The week before my collapse, I was working on a cost reduction proposal for the hospital board. Three hospitals, eight clinics, nine hundred employees, and an executive team that wanted miracle savings without reducing services or angering donors. I slept four hours a night. Sometimes three. I drank coffee until my hands trembled and ate vending machine crackers for dinner.
My assistant, Keisha, kept putting protein bars on my desk like offerings to a stubborn god.
“Jessica,” she said one Friday evening, standing in my doorway with her arms crossed, “you look like a ghost who has student loans.”
“I’m fine.”
“You are gray.”
“It’s the lighting.”
“It’s your soul leaving your body.”
I laughed because Keisha was funny, and because laughing made it easier to ignore the pressure in my chest.
My phone buzzed. Mom.
I declined.
Leave a Comment