In the Beginning, Part I

December 26, 1994. I was a senior in high school in Green Bay, Wis., and I was enjoying the holiday break. I needed it. I was exhausted.

The day after Christmas was never fancy, and that night’s supper was no different. Two of my older brothers- both home from college, two younger sisters, two parents and me crowded around the big kitchen table. We were reaching over and around each other for the rolls, some kind of Jell-O concoction, a tray of Christmas cookies baked by Mom and decorated by us… and a big casserole dish in the middle of the table with a spoon as big as a ladle in it. It was some kind of leftover casserole- throw some noodles and cream of chicken soup in with yesterday’s turkey and it was tonight’s main course.

It was my turn to do the dishes that night. Doing dishes was horrible. With seven people and no dishwasher, it was a lot of work. The caked-on casserole was always a pain in the ass. It was my night to scrub away the remnants of dinner.

But as I began to finish supper, I didn’t feel well. There was no particular problem, I just felt awful. I was 17, and I had never been sick before. Sure, I had a few colds or sore throats like all the other kids, but that was it. So I couldn’t figure out what this was. I felt lethargic and light-headed... It was as if I had taken Benadryl.

“Mom, can I be excused? I’m going to lie down for a minute. I don’t feel so good,” I slurred.

“Don’t you want a Christmas cookie?” she asked.

I didn’t even reply. I just knew I needed to get to my bed.

My brother, Joe, shared dish duty with me and yelled out, “She’s just doing that to get out of doing dishes!” I had always been a fighter and a tomboy. If I had had any energy at all I would have shot back some wise-ass remark. More words would follow, then a couple hits or punches… and I’d take my place at the sink.

But not this time. I did not have the energy to even pause before collapsing on my twin bed. As I curled into a ball on my side, my stomach began to throb. I had closed the door behind me, and there was just a faint glow from the kitchen underneath, barely showing the pink and green swirls on my comforter. I stared at those colors as I hugged my stomach like a football player hugs a football when he’s running into a cluster of big burly men… like people huddled under a bus stop vestibule when the temperature drops to 20 below zero and they haven’t dressed appropriately and they’re trying desperately to keep whatever warmth they have left in their bodies underneath their coats.

I began to cry. It was still Christmas, really. We got new stuff. We got new games to play tonight. My brothers and sisters fought a lot, but we played together ALL THE TIME. Why did my tummy hurt so much? What did I eat? Mom was going to yell at me. If that sounds odd, it should.