Long Weekend Cut Short

 

Elle Sanchez

 

 

After sitting for ten hours on a Red Coach USA bus on a mid-October day, my legs had grown tired and my arms sore. It was early on in the afternoon but I hadn't been on direct sunlight since the day before. Once I could get up to exit the bus, I immediately cracked my hip joints and stretched out my arms. I stepped off the bus and blinked several times to adjust my eyes to the bright sunlight that was shining on Tallahassee, Florida, before walking over to the luggage station.

 

With my bag on my left shoulder and my sunglasses now placed on my head, I was enveloped in a hug from my best friend who currently attended Florida State University, since she graduated from our high school the year before. I stumbled slightly and my duffle bag slid down my arm to my side. I was led to my friend’s apartment, where I would be staying for the long weekend - away from school, away from my home in Miami, away from familiarity. It was one of my last weekends as a high school student, and I was determined to enjoy every minute of it.

 

After unlocking the front door and traveling up two flights of stairs, we entered my best friend’s room where I could leave everything I had brought until my bus ride back home four days later on Monday morning. The first day went well; we had gone out to eat at a local restaurant across from one of the student apartment buildings that hid on the border of campus next to a little restaurant known as “The Sweet Shop” that wouldn’t get noticed if it weren’t for the fact that it’s an envied apartment building for first year students. Afterward, we went home to get ready for our night out. Everyone had gotten dressed in jeans or leggings with tanks and Ts that weren’t appropriate for one of the coldest weekends Tallahassee had seen that winter. Florida never really gets cold by Boston standards but, for us beach bums, 40s and 50s called for more layers than we wanted to wear.

 

That first night was fun and familiar, but bland. We arrived at Pot’s, a popular shabby college bar just a couple minutes’ walk from the street that was crowded with sorority and fraternity houses, and stayed there until the late hours of the night or early morning, depending on who you ask. We all acknowledged we were drunk before midnight, and then each drank about three more drinks than we should have. The cheek kiss has never been more robotic than that night. Meeting new people became boring to me because it was so routine; no one and nothing stood out. Each of us held our cups for unlimited refills we were given in exchange for showing our 21+ IDs while we talked about memories, gossip, and people from back home. When the bar started to empty out, we decided to walk back to campus because, as per usual, we were being cheap about paying for a cab. It seemed too normal for our friend group, and maybe that sense of dullness is what got me to push myself out of my comfort zone on the next night. Like earlier that day, we unlocked the door and made our way up two flights of stairs. I drifted to sleep the second I got myself into bed. The next morning, I was awoken by a familiar face who nudged me until I finally opened my eyes and agreed to go downstairs for breakfast.

 

This second night wasn’t too familiar. After breakfast and some coffee my best friend and I went through our routine of laying out of the couch, grabbing lunch, and watching movies and Netflix throughout the day, and debating what to do that night. We decided that going to a local club would be a good idea; I'm not sure if we agreed or if she just convinced me enough for me to give up my opinion. Everyone was dressed in skirts that left our legs freezing, and blouses that were too thin to be worn on a night that cold. We left the apartment and made our way to someone else’s home for the pre-game. We spent the next hour or so there, fixing up make up, preparing ourselves for the night, and listening to music. This home was not a familiar spot for me; neither was the club whose doors we were making our way to soon after.

 

The night seemed like a bad idea for someone like me who dislikes clubs from the beginning. The feeling in my gut turned out to be right since, to this day, I can only remember being in that club for about an hour or two. No, we didn’t go home after a couple of hours, nor did we decide to head to a different venue. The reason I only remember a few hours is because, after a couple of hours, I lost my memory of whatever happened that led to me passing out. A couple hours after that, I, according to my friends, was being put into the back of an ambulance.

 

At this point in my story you should probably know that I have always had a fear of ambulances. I never had a fear of being put into them or ever having to call one, but just seeing them drive down the street with their lights and sirens. Growing up I was taught that, no matter where or what you were doing, you should always do the sign of the cross when an ambulance drives by. I think that’s what made me scared of the ambulances. Now I'm more afraid of the hospitals they lead you to, rather than the sight of the ambulances themselves. The bare walls and long hallways of hospitals cause me to feel uncomfortable, even if I’m just visiting someone there.  

 

Like most people who hear this story, your first thought is probably that I drank too much, but it wasn’t how much I drank but what I drank. Turns out that night a couple of the guys who had gone out with us thought it would be a good idea to put a Xanax in the drink of a girl who had never taken any pills before. The two boys had told my best friend, who I was staying with, that they were going to put pills into drinks but that wasn’t a big deal to the kids who they regularly hung out with, so it didn’t seem out of the norm to her. The drug, taken with alcohol, didn’t mix well in my body and, according to my friends who watched, I ended up passing out and being carried outside of the club. Unconscious, and unable to speak or carry myself, there was nothing left to do but call for an ambulance.

 

I didn’t regain consciousness until the early hours of that Saturday morning. It was around four o’clock when my eyelids slowly, then very quickly, blinked to life. I looked around the brightly lit, white room and once my vision became focused I noticed I was about to enter a large machine I later learned was a CATScan machine. I had never seen a machine like this. Most of my hospital visits were check-ups in a small room or ER trips for stitches. Waking up without an idea of where I was and seeing myself lain out on a stretcher about to be put under an unfamiliar, monstrously large machine caused my body to react without even thinking. Imagine opening your eyes after hours of being unconscious and seeing a large grey machine surrounding you entirely while you’re strapped to a stretcher. Violently shaking and breath quickening, I had to be wheeled out by a nurse who, after several minutes of me crying and trying to steady my breath, calmed me down enough to explain to me what she knew of what had happened to me earlier that night. I was repeatedly asking, “What happened?” and why I was in a machine. The second my eyes opened on that stretcher, I lost control and immediately felt threatened. I was concerned, worried, and mainly just scared. I had never felt like I needed to be scared as a seventeen-year-old young woman but, in that moment, I just wanted to crawl into my mom’s arms and cry.

 

The nurse left after that. I remained crying, confused as to how this could've happened. I thought this only happened in movies or in stories your parents tell you before you move away for college. I never thought I could've been in danger just by visiting my friend for a weekend. It was supposed to be just for fun, right?

I soon regained normal breathing; well as normal as a young women who couldn’t recall the last few hours of her life could breath. I was laying in a hospital gown and the tights I was wearing when I left the apartment the night before. My skirt and blouse had been put on a nearby table, and I hadn’t even thought of where my heels were. Once the nurse left the room, I attempted to look at my belongings, making sure nothing had been lost or taken. I couldn’t find my cellphone, so my plan of calling my parents was a no-go. Instead, I sat and sipped the water that the nurse had left by the bed I was laying on. I don't know how long it took her to check on me again, but it felt much longer than it probably was. Once she returned, I asked for my phone to get ahold of my parents as well as the friend I was staying with.

 

I called my father first, hoping I could work up the courage to call and tell my mom about what had happened even though I myself wasn’t fully sure. I think I called my dad first because calling my mom would make it real and I wasn't ready to accept what had happened. I don’t remember what exactly was said in those phone calls to my parents. I do, however, remember speaking quietly in a sacred manner, and having tears stream from the corners of my eyes. After I had contacted my parents and reassured them that I was okay, I called my best friend again and again until I got ahold of her to tell her that she needed to come pick me up. There were no questions asked from my best friend, just a promise that she would be there as soon as she could get someone with a car to drive her there.

 

I'm not sure what time it was when I got off the phone with my best friend. I wasn't sure of the time at any point during this experience really. I pay more attention to the time when I'm out now. As a side effect of this incident, I now also occasionally write little notes or send texts as time stamps of what is happening at what point in the night.

By 9 a.m. that Saturday morning, I was walking out of the hospital in a yellow hospital shirt, black tights, and a black pair of heel booties with my skirt and blouse from the night before under my arm. I was silent, for the most part, as my best friend drove me back to her apartment. I was in no mood for small talk or questions. I wanted to rest and get back to familiarity. The second we made it up the two flights of stairs, we changed and got into bed. We had laid down for less than a couple of minutes when I drifted to sleep.

 

To this day, I have difficulty sleeping in beds or areas I'm not used to. If I have to sleep over at a friend’s house, especially one I'm not used to staying over with, I'm the last one to fall asleep. The first few weeks of living in my dorm, I would stay up all night or have to take NyQuil. If I know I'll need to sleep somewhere I'm not familiar with, I'll try to do things during the day that will tire me out. Several of my friends here at Emerson have questioned why I usually never fall asleep before two a.m. but I shake off their questions and tell them I'm just not tired.

 

I woke up hours later that day, still mostly silent, more from the shock of what had happened than anything else. We walked downstairs to eat a usual breakfast meal my best friend had cooked but other than that we remained very calm for the remainder of the day. We ate our eggs and bacon with minimal conversation, mostly just my friend asking if I was fine; as if I could be fine after waking up in a hospital with no recollection of how I got there. We finished our meals, put our plates away, and went to lay down on the sofa. My best friend sat up on the black couch clicking through channels, looking for a movie to watch while I lay down, resting my head in her lap. Throughout the movies I was in and out of sleep. I was basically in and out of sleep until my bus ride Monday morning.

 

That weekend should've made more of an impact on my life. I don't think it didn't happen, but I ignore the memory, or lack of memory, of it more than I should. I will politely decline drinks that I didn't pour for myself at parties. I make sure to keep an eye on not just my drinks, but my friends’ drinks also. I remain silent though. I don't tell many people outside my circles about what happened and I don't go around talking about the actual possibility of this happening to people. I silently pray people are more aware than I was, that they don't think they will never be drugged because, like I learned, it can happen.