Singing Carrie Underwood

By Rita Thompson

Three redheads in a square box on wheels travel into the city with a siren announcing their urgency. I’m the one strapped to a gurney in the back of the ambulance.

Back at the local hospital where we were initially introduced, I thought I was seeing double until my mother confirmed they were in fact two separate people, identical twins. She smiled at the men with tangerine-colored hair and told me she and my father would meet me at the next hospital I’m being transferred to.

I’d never had an Uber ride with two drivers before, so I wondered if this was the hospital’s version of luxury. If so, how many drivers would Stephen Colbert get?

As we cruise down the highway, I hear the twin with more finely tufted hair call back to me.

Do you want us to turn on the radio? Any station you want.

I bet the twins listen to the same type of music my brother does. Bands called Garage Sale and Not Your Neighbor’s Grandmother, or something like that.

I scan my mind for what radio station would best suit the mood of a hospital transfer. I don’t have the energy for hip-hop or the emotional bandwidth for classical. I might consider oldies, but I didn’t anticipate this emergency so I don’t have the number of that station memorized.

No, thanks.

My awareness comes back to the straps holding me down on the gurney. Are they supposed to be like a seat belt?

I realize how strange it is to be facing backwards in a vehicle. Is it more safe for me to be facing this direction if we get in a crash, or is it just more convenient for the twins to take me in and out of the ambulance this way?

Maybe if we got in a head-on collision I'm less likely to be slingshotted out the windshield this way. If the twins were slingshotted out of the ambulance, I'd have to David Blaine my way out of these straps holding me in place.

I’d been steadily losing my ability to stand up without debilitating dizziness for the last year, and then earlier tonight at my birthday dinner half of my face went numb. I could panic, but I’m clinging to the emotional steadiness of my sanity. I know with my body in this questionable condition, my biggest asset is my mind.

After the twins finish their pleasantries with me, they commiserate about the Bruins’ disappointing performance this season. I’m taken aback by their hard pivot to a barbarian sport, but this jaunt is probably mundane for them.

Hayes is better because he is a local guy.

Canadians have better training.

No one has what it takes more than a Dorchester guy.

I wiggle my face to see if I’ve gained feeling in it. I haven’t.

I try not to give into the cascade of fear I'm experiencing when I could be educating myself. I know nothing about professional hockey, and I don’t want this ride to be a waste of time.

Hayes is from Dorchester, I etch into my mind. Maybe I'll be more useful at trivia nights after this trip. I've always been particularly uninterested in trivia, but consistently willing to attend for the appetizers and ambiance.

The twin's banter turns to white noise as I wonder if my parents will find me since this circumstance is new to all of us. I don't have my phone with me, or my pants for that matter, so they will have to navigate the maze of emergency rooms in the Boston medical playground. With five massive hospitals in the same vicinity, I hope they remember I'm in the Beth Israel system and not the Brigham system.

My attention comes back to the foggy rays of light shining from cars passing by. They remind me of my childhood and riding in the back of my mother's cherry red volkswagen.

It was a treat to get the back seat when my older siblings didn't call dibs, especially with a plastic baggie of dry cheerios to munch on. I remember thinking it was so grown up of me to sit that far away from my mother in the car. I established the distance by pretending not to hear her when she asked me how it was going back there. When I was 5 years old, this view I see now was a privilege.

While I'm not exactly itching to be closer to the twins, I want greater proximity to my mother and the opportunity to tell her how I am doing.

The headlights of other cars passing by are implicit of the darkness inside my chariot. What else has happened in this ambulance? Have the twins needed to save someone's life in here? Were they successful?

Panic rabbit hole.

I snap my mind back into focus to stave off fearful tears.

My therapist once told me that her actress-turned-rabbi sister claimed singing is a good way to interrupt a brewing panic attack. It’s unclear to me how judgy the twins are, but I’m not in the position to be choosy about coping mechanisms.

I allow one my favorite vocally skilled divas to become my muse.

Carrie Underwood.

Her chorus starts as a hum and turns into a breathy voiced melody. My voice gets bigger and I soak in the paradox of feeling so alive in an unrecognizably fragile body trapped in a mobile chamber.

Are you sure you don’t want us to turn on the radio?

I decline. I need to feel music more than I need to hear it.

It would be cool if the cars passing by could hear my voice instead of the siren. I want to be as loud as one of those vans that drives around Manhattan asking the public if they love Jesus.

I guess that's one worse place I could be right now. At least I'm not strapped to a gurney in the back of a Jesus van.

One of the twins calls back to me that we are nearing the new hospital. My lullabying voice fades away to the loud silence of what comes next.

Rita Thompson is a Mayo Clinic and National Board-certified Health and Wellness coach who supports clients with chronic illness in building quality of life. She is also a writer and advocate for the chronic illness community.