11 hours Ago By Suleika Jaouad
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. We are having trouble retrieving the article content. Please enable JavaScript in your browser settings.
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