5. The Hardest Button To Button
FIVE
THE HARDEST BUTTON TO BUTTON
MILA
Holy fucking shit, that crying is annoying.
It doesn’t let up.
Can someone shut her the fuck up?
Jesus fucking Christ, some of us are trying to sleep.
Oh, wait.
It’s me.
Goddamn bitch. That’s loud.
The wailing leaves my chest in painful ripples, like the tide, coming in and out, washing me along with it. My own voice feels like knives stabbing my ears, pressure constricting my skull until it feels like it might explode from the sound of my pain.
I can’t wipe the tears, can’t reach up to hold myself. The feeling induces momentary panic, my wailing turning into screams of fear.
“Shh, you’re alright, dear.” The nurse’s hand on my shoulder urges my eyes to open.
My lids are heavy, easy to drop again with a sleepiness that overpowers any sort of will to stay alert. It’s the damn wailing that forces them back open again, out of a sheer need to cry for help.
“Shhh.” She shushes me like a mother does a newborn.
But I can’t remember why.
Thoughts flutter through my brain, but they’re gone before I can grab them, disintegrating before I have a chance to anchor them in my mind and make sense of anything.
The cycle continues—the wailing, the shushing, the frustration of forgetting.
The doctor stands above me, but even his name feels like a distant memory.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, reaching down to touch me.
I try to pull back, but the bed holds me in place.
I’m strapped down from the neck to my waist. The doctor grins, but there’s no friendliness left in his expression.
“You’ll be a little confused the next day or so.
You’ll struggle with short-term memory as well, but we’ll continue these treatments a few times a week until you’re feeling better. ”
“Better?” I don’t understand.
My head pounds, a sharp ache that hammers at my temple.
The doctor sighs, as if he’s already explained it a million times. “Yes, Camila. This was your decision. We are on the third of ten electroconvulsive therapy treatments.”
My panic builds. I don’t know what any of those words mean. “W-wh—”
“Joy, let’s get her to her room to rest and recuperate,” he says to the nurse, not bothering to look at me.
She nods, reaching for me, cold fingers searching my skin until she finds whatever she’s looking for. The nurse gives me no warning when she peels the first sticker pad off my forehead.
“What is that?” I mumble, the headache becoming harder to ignore.
“For the electrodes.” She’s slow to speak, patient even, but nothing she says means anything to me.
“For what?” I need clarity. I can’t think, can’t even remember what the topic of conversation is.
“It’s best we get you to your room. Try not to overexert yourself. We can pray together again, if you’d like.” She rips a few more pads off the other side of my head. “I’ll get you something for the headache.”
I’m slurring my words, my eyes fighting to stay open and my body desperate for more sleep. She’s only gone from my side for what feels like a second, but it’s enough for me to doze off again.
“Here, take these.” The nurse nudges me, a paper cup filled with water in one hand and a couple of pills in the other.
“What for?” I can’t remember.
“The headache, dear.” She pushes the palmful of pills toward me.
“Why does my head hurt?” I’m so confused. Everything is too loud, too white, too much.
She sighs. “From the treatment, Camila.”
“What treatment?” I wince, staring up at her, the bright lights too much for my tired eyes.
“Let’s get you to your room so you can rest. Prayer will help.”
“What time is it?” Everything is so bright. It can’t be night yet.
But a nap sounds good, so I nod.
The nurse helps me down from the bed, a few more electrodes still attached and a Band-Aid now on my arm where the IV once sat. “What’s this?” I ask.
She hesitates before answering. “From the procedure, dear.”
All I have is a dark space in my mind where cohesion used to live. “What procedure?”
“The doctor will be happy to explain anything further after you’ve had some sleep. Maybe we can visit the chapel tomorrow morning.” She smiles. It’s reassuring, sweet, nurturing—all the things nurses are supposed to be.
None of it reaches me or provides me comfort.
There’s a pit in my stomach. I’m missing something, forgetting everything, but I can’t recall what it was.
She wheels me down the corridor where every door looks the same: a pale pink color that matches the same clothes every person walking by is dressed in.
Like a uniform.
“Am I in jail?” I ask.
The woman pushing me laughs. “Why would you be in jail, dear?”
“For killing Naya.”
The wheelchair stops, and her face comes down to my level, eyebrows furrowed before she shakes her head. “Who’s Naya?”
I whine, her questions hurting my brain. “She’s right next to you.”
She pushes open the door, revealing two beds perfectly made but with no warmth, no personal touch to the room that says life exists here.
“What is this?” I ask.
“Your room, Camila.” Nothing about her expression exudes tolerance or patience, but still, she extends her arms to help me up.
The room spins, but she doesn’t slow, walking me to the nearest bed. The nurse pulls the sheets back, helping me lie down, even tucking me in like my mother used to. “Get some rest. I’ll have them keep your lunch warm in case you don’t wake up. Try to pray, if you can.”
I hum a little sound of discomfort, my eyes already closing on their own.