Okay, so only a few days more in the halo…Monday December 11th is the big day to get it removed. And unless Dr. G plans on screaming, “Psych!” when he greets me Monday morning, it will come off that day, healed fracture or no healed fracture.
Indeed, everything seems to revolve around getting the halo removed. I have been marking big fat X’s on my calendar. My friend, Tristen, sends me daily emails with headings like “T-minus 168 hours and counting” to do the official countdown. My sister, Sekita, called me the other day with a reminder: “This is your last Tuesday night in the halo.” Even the cute checkout boys at Trader Joe’s scream, “Go Halo Girl!” when they see me. Everyone is getting in on the action.
But, friends, there is sickness in my thoughts.
Twisted, ugly sickness.
Like, how am I going to hold my head up on my own without the halo?
Could it be that—like an inmate on death row—I have grown used to the halo? That I cannot be rehabilitated into the normal world again without it? After all, these last three months I haven’t had to tarry with the hassle of holding my head up on my own. The screws in my head have done that for me. My neck muscles have grown dusty and indifferent. Could life without the halo be overrated?
I ask you, what are these sick thoughts that creep through my transom? Like, will I still sleep on my back after it’s removed? Even though I’m normally the stomach sleeper of the century?
Will I still squat to pick things up off the floor?
Will I still try to cradle the chopstick in between my breasts?
Will I have phantom halo sensations in my forehead?
Will I wilt when people don’t get out of the way for me anymore on the sidewalk?
Will I miss telling people that the sheep’s wool lining in my halo vest is really genuine squirrel, because I am so kooky?
Will I still favor sponge baths?
Hold me. Say it isn’t so.