Mehta Awards 2024 – Winners

Roses

By Claire Gist Bradberry

Ending my second year of pupillary medicine
I stood face to face with the first licensing exam
And its power over my fate

My school’s poor attempt to combat burnout
A required wellness lecture
Demanding a precious two hours I could not spare

“Students, take time to stop and smell the roses.”
Translated: try to forget your misery
Surrounded by unfinished tasks and rising pressure to succeed
Metaphors would not suffice

So I took a literal approach
And planted a whole damn garden
An escape from misery

I did some research
Because, you know, evidence based practice is best
Then I walked into the hospital of horticulture
Searching for the department I needed to revive my tired bed

My south facing oasis with light brazen to end breaths
Could not care for all
But those she could would come alive with soft hues and scents delicate and sultry
Enough to forget endless tunnels of white hospital walls

Ms. Winchester of Cathedral
Cotton ball blooms with tiny thorns
Seemingly safe until I tried to connect: then
Twenty tiny needles of screaming nociception
With aroma of an established monarch

Mr. Graham Thomas
A bold, jaundiced, climbing gentleman
Of course he would need a crutch to stand
Smelling of sweet tea and long forgotten lazy Saturday mornings
Not blooming until Magic May breathed her southern elixir
Equal parts heat and humidity with a hint of freedom

Princess Alex of Kent
Vibrant and gaudy
Beaming pink excellence at anyone who looked her way
Breathing caudal, cranial, proximal, distal
She begged for room to stand in her glory
To accept the light that ended most

These roses barely need a thing from me
Just a deep water in mid-July drought
Infrequent food scattered at their bases
Bottom dollar dead end chops

So maybe I should stop and smell the damn roses
If only to rest for a while

Claire Gist Bradberry is a medical student at the UAMS Northwest Campus.

The Postmortem

By Abeer Chaudhary

The scenes from those 18 months played in mind on repeat like a broken record. The phone call from my sister, the helplessly put-together care packages, the group video chats, the flights back and forth from Chicago, the inkling of hope with each improving scan, the bated breath after a broken hip, the sleepless nights spent in prayer, the heartbreaking family meeting, and then the peace that came with her peace.

The ironies left a bitter taste in my mouth. She used to say she didn’t want to die behind the microscope. Instead, she died underneath it. She buried her mom when she was a medical student. I buried mine a month after taking my own board exam. These uncanny parallels colored my future bleak.

I can’t bring myself to say “I miss her” aloud. Certainly, not to my father. How can I throw that in his face when I know he feels her loss more keenly than her children? For those 18 months, he drove her to her appointments, cooked all her meals, cleaned up after her, flew with her to MD Anderson (twice), and remained the most hopeful out of us despite knowing how this was going to end.

I’ll never forget the look in his eyes after her last oncology appointment. He kept looking at her as though she was going to evaporate right in front of him. We had finished out another Ramadan and Eid in good spirits despite the COVID-19 lockdown, but I could feel the atmosphere shift abruptly. I didn’t push for details that day as it was the week of my boards. I knew they wouldn’t tell me until after I completed them. That’s just how Desi parents are.

Feigning ignorance to perpetuate the façade of bliss was all I could do in the meantime. The day after boards, however, is still the worst day of my life.

Mets in previously unaffected organs. Lab values off the charts. A clinical trial chemo agent that could cause intracranial bleeding. The worst part is that she was willing to continue.

She felt obligated.

For us.

Although we all knew her treatment had been strictly palliative, it still came as a shock to see the actual end of the line. Of course, we could see it physically. It took two of us to lift her up. She had no appetite to intake any nutrients. A yellowish hue finally began to take up residence in her eyes and skin.

My siblings, who were at more advanced stages in their medical training, thankfully took the reigns. “You don’t have to do anything. You can remain comfortable at home.” At the height of a new pandemic of uncertain duration, the thought of her being in a hospital alone with no visitors would have crushed our spirits altogether. Our acceptance and support were the reassurance she needed to step back.

So, we agreed to stop and to let nature take its course, which it did fairly quickly.

The remaining days passed in warm embraces, life lessons, quiet contemplation, Netflix binges, and gradually worsening encephalopathy. Her sharp-as-a-knife mind dulled into a mere butter knife. I’m still unsure whether it was foretelling or foreboding when she mistook 20-something year old me for our 70-something year old president, but I digress.

The night her death became imminent, all four of us bunked around her bed and took turns to get up and administer morphine to calm her death rattle. By the next morning, the rattling stopped.

Her lungs had taken their last breath. Her heart had taken its last beat. Her soul had exited this world forever.

Although the sorrow was deep, the impact of the blow was cushioned in my mind as I already mourned her obtunded state. The physical loss almost seemed insignificant in comparison to the cognitive.

As per Islamic tradition, she was buried the same day after the women of our family performed her ghusl. Her headstone, which would be delivered several weeks later, had carvings of birds because they made her happy. Knowing that made us happy.

The postmortem period involved a recalibration of sorts that was both unfamiliar and instinctual. My father bursting into tears and hugging me when I found out I passed my first set of boards was not the reaction I expected. When the leave of absence ended and it was time for us to return to our respective school/jobs, anxiety was at an all-time high. How would a full-time caregiver react to being alone? Our preventative approach led us to the animal shelter. Enter Alpine, a green-eyed goofy feline who managed to partially fill a void with her warm cuddles and silly antics.

The void never really does get smaller. Its proportion shrinks as other joys fill the space around it, but it remains there as a reminder of what once was. You don’t remain the same, but why would you? Experiencing the brevity of mortality is incredibly humbling. To live in the same attitude would be a disservice to those who have come and gone.

There is not a day that goes by where she doesn’t cross my mind in some form or fashion. The lessons I’ve gleaned from her life and death hover in the back of my mind, and I often ask myself “WWHD: What Would Humera do?” We don’t think of adult children needing their parents in the same way young children do, but I have felt the need for that guidance so keenly in my twenties. The apparent absence during major life events still causes tears to well up in my eyes for a moment, but it is often followed by a smile when I reminisce on how much love I got to know and continue to experience. It is a privilege to carry it forward.

This has allowed me to lift the tonearm and let the broken record stop playing. It is time to listen to something new.

Abeer Chaudhary, D.O., is a resident physician at the UAMS Northwest Campus.

Reflection on Radically Accepting Uncertainty

By Ana Rodriguez Rivera

Meme of man in a yellow suit clasping his hands. Text reads" "2020 Coronavirus Pandemic! Funeral homes: — Meme_Insurgent. “Pandemic!” March 2020.

I was in the emergency room, scrolling through Facebook when I came across Anthony Adams in the bright yellow suit (Meme_Insurgent). I’m convinced that the creator of the image was reaching out to me, reminding me to radically accept the facts of life. The problem: life’s truths are not always pleasant. We often don’t like them. Nevertheless, the goal is to accept the good and the bad with the same level of tenacity. Your dog died? Radically accept. Lost your wallet? Radically accept. Fallen in love? Radically accept. It’s a skill that’s easy to understand, but hard to practice. For me, the hardest parts of life to accept are those that result in uncertainty. As children, we aren’t taught how to handle uncertainty. All the books my teachers read to me had clear outcomes. Eventually, I gained the skill to predict the endings of some stories. Knowing what to expect prepared me for a conclusion and gave me a sense of closure. I could move on with the satisfaction that all had been resolved. Not knowing, not being able to foresee what happens next, and most importantly, not being able to prepare for it—ambiguity—simply scares me to the core. I wonder: is it possible to radically accept the randomness of life? If so, how can it be done? I laughed out loud as I savored the darkness of the meme, startling the person next to me. I was alone, suffering from breathing problems, with only Anthony to comfort me.

Early one March morning—a Monday to be exact—I put on my blue Walmart vest and made my way to work. I was running late. The morning had been crisp, so I’d been forced to spend some time defrosting the windshield of my little Chevy Spark. In my rush to clock in and prepare my register for the day, I failed to notice the agitation in the air. Suspicion hit me when I spotted a flock of managers huddled at the front of the store. Such a rare phenomenon—Walmart higher-ups so easily accessible—is not to be taken lightly. My coworkers became restless. Their voices buzzed back and forth with urgency as they talked to one another. I finally glanced over at the register to my left. “Hey, do you know what’s going on?”

My coworker shook her head and answered, “They’re saying the schools are going to shut down early.”

Later that day, Governor Hutchinson ordered the immediate closure of all public schools. I’d heard about COVID-19 on the news, but it had seemed so distant, so far away. Suddenly, it was at our doorstep, and it was not going away. When the news broke, the tension in the store erupted into chaos. My coworkers were frantically calling their spouses and family members— What’re we going to do about the kids? — Can you pick up so-and-so from school? The phone vibrated in my pocket. My husband: They are closing the office for a few days. I think something major is going on with this virus. Out of nowhere, the store overflowed with nervous customers. Shopping carts full of groceries lined the aisles. I must have scanned more items that day than I ever had during my time there.

Rumors spread that the Governor planned on shutting down businesses and other public spaces. Health officials were sending warnings about the rapid spread of the virus. I remember looking at the bottle of Germ X next to my register with a sudden sense of hopelessness. At some point, I found myself heading towards the breakroom at the back of the store. I walked past aisle after aisle of empty shelves. I stopped to watch one shopper load multiple cases of water into his cart. For the first time, many of us came face-to-face with what British author Thomas Hardy called “[t]he Immanent Will that stirs and urges everything.” COVID-19 urged many of us into a jarring unease. The virus reminded us that fate—the “Immanent Will”—plays a large part in the trajectory of our lives, despite how certain we felt about them. W.H. Auden aptly dubbed the nineteenth century the “Age of Anxiety.” Many poets and novelists during this time grappled with a swiftly changing world. Some, like Hardy, also reflected on a higher power, an invisible force, that inexplicably drives the world. In the poem, “Anything Can Happen,” written in 2004, Irish author Seamus Heaney writes, “Anything can happen. You know how Jupiter / Will mostly wait for clouds to gather head / Before he hurls the lightning? Well, just now / He galloped his thunder cart and his horses” (lines 1-4). Heaney wrote this poem in response to the shocking events of 9/11 in the United States. Heaney describes the randomness of the attacks and contemplates the higher being responsible for such devastation. Although I don’t remember much about that day, I’ve learned a lot about it through documentaries and news stories.

I remember reading a story one year on the anniversary of the tragedy. The vice president of an insurance company heading to his office on the ninety-sixth floor of the World Trade Center made an impromptu stop at the post office. He took longer than he’d thought and was slightly behind schedule. When he arrived at the subway station, the train he normally took was at capacity, and he had to take a different route. All these incidents made the man unusually late for work. When he finally arrived, he learned that the Boeing 767 had crashed into his office building. This story captivates me enormously. When I first heard it, I was awed that a man could be so lucky. However, reflecting on Hardy’s philosophy about the “Immanent Will,” a few things occur to me. Although fate and chance are often associated with destruction, pain, and sorrow, they are also linked to miracles and “lucky” circumstances, as the man’s extraordinary story shows. Perhaps the first step to radically accepting uncertainty is acknowledging that nothing is certain—not even the negative and frightening things our minds tell us could happen.

The only thing we know for sure is that “[a]nything can happen.”
Sure, anything can happen, but how do we cope with the ambiguity of it?
Thinking back on the pandemic’s worst years, what strikes me as remarkable is how people coped with the bleakness of it all. I recall the smorgasbord of morbidly funny COVID-19 memes amid the news of death, global economic distress, and leadership failures. Internet memes have always been one of my generation’s finest talents. As a creative endeavor, memes are easy to create since there are no strict conventions to follow. We use memes to mass share bits of information—cultural symbols, themes, and ideas—without much effort. Some people may findpandemic memes callous. However, it’s important to consider one thing: in one of the most difficult moments in history, people turned their distress and anxiety into witty, creative pieces. Authentic representations of life’s darkest qualities laced with a touch of humor makes for a rather therapeutic tonic. Dark humor—my generation’s way of mustering through even the direst of situations.

The dark humor of pandemic-era internet memes recalls Hardy’s ability to render dark humor in his own work more than a century earlier. He wrote “Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?” in 1913. In the poem, Hardy juxtaposes humor with grim reality. The narrator attempts to identify the person disturbing her grave. She naively assumes it’s the people she left behind; ironically, the final answer comes from her beloved dog: “‘Mistress, I dug upon your grave / To bury a bone… / I am sorry, but I quite forgot / It was your resting-place’” (lines 31-36). I held back a chuckle when I first read this poem. I detected an endearing irony in the poem that I’d found in the pandemic memes. The poem is a reminder that death remains true for us all and that even our furry companions may forget us. Some readers may find such a dire message discouraging, but I think Hardy gives us a different outlook, one that engenders laughter in the face of gloom. Instead of buckling under the heavy burden of uncertainty, fear, and despondency, Hardy, like the pandemic meme creators, found ways to wrest creativity, inspiration, and even humor from unfortunate circumstances.

Although some consider Hardy a great pessimist, he always struck me as a man that observed the world as it was—ironic, sometimes cruel, and largely uncertain. There’s an admirable quality in his ability to write matter-of-factly about these issues. It’s almost as if through writing, Hardy found a way to accept the perversity of fate and the volatility of life.There’s a fearlessness that inspires poems like “Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave?” I suppose this approach has always drawn me to his work.

I first encountered Hardy in my final year as an undergraduate. My mentor and longtime friend, Dr. Kay Walter, agreed to let me take one of her courses as an independent study. On the reading list was Hardy’s Jude the Obscure (1896). Both Jude Fawley’s tragic story and Hardy’s lyricism impacted me immensely. I often think about one passage from the novel: “As you got older, and felt yourself to be at the centre of your time, and not at a point in its circumference, as you had felt when you were little, you were seized with a sort of shuddering…” I didn’t quite understand Hardy’s message back then as well as I do now. As a child, I perceived life as a predetermined sequence of big moments. At some point, I was going to lose my first tooth, get my driver’s license, graduate high school, and continue the expected path along the circle. However, the older I get, the more it all becomes murky. Within the past couple of years, I’ve become more aware of the lack of direction in my life. It truly feels like I’m standing at the center of my time, looking at what has already passed, but unable to see what is to come. Unlike Hardy, I have not figured out a way to handle the uncertainty in my life. Like any good scholar, I continue to look for instruction in the books that I read.

About reading, Siri Husvedt writes, “The more I read, the more I change. The more varied my reading, the more I am to perceive the world from myriad perspectives.” No matter how diverse my reading lists are each semester, I find that many of the writers I study tackle the same issues and concerns, but in their own way. For example, Latina author, Carmen Maria Machado, writes about the uncertainty in her life in her memoir In the Dream House (2019). Machado experiences instability and random violence due to her abusive girlfriend. She makes it clear that writing helps her cope with her trauma. In one chapter, she contemplates the end of the world: “A theory about the end of everything: the heat death of the universe. Entropy will take over and matter will scatter and nothing will be anymore.” According to the Oxford English Dictionary, “entropy” is: “A state of or tendency towards disorder…” When things are in order, we feel a sense of security. Disorder leads to uncertainty. Like Hardy, Machado works through the volatility in her life brought on by disorder. She, too, finds a way to radically accept her circumstances. Hardy and Machado—two vastly different writers—both offer strategies for surviving life’s randomness. The more entropic our world becomes, the more I agree with Husvedt’s advice. Reading can change us. Additionally, diversifying our reading offers ample knowledge for devising our own form of acceptance. There’s hope, then, that living with uncertainty can be done.

Is it possible to radically accept the randomness of life? Unfortunately, I can’t google the answer to this question. As I’ve battled with uncertainty, I’ve learned that my biggest barrier is fear. I have a chilling terror of blind spots, muddy waters, and the unknown. One thing is certain: I’m grateful that the writers I’ve encountered have shown me the possibilities. Arundhati Roy asserts, “We have to reach within ourselves and find the strength to think. To fight.” The starting point is confronting my fear. When I reflect on Hardy’s work, I realize that what I admire most is his ability to challenge the hopelessness that uncertainty brings. His courage garnered poems and novels that provide me with clarity. The strength to reach within ourselves and find the means to fight is both an individual and collective process. My journey is uniquely mine, but I find myself reaching out for support, and I find that I rely on others—Hardy and Machado, for example—to help me get through it.

In their own search for answers, others look to the mundane tasks in our lives. For example, in the essay “Driving as Metaphor,” published in 2019, Rachel Cusk observes, “Trying to unravel these snarl-ups, it often becomes clear that many of its participants are unable fully to manoeuvre and control the cars they are driving. Others struggle to adapt to the change of circumstance and to the necessity for acting as a group.” Cusk presents a solution that best portrays what I mean by “collective process.” Cusk uses the metaphor of driving to explain the intensely complicated problems that arise in our lives. Periodically, we find ourselves tangled in chaos and many of us fail to overcome it alone. Cusk emphasizes the need for collective action. Problem-solving becomes a collaborative endeavor. And so, unashamedly, I turn to Hardy and others for answers. As I reflect on the radical acceptance of uncertainty, I have become keenly aware that the books and poems I’ve read inform my understanding of these concerns. Gradually, I sense a change within me.

Two people posing before the Chicago skyline — On Our Honeymoon, Chicago, November 2021

When I think back on the pandemic, it’s hard to believe that somehow, we made it. The day Governor Hutchinson closed the schools, I remember going home to watch the news. As the global reports poured in, a cold, stony fear settled in the pit of my stomach. And yet, I somehow managed to get out of bed every morning. Somehow, I kept going. So many of us did. Among the dark memories of that time are jewels: Hugging my mother and father for the first time after months of quarantining; my husband making popcorn as we settled in for another quiet movie night; honeymooning in Chicago after the travel ban and feeling like the luckiest people in the world. Life has always been a hodgepodge of chance and fate. From Hardy’s time to the present, we’ve endured and survived despite the instability of our world. We remember that although chance and fate might bring great sorrow, it also brings us miracles. We take comfort in knowing that it’s possible to find humor and joy even in the bleakest situations. At times, it feels like I’m stuck in a place of fear and anxiety, but I am optimistic that one day, I’ll find peace despite the chaos. For now, I’ll keep turning to my books in search of answers.

Works Cited

“Entropy, n.” OED Online, Oxford University Press, September 2022, www.oed.com/view/Entry/63009.
Meme_Insurgent. “Pandemic!” March 2021. https://www.memedroid.com/memes/detail/2912669/Pandemic.

Ms. Ana Rodriguez Rivera is a research writer at the Winthrop P. Rockefeller Cancer Institute.

Sweet Serial

By Jon Oden

“Are ya stupid, boy?” the gravelly voice slurred.

The stubbled face of his father glared at him, vaporous breath making him gag.

“Look at me when I’m speakin’, boy!” The pale, angry face turned, eyes darting around like he was expecting something. “I see it on ya. I can smell it oozing outta your skin.”

His father had always been a crazy bastard, even now. And wasn’t it just like him to show up and try to embarrass him…in public and naked!

“Stop staring at me queer!” The man’s heart skipped, could anyone hear this? “Yeah,” The old man saw fear in his son’s eyes, “I know wha you…you’ve done…been doin’.” It belched.

The man’s mouth was dry, he could feel his spit fight its way down his narrowed throat. He couldn’t breathe.

“I told ya to stay away!” The face blurred as it turned away. “I told ya not to go lookin’ in places ya don’t have any business…” It faded into sadness, sobbing.

“Why… can’t ya…Listen to me!” The last three words were a scream! A deafening sound that pierced his eardrums and made his eyes tear up. “Listen…Listen…listen…”

“Hey, are you listening to me?” Joel was waving his arms behind the counter. “What the Hell, man. You’re holding up the line,” he chuckled.

The man looked behind him. No one.

“You’ve been standing there for, like, five minutes, bro. Holding that burrito like it was your ma’s hand.” He chuckled again. “Ya good?”

A faint beeping sound floated up from his belt. The man quickly placed his free hand on a small box clipped there and silenced it. He smiled at Joel, who was staring at him.

Joel grinned, “Ya good?”

“Yep, just…need to get my burrito and head to the grove.” He started searching his pockets for money.

“The grove? Ooooooo, spooky, man…cool.”

The little box chirped again.

“Ya good, bro? I got some shit back here like…” Joel twisted around and dug through the shelves behind the counter, his dirty smock didn’t cover his ass when he bent over. “Chocolate and Skittles…they’re only a little outta date…”

“Nah, Joel. I’m good…got that in the truck if…if I need it.” His hands passed over his keys making them jingle. “Aha!” He pulled out a wad of bills.

The door opened with a jingle sound. The man turned quickly to look who it was, sweat beading on his forehead.

His father was still standing at the doorway…still naked and crying.

Joel welcomed the new customers. A cheerleader from the local high school and what looked like her brother? Boyfriend? Who cared.

The man walked up to the counter and tossed a few dollars down. “That enough?”

“Looks good to me, bro.” Joel scooped up the cash and put it in his pocket.

He grinned even wider than usual. “Old man owes me.”

The man nodded and turned toward the door, pausing when he saw his father’s pasty buttocks heading out with the cheerleader.

He sighed. His old man always was a greasy pervert. He would never change no matter what happened to him. The man shook his head. He would get to his truck, eat a few handfuls of Skittles and his father would fade away just like all the other times.

“Hurry up, boy!” A raspy voice echoed from the parking lot. “I ain’t got all day and your truck is starting to smell bad.”

The man gulped. “See ya around Joel.”

“I’ll be around, man.”

Without turning back to acknowledge his friend, he opened the door. It jingled just as it always did. “If you’re headin’ to the grove, Bobby,” Joel’s voice was more serious, “you might want to grab another bag of lye. Ya never use enough, and if you’ve taken care of what you were gonna take care of, I put out the big bags you asked me to order.”

Bobby turned and nodded. “Thanks Joel.”

“No worries, man.” His grin returned. “I bet even your pops will approve of this one.”

He turned his beat-up, 1984 sky-blue Ford pick-up onto the dirt road that led to his family’s tree orchard. Rich people from Little Rock and Conway called it the grove. Thought it was quaint and authentic. Locals just thought it best to avoid mentioning it. The land had a history…decades of history.

He looked at the time, then shoved his phone back into his pocket as he snorted at the thought of how he used to bring his daughter here. She had loved it. She really belonged here. Bobby Pennington looked to his right to see the calm waters of the Arkansas River pass quickly by as he drove deeper into the dark valley of pine and poplar trees that his family had owned for over a century.

He let his mind wander a bit. How he had grown up here. When his mother left him, trusting his father to raise a confused eight-year-old. Then, how he dropped out of the U of A to join the Marines and fight Saddam. He scoffed at himself. He thought of how his heart beat a little faster when his father appeared. Scared of his old man? Pathetic! Stinky geezer! But, what else could he do? He couldn’t abandon this place. His daughter loved it here.

When he finally pulled up to the wooded entrance of the farm, the weather, warm and a little breezy outside of the valley, became suddenly and ominously cold and rainy. He had to roll his windows up as the pelting rain began to slap him in the face and soak his shirt. The dramatic drop in temperature forced him to crank up the heat even though the heater in the old beater truck was for shit.

“Damn!” he groaned wiping the drops of water off his skin. “Just my crappy luck.” He pulled the latch to open the door and slide into the freezing rain.

Bobby trudged to the back, careful not to slip and fall into the six-foot-deep culvert at the side of the road. He reached over the side of the truck and into the dented and worn bed, pushing away the odds and ends, his tool belt, and a shovel. He grabbed the body-shaped form wrapped in thick black plastic, duct-taped at both ends, and threw it over his shoulder. The force of the package made him grunt, almost winded him.

“Heavy sack-a…” he groaned.

In the wind and the rain, his hand slipped off his truck and he fell backwards with the weight of the thick black plastic package landing on top of him. It made the worst scrunching sound as it hit his chest.

“Shit!” he gasped, his face plastered in cold mud and gravel. The smell of industrial -grade plastic shoved up his nose and into his mouth. He tried not to think about what was under that plastic shroud.

The little box on his belt beeped again. Beep…beep…beep. “Shit…” he whispered. He pulled the box off his belt and looked at the screen. 69 flashed in bright red. “Okay…not…too bad.”

Bobby tossed the long, heavy black bag off him and got to his knees. His muddy hands fumbled desperately across every pocket he had. “Shit!” he whimpered. “Where the…” Then, his ice-cold fingers grazed a small bag deep his in left pant pocket.

He grabbed it, ripped it open losing some of what was inside to the rivulets of water passing underneath his soaked jeans. Then, with his muddy hands and frozen fingers, he tossed what was left of the bag into his mouth. He shut his eyes, tried to relax, and chewed vigorously.

“She won’t come this early. She won’t come…please, baby…don’t…

He chewed some more and swallowed hard. Started chewing again.

“She can’t come this early…”

“Daddy?”

Bobby’s heart stopped at the sound of her sweet voice.

He didn’t dare open his eyes. He knew what would be there. He couldn’t look at it again…not again. What he would see was not really her. He felt the little box vibrate. “Thank you…” His blood sugar was normal again…Skittles were working. He let his eye lids relax…slowly. He knew she wasn’t there, couldn’t feel her anymore. “Please…” As light began to pierce his retina, his heart began to pound a little faster, “Please, sweet love…” He knew she was gone.

He sighed as the rain dripped from his face, running together with his tears. His clothes were, by now, completely soaked, but he didn’t feel it, and could have cared less.

“Why does this have to happen to me?!” He wanted to scream it, but he knew to keep quiet in this place. Noise tended to attract the worst of them.

It had been this way ever since he was diagnosed. Maybe a little before. His mother told him he was a sensitive boy. It was seven years now. Type 1 Diabetes had pulled him out of the Marines, into his family business…businesses. It was the insulin and low blood sugars that dragged him into a world he wished he never knew, brought on by “neuroglycopenia.” He could hear his endocrinologist roll over that word like anybody should know what it meant. Prick.

His world became a living nightmare from the beginning. His neuroglycopenic hallucinations were painful at first. Made his head ache and his eyes burn. That prick doctor had the balls to write an article about it. Eventually, he got used to it. And he stopped going to his doctor. “My blood sugars are fine, thank you very much.”

Sometimes, seeing loved ones was hard. They were the most difficult to see clearly and understand. All of them presented just as they wished to be seen. All of them wanted something. Sometimes they appeared clean and healthy, even happy, other times not so much, gory and grim, dirty. They each had their heralds that preceded their appearance by just a few moments, like theme music. Gave him a bit of a heads up, but they would never allow Bobby to avoid them.

Some preferred a specific smell. Maddy loved honeysuckle. His naked father smelled like rot-gut whiskey, which was never easy to take. Some preferred a sound. His Marine buddy, Sam, liked the sound of a Harley, which confused the shit out of Bobby when he manifested while he was driving. Others liked specific sensations like a cut in the skin from a razor, or deep depression. It was fine, ‘cause it only lasted a few minutes, but if Bobby let himself stay with them too long he would lose himself in their hellish fantasy. That’s how Joel came to know his…situation. He sometimes needed a sidekick to fend the more difficult ones off.

He might need Joel tonight. He would need Joel, but in some part of his mind he didn’t want Joel involved in tonight. This was his problem to deal with.

The spoke’s themes told Bobby a little bit about them. The darker the theme, the more ominous, and maybe more dangerous, the ghoul. Bobby could sometimes control the event, but it was a work in progress and there really wasn’t any training manual on the subject. He was doing the best he could with what he had.

What did they all have in common? His blood sugar. It had to be low for him to see them, which is why he paid out his ass for the glucose monitoring system attached at all times to his belt. He even slept with it right next to him. If the thing beeped, he knew something was coming and he could treat his low and limit his time, control his time with them. It was fool-proof, just so long as he kept his monitor connected to him.

There really is nothing worse than waking up to your dead father pretending to take a piss in a dark bathroom! Ludicrous, really, if you knew how the man died.

Bobby got to his feet and pulled the black bag back over his shoulder, more carefully this time. He turned slowly toward the entrance of the grove and, after a few deep breaths to slow his pounding heart, he took his first step forward toward the dark line of trees a few yards ahead.

The grove itself was hidden several hundred yards up a 1500-foot rise in the middle of his valley. The rustic nature of the land along with the steep grade kept most looky-loos away. Cops too. When he was young, his parents would grow weed out here and sell it to the hippies that came up from Dallas. They made a killing!

“They sure did make a killing out here,” he chuckled.

He stopped right after he said it. The wind was blowing hard through the pines, which always made the air smell so good, but just at the edge of that aroma was something different…raw…musty and rotten. Through the pounding rain and raking branches up above, he could hear the rustling of leaves and gravel all around him. Sounds too heavy to be deer or even wild hogs. Sounds that seemed to close in quickly, then fade back. Something cold and wet touched his neck.

He twisted around almost too quickly, his feet losing traction in the muck, but he kept himself from falling again. “Had to be a drop of rain…”

Something grabbed the bag and pulled him backwards. His legs followed the momentum, trying desperately to stay upright. The pulling force stopped. Bobby regained his balance, falling to one knee, but keeping his plastic-bagged cargo up on his now sore shoulder.

He heard children giggle just to the right. He turned his head, but too late. Just branches were left bobbing in the breeze. Bobby knew they were playing with him. They liked to do that when he brought them someone new.

“Come play with us, Bobby.”

“No.” Bobby stood back up and rubbed the mud off his knee.

They giggled again. This time on the left. “Come play…”. The voice was deeper, impatient.

“No!” His meter beeped again. “Give me a break!”

“My daddy told me not to yell at my sister.” The boy manifested right in front of Bobby. Couldn’t have been more than six-years-old. “Now I can’t find them.” His neck was red and swollen. “Can you help me? I won’t yell at her anymore.” His eyes were dark and empty as if he was programmed to say what he was saying, but he didn’t grasp what any of it meant.

Bobby’s heart broke for the boy. He knew who it was, had gone to Kindergarten with him. “No, Jimmy, I can’t help you.”

The boy turned and started to walk back into the forest. He stopped and without facing Bobby said, “Maddy misses you, but you can’t keep coming here. You’re only making it worse.” A mist enveloped him and he was gone.

Bobby gulped down more of his Skittle stash. Then started walking back up the trail

He planned very carefully for tonight. He always did for these nights. Ate the right foods. Counted his carbs carefully and even though he underdosed with his insulin – he had to subtract two or three units from his calculation just so he wouldn’t have to fight low blood sugars all night. But that was the thing with diabetes. You can do everything right, and still feel like you messed up!

“Bitch,” he whispered through the ice forming over his beard. He was talking to his diabetes and to the heavy figure draped over his back. It was raining much harder now and the pellets of ice scratched at every exposed pore on his body. He groaned as he repositioned the black mass across his shoulder.

“Damn it!” His foot slipped on the slick undergrowth, almost causing him to lose his grip on the plastic again, nearly dropping the limp, pulpy bulk into the stewing morass below.

He stopped and leaned against one of the taller trees; too dark to tell what kind it was, but he knew just by the feel it was one of his pines. He blew warm air into his numb hands cupped over his mouth. “This one deserved it, Maddy.” He sniffed loudly, “Don’t be mad at me.”

He took a sidewards glance at the shadow on his back, “We’ll be there soon, love.” His voice stained with sarcasm. The giggles from behind the leaves returned. More this time.

A muffled beep pierced the frigid air as his feet sloshed through a puddle of black muck. He sighed. “Geez! Again?! Alright…just a minute.” His mind was swimming, his anxiety mounting since the beginning of the evening. Even though there was little chance of getting caught out here; how suspicious could a tree farm be, really? Little chance was not zero chance.

He looked past the darkness and swaying trees, not seeing anything, he threw back even more Skittles and went forward. “What the Hell is with these blood sugars?”

Another fifty yards up the hill, rain pouring, feet sliding, his black hoodie soaked, and his muscles screaming, he came to a stop. “This is your place, Senator.” He said, dropping the canvas-wrapped package between two Frazier saplings sprouting from twin mounds of bare earth. “I will always love the end of ya’lls session.” Bobby smiled, “no one will miss you for another three weeks, and with your history, no one will even care.”

Rivulets of water forced themselves around the new obstacle; Nature didn’t care about the shit in her way.

He pulled out his entrenching tool and started to dig. The earth was still soft except for the web-like roots of all the vegetation that covered the forest floor, but the rain filled any progress he managed within seconds.

His waist beeped again. “Shit!” His hands were muddy and numb, but he managed to unclip the small, black box attached to his belt. Fifty-Two now. Bobby grimaced. If he used up all his Skittles before he could get back to his truck, the Senator won’t be the only one staying the night in a muddy hole.

Icy water fell into his face from the unkempt mop of grey hair hanging over his thick eye-brows. “Shit…don’t have time…”. He fumbled with the screen.

It beeped again, answering the steam from the man’s mouth with a sorta, ‘The take care of yourself, numbnuts!’ The red tracing shining off its face told a blood sugar of 49, and a single arrow pointing straight down. “That ain’t good,” he sighed.

He looked at the canvas-encased Senator. “You’ll have to wait.”

He rolled his eyes. He could feel the dizziness and weakness begin to grip him. “Get a hold of yourself. She wouldn’t want you to have a seizure and she sure wouldn’t want you to get caught out here because of your stupidity.” He tapped the screen firmly, then pulled out some more candy from his pocket. Cleansing this world of scum was dangerous enough; leaving home without enough Skittles to treat his low blood sugars was suicide.

He started to dig again. “At least no ghosts,” he muttered under his breath. Noise attracted them. The roots may still get in his way. Even so, the farm was still the perfect place to bury bodies. His soil was perfect for getting rid of bodies and such. He had been treating the soil since…since his daughter died, forcing the land to grow his trees and adding materials that would dissolve organic matter more quickly. It was all very scientific-like, which he had learned on the internet.

He stopped; the memory of Maddy hard to face in this place. A memory of a horrible day made worse by unwelcome comments by wrong-minded people calling her fag…evil. A school protest in front of the capitol building for tolerance and peace. This had all happened before. A few kids speaking their mind in a closed-minded community. Backwards beliefs shrouded behind biblical verse. A dichotomy that defied logic, but bad people didn’t live in logic. Maddy just couldn’t stand the pressure. She had accepted herself and her friends. She took the bullying and the loneliness, but she couldn’t take the hatred spewed from her own community, and it overwhelmed her. She was all he had, but she protested that day. Skin heads showed up and started pushing, then the cops arrived. Someone pulled a gun, and in a blink of an eye, a flash and a tiny pop…she was gone.

He nodded his head as he continued shoveling out piles of slimy-black earth. He was doing the right thing. These people had to pay.

He had tried talking, tried to change their minds. In the end, it was like convincing a teenager Tik Tok was just stupid.

He climbed out of the hole, his numb fingers aching.

Shaking his head to clear thick drops of water from his eyes, he thought of the horrible person he liberated from the Earth tonight. The woman made it her job to hate and ridicule everything he…his daughter stood for. She preyed on the weak. Lied. Cheated. And now she was gone.

His heart sank as he thought of how many others were out there. He had to fight off the urge to scream as he pulled the plastic up close to his face. The woman behind that thick film had laughed at him when he told her about Maddy. She laughed! “No one in this legislature will ever support you, or that lesbian bitch’s cause.” She had said that to his face! His lips curled, and he spat into what should have been her face. Then he grinned, letting the weight of her fall backwards into the gloom.

He picked up his shovel and started to cover her. After, he pulled the last thing left in his pack, a small Balsam pine tree; the root ball covered in burlap.

“You’ll be ready soon enough, little guy.” He stoked the tiny green branches.

His daughter would be proud.

The rain slowed to a drizzle, allowing him to look over his field in the valley below. His land stretched out to the Arkansas River at the base of the huge hill. It was shrouded in dense shadow, but he knew every inch of the land. The moon was hidden by a thick wall of clouds, but he could see faint brushstrokes of green highlighted in the gloom. She loved it, so he loved it. The trees meant something to him and his family. Every tree held something special within it. Every time a customer took one of his trees home, they took home something more personal and spiritual.

Bobby felt dizzy again, worse this time.

“I am proud of you, Daddy.” Her voice was so sweet. Was he imagining her? His meter hadn’t alerted.

“That’s because I’m smarter than you, dipshit.” That voice was familiar.

Bobby’s heart jumped into his throat, pounding like it was about to explode. He pulled his meter back off his belt and looked, but found nothing but a black screen. He pressed every button, but nothing revived it. “I just changed you…”

“You did, redneck, but…guess what…I’ve got skills.”

Bobby followed the sound of the voice to a stubby pine several yard to the left, just beyond the grave he had just covered. His eyes blurred and his head ached. He fumbled across his jacket pockets for more Skittles.

“That isn’t going to help you, sugar-boy,” she chuckled. “I got your number…literally!” She let out a deep laugh that echoed off the trees.

Bobby knew who it was, but he wouldn’t let himself believe it. “I…I…just…”

“Killed me!” She frowned. “Yes, you did, Hick!” She was shaking her head, mussed blonde hair matted with blood swaying with her motion. “I have had people try to kill me before, but you have some balls on you, sir.”

“Daddy…”

“Shut that lesbian bitch up, or I’ll make sure she sees you suffer.” A wide grin engulfed her face, eyes black and empty just like the boy before. “I’m here for you to atone for your sins.” She glared at the pine trees planted in rows stretching out around her. “And you have been a very bad boy! Whoa!”

“You can’t do anything to me,” he panted, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Oh, but you are wrong, newbie.” She scoffed, then got on all fours and galloped over to him. Her face pressed into his. “You see,” she licked her lips. “We all have our strengths and weaknesses.” Her appearance changed into a more gory creature, her lips melted back and her jaw bone broke through her chubby jowls.

Bobby’s stomach turned at the smell.

“I learn pretty fast.” She stood up and paced back a few steps. “You have to, you see when you’re a woman in politics. There are some sick perverts in my business.” She grinned again. “I learned while you had me unrestrained…bastard, that isn’t safe…in the back of you heap of a truck, that I can control your electronic devices.” She raised her hands as if in praise worship, “shout out to my admin person who taught me about TikTok. You can learn anything on that app.”

Bobby groaned. He could feel his blood sugar diving down. He could barely keep his eyes open. The Senator’s voice was just a dull echo at this point.

“Stay with me, Bubba.” She sat right in front of his sagging head. “I’ve been juicing you with more and more insulin all night, dumbass. That pump you use was very accommodating and easy to activate.”

“Daddy,” Maddy sobbed.

“I told you to shut up!”

“Leave her…”

“You such a sad sack, Bobby. You lost your wife in the Gulf. Another Marine dead on the field. Then you got kicked out because your pancreas went tits up.” She moaned in pleasure, “it is just so tasty, but it gets better because then, you lose poor Maddicakes over there to a fidgety cop!” The woman laughed again. “Priceless!”

Bobby looked up at her.

“You didn’t know that, did you?” She sucked in air through her teeth, “yep, a young cop. With a family, mind you, made a mistake and we, as the law makers of our state, forgave him for that.”

Bobby’s eyes began to throb.

“Are you gonna cry again, Bob-o?” She nodded, “go ahead and cry. I would put you out of your misery with my brand new nickle-plated Colt .45.” Her eyes got wide with excitement. “I had hollow-point bullets special made for her, but…” She turned and looked Bobby directly in the eyes, “you buried her right over there!” She pointed a chunky finger at the fresh mound of mud, which was already eroding in the rain. “Ah well, water under the bridge…or over my mound.”

“I drained your meter of all its precious battery power so you would be blind to your exposure to us. And, now, all I have to do is sit and wait as your life slowly swirls the proverbial drain, or wait long enough for you to go insane because…pretty soon the others are going to smell fresh meat and come lookin’ for ya. It’s just a matter of time, and either way you loose…bitch!”

Somewhere in the distance, a faint ringing sound caught the woman’s attention. “What is that?” She turned her head this way and that trying to locate the sound. “That sounds like my phone…”. She turned to Bobby, who already knew his stupid mistake. “Did you leave my GPS enabled, government-issued phone on my murdered body?” Her face was ecstatic, her massive grin pushed her big cheeks up to her sunken eyeballs. “You did! Amateur hour, shit kicker. You are going to jail now, if you make it off this hill!” She jumped and skipped around Bobby and Maddy, who had huddled around her father, being careful not to get in the maniac ghoul’s way.

The trees began to giggle again. “Here they come, Amateur sugar-boy! Here they come for you.” She sniffed the air. Her grin disappeared and her face darkened. “And they are hungry for you, Bobby.”

Maddy whimpered.

“It’s okay, Maddy. This…This was probably meant to happen…just rotten luck.”

“Did you forget your emergency bag I made you?” she whispered. Her voice was older now, more like her real voice. “I swear, dad, if you forgot it again.”

Bobby sat up and looked at her. She was pale and thin, but her eyes were just as green as they had been that morning when he left for work. He wanted so much to hold her. To hug her say he loved her just once more. “No…sweetheart…I always keep it in my pocket now.”

“Then take it out and use your emergency shot.”

“My…”

“Your glucagon, dad, the antidote to insulin. Use it to get your blood sugar up…Now!” She screamed the last part loud enough to bring Bobby back from the brink. His adrenaline was pumping hard enough to force his starved muscles into action.

He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out the red container that held glucagon, the antidote to insulin. He popped the case open and pulled out the pre-filled syringe. Then he plunged the long needle into his numb leg and pushed the plunger down.

“Noooo!” the senator screamed when she realized what he was doing and what Maddy had planned all along. “You’ll never get away with it. My people will come looking and they’re gonna find tha…phone…”. Her voice faded with her image.

Bobby felt his blood sugar rise and blood begin pumping to his vital organs again. His mind was clearing.

His phone rang; his heart jumped into his throat.

“Hello?” he croaked. “No, Mr. James, you didn’t wake me up. I was j-just…uh…getting some…how can I help?”

He listened again. “Oh…absolutely.” His grin returned. “How many…”. He listened to the muffled voice. “No, sir. Fifty Balsams will be no problem…at all.”

Jon Oden, M.D., is Chief of Pediatric Endocrinology and the James H. Hamlin II Endowed Chair in Pediatric Endocrinology at UAMS.