Most of Me (3 page)

By early spring, our laid-back Radio 3 office has been laid to rest, and our team is transplanted into the brand-new corporate cubicle farm. Ergonomic specialists tweak our workstations—adjusting table heights and chair angles, computer monitors and keyboard positions, bending over backwards to make us comfortable and productive. My chronic back pain makes sitting difficult, so they give me three chairs to try. My left hand gets tingly and clumsy while typing, so they buy me a special keyboard. But no matter what they change, replace, or adjust, I'm Goldilocks from hell; nothing feels just right. Still, I do my best to settle in to this new workspace—not just for me but also for my Cry Lady, who now accompanies me to meetings, answers my phone, and replies to my e-mails.

This morning, my supervisor e-mailed me the most soul-destroying, nitpicking, inconsiderate critique of an assignment I've been working on. Her words crush my Cry Lady and trigger a waterfall of tears. Somehow, my Cry Lady manages to write this response:

Dear supervisor across the room,
Am I correct to assume your ass is glued to your chair? And that is why from over there, you e-mailed me your carefully composed criticisms and slyly missed this lovely vision of all my tear ducts in a row? Because if this is really so, then fuck you!

Just as my Cry Lady is about to hit
send,
I intervene and press
delete.
Why stoop to my supervisor's level with an impersonal e-mail, when I can take the high road, go over my supervisor's head, and talk face-to-face with her boss? I muster up my courage, stomp across the room, and lay it on the line:

“Enough is enough! I deserve to be treated with respect! Give me constructive—not destructive—criticism! There's too much work piled on my plate! Assign this project to someone else! Supervisors aren't always right! Some supervisors are never right!”

When I'm done with my diatribe, I collapse into a chair—panting from exertion and euphoric with victory—like an underdog that has captured the leader of the pack. My efforts do not go unnoticed. Having spilled my guts all over his office, the boss commends me for my honesty and rewards me with a box of two-ply tissues. As I blow my nose and mop up my mess, he pats me on the shoulder and says, “I'm glad we had this little talk. I'll speak with your supervisor.”

“Thank you,” I sniffle, exiting his office and closing his door behind me. Nothing beats direct communication.

A little euphoria can work wonders. Over the next two weeks, my rage retreats and my mood lightens. My routine hasn't changed: I'm still working nine to five, going to therapy, walking the dog, sleeping on weekends. But now I am feeling hopeful. Digging my way out of depression seems possible, until I get a phone call at work from my dad, and suddenly digging out seems pointless.

“Hi, Robyn. I've got some terrible news.” His voice sounds hollow, lifeless.

“Oh, no. What's wrong?” My voice sounds shrill, fearful.

“It's Mom. She's in hospital with a collapsed lung.”

“What happened? Is she going to be
OK
?”

“She was having a test done on her lungs, and during the procedure, something went wrong.”

I listen in stunned silence as he explains the grim situation.

My mom is unluckily lucky. Sick but not sickly. Dying but not dead. She has just been diagnosed with stage-four inoperable lung cancer. It's in both of her lungs and has likely been there for years. It comes as a total shock—considering she feels perfectly healthy and has been as active as always: looking after my dad, walking five miles a day, playing golf, shopping at the mall, getting her hair and nails done, visiting grandchildren, playing bridge and mah-jongg, going out with friends. She would probably still be in the dark, had she not volunteered to participate in a hospital research study. They were looking at the incidence of cancer among aging ex-smokers, like her, particularly heavy smokers who puffed away the early half of their lives and then managed to kick the habit and live smoke-free for decades.

Fortunately, it's a slow-growing cancer, and for now she is asymptomatic. She doesn't feel pain from the cancer, just from her collapsed lung, which the doctors expect to heal quickly.

I hear unfamiliar voices muttering in the background, and my dad tells me the doctors have come to check up on my mom. So he will have to call me back later.

After I hang up, I sit shivering in my chair, waves of nausea rippling through my body, conflicting thoughts gripping my mind: compassion for my poor mother and anger at her for getting sick too—she's supposed to look after my dad; he's the sick one. I feel overwhelmed by despair—what's going to happen now?

Lost in thought, I hear the gentle voice of a colleague asking me, “Are you
OK
?”

“I don't know,” I answer. I clutch my belly and bolt for the bathroom, where I disappear into a stall. All I know is that I need a break—from work, from family, from stress, from life. But how? Days later, I find out.

THE BOSS IS INSTRUMENTAL
—in more ways than one. He invites me back into his office, this time for a private concert. He greets me at the door and hands me the event program:
Requiem for a Cry Lady's Obsolete Job.
As I take my seat across from his desk, a slow, mournful dirge fills the air and sets the tone for the show.

“I want you to know that this has nothing to do with you—or your work. Radio 3 is moving in a new direction, shifting focus away from radio to the web. Unfortunately, your job is being eliminated. We're giving you notice and severance pay. I'm really sorry.”

Slowly, his words begin to sink in, and my eyes begin to sting. I think, if ever there was a perfect time to let a Cry Lady loose, this is it. I imagine the headline news: “Boss tragically drowns in disgruntled worker's tears. Foul play suspected.”

But that's not what happens. Pride intervenes. And my Cry Lady remains composed until she's out of his sight.

My work ends in midsummer, on a warm, cloudy day. There is a farewell lunch and promises to keep in touch and bittersweet good-byes. Heading home, I feel absolute relief in leaving this obsolete job behind. I am exhausted, in dire need of rest. My body has been growing old right before my very eyes. I shuffle when I walk. I have trouble getting out of chairs. My fingers have lost strength and tire quickly. My mind is muddled, and I'm still depressed. Advil no longer relieves my aches and pains. Even sleep has lost its luster—I can't seem to find a comfortable position anymore. I'm always tossing and turning, wondering where to place my arms. They feel remote and disconnected.

Severance pay provides the precious gift of time—the entire month of August to relax and unwind. A real holiday with Bergen and Naomi. And the opportunity to embark on a friendship pilgrimage—something I've been thinking about for a while. I really want to deepen my relationships with close girlfriends and special acquaintances, as well as reconnect with friends I haven't seen in years. If all goes according to plan, I will be better by September and then I'll start looking for work.

I begin my pilgrimage without even leaving home. My dear friend Mahima, who lives in Singapore, comes to visit. Ever observant, she looks me over and, with a puzzled expression on her face, asks, “Do you always hold your hands so delicately, like a dancer?”

I have no idea what she is talking about. “Like a dancer? What do you mean?” Now I'm the one wearing the puzzled expression.

“Like this,” Mahima says, wrapping her outstretched arms around a giant invisible ball, then bending down into a plié. She holds this ballet position for several seconds and I laugh self-consciously, thinking, what if she's right?

All day long, I hear Mahima's voice, with its distinctive lilt, looping over and over in my mind asking, “Do you always hold your hands so delicately, like a dancer?” Later, while getting ready for bed, I stand in front of the mirror and stare at my naked body. She's right. My arms are positioned in a dancer's pose, my hands graceful extensions. They are frozen in place. It's all so effortless, unintentional, alarming. And it's in this state of hyperawareness that I discover the most disconcerting thing: my left arm is not swinging while I walk. Instead, it remains fixed in place, stuck magnetically by my side. Suddenly I feel rigid and robotic and idiotic. How long has this been going on? Why have I never noticed this before? And why is it happening?

These questions spawn more questions: Why am I still so depressed? Why am I so tired all the time? Why am I not getting any better? Am I paranoid, or am I getting worse? My search for answers is short-lived. By early September, I hit rock bottom.

MY CRASH
is silent and solitary. I land on the living room floor—an incoherent clump, clinging to the yoga mat, in a downward dead dog pose. The crushing weight of gravity makes it difficult to breath. And my limbs feel heavy and cold and useless. Somehow, I am sinking into a deep, dark hole, and I don't know why.

Bergen comes to my rescue, calm and unflinching, kneeling by my side: a heroic handyman with his tenderhearted toolkit, inspecting his broken wife. He wades through my silence and pries open my pain. I drift to the surface, hysterical.

“I need help,” I cry. “Something is wrong . . . I don't know what . . . but I feel like I'm dying . . . like I want to die . . . I don't know what to do.”

“I'll help you,” he assures me. “I'll do anything for you. I'm right here. We'll figure this out together.”

He gently lifts me to my feet, and we sit down on the couch. My body is shaking, my teeth chattering, my heart pounding away. I need warmth—he brings me tea and blankets. I need peace and quiet—he walks on eggshells and coaxes Naomi and her friends to do the same. I need mindless distraction—he installs me in the
TV
room, where I lie lifeless on the couch, like a heap of wood for a funeral pyre. I need doctors—he takes me to appointments where I'm told I need a lot of other things too: antidepressants, sleeping pills, medical diagnostic tests, appointments with specialists, specialists with ointments.

Only a few people know that something is terribly wrong. Of course, Bergen and Naomi do—they're stuck in front-row seats at this horror show, every single day. There's also my G.P., Dr. Mintz, and my therapist, Theresa. And finally, my Toronto Trio: Ruthie, Bonnie, and Sweet Lisa. They call every day to talk to me, but because my Cry Lady is rude and unruly—always erupting into tears, interrupting conversations—I hardly get a word in edgewise. Fortunately, my friends are fluent in melancholy, so my sniffles and snorts make sense. They know this is no ordinary case of the blues. Whatever is bringing me down is serious and dangerous. I let their familiar voices assure me: “It's not your fault that you're sick.” “You'll find out what's wrong.” “You will feel better soon.” “See Theresa as much as possible; no matter what it costs, you're worth it.” And with their constant love and guidance, I take each day one moment at a time—while Bergen spends almost every moment of his time taking care of me.

2

Breaking News Is Hard to Do

I
DON'T WANT TO KILL MYSELF
. I just want to be dead. Like the Lucky Ones in the obituaries. Every morning I greet them with green-eyed envy. Hello, Dearly Departed. Bonjour, Tragically Taken. Nice to meet you, Sorely Missed. Welcome, Gone But Not Forgotten. Breakfast just wouldn't be the same without their alphabetized, memorialized faces staring out at me from the newspaper. I always appreciate their company—they're such a breath of fresh death air.

I feel more at ease with these dead strangers than I do with my living loved ones. Dead strangers don't make messes or noises or demands. They don't notice if teeth need brushing or pajamas need washing. Best of all, they are immune to misery—which is a great relief for my guilty conscience.

I'm mortified by the insidious way my suffering has contaminated our home. It's been just one week since my crash, and already apprehension hangs in the air, sadness frames every doorway, stress creeps into each room. I blame myself for dragging my family down, leading them to the edge of this dark hole—the portal to my depression. Where they watch me picking at my food, searching for my snapshot and Lucky One liberation. And where I watch them carry on.

Since I am out of commission, Bergen launches into rescue mode—taking care of everything and everyone but himself. My heart sinks as I catch glimpses of him rushing from room to room, up and down the stairs, in and out of the house. He's like a whirling dervish, spinning from chore to chore. Cooking meals. Washing laundry. Buying groceries. Walking Nellie. Cleaning the house. Helping Naomi. Saving me—or whoever I am now. I'm certainly not the wife I once was. Or the mother. The guilt is excruciating. I can barely make eye contact with Naomi. The poor kid. It's tough enough being thirteen and trying to fit in at high school while keeping her grades up. Now, in addition to all that, she has to endure living under the same roof with a catatonic Cry Lady and a frantic father who won't allow her to escape this nightmare and go live at a friend's house. Even though she has several invitations and her suitcase is packed.

I CONFESS
: I'm one of those people who write lists. All types, from the classic to-do list to the clandestine ex-lovers list. And no matter how mundane or insane they seem, these inventories are useful devices. They help keep the fridge stocked, the house clean, the dreams wet, the bills paid. And I'm hoping that this list I'm about to write will help me make it through this bleak September day.

It's titled “One Hundred Reasons Not to Kill Myself.” It's one of the many therapeutic exercises in this self-help book I'm reading. I've never written a list like this before. But I'm willing to give it a try, even if it means tossing out the other list I've been secretly compiling. The one called “Bergen's New and Improved Wife.” Already I've jotted down the names of several potential candidates to replace me when I'm gone. These women are all wonderful—I wouldn't care which one he chooses. The only thing I really care about is that Bergen find happiness in the arms of another woman—preferably someone with two swinging arms.