Her alarm shrieked as she struggled toward consciousness, fighting against the current of exhaustion that ran through her veins. She broke the surface and opened her eyes. Taking stock of her body, things looked good: all limbs accounted for, none on fire. Maybe she would make it to that appointment today. She sat up, reeled. No shower today, the dizziness told her. Her stomach was silent, though; she would be allowed to eat breakfast. Small mercies.
She was late to the bus stop. Of course she was. Even without the shower, getting dressed had taken work. She had needed fifteen minutes and half a bottle of water to recover. She shouldn’t have taken the time to make coffee, but there was always time for coffee. She drank deeply from her travel mug, trying to stave off the wind’s chill. It didn’t work. The wind hit her like a truck, setting alight the muscles that had been so kind that morning. After the twenty minutes she would be waiting for the next bus, she would need a long time in a hot bed to appease them. She wouldn’t get it.
The man sitting across from her looked pitying. They always looked pitying. When he spoke, it was with the gentle condescension with which one might address a child.
“I understand that you struggle sometimes, Miss Cavendish, but when you enrol in a course, you’re agreeing to meet certain responsibilities. You understand that, don’t you? You’ll have to try harder to make it to tutorials if you want to continue to study here.”
He smiled in a way he clearly thought was disarming, but it brought a sour taste to her mouth. She couldn’t bring herself to feel disappointed. It had been the same story every time she’d tried to study since she was fifteen. A couple of months as the best and brightest, then the flare up, the rapid decline in attendance, the offer of support from the faculty, the expectation that she would bounce back quickly, the increasingly terse communications, the “motivational” meeting, the parting of ways.
This time was supposed to be different. She was supposed to be working within her parameters. Not overreaching, that had been the plan. Studying part time, only taking on what she could handle. Maintaining her physical therapy. Listening to her body, not pushing herself too hard. It sounded great on paper. It might even have worked, if it had been allowed to happen.
She became aware that he was staring at her. He expected her to respond, and the silence had stretched on too long. She cleared her throat, tried to smile.
“As I’ve explained to you, Mr Campbell, I don’t just struggle, and it’s not just sometimes. Believe me, if I can leave my house, I’m here. But if I can’t stand, I can’t make it to class. I do my coursework, and I pass my exams. I have presented you with several assistive technologies which would allow me to participate in tutorials remotely, but you in your infinite wisdom have decided that would be unfair to other students. I really don’t know what else you expect me to do.”
Okay, she probably shouldn’t have insulted him. Showing her frustration had never led to a positive outcome, but sometimes it was too much. She could see his face twisting into the kind of sympathy that inevitably gave way to a lecture on her health. If he suggested yoga, she was out of there, to hell with the degree.
“We’re only asking for twelve hours a week, Miss Cavendish. Perhaps if you paid a little more attention to what you’re eating…” he ventured delicately.
Meeting over. She stood perhaps a little too abruptly; her advisor definitely looked startled.
“Thank you for your time, Mr Campbell. I’ll do my best to take your advice on board.”
She couldn’t make it to the bus stop by the time she left. Her muscles screamed at her, and that familiar pinch was starting behind her eyes. She hoped the migraine wouldn’t hit before she reached the safety of her bedroom. She hoped she’d have time to sleep it off before work. She hoped she could afford the uber home. She ordered it anyway.
“Wow, you must be older than you look!” joked the driver. “Or maybe you don’t know the area? The address the app’s giving me is only about a kilometre away.”
She grimaced, but it must have passed for a smile. The driver looked as if he expected her to respond with a similar jest.
“I know.” She managed. She didn’t elaborate. She needed to keep her uber rating high.
Her alarm shrieked again. Time for work. This time when she swam into wakefulness, her stomach lurched and she could taste bile at the back of her throat. Ice picks lanced through her temples. What little light she allowed into her room, her little sanctuary, seared her eyes. She dragged herself into a sitting position and took stock of her muscles. The damage the cold had done was gone, but her neck and shoulders were stiff, barely mobile. The migraine hadn’t been swayed by her nap. If anything, it felt as if waking herself early had angered it. Still, if she didn’t log into work, she wouldn’t get her pension. She wouldn’t be able to afford her physio. She wouldn’t be able to afford much at all.
“Hello, this is Sophia calling on behalf of the Garvan Institute of Medical Research, how are you today?”
She tried to sound cheerful, as if the headset she was wearing didn’t feel like a vice. As if the short distance between her bed and her desk hadn’t felt like a marathon. As if the dial tone before every call didn’t feel like needles threaded through her brain.
“No sir, I’m not selling health insurance. I’m just calling to tell you a bit about the life saving work we do here at the Garvan Institute. We’ve been operating in Sydney for a little over fifty years, and it’s our goal to find the causes of and answers to many of the world’s most deadly diseases. We work across six main areas of research, and those are -”
He was gone. She didn’t mind, it felt as if her tongue wouldn’t obey her. She was one step away from slurring, and she wasn’t sure she could have made it through the rest of the pitch if he’d let her. She couldn’t do it. She logged out, sent an email to scheduling, and crawled back into her bed and the sweet abyss beyond.
It wasn’t her alarm shrieking at her when she awoke next. The dulcet tones of AC/DC’s Hells Bells brought her careening back to awareness. She checked the caller ID before answering, it was her manager. Apparently one uncomfortable meeting wasn’t enough for one day.
“We let you work from home, and we let you set your own hours, but we have an obligation to our client that they know how many agents will be working and when.” Ms Nguyen began after the standard niceties and appropriate sympathetic noises. “Clearly you can’t manage the hours you’re giving yourself. How many hours do you think you can handle? Because these absences can’t continue.”
She took a deep breath before responding. It wasn’t the first time they’d had this conversation.
“It’s not a matter of how many hours I can work. When a migraine hits, I can’t stay on the phones. I applied to be moved to the inbound team, remember? So that I wouldn’t be taking as many calls and migraines would be less likely.”
“That won’t be possible if we can’t rely on you.” Her no-nonsense boss interrupted. “We’re doing our best to help you, Sophia. You have to give us something in return. I’m limiting your hours for a while, we’ll see if that helps.”
She was already doing the minimum number of hours to meet her job requirements, but limited hours was better than no job at all. She’d need to meet with her case manager, but that was tomorrow’s problem. For now, it was all she could do to thank Ms Nguyen and say goodbye before sleep claimed her again. Dinner wouldn’t be possible, but maybe she’d sleep through the night and the pangs of hunger wouldn’t have a chance to bother her. Small mercies.
