There’s something on the other side.
To say I was afraid of mice is to put it mildly.
I was terrified, not only of how they looked and the way they scuttled along a baseboard but also of what they portended. This began in 2011, when, after months of failing health, I spent a week in a hospital in Paris, where I lived. Doctors ran countless tests but found nothing conclusive.
Eventually, they diagnosed me with burnout and sent me home.
It wasn’t a satisfying explanation. I felt better while in the hospital, but that was because of prednisone, an ordinary steroid. As it wore off, I deteriorated again.
For days I lay in bed, growing weaker and feeling a creeping unease. At the same time, I began to hear scurrying in the kitchen. I hadn’t cleaned up before my unexpected hospitalization, and I began imagining mice multiplying inside the cabinets.
I asked my boyfriend at the time if he heard anything, but he hadn’t. I worried I was losing my grip on reality.
Several days passed, and I was still in bed. My skin was pallid, and lesions covered the inside of my mouth. “Something’s seriously wrong,” my boyfriend said. “We need to go to the E.R.”
So I dragged myself to the hospital, where tests revealed that my blood counts had plummeted. The doctor recommended I return home to New York immediately. We went back to the apartment, and I packed my suitcase. Afterward, I climbed into bed, terrified and exhausted, yearning for the oblivion of sleep.