Page 10 of Rebound

Me

Pretty sure my body is attempting to do some version of The Exorcist right now.

Vera

Head turning 360 or projectile barfing?

Barfing. I forgot about the head turning thing

Vera

You refused to watch that part. You were fine with the puke, which is concerning now that I think about it.

Food poisoning?

Doubt it. The exhaustion and dizziness are new. Could be my IBS choosing to use the front door this time

Vera

Gross. Maybe see a doctor while you’re there

I’d rather wait until I get home.

Vera

It’s almost like you don’t want to get better.

Ugh. Don’t be the logical one right now. Don’t need it.

Vera

Obviously someone needs to be that person.

Drink soup for dinner. No wine. No chocolate. Nothing that brings you joy

What brings me joy right now is ignoring you.

Bye bitch!

I put my phone away, huffing and puffing as it continues to vibrate. She’s right, I do need to avoid what brings me joy and probably see a doctor. Blergh.

Four. Feel like shit

Tamara

It’s my last day in Mumbai and I should be at the DeMello house for a meeting with the structural engineer. Instead, I’m flat on my back drifting in and out of sleep. I woke up at the usual time, but when I swung my legs out of bed, something in my back twinged and I couldn’t move. And the fatigue that plagued me all week knocked me back down as well. I crawled back into bed and slept for another hour before the nausea dragged me out and over the toilet bowl.

Despite being turned off by the vomiting yesterday, Pavan swung by my hotel room to check in. He stayed long enough for me to give him all my work and a list of things the engineer needed to double check. Then once he was sure I wasn’t going to pass out where I was standing, he left for the DeMellos house while I collapsed into bed feeling guilty the rest of the morning.

As one of the senior architects at Bold Lines, I hold myself to a higher level. It’s something I work through in therapy every week and I still can’t let go. I’m a bit of a perfectionist and sometimes a control freak. I don’t see these as bad things, especially when I’m able to do the work I do and create the spaces I can. But it also means I don’t cut myself any slack. I’ve never not visited a site and I’ve never been this sick before. Whatever is ailing me now is clearly ruining my workaholic streak, because I shouldn’t be lying half-naked in a hotel bed with saltine cracker crumbs scattered around me.

Part of the reason I’m the way I am is because of how my grandmother raised me. She came from a generation of women who were always perfect in everything they did. Velliamma never left the house without putting on a beautiful saree, a pair of diamond earrings and combing her hair. She looked her best, even if it was just to stop at the grocery store. Growing up witnessing that, I believed it’s how I needed to be as well. It made my work life a little hard at first.

Everything had to be perfect and aligned the right way or it would upset my nervous system. Then I had to ensure all the projects I assisted or worked on were meeting their targets. Delays stressed me out. There were times when I’d lock myself in the restrooms to cry in frustration that everything was going wrong. Over the years, I’ve gotten better at handling disappointments. Nothing ever happens on time, schedules change and projects get pushed back. It still makes my skin itch, but I can handle it better now. Sort of.

I wake up to my phone buzzing across the sheets and see Pavan’s name flashing on the screen. I flop onto my back and answer the call. “Hello?”

“Dude, you sound terrible.”