"Keep your spirits up, Rick," mom wrote, "because I'll be coming in the next few weeks to pick you up."
"Yep, so much for that lie," I thought, and whipped the box of letters across the room.
I felt betrayed. I didn't feel betrayed by my parents because I knew they wanted what was best for me -- they wanted me to get my asthma under control, but because my doctor's had let me down -- at least that was my impression at that moment.
Then I picked up a jar of grape juice that sat on my bedside stand and whipped it too. It didn't break, but it made a noise. Before I knew it, my door was open and my nurse and Ric were standing there peering at me dumbfounded.
"Calm down, Rick," Ric said.
"You promised I wouldn't have to go there!" I whipped the stuffed ape grandma sent me from her home in Florida in his direction.
He shot an array of sentences at me aimed to calm me down, but they ricocheted off my skull and landed somewhere in the distance beyond my comprehention. Thankfully I was a good Catholic, because that little man on my shoulder was the only thing that kept me from crossing too far over the line.
I was on my knees, on my bed, and I whipped everything in my reach besided my letters. Tears dripped down my face in torrents, and, through it all, I felt bad that I was acting like this in front of Ric, my friend. I was embarrased for myself, yet I could not stop.
It was because I could not stop, I could not calm myself down, Ric dragged me, kicking and screaming, to a padded room where he locked the door. This was the first time I had to be put in there, but not the last.
To be continued tomorrow...