Before I Go (31 page)

WITH BICEPS AS big as footballs and a buzz cut, Patrick looks like he’d be more at home in army fatigues and dog tags shouting derogatory orders than in a crisp polo and khakis talking about finding your center.

But here we are.

“I subscribe to a holistic method of stress relief,” he tells me in a voice so gentle it’s as if he’s reading me a children’s book. “Panic attacks
are really about a loss of control. Life gets so overwhelming that your body literally can’t process it and you become paralyzed by the fear or anxiety.”

I’m trying to be a good audience, but all I can think about are the angles of the hard plastic chair I’m sitting on and how they’re pressing into my bones, making it impossible to get comfortable.

“Think of it like a pot of water boiling over on the stove. What I try to do is turn down the burner in your life. If we can keep it on low or medium-low, you won’t boil over. Of course, we’ll go over some techniques on what to do if and when it does. But let’s first work on reducing the overall level of anxiety in your life. Now, what seems to be your biggest stress factor?”

I stop shifting in my seat and stare at him. He has my chart. He knows my medical history. Shouldn’t it be obvious what my biggest stress factor is?

But Patrick remains silent, forcing me to tell him.

“Dying,” I say, but my voice cracks in the middle, like I’m in the desert and haven’t had a drop of water in days. I clear my throat.

“What’s that?” Patrick raises his eyebrows.

“I’m dying,” I say, with more force than I intended.

“Ah, yes,” Patrick says, unruffled. “A cancer diagnosis can be particularly stressful, but I find that it’s all about perspective. I mean, we’re all dying, aren’t we? I could walk out of here and get hit by a bus this evening. Really, none of us have any control over when we die and that’s the frightening part, hmm? The loss of control.”

He smiles, obviously proud that he’s brought his lecture full circle, while I grind my bones further into the seat to keep from screaming. If I’ve learned anything from Patrick so far, it’s that there’s nothing more patronizing than someone who is not dying telling someone who is how to feel about it. And why do people always say they could get hit by a bus? Like life is just one big game of Frogger and people are getting struck left and right by dangerous city transport. I don’t
think Patrick
could
leave here tonight and get hit by a bus. First, he would have to be walking, and I bet he drove his car here. Second, you’d have to be an awfully careless pedestrian not to see a twelve-ton rectangular van barreling in your direction.

Third, I don’t like Patrick.

I silently curse Dr. Saunders for sending me to a respiratory therapist who fancies himself a real therapist after all.

“Hmm,” I say, pretending to mull over Patrick’s little speech. “Maybe we could move on to the breathing techniques? I think that would be most helpful.”

His face falls and I wonder if he really expected me to jump up and say: “
Yes!
Oh, thank you! Here I was completely worried about the fact that I’m
dying
, but I could get hit by a bus tomorrow, so there’s no need to worry! I feel so much better now.”

He lifts his right leg and settles the sock-clad ankle of it over his left knee. “Sure, of course,” he says. “But think over what I said, hmm? You might also find it helpful to look for other areas of your life that you can loosen your hold on. The more we accept we’re not really in the driver’s seat, the better. You gotta let go, you know?”

“Let go,” I repeat, through clenched teeth. “Got it.”

He stares at me a beat longer, as if to let that tidbit of wisdom sink in, then he nods once. “All right, then, let’s get started.”

He tells me that deep breathing is actually the worst thing you can do to stop hyperventilating. He tells me to hold my breath in ten-second bursts when I feel a panic attack coming on. He tells me the AWARE technique is an acronym for Accept the anxiety, Watch the anxiety, Act normal, Repeat, and Expect the best.

But I can’t stop thinking about getting hit by a bus.

And if, just maybe, that’s a better way to go.

I CAN’T FIND the baby carrots.

I know I bought them at the store yesterday, but they have inexplicably disappeared from the crisper in the refrigerator.

“Jack!” I yell from my bent position, my eyes scanning each shelf, as if the bag of orange vegetables will magically appear in front of me.

“Yeah,” he says, the word so loud and clear I jump and nearly hit my noggin on the closed freezer door.

I turn around and find him standing behind me in his scrubs.

“Have you seen the carrots?” I know it’s impossible that he fed them all to Gertie last night when he got home, but maybe he left the bag by her cage or . . . or . . . I can’t come up with another plausible explanation.

“Nope,” he says, grabbing his brown lunch bag off the counter.

“Wait! It’s just the sandwich. Here,” I grab an apple out of the drawer and hand it to him. “Take this.”

“Thanks,” he says, and squeezes my arm. “Have a good day.” With his lunch sack in one hand he heads out the back door, the screen slamming shut behind him.

I stare at the door that’s still vibrating from his hasty retreat and realize that he didn’t kiss me good-bye. And really, who can blame him? It’s not as if I’ve exactly been receptive to his recent advances. But still.

Still.

Gertie starts squealing. I know she heard me rummaging in the fridge and wants to know where her carrots are.

“You and me both,” I mutter, grabbing a cucumber out of the crisper and slicing it for her. After feeding her, I go into our bedroom to strip the bed. I carry the sheets to the basement and stuff them into the washer with detergent and turn it on. Then, I stand there, the whole day stretching out in front of me like an ocean.

I have things to do. I need to get more carrots, for starters. And I could always go to class, even though I haven’t been in a few weeks.
Or I could wash the baseboards. And sweep the dog hair from where it’s accumulated beneath the bed and call to get a quote on how much it would be to stop the porch from running away from the house.

But my feet are firmly rooted to the cement floor. I look at the closed washer and, for a second, lament that I put the sheets in there. I’d like nothing more than to crawl back into bed. But it’s not because I’m tired.

I’m bored.

I roll the words over in my head. It’s been so long since I’ve not had something to occupy my time—classes, even searching for a wife for Jack kept me busy. Now what am I supposed to do?

Bored people are boring. Are you boring?
My mother’s response when I would whine from the couch on a lazy Saturday that there was nothing to do rings in my head. And now I’m afraid that she’s right. That that’s exactly what I am. And I wonder if Jack thinks so, too.

It’s all the motivation I need to go upstairs, pull on a pair of jeans, and leave the house, blinking at the bright sunshine as it taunts me from its perch in the sky. I’m not sure where I’m going, but I want to have something to tell Jack at the end of the day that’s more exciting than “I washed the baseboards.”

I wind up downtown and am surprised to see the throngs of people walking around on a Wednesday morning. Then I remember that it’s farmer’s market day, and am pleased that I’ll be able to pick up carrots while I’m here.

But first, I think I’ll have a cup of tea. I park in front of the coffee shop and walk in, my head held high. There are no constraints on my time, nowhere that I have to be, and now, instead of mourning my loss of planned days and activities, I attempt to conjure the twenty-one-year-old version of myself and carpe diem
.
What was it that Patrick said? Let go. Give up control.

I take my tea to the back couch, the one I think of as Jack’s and
my couch, and sit down on the worn cushions. For five minutes I sip the hot liquid, soaking in the atmosphere and trying to enjoy the moment. But I can’t.

I’m bored.

And I hate Patrick.

I turn to the door and begin watching the students and professors trickle in and leave, grabbing quick jolts of caffeine between classes. They all walk with an enviable purpose and I try to guess what they’re studying. The guy with a baseball hat and khakis I peg for a frat guy majoring in business. The girl with streaks of pink and blue in her hair? Liberal arts. Probably sculpture. Then I see a familiar face.

“Dr. Walden?”

The short woman turns from the cashier where she’s paying for her coffee in my direction. Her eyes light up.

“Daisy!” She walks over to me. “I’ve missed you in class. How are you?”

And instead of giving her my standard “fine,” I’m suddenly unloading on Dr. Walden exactly how I’ve been, the clinical trial, my still-growing tumors, and now, my inescapable boredom. At some point during my soliloquy, she takes a seat on the couch beside me.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” I say. “You probably have a class to get to and I’m just going on and on.” My cheeks get hot and I’m not sure why I’ve chosen to confide in Dr. Walden, except that she’s easy to confide in. One time when I went to her office to go over a paper that I got a B on, when I felt sure I should’ve gotten an A, I ended up telling her that my father had died when I was little and that I was inexplicably terrified of fireworks. I left feeling empty, light. And with the idea that perhaps Walden missed her calling as an interrogator for Homeland Security.

“Oh, Daisy,” she says. “You’re going through a lot.” She pauses. Pats my hand. “You know, my mom had breast cancer.”

I tense, preparing myself for the story. The unsolicited advice of
the Chinese herbalist or type of chemo her mom got that really helped. But Dr. Walden remains silent and I realize that she was simply offering me the information, a bridge of empathy.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

“Me, too.” And then her eyes brighten as if she’s just gotten an idea. “You know what,” she says, “I’m really overwhelmed this semester and could use a graduate-assistant type to help grade papers, assist in research, that kind of thing. What do you think? Would you be up for it?”

I know there are only three weeks left in the semester and that Dr. Warden is only trying to be nice. But I grab on to her offer like a life vest in the open sea.

“Yes,” I say, instantly hating how overeager I sound.
Desperation makes a terrible cologne,
I can hear Kayleigh saying. If that’s the case, I reek. I try to tone it down. “I mean, if you think I’d be helpful.”

“You were one of my most promising students. You’d be perfect.”

The “were” stings, but I choose to ignore it, and focus on her compliments. Even if she is just being nice.

“Come by my office tomorrow and we’ll talk details. Set up some hours.”

I hesitate. Though I only have set doctor appointments every other Friday, I’ve been managing to see health-care professionals much more often. I don’t want to let Dr. Warden down by being unreliable.

“Don’t worry,” she says, using what I’m now convinced is voodoo magic to read my mind. “We’ll make it flexible.”

THE SUN BAKES my face, warming me from the inside out as I walk down the sidewalk toward the farmer’s market booths. I choose to ignore the malevolent part of my brain that’s telling me I am officially a charity case. That Dr. Walden doesn’t really need the help. That she
pities me. And I try to focus on the fleeting sense of pride that swelled like a wave in my chest when she said I’d be perfect.
Perfect.
I haven’t felt perfect for anything lately.

Booths pepper the closed-off street in front of city hall and I take my time perusing them. I sample the season’s first strawberries, inhale clutches of wildflowers, savor the scent of fresh-popped popcorn sold by a street vendor. I buy four long carrots with big leafy green stems and a slice of crustless vegetarian quiche and sit on the brick steps to eat it. The same steps where Jack and I first emerged as husband and wife.

I bite into my eggy lunch and picture the two of us walking toward the exit, arm in arm, after our short ceremony. I can almost hear my laughter when he leaned in and whispered, “Was it just me or did that judge smell like he bathed in gin this morning?” Then he held open the door and gestured me to walk through it with a deep and goofy and grand: “After you, Mrs. Richmond.” And in that moment, all my qualms and feminist reservations about taking his last name melted away and I was left with nothing but pure giddiness at my new moniker. The one that meant that I belonged to Jack and he to me.