The bubbling in my foot. It seems to happen only when I'm not doing anything. If I'm focused on something, the pulsing is polite and lets me finish. As soon as I stop thinking of problems and solutions, it begins again. At first I thought there was a spider on my foot, maybe I was getting bit. When I looked down, there was no eight-legged insect trying to paralyze me. I directed myself back to class. The second time, I was in a hammock; the pulsing started at a low bubbling and escalated to a boil. I checked my foot and, yet again, there was nothing to be seen on my heel.
The third time, I was alone in my room and the pulsing started again. Not as concerned as before — since I had ruled out an insect — I did not check my heel. As if to spite me, the pulsing in my foot evolved into a headache paired with nausea. Unsure how to react to this new step in the pulsing, I rushed to the bathroom. Sitting in front of the porcelain toilet that stank of cleaner, I failed to vomit. In defeat, lost to the bubbling, I went to bed.
The next time the bubbling started, I was in the bath. This caught me off guard. I thought that the warm water would have protected me from the bubbling. Even though I was submerged in warm water, my fingers began to get cold. Without any proof, I knew it was the bubbling's fault. I switched my gaze from my fingers to my heel.
I told my mother about the bubbling, since my head ached constantly and my fingers were always cold. Like me, my mother was very concerned about my heel. We went to the doctor’s office together. I sat in the odd green room and selected pamphlets about eyes and riffled through them as I waited. As I was sitting on top of one of those bed-like things at the end of the room, I thought of the possible things the bubbling could be. An alien — unlikely, but more fun than a real disease. Prompted by my fear, the bubbling began again, followed by its usual companions of nausea and headache. In the middle of the bubbling pains, the doctor walked in. I described what had been going on. Within the minute, she prescribed me some pills and sent me on my way, with my mother to go pick them up.
* * * * *
I sit in the waiting room on the arcade-patterned sofa; as my mother waits in line, the bubbling takes control. The bubbling knows that it is about to be eradicated. My heel pulsates in my shoe, seethes in my sock. It's the angriest the bubbling has ever been, the most painful. I hunch over, the bubbling rages, I clutch my legs, the bubbling persists. I frantically take off my shoes — there has to be something causing the bubbling. Something has to be chewing my heel from the inside. I slip off my sock in the middle of the hospital. My heel is bubbling, physically bubbling. The skin is boiling and moving, like waves. There is something under my skin causing the bubbling. I scratch my heel; the skin is tough and calloused. My nails take so long to break it. The bubbling intensifies with my scratching, both of us reaching a fever pitch. I finally draw blood. I have found the bubbling that caused all this trouble.
I look up triumphantly. My mother looks down at me, gripping the newly received bottle of pills. She looks horrified, but the bubbling has stopped; there’s no need to worry. It is gone now.
I look back at my heel, the origin of the bubbling, now ripped apart and covered in blood. I am half expecting an alien-like parasite to crawl away from the broken skin. My mother hasn’t said anything yet; her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Now I am sure that the bubbling is truly gone.
It is quiet. It hasn’t been quiet for such a long time. It doesn’t feel as good as I remembered.
As if to answer my cries, I feel a soft bubbling, this time in my wrist. I grab the bottle of pills from my mother’s hands. I frantically open the bottle, trying not to be stumped by the childproof cap. I swallow as many pills as I can without the aid of water. They don't go down right away, but months of constant nausea have trained me for this.
At this moment, I know that I will be battling the bubbling for the rest of my life — I think that suits me quite well.
The third time, I was alone in my room and the pulsing started again. Not as concerned as before — since I had ruled out an insect — I did not check my heel. As if to spite me, the pulsing in my foot evolved into a headache paired with nausea. Unsure how to react to this new step in the pulsing, I rushed to the bathroom. Sitting in front of the porcelain toilet that stank of cleaner, I failed to vomit. In defeat, lost to the bubbling, I went to bed.
The next time the bubbling started, I was in the bath. This caught me off guard. I thought that the warm water would have protected me from the bubbling. Even though I was submerged in warm water, my fingers began to get cold. Without any proof, I knew it was the bubbling's fault. I switched my gaze from my fingers to my heel.
I told my mother about the bubbling, since my head ached constantly and my fingers were always cold. Like me, my mother was very concerned about my heel. We went to the doctor’s office together. I sat in the odd green room and selected pamphlets about eyes and riffled through them as I waited. As I was sitting on top of one of those bed-like things at the end of the room, I thought of the possible things the bubbling could be. An alien — unlikely, but more fun than a real disease. Prompted by my fear, the bubbling began again, followed by its usual companions of nausea and headache. In the middle of the bubbling pains, the doctor walked in. I described what had been going on. Within the minute, she prescribed me some pills and sent me on my way, with my mother to go pick them up.
* * * * *
I sit in the waiting room on the arcade-patterned sofa; as my mother waits in line, the bubbling takes control. The bubbling knows that it is about to be eradicated. My heel pulsates in my shoe, seethes in my sock. It's the angriest the bubbling has ever been, the most painful. I hunch over, the bubbling rages, I clutch my legs, the bubbling persists. I frantically take off my shoes — there has to be something causing the bubbling. Something has to be chewing my heel from the inside. I slip off my sock in the middle of the hospital. My heel is bubbling, physically bubbling. The skin is boiling and moving, like waves. There is something under my skin causing the bubbling. I scratch my heel; the skin is tough and calloused. My nails take so long to break it. The bubbling intensifies with my scratching, both of us reaching a fever pitch. I finally draw blood. I have found the bubbling that caused all this trouble.
I look up triumphantly. My mother looks down at me, gripping the newly received bottle of pills. She looks horrified, but the bubbling has stopped; there’s no need to worry. It is gone now.
I look back at my heel, the origin of the bubbling, now ripped apart and covered in blood. I am half expecting an alien-like parasite to crawl away from the broken skin. My mother hasn’t said anything yet; her mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. Now I am sure that the bubbling is truly gone.
It is quiet. It hasn’t been quiet for such a long time. It doesn’t feel as good as I remembered.
As if to answer my cries, I feel a soft bubbling, this time in my wrist. I grab the bottle of pills from my mother’s hands. I frantically open the bottle, trying not to be stumped by the childproof cap. I swallow as many pills as I can without the aid of water. They don't go down right away, but months of constant nausea have trained me for this.
At this moment, I know that I will be battling the bubbling for the rest of my life — I think that suits me quite well.