The Fish That Swim in My Head

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I call Abbott Northwestern Hospital. I want a CT scan. I want to see my brain on paper. I want analysis, diagnosis, reassurance that it's all there, all in working order. I will remain motionless in a large steel cylinder for as long as it takes. The words I want to hear? Your brain is healthy. Everything is in working order. You go, girl.

I am transferred to the proper desk, and I explain myself. The woman doesn't get it. Do you have a referral? she asks. I say no. Were you in an accident? Have you experienced bleeding? No, no bleeding, I tell her. But I do have an intense migraine every six or seven weeks. It always lasts three days. She is silent for a moment. She isn't sure what to say and explains that the CT scan policy requires a patient referral from a licensed doctor.

Okay, I say. How about an electro-encephalogram?

She seems annoyed. Are you epileptic? she asks. No, I say. I have never had a seizure, but I do have these fits now and then when I feel like my head is coming apart.

She is silent again. Then, What is your name?

I tell her. Listen, I say. What difference does it make whether I have a referral? If I am able to pay for it, why can't I have it done?

She is confused. I'm going to give you two names, she says. One is a headache specialist; the other is a psychiatrist. Perhaps they can help you.

Are you my referral? I ask.

She hangs up.

I don't need a shrink. If I have unresolved issues, I want to keep them. Imagine having nothing to work though. I'm curious, is all, about what's inside my head. Maybe I'm bored. Maybe, at 34, I want to learn something new about myself. My hands are restless. And, every month or two, a school of small silver fish swim from the periphery across my retina. In the flash and shimmer of scales, I see a warning both frightening and familiar.

The fish in my head skitter and swarm, all together now, like neon tetras: magnetized, of one mind. They spring from the deep into the aqueous humor of my eyes, a fleeting school of grunion, a run of smelt. And when the lights appear, flashing and blue against the purple sky lining my forehead, I brace myself. These are lights of distress.

Within an hour, the fish have gone. I want them back. In their wake is a sudden darkness, a burst of black ink. The left side of my face has gone numb, except for the fault line, the thin stream of pain flowing from its gnarled source in my left shoulder, up my neck, arcing over my ear into the watery blue pool of my left eye. Its ending, where cornea meets air, is metallic and sharp. I am nauseated. My sinuses click with static pressure, and I believe a creature gilled and green may find birth in my face.

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