I just never thought he would get this far.
It's possibly the most repeated phrase of 2016. We said it when Donald Trump became a serious contender for the Republican nomination, and again when he clenched it. Then there's the sad horror of having to say it again, once we knew without a doubt he'd won enough electoral votes to become president of the United States.
In the wee hours of November 9, I walked out of a midtown Houston bar where I'd been pre-celebrating what I'd thought would be Trump's embarrassing defeat. I'd been at the bar since 6:00 pm on Election Day, watching the results with my husband, Matt, and a few friends. As the night wore on, like-minded strangers gravitated to us and we assembled into a party of sorts in the semi-private upstairs room. We watched the electoral votes come in; each number added to Trump's tally subtracting from us a little of our cheer and confidence. As our anxiety grew, we comforted each other with false hope. "It won't happen," we said. "It can't." It would become the night's refrain.
Matt and I called an Uber shortly after 1:00 am. There was no sense in waiting for CNN to tell us what we already knew, and we had no desire to see Hillary concede. As we stepped outside the bar, the streets were eerily silent. I felt like I'd walked into a parallel universe. That or the opening credits of an episode of Tales from the Darkside. Numb, we slid into our Uber, speaking only to greet our driver. Gospel music poured from the speakers, and despite the fact that the only time I listen to gospel is when I'm back home in Detroit and it is wafting from my grandparent's bedroom, I welcomed it. The music turned out to be just the salve I needed during the 20-minute ride home.
Inside our house, I asked Matt not to turn on the TV. I went upstairs and removed my pantsuit and peeled off my Nasty Women Make History shirt as if I were removing not a cotton tee, but my own skin. I soon heard the unmistakable sound of the downstairs television, followed by my husband howling in disbelief. I closed the bedroom door, crawled into bed, and pulled the covers over my head.
Some hours later, I woke up gasping. My hands flew to my abdomen, the source of the pain that had shocked me into consciousness. I felt like something was trying to push its way out of the lower left side of my stomach. Finding no egress there, it attempted to exit through my back. Each spasm took my breath away. I shook my sleeping husband and pleaded for medication, anything we had in the house. Over the next several hours the pain intensified. I was roiling and writhing, sweating and moaning in agony. I wanted to vomit, but couldn't. I asked myself if it was something I ate? But I remembered I hadn't eaten the night before. Hungover then? I counted the drinks I'd had and realized I hadn't imbibed enough to result in the kind of torture I was experiencing. The only logical conclusion I could reach in my delirious state was that the pain of losing the election had somehow manifested physically.
I dozed off and on as the day progressed, aided by a combination of muscle relaxers and Ibuprofen. But the pain only got worse. When Matt said it might be time to go to the emergency room, I refused, holding firm to the belief that given more time, the pain would pass.
By early evening, it was my turn to concede.
At the emergency clinic, I was given three doses of morphine that did nothing, and finally one that did. A CT scan and transvaginal ultrasound later, I found out I had an ovarian cyst. If it sounds horrible, it's because it is.
I've been bedridden ever since returning from the ER late Wednesday night. I'm still on Norco and prescription Motrin. My stomach is still three sizes too big, and my ovarian pain is still constant, although it has diminished in intensity. Per doctor's orders, the only thing I can do now is stay on the meds and wait for the cyst to disappear on its own, which I've been assured it will, just as it does in the vast majority of cases like mine.
The timing of my medical emergency and the election results isn't lost on me. In fact, I think the Universe wanted to distract me from the aftermath. Good try, Universe! Unfortunately, being confined to my bed for days on end has presented me with quite a lot of time to think about the election. Although I've managed to avoid watching any news, I have scrolled through my Facebook feed and various news sites I follow. I see what's waiting for me out there when I get well.
And I don't like it.
I feel as if when I can finally leave the house, I won't recognize the country we now live in. Sure, it looks the same from my bedroom window, but I know it's not. It's a new America. Donald Trump's America. If we're lucky, this New American Order will only last four years. At most. But what worries me is that the seeds of white nationalism, bigotry, and intolerance Trump has sown will grow into something much more wicked than we have yet imagined, something that will far outlast his time in office.
So I lie here feeling helpless, nursing my wounds both mental and physical. I alternate between depression and fury. I'm angry with the media for failing us. I'm disheartened by the knowledge that 47% of eligible voters in our country didn't vote, and I'm disgusted by the likelihood that within this astounding number of non-voters, there are people who didn't want Trump to become president. And yet... They. Still. Didn't. Vote.
But most of all, I'm fearful. Fearful of some of my own countrymen, the ones who voted for this monster. I'm afraid for myself and others who Trump and his supporters are trying to make feel as if we don't belong in our own country because we don't fit the narrative of a "great America." For me this election had little to do with Hillary Clinton winning and everything to do with Donald Trump, a bigoted, sexual predator (among so many other things) not winning.
Over the past few months, I have become increasingly vocal on my personal social media accounts about my opposition to Trump, but thus far, I've kept this blog apolitical. I'm speaking out now because I have something to say beyond sharing a post or meme on Facebook, something I hope reaches a broader audience than the people I attended college with or worked with 15 years ago. I used to believe in having a public persona and a private persona. Writers, especially unestablished writers of fiction, are told to keep our social and political views quiet, lest we dissuade people who disagree with us from reading our work. But the fiction writers I respect most are the ones who aren't afraid to speak their minds about issues that affect society, political or otherwise. I'd rather speak my truth and have no one read my work than a million people read my work because I didn't ruffle their delicate feathers by saying something on my blog about injustice. This election has taught me that being silent in any aspect of my life is no longer an option. It is my social duty to use the means at my disposal — this blog being one of them — to add my voice to the chorus of those who refuse to be cowed into accepting the unacceptable. As long as I have a platform to express my outrage, I intend to use it. If people don't want to hear what I have to say, they don't have to read my blog or anything else I write. We can all choose what we want to see. But closing our eyes won't make it go away.
Despite what the world witnessed on election night, and despite my rollercoaster of (mostly) negative emotions, I'm hanging on to my optimism. We can turn things around. It won't happen overnight, but we can do it. It's helping me to remember this: according to the latest tallies, the majority of Americans who voted, voted against Donald Trump. I'll say it another way: a majority of Americans did not want this man as their president, despite what the electoral votes dictate. We must remember this when we express our indignation, our disappointment, and our commitment to standing up for ourselves and others who have been marginalized by this election.
Thinking of being committed to others, I'm reminded of my experience in the emergency center. When Matt and I arrived, a Latino man — clearly in need of medical attention himself — walked over to hold the door open for us as Matt half-carried me inside. The diverse medical staff tending to me couldn't have been more compassionate. I don’t know who these people are, where they come from, or their political views. That night they were just people who cared for me when I was in some of the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I believe in the capacity for humans to care about one another, regardless of our disparate backgrounds. And as a visit to the emergency room will bring home: as humans, we are all prone to vulnerability. But a different kind of vulnerability is in urgent need of care right now — the vulnerability of our fellow citizens (and aspiring citizens), those who will be most hurt by Trump’s America. This is why the fight is still on. We must protect one another. We can still make our country stronger. Together. I'm all in. Are you?
