Pregnant women have an increased susceptibility to malaria, and contracting the disease during pregnancy can lead to severe problems, including low birth weight and a decreased chance of a child’s survival. Malaria is a particularly detestable disease because it kills so many people, despite the fact that it is almost completely preventable given the right resources. The disease is prevalent in Africa because of many contributing factors: a climate that allows the parasite, and the mosquito that hosts it, to thrive; weak infrastructure to stem the spreading of the disease; a lack of prophylaxis materials, including medication and mosquito nets; and the large financial burden of effective intervention methods. The good news is that the CDC reports the last ten years have brought a 45% decrease in malaria-related deaths due to a growing international effort to control and prevent the disease. Education about the disease, the availability of medication to treat it, and the supplying of mosquito nets and insecticides to prevent it are combining to reduce malaria’s disastrous impact, but the battle is far from over. Malaria was a daily scourge among my students and friend. People contracted it at the same rate, and treated it with the same level of seriousness, as people in the developed world treat a common cold. It was seen as a nuisance, or a necessary evil that rarely did any harm. But I saw my friends in the throes of a malaria-induced fever, and it is nothing to be taken lightly.

I was told I must go to hospital, so I went. The hospital in Mahenge is made up of a series of long, low buildings with corrugated steel roofs connected by covered walkways. There are people around, and a few nurses in lab coats, but mostly it contains a host of mysterious doors and windows into darkened, empty rooms, giving it the feel of a place that has been recently abandoned. I wandered around surprised to find people at work in offices, but more often surprised at the emptiness of entire wings. Bits of grass and leaves collected next to open doors and ancient stretchers stood vacant next to stained and peeling walls. The waiting room is just that: a large, roofed structure under which to wait. About fifteen people were already there when I arrived, carrying the requisite daftari (notebook) for the doctor to use to record my case. Little happened while I waited, save the wailing of a small, ill child and the worried murmuring of her parents. People with various ailments sat quietly with an air of resigned patience, staring vacantly at nothing. The wooden benches were rigid and uncomfortable, and I found myself entertaining the first stirrings of self-pity. My dizziness had subsided, giving way to a general fatigue that I thought surely indicated the presence of malarial blood parasites. I waited.

In addition to the ever-present threat of malaria, HIV and AIDS still claim the highest number of lives in Tanzania, killing more than 73,000 people in 2012 (World Health Organization). Despite the financial and human resources poured into awareness campaigns and education about this disease across Sub-Saharan Africa, its prevalence in Tanzania has not decreased in more than ten years. At Nawenge Secondary School, students were assigned research topics and essays about AIDS, but it was not a commonly taught topic in the classroom, owing to the community’s conservative social and religious beliefs. In my experience, sex education was virtually nonexistent, and an open discussion of preventative measures like condoms or birth control methods was rare. During my time spent in Namibia, condoms were provided by the government and could be found everywhere—in bars, restaurants, grocery stores, schools—anywhere people regularly congregated. By contrast, I did not once see any condoms distributed publically in Tanzania.

After thirty minutes spent waiting in a covered outdoor plaza ringed with wooden benches, a door to one of two consulting rooms opened and a young mother and father with a tiny child walked out, seemingly dazed, but smiling—perhaps they had just received good news, I thought. My neighbor on the wooden bench, an old man who I thought to be asleep, poked me in the shoulder and said, “Wewe,” you, go. As I entered the room, with Megan, my roommate for whom this experience presented no challenge, the doctor smiled and nodded as if he had been expecting me. I later found out that Mahenge has two doctors in residence: one tended to wander through town singing and muttering to himself for the better part of the day until it was time to hit the bar. One late night with Nick and Jonathan at Riverside, I saw him sitting in a white plastic chair in the middle of the dance floor with a large bottle of beer cradled in his arms, swaying contentedly along to the music as people wended their way around him. A few weeks later, on a walk to town, he joined me along the road, happily asking me nonsense questions in English, like, “What do you see over there? Who is it? Why is there that?” I nodded and smiled, walking a bit faster, until someone shouted at him and abruptly turned and staggered down a narrow alley. The other doctor, luckily, was the man in front of whom I now sat—a smiling, kind figure whose enthusiasm for my basic attempts at Swahili would have been welcomed were it not for the dizzying effects of the blood-borne disease I believed to be coursing through my veins. Megan described my symptoms (“My friend, he is sick, head and stomach”) and he nodded, and I nodded along with him, for lack of anything better to do. After talking to himself in Kiswahili, and scribbling some notes in my daftari, he switched to English: “You must return tomorrow. The lab will test your blood.” Tomorrow? Could I survive another twelve hours with undiagnosed malaria that was surely now infiltrating my immune system en route to my delicate and undefended cerebellum? Sensing my concern, he smiled again (he was awfully jovial for a man who deals with disease and death regularly, I remember thinking) and wrote down the name of a medication for me to take, then said, “Go to the dispensary, just there. Get the medication and start it today, just in case.” I nodded again, ending my consultation with a moment’s hesitation about the fact that surely there must be other questions to ask, were I not limited by my clumsy lack of language knowledge, before I stood and walked out into the fading afternoon sun.

Tanzania is, unfortunately, an easy place to get sick. A quick look through the Center for Disease Control’s list of recommended vaccinations for travelers to the country makes this abundantly clear. In addition to the normal vaccinations, flu and polio and measles, prevention against typhoid, Hepatitis A, Hepatitis B, Rabies, and Yellow Fever is highly recommended, along with the requisite malaria prophylaxis via shot or daily pill. I can report that the Yellow Fever vaccine is particularly unpleasant, with a needle the size of a Number 2 pencil. Once the vaccinations are complete, the CDC has a long list of recommendations for safe travel, among which is the admonition to consume only safe food and water, not including anything that is served at room temperature, from a street vendor, raw or soft-cooked, undercooked, unwashed or unpeeled, unpasteurized, or belonging to a category called, rather unpoetically, “bushmeat,” described as “monkeys, bats, or other wild game.” Other sound advice included avoiding tap water, well water, unpasteurized or fresh milk, and “local alcoholic drinks.” Duly noted, but the CDC did not count on the vehemence and persistence of the local retirees who invited me, every Friday afternoon, to join them in a cup of freshly brewed pombe (beer made from fermented maize) in the front yards on my way to school. (Even still, I heeded the warnings and sadly declined these kind invitations.) As I made my way home from the hospital, I felt an odd sense of pride welling in my chest. I am living with malaria, I thought. I am a survivor. They should make an inspirational commercial about me. Like Hemingway and the Crocodile Hunter, I had come to a wild and untamed place and dealt with the worst things it could throw at me. My dizziness, no doubt amplified by nervousness at the hospital, had subsided and I felt only a vague sense of imbalance, as if my center of gravity was a few degrees off. I should mention that the doctor, the day before, had given me the week-long dose of medication to treat malaria, but since they were out of the adult version, I got the child version, complete with brightly colored instructions and pictures of animals running along the top, as if a friendly giraffe would make me feel better. His instructions? Take two pills instead of one. In order to celebrate my first hospital visit and to nurse my malady, we decided to eat dinner at Riverside and avoid cooking. I sat quietly during dinner, with the righteous poise of a recovering invalid. “It’s not so bad,” I said. “Nothing to be afraid of, really.” How tough I was! How manly and stoic! The next morning, however, proved to be a test of my newly acquired ability to navigate a Tanzanian health-related emergency. Feeling somewhat stronger on my feet, I arrived back at the hospital first thing in the morning and sat down to wait. After a few minutes, I realized I was the only person there, and wondered whether the doctors kept different examination hours, or if I was fated to have an audience before the drunken doctor. I stood quickly and walked back out to the main covered walkway, determined to disappear before he might see me and continue asking me nonsense questions. I wandered for a few more minutes, but found no staff working in the empty whitewashed rooms I passed at regular intervals. One large room contained nothing but five rusty stretchers on thin metal legs.

Before I left for Tanzania, as I was learning the health and safety tips that would allow me to return without any missing limbs, my friends joked about the requirements for eating and drinking. “Whatever you eat, you have to boil it or peel it,” they said, “no matter what.” One even offered to buy me a vegetable peeler to carry with me at all times. As farfetched as these requirements seemed in a place with clean running water and fresh produce available all year, lack of food and water sanitation in Tanzania and much of the developing world leads often to a wide array of illnesses, including typhoid fever and dysentery, as well as the more severe schistosomiasis and Hepatitis A. Typhoid, not to be confused with Typhus, is a bacterial infection caused by Salmonella typhi, a nasty bacteria that spreads in the intestines and blood as a result of eating or drinking contaminated water. According to the CDC, risk factors for contracting typhoid include poor sanitation and hygiene, and traveling in the developing world. Like malaria, it is common in Tanzania, and particularly in Mahenge, due to the lack of adequate supply of clean water. As I watched people drink and bathe in water that collected in puddles or in gutters on the sides of the road, I cringed at what the effects could be, and often were. One of my friends contracted typhoid and I have never seen anyone look so uncomfortable. Let’s finish up diseases before we move on: Dysentery, a type of gastroenteritis, is caused by an infection in the intestines that leads to inflammation and severe diarrhea with the additional possibility of abdominal pain, muscle ache, and weight loss. Fun! Schisosomiasis, also known as bilharzia, is a parasitic disease spread by infected freshwater snails that literally invade the body through the skin and take up residence in blood vessels. Risks for contracting the disease include any contact with sources of fresh water, including bathing, swimming, fishing, handling or working with livestock, or doing laundry—many of the things Tanzanian people do regularly as part of daily life. Symptoms include fever, muscle ache, rash, itchy skin, and coughing; the disease is propagated by infected people urinating and defecating in common water sources. After years of infection with the parasite, severe damage to organs is possible, including anemia, inflammation, and scarring. That one is a real winner. Hepatitis A, a liver infection caused by the Hepatitis A virus, is caused by contact with an infected person or consuming contaminated food or water. Symptoms include all the big ones common to food-borne illness: fever, fatigue, nausea, vomiting, abdominal pain, joint pain, and jaundice. Many people, including children, who are infected with the disease do not show symptoms. I turned a corner and approached a covered walkway I had not yet taken, one that led away from the main part of the hospital toward the rear, where a few residential houses stood in the shade of a grove of banana trees. The first door I passed stated “LABORATORY” in large letters on the door. This seemed promising. I passed through an empty waiting room, containing darkly stained and tired-looking chairs and knocked on the glass door that led to the lab. A man in a lab coat looked up from a clipboard and motioned for me to enter. I held my daftari out in front of me as an explanation for why I was there, motioning like an idiot at the page where the doctor had scribbled “malaria.” The whole time, I was convinced that I would get in trouble for skipping a second examination by the doctor and setting out on my own to locate the lab. In case he didn’t get the gist, I said, or perhaps whispered out of nervousness, “Malaria. I need a test.” I never found out if he spoke English because he never spoke, but smiled and nodded as if I had confirmed a long-held suspicion. I could not tell how old he was—for one, I am a terrible judge of age. Once a person hits age sixteen, I can no longer accurately gauge how old they are. There is nothing so dangerous as when people coyly ask me at parties, “Guess how old I am?” I invariably guess on the wrong end of their desired spectrum and receive glares and huffy rebukes. The second difficulty is that people in Tanzania age very gracefully, showing very few signs of aging as I might notice them based on experience here. Their skin rarely shows wrinkles, their teeth are white and straight, and many people are already bald, so hair loss is not a reliable demonstrator of age. Many times I was shocked to find that a person I thought to be around age 30 was well past 50; other times, I realized that someone I took for an mzee, or old person, was much closer to my own age.

The technician pointed to a chair for me and walked to a glass-fronted cabinet across the room, bringing back a colorful cardboard package about the size of a thin paperback book. With a deft flick of his hand, he opened the box and pulled out a few molded-plastic instruments—the basic elements of a MRDT, or rapid-diagnostic malaria test. Now, remember that I was fully convinced at this point that I had malaria, and, with the self-righteousness of a martyr, was mentally prepared to suffer the consequences. The test would just be a formality to confirm my self-diagnosis. The lab technician moved with a subtle grace, the product of performing the same maneuvers and motions many times, and before I realized what was happening, pricked my finger and placed it on a piece of gauze held in an oblong disc of plastic. Smiling again, he removed the rest of the pieces and placed the test pad, now complete with my contribution, on the table in front of me and pointed at the clock. By this point, I was becoming incredibly adept at waiting patiently for indeterminate amounts of time for reasons I did not understand—it was a form of giving up control, a skill I imagine Buddhists try to attain through meditation and mindfulness. I was learning to accept things as they happened without planning, and one trick I developed was to engage in a complete observation of the things around me. Since virtually everything was new, I was constantly presented with a feast for my senses, even if the setting was an anonymous and slightly menacing laboratory room set deep in the recesses of an outdated hospital. Posters advertising health and safety tips in Kiswahili adorned the walls above more glass cabinets that stored medical equipment and supplies, most of which looking new or recently produced, in contrast to the ancient and rusting things I had seen hidden away in disused hallways. The technician moved with a quiet efficiency, giving off the air of someone who is used to being very busy and doing many things at once. I wondered how he had come to work in Mahenge. Was he posted here by the government? Was he a native who had gone away to school and returned to help his community? Perhaps he was a student, just passing through on a brief assignment? I thought about his day—had he woken up that morning, as I had, cursing the lack of electricity in his house, or was he accustomed to it? Did he make himself a cup of tea on the jiko? As the sun climbed past the mountains, set out on the road to walk to work? These are the questions I never answered, but always had running through my mind. How is my day different from yours? Is it different, or does a place change you and bring you in line with its routines? This man and I had never met, and we would never see each other again, but I found myself sharing time with him in an unlikely place—unlikely for me, anyway. For him, a lab and a white coat and a room full of medical equipment (in whatever form it could be procured) was his normal. Perhaps it was my state of extreme agitation and nervousness, or the remnants of the dizziness I had felt the day before, but I felt a strange and unexpected kinship with this quiet, graceful man. I imagined him here in this lab, hidden away from the rest of the hospital’s staff and patients, going about his daily tasks of conducting research and experiments, testing blood samples for malaria and other diseases, and helping to stop the spread of sickness and pain. It seemed a noble job, one that was likely beset by many challenges, including inadequate salary, an almost certain lack of resources, and the difficulty and inconvenience of living in a remote place. He had almost certainly gone to school in a large city, perhaps Dar es Salaam or even Arusha, and had now returned to the relative backwater of Mahenge. Like many of the teachers who escape to universities in cities, I wondered if he resented being here, in this quiet and remote town. Did he miss the fast pace of life in the city, or its nightlife’s glamour? Perhaps he had a family elsewhere, as many people did—was he able to see them, or talk to them? Were his children growing up without him? Did he dream of working in a hospital, or was it the only opportunity he had? How had he gotten here, and where was he going? I was brought back from these reveries when he touched my shoulder and pointed to the white plastic dish in his hand. My blood was smeared across its mouth and had faded to a rusty brown, the color of the clay soil near the river. “No malaria,” he said, pointing to the test strip next to my blood that could indicate the presence of Plasmodium falciparum, the nasty parasite I believed to have infiltrated my body. “Negative,” he said, holding the test closer. I sat up with surprise, thinking I had misheard him. It must have only been ten or fifteen minutes since I had arrived, but it felt like hours. “No malaria,” he said again with a small smile. “No malaria,” I repeated, probably sounding a bit slow. “So can I go?” He nodded with another patient smile pointed to the door. I stood and slowly walked toward it, my head spinning now with a rush of confusion, relief, and exhaustion. I turned back and said, “Asante,” thank you. He looked up from a pile of tests he was arranging on a shelf and said, “Asante na wewe.” Thank you, too. In a heady haze of relief, I navigated the same covered hallways and corridors, sunlight already streaming across them and casting long morning shadows on the concrete floors. The heat had risen during my short time in the lab, as it did every morning on my walk to school, and my shirt stuck to me after a few minutes. I made my way back to the road in front of the hospital. People had already begun to line up to see a doctor—babies wrapped in kanga fabric held close to mothers’ breasts, old people balanced on canes and held up by their children, a few students in school uniforms standing apart, knowing they would not have to attend school, at whatever cost it might bring. I who had (seemingly) escaped the clutches of a disease that afflicted so many of my neighbors, I wished them all well. This happened many times in many places in Tanzania, when I felt a bit of my love and my energy and my heart go out to people I had never met, and to whom I could not lend assistance apart from a kind word or a smile. Traveling sometimes is being an observer, a witness to the lives of others.

I had not contracted malaria, it was official. After a few days of rest and careful hydration, I began to feel better. My entire hospital visit, including the consultation, medication, and MRDT, cost me about 4,000Tsh, or somewhere around $2. Take that, corporate healthcare industry! According to the World Health Organization, malaria diagnosis free in Tanzania, and all patients should receive a diagnostic test. The WHO also confirms that ITNs, or insecticide-treated nets, are distributed free in Tanzania, but I did not see any evidence to confirm this. Most often, I saw nets for sale in markets and along the sides of the road. The CDC reports that ITNs can reduce malaria and other insect-borne diseases in children by up to 20%, which is a wonderful thing. Most homes in Mahenge that I saw personally were equipped with mosquito nets, including nets for children. But I also saw nets strung up between wooden stakes in a few front yards to serve as makeshift chicken coops, the bright blue netting a strange contrast to the brown earth. This does not mean that the people in those houses were not protecting themselves properly—I hope that they were, but undoubtedly the nets that prevented the chickens from running away could have been put to better use and might have prevented people from getting sick.

Apart from the constant threat of disease, other dangers lurked everywhere in Mahenge: slippery and muddy roads, bus rides, falling off the side of the mountain, standing water, snakes, large animals, dehydration, vitamin deficiency, sunstroke, lack of access to emergency medical care or evacuation—the list goes on. Proper hygiene is expected in Tanzania, perhaps to combat the spread of sickness or disease, and apart from the fact that not everyone bathes every day, leading to some pungent aromas in the classroom, everyone you pass on the road or in town will have neatly pressed clothes and look presentable. (Ironing was commonly done with a metal iron filled with hot coals that had to be kept at the perfect temperature to avoid burning or blackening clothes. Think of that the next time you complain about it.) I have mentioned before, numerous times, that my standards for personal hygiene fell precipitously. While I wore clean, pressed clothes to school every day, and was never seen in public looking less than respectable, I hardly ever felt clean. Why was this? A few factors included dirt roads, frequent walking and climbing, nearly constant sweating, as well as bucket showers and hand-washed clothes. Let’s talk about bucket showers. They are exactly what they sound like, and many people who have gone camping (or perhaps lived in a commune) might be familiar with them. The mechanics are thus: take a large bucket, preferably one of the red ones containing clean water, and place it next to the tub with a smaller, hand-held bucket accessible. Proceed to fill the smaller bucket and dump it over your head. For the full experience, make sure it is 5 am and completely dark outside, and that the bulb in the bathroom has burned out. Better yet, imagine that the power is out and you are attempting this by candlelight. Romantic, right? Right up until the neighbor’s pig starts squealing from outside the window. I assure you, you’ll be wide-awake after the water hits your skin, and until you start shivering uncontrollably, you have about two minutes to clean your entire body and hair. Soon, you’ll have the whole thing down to a science that involves using shampoo as soap and somehow bathing while keeping half your body dry.

Hand-washing clothes is another treat. It involves two buckets on the kitchen table, one for washing and one for rinsing, and a great quantity of powdered soap. There’s a scrubbing method that I picked up after a while that involves using your palms to grind the material against itself and thereby remove dirt grime, and chafe your hands beautifully. At the outset of the year, we hung all of our clothes on a laundry line strung between our house and the remnants of an old wooden gazebo in our yard, but when that went missing, I tied up my own laundry line across my room. Underwear cannot be hung outside to dry because it’s considered inappropriate to display it (and they really don’t like my collage of Victoria’s Secret models), so I have to set up a chair in my room and let it air-dry, hoping in vain for a cross breeze. (I once hung a load of underwear up that took four entire days to dry.) Jeans and sheets are the toughest part because they take an eternity to dry, but I think I washed both things once over the course of a year, so overall I didn’t mind. And I would still say hand-washing is preferable to sitting in a Laundromat.

Toward the end of the year, I grew very concerned about the fact that I could not get out of Mahenge. Quite literally could not get out, even if I wanted to. This was not a matter of lack of will. Cowboys on bad TV shows often say, with a forlorn look of self-pity, “Oh, we’re all stuck in this town, baby,” while trying to get into the pants of the flashy New York lawyer who found her way into the bar while researching a family law case (I just invented this plot, by the way, but I think it has some promise), illustrating the plight of a someone who might feels literally trapped by his situation. In reality, he has a large number of methods of egress available to him: he could hop on a Greyhound bus, call a taxi, charter a boat, steal a car, purchase a plane ticket, or ride the rails ‘til judgment day. In short, he has options. I had a few measurable skills! I had ambition by the truckload! But unlike the bad TV show guy, I was stuck with no way out.

During the rainy season, the roads are all but gone, turned to soupy mud, and buses and cars cannot get through. If something happened to me (or anyone else, but toward the end of the year I was selfishly focused on my own health), adequate emergency care was completely inaccessible. Even if I was able to get to the hospital in Mahenge, many medical authorities discouraged it, given that the standards of care were not anywhere near global standards. (I heard stories of men with broken bones being given a stick and some rope to fashion their own casts.) What an idea, this remoteness! This disconnectedness! Even in remote areas in the United States, medical assistance is almost always available via whatever means necessary, including helicopter evacuation in extreme circumstances. Was anyone going to chopper me out of Mahenge to get to a hospital, if the need arose? I think not. This played all kinds of tricks on my already tired brain, including one memorable psychosomatic instance of chest pains for which I, in a state of panic, called a kindly doctor in Dar es Salaam who reminded me, over and over, that he could not diagnose anything over the phone and if I wanted to see him, I had to come to his office. He said the address a few different times, and I struggled to explain that I could not get there, even if I started walking that very minute. In order to make it to Dar, I would have had to get some kind of transportation out of Mahenge, which in itself would be tricky, given that not many people had cars and the daily buses were not running daily due to the muddy roads. They would get stuck and have to be pushed the remainder of the way, churning wheels-deep in glutinous, sticky brown mud, or abandoned until the road dried up. If I did get on a bus, I ran the risk of getting stuck in the bus, as happened on the night I returned to Mahenge from Cape Town, and worse, not receiving a refunded ticket.

I experienced all kinds of aches, pains, cramps, spells of dizziness, bites, and scrapes, and each time I grew convinced that this particular symptom was the long-expected harbinger of my doom. Due to my perambulatory commute to school every day, I was getting excellent amounts of exercise, and I drank copious amounts of water. Undoubtedly, my lackluster and unbalanced diet of carbs in many forms did not play a starring role in my good heath, and I sometimes felt weak and dizzy, but I chalked it up to hunger and lack of protein. In my room, I kept a small book of travel health tips, listing common illnesses and how to treat them. After a few months, I hid it away in a corner to keep from consulting it hourly and pronouncing my own diagnosis (undoubtedly I had contracted jaundice, diphtheria, or some other crazy malady and would walk around the house declaiming the symptoms one by one and confirming that yes, I had experienced leg tremors, heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, and a tendency to fall unexpectedly asleep—or whatever they happened to be). I constantly created contingency plans for how I would get myself, or one of my friends, to medical care. They went something like this: “Okay, so if I fall down and break a leg, I’ll call Nick at the mine and he can maybe drive down with the Land Rover and pick me up, but the Land Rover will get stuck on the way from the mine, so maybe I can haul myself up and get a big stick to use to pull myself along . . .” and on and on in endless permutations. Luckily, nothing terrible happened to any of my friends, apart from a few chipped teeth on rocky rice and some bouts of malaria. I made it through relatively unscathed, apart from both malaria scares (the other while on safari in Selous Game Reserve), a cough and a cold every now and again, and the story that I will now relate of how I found myself on, and subsequently tumbled dramatically down, a mountainside in Arusha in the middle of a rainstorm. I sustained an injury during this tumble that plagues me to this day—a lasting reminder of the potential dangers that lurk everywhere, and a testament to my good fortune that nothing worse befell me.

***

A series of interesting events led to my presence on this mountainside in Arusha, in northern Tanzania, long before I slipped and tumbled heels-over-head down its vast and gelatinous slopes. I was on winter break with friends in Arusha, home to Mount Meru, the second tallest mountain in Tanzania after you-know-who (4,562.13 meters/14,968 feet). Consequentially, my friends wanted to hike. It seemed like the thing to do. We booked a day hike at a tourist office in town. The night before, we stayed out til 5:30 am and drank very minimal amounts of water. You’re nodding your head knowingly. We have all been there.

Fast forward a bit: my room at the hostel was the size of a coffin, if a coffin was triangular and had a window overlooking the busiest street in Arusha that came alive at 6 am with honking, yelling, and singing. (Traveler’s Note: If you ever find yourself in Arusha, Tanzania, don’t stay at the Arusha Backpackers. Sleep on the street before you sleep there.) We had to be ready to leave for the hike by 6:30 am. (Again, we got home at 5:30 am. Like got in the door. Like didn’t even make it into bed.) Next: shouted entreaties through hostel doors to see if everyone was still alive and hike-ready, a bumpy taxi ride, a miles-long (seemingly) walk to a house with a brocaded couch and a multitude of tiny kittens, a rigidly polite Tanzanian breakfast of chai and bread with butter, and the kind of tiredness that throbs in waves through your entire body. Keep in mind that there was no water, only milky chai. I might have had Africafe in hopes of caffeinating myself sufficiently to endure what was to come, but honestly, who remembers.

The day was beautiful, all sunny skies and swirling clouds backed by the crumbling peak of Mount Meru in the distance. But because we were in the mountains, things changed quickly. Our guide, John, for whom I still possess a range of apologetic-to-angry feelings, was enthusiastic in the way that comes from having to deal with cranky tourists who are forced to walk through forests and talk to the locals. By those standards, we were probably the best tour group he’d had in months . . . until I almost scissor-kicked him to certain doom. As we climbed, dark rainclouds rose over the mountain and we soon found ourselves in a deluge, struggling to find shelter under the trees. It quickly passed, but came around again. Those rainstorms, especially in Mahenge, were always coming around again, and again, and again. Then it passed, bright sunlight dappling the trees, kids running shyly alongside us, then it came back again and drenched us once more. The clouds were incredibly complex and beautiful, especially right before it rained. Because of the high elevation I could see storms coming across the plains until they were right on top of us. I watched the clouds pile up over each other like layers of icing on a cake.

The path we were to take down the mountainside was set at about a 90-degree angle to the horizon, and now it was wet. Did this stop our fearless leader? He had a safari hat and comfortable shoes! Nothing stopped him. Down we went, and down I went. I tumbled down the incline for about thirty meters, repeatedly losing my footing and falling again, until I grabbed the curve of a sapling to steady myself. I felt a slight popping sensation, then a twinge of pain, and there went my shoulder. I heard a rip and everything. That was about it for me, or so I thought. “I’ll see you jerks later,” said I. “I’ll be right here, under this shady grove of trees, where I will ponder my place in the universe and soon succumb to devastating dehydration. Do alert my kin.”

No sooner had I nestled myself against a tree than a little dude, probably about 7 or 8, popped up over the hill and asked me, in Swahili, if I was coming. I answered in the negative. He repeated his question and pulled me up by my hands. I heard the guide calling me, a smile in his voice, barely audible down the path. Fine, I thought. If this is how I go, fine. Navigating down the slippery, treacherous path, riddled with false turns and drop-offs and mud the consistency of melted Ghirardelli, roots and branches sticking up like the severed and discarded limbs of my predecessors, I had a fair time keeping my mental energy up, let alone my physical. This kid saved me, truly.

He held my hand every step down the mountain, cutting footholds for me with a sharp rock and telling me when to wait and when to go, and pointing with a stick at the exact spot to place my foot. He, and a few of his confederates who I found when I arrived at the base of the ravine, for that’s what it was, had accompanied my friends and stayed with us the whole time we walked in and around a snaking, shallow river (in Vans slip-ons, don’t forget, or barefoot, as I was the entire way down the mountain, uncomplainingly carrying my shoes and saturated socks) to find the fucking waterfall that was our destination.

Anything less than a majestic cataract of epic proportions would have been a waste of my time and not worth withstanding dehydration, a determined hangover, and numerous very real threats to my bodily health and mental fortitude. But we made it and it was beautiful. Oh, and situational update: now we had to make it back before the rains, which were mildly bothered on our descent but had now worked themselves up into a boiling froth, re-soaked the path, and made the ascent nearly as treacherous as the way down.

Our faithful guide, ever optimistic, to his credit, pulled us into an unplanned pit stop at a small guard station, a hut, really, on the side of the path. The guards, about five of them not counting the one passed out asleep, were there to protect the coffee plantations in the area from marauding coffee thieves, I suspect. The hut, two rooms decorated in the typical Tanzanian style of not at all, was a welcome shelter from the rain, but I felt bad for sitting on someone’s mattress in awkward silence while the guards leered at my female friends. The rain continued, unabated, for quite some time, but still the slumberer slept on. I am convinced he knew we were there and feigned sleep just the same, but who can blame him. They, or actually the unluckiest of them, were cooking ugali on a fire outside under a corrugated steel shelter, with the familiar stirring and kneading of the frothy white concoction, but the situation didn’t seem as if an invitation to eat would be forthcoming. Unperturbed, we departed about thirty anxious minutes later into the forest, waving goodbyes to our newfound, silent friends.

A roundabout walk through the forest that had, only that morning, seemed so idyllic and friendly followed, including, in no particular order: the passing of a rogue cow, rain-saturated goats bleating stupidly in small groups, and a spell of waiting under the holey tarp roof of a Masai church, complete with a cruficix of branches and a rudimentary pulpit, during which I watched water drip through the rents in the fabric and contemplated the dangers of trying to drink them to stave off my dehydration vs the diseases I would undoubtedly contract as a result. I remember that the tarp was blue and the sky was slate gray with white patches around the edges, as if lit from within.

Once we made it down the main road to the starting point, after what seemed like (and probably was) hours, our guide insisted, in his typical indomitable fashion, that we end the tour with the requisite trip to a Wa’arusha home, part of the “cultural tourism” aspect of the trip that was only “thirty minutes” away on foot. I think our groans told him that a joke of that nature was liable to get him assaulted, or just tipped a lot less, so with haste he led us through winding fields of corn and cabbage to a traditional Wa’arusha domicile and proceeded to narrate the entire situation of the family—while they were sitting there cooking and going about their business. We were encouraged to go inside, to see the dark, smoke-filled living space, smell the odor that occurs when animals cohabitate with people, and gawk at the small sleeping spaces and primitive cooking supplies. It was very odd, especially considering that our guide hailed from the same town and was of the same tribe. He even suggested I take pictures, which I did grudgingly, though oddly, none of them seemed to have survived. The woman of the house sat proudly stirring her cooking and not looking at us in the manner of someone who has ignored certain things for a long time and will continue to do so. I was faintly comforted by the knowledge that a portion of our tour fee went to help these families, but I still can’t quite square “cultural tourism” with the de-humanizing effect it often has on the people it is meant to celebrate.

Once we made it back, for good, to the house from which we began, tipped our guide (generously, for after all else, he had led us out alive), and declined any further (strongly suggested) donation to the local schools (seeing that they were in much better condition than the schools at which we already taught), we piled in the taxi and I trained my eyes out the window for the first duka with water. My dehydration at this point had passed the stage of a theory and become a fervent belief (accompanied by my own belief that I did not want to end up in hospital). We finally located one, after a ride down a dry and corrugated road, and our friend was dispatched to get water. After a little agonizing wait during which she shopped around for banana prices and surveyed the kanga selection, looking for gifts, she brought it to us, in big, shiny, blue plastic bottles, and at long last, with a pain in my shoulder and a dizzy head, I held in my hands the key to my salvation.

Later that night, showered and rehydrated and feeling very proud of myself, I realized that the kid who had helped me down the mountain, carrying my shoes and holding my hand, was now the proud owner, intentionally or otherwise, of my dirty black socks.

***