Most of Me (4 page)

Turning my attention to this new list, I pick a fresh page in my journal so that there's plenty of space to jot down my one hundred reasons to stick around. I write the title at the top, numbers down the side, and begin. Within minutes, I sense the futility of compiling this list—I am, after all, feeling listless. Within an hour, I know I am not only depressed but am also demented. No matter how hard I concentrate, the same solitary reason keeps popping into my head. And it isn't profound or practical or religious or romantic—it isn't even hygienic. Reluctantly, I scribble it down: “Nellie licking my feet.”

She loves to lick them, and they love being licked, but declaring my dog's tongue bathing my ticklish feet to be the only thing worth living for—well, that's just shameful. I'm sure I have more relevant reasons. I just have to think of them. Eventually, I come up with number 2: “The taste of dark chocolate.” Now I am frantic. What about the people I love? My family? My friends? What if someone reads this list? What will they think?

In a state of panic, I pick up my pen and quickly add Naomi and Bergen to the list. I breathe a sigh of relief, having corrected my oversight. And then the panic returns as it dawns on me, I've just made the list even more deplorable. The sequencing is all wrong. What kind of person ranks a dog footbath higher than her own flesh and blood? Or her beloved spouse? Of course, I know the answer. That's why I scribble over the list and make an appointment to see Theresa later today.

THERESA'S OFFICE
is small and cramped and shaped like the letter
L.
As usual, she sits in the swivel chair and I sit on the snivel couch, within arm's reach of a fresh box of tissues.

“How are you doing?” she gently asks, her blue eyes on red alert—scanning my horizon, watching my sun set, wondering if it will rise again. She knows how I am doing before I say a word. I just fill her in on the details—the crash, the calls, the list—while my Cry Lady sets the mood. Theresa listens intently. “It sounds like you're in a lot of pain.”

“I just want someone to tell me what to do,” I sob. “My doctor wants me to start antidepressants. But I don't know if it's the best thing. What do you think I should do?”

“Well, I can't make that decision for you. But I can tell you that sometimes, for some people with clinical depression, taking medication while continuing with therapy makes all the difference.”

I consider this, as we breathe deeply in unison, in and out, in and out.

“What are you feeling now?” Theresa asks as I massage the back of my neck.

“It hurts. Everything hurts. I don't know how much more I can take. What if the medication doesn't help?”

“I understand,” she says. “It's hard to imagine things getting better when you're feeling so awful. But they will.”

“It's hard to feel hopeful when I just want to die.”

“I know that you don't feel hopeful. But I do. And I'm going to hold on to your hope, for you, if that's
OK
.”

I try to imagine the shape of my hope, cradled in Theresa's hands. But all I can see is emptiness.

I have to ask, “Have you ever felt like you wanted to die?”

Theresa's hands lift off her lap and slide down the sides of her neck. Then she presses them protectively against her chest.

“Years ago, I came very close to ending my life. I was extremely depressed.”

“What happened?” I ask.

“Well, I found a great therapist, and with her help I made big changes in my life. I used to be a lawyer.”

Suddenly, a wave of sadness sweeps through me. “I'm sorry for your suffering, and I'm so grateful that you're still here.”

“Me too,” she says. “I told you this not to make you sad but because I truly believe you can make it too. It's just going to take time.”

“I have lots of time; I just don't have lots of money. Definitely not enough to see you regularly.”

“That's not a problem,” she says. “We can work something out. You can pay me later, sometime in the future, when you do have the money.”

I don't know what to say. I just know how I feel: overwhelmed. “Instead of running up a tab, would you consider a trade? One of my paintings?”

“That would be perfect.” Theresa smiles.

At the end of the session, Theresa hands me a sheet of paper with two phone numbers: her cell and the suicide-prevention hotline.

“You can call either one, anytime. Just promise me you'll call if you need to talk.” Nodding, I tuck the paper into my pocket and give Theresa a hug good-bye. I don't say it out loud, but I'm sure she hears my request: hold on tightly to my hope.

ALTHOUGH AN APPLE
a day keeps the doctor away, no fruit has been discovered that keeps the patient away. This is good news for me, bad news for Dr. Mintz. He's my family physician. And I'm his boomerang patient: in one day, back the next. The waiting room regular in the coveted chair. What'll it be today? The usual? Coming right up—one paper cup of filtered water, with a side order of two-ply facial tissues and all the issues of
National Geographic
I can read. Plenty to keep me occupied until it's my turn. Again.

I like Dr. Mintz. He's big hearted and dedicated. He moves with ease between life's comedies and tragedies. He's a real mensch—a person of integrity and honor. In the thirteen years I've known him, he's grown a little older and a little balder, but really, he hasn't changed much. Or at least that's what I thought. While he's always had a swagger in his step, lately it seems more exaggerated—especially when he moseys on over in his bowlegged jeans, alligator boots, and silver string tie. Something is definitely different about him. He looks more like a snazzy Jewish cowboy than a nice Jewish doctor. But it's more than how he's dressed. I can't exactly put my finger on it, but a change has occurred.

So far, Dr. Mintz is stumped. Whatever disease, disorder, or syndrome is causing my mishmash of symptoms—foot dragging, arm numbness and immobility, body aches and pains, muscle and joint stiffness, mind fuzziness—has not been detected by any of the many tests he's done. It's a mystery. And since mystery loves company, he calls up his colleague—the neurologist. I'm booked to see her soon. Meanwhile, Dr. Mintz urges me to take his advice and start the antidepressants he prescribed ages ago. He promises they'll help me feel better. He says they make everyone feel better, even him. He takes them to cope with his own depression, since being treated recently for prostate cancer. His disclosure explains his exaggerated swagger and strikes a hopeful chord. Maybe the meds will help a little; maybe they will help a lot. Maybe they will lift me out of this dark hole so that I can return to my life and my life can return to me. And then I won't have to see Dr. Mintz so often.

In mid-September, at the pinnacle of my clinical depression, I finally surrender into the arms of Big Pharma and her chemical concoctions. No one forces me to do this. It's my choice. It's my hand clawing its way up and out of the dark hole, placing the pill on the back of my tongue, pouring the water down my throat. Holy water that's been blessed by Dr. Mintz and Dr. Smyth (the neurologist he recommended), as well as Theresa, Bergen, and Sweet Lisa.

I swallow and wait—for side effects and for joy. But nothing happens that first day. Or the next. On the third day, mild nausea sets in and for a while I feel worse. And then, one October morning, the tiniest tinge of joy bubbles up inside me and I wake up, dry eyed, with a dash of happiness lifting the corners of my mouth, unearthing my long-lost smile. Only briefly. But long enough to prove that Dr. Mintz is right. These antidepressants do help. I'm feeling a little bit better, a little less depressed, a little more alive.

TWO SYLLABLES
I keep repeating on this miserable November morning: “Don't go. Don't go. Don't go.”

“I'll be back soon. You'll be
OK
,” Bergen promises, pressing his lips against mine. Compared with what we're capable of, this good-bye kiss is downright dreary. There's no passion or pizzazz, no sneaking in tongues. Just the perfunctory locking of lips; that's all I can handle. Not that I'm disappointed—it's the hug I'm really after. I need a lot of hugs these days, and with Bergen going out of town on business, this one has got to last me a while. I also need someone to move in and watch over me while Bergen is away. I'm still that fragile.

A few hours after Bergen leaves for Carcross, Yukon, I head out to the airport to pick up Sweet Lisa, my substitute spouse. I spot her near the luggage carousel, holding her daughter's hand. Danielle is six years old—a miniature version of her mom, with the same wild brown curly hair, the big toothy smile, and the talent to remain unruffled when I burst into tears while driving us home in the rain.

Soon after Lisa and Dani are settled, we take Nellie for a walk. It's a typical Vancouver autumn, just after Halloween. The rain has been relentless, and my neighborhood has turned to mush. Everywhere we go, there's muddy grass, dirty puddles, clumps of soggy leaves. The sidewalks are smeared with the trampled guts of reckless worms and suicidal slugs. Rotting pumpkins lie smashed to pieces in the streets. I feel compelled to apologize for this dismal weather and mucky mess. This is not Vancouver the beautiful. This is not Vancouver at its best. Mind you, I'm not at my best either. And yet, my dearest friend is here, with her girl, and they're both smiling at Nellie, wearing raincoats they brought from home. It's just like Lisa to come prepared for the weather. She's always planning ahead. But she could never have prepared for what is about to unfold. And for this, I am truly sorry.

Lisa proves to be an excellent surrogate spouse. I knew she would be. We used to live together in Toronto, back when we were university students. We were so compatible that we imagined building a life together. And had we not been such devout heterosexuals, we could have made a lovely lesbian couple: the short, sexy psychologist and the tall, curvaceous artist.

The first few days of their visit we play tourists on vacation: lunch at restaurants, a trip to the aquarium in Stanley Park, riding the gondola to the top of Grouse Mountain, grocery shopping at Granville Island. It's obvious to Lisa how hard I'm working to keep my spirits and energy up—even though she is cooking the dinners and cleaning up the house. And although I'm lethargic and clumsy and easily fatigued, she thinks I've got my life and parenting well in hand.

“You're doing great, Robbie. Making Naomi's lunches. Driving us around. Taking care of yourself. You're certainly better than I expected you to be.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Back in September, every time I called, you were in such anguish. Constantly crying. Wanting to die. I was really worried that you might not get through this.”

“It's the drugs,” I say. “I still feel depressed, but now it's like I'm wearing a life jacket and it's keeping my head above water.”

“For sure the drugs are helping, but it's also you. Your life force is so strong.”

Lisa gives me a hug and I begin to cry.

“But don't you think I've changed?”

She takes a deep breath, then says, “To me, you're still the same Robyn; you just seem diminished. You walk slower, talk softer. You're not as confident.”

“But what about my left arm? Look. It barely moves.”

“That's puzzling. But I treat many depressed clients in my practice. And I've seen how depression and medication can slow people down. It messes with their bodily mechanics. I really think that your body will get better as you adjust to the meds and your mood improves.”

“I really hope so.” I sigh.

“Me too.”

THE NEXT DAY
, Lisa accompanies me to the hospital, where I have an appointment to see the neurologist. When my name is called, Lisa stays with Dani in the waiting room. It's my second time seeing Dr. Smyth. The first was many weeks ago, when I nearly drowned her in a biblical flood of tears. Somehow, she managed to stay afloat and give me a full examination. But because I was so severely depressed, she couldn't distinguish between symptoms caused by clinical depression and those perhaps caused by a neurological disorder. Unable to make a diagnosis at that time, she too prescribed antidepressants, a battery of blood tests, and a brain
MRI
and told me to come back to see her in a month.

When I step into her office today, we're both surprised by each other's physical appearance. Dr. Smyth remarks how much livelier I am now that I'm medicated and no longer crying constantly, just dripping sporadically. The reduced flow of tears might be why Dr. Smyth looks so different to me this time—I can see her clearly. I can't remember how she looked last time, but it wasn't like this. The woman I see today resembles a twenty-year-old Meg Ryan, with short, tousled blond hair and perfect skin. I say, “You don't look old enough to be a neurologist.” “I know,” she says. “Everybody tells me that. But I am.”

She examines me, asks questions about my current state of health, and dims the lights. Apparently, it's show time. I turn to face her computer screen, and the moment she starts the
MRI
slide show I regret leaving Lisa out in the waiting room. She would have loved seeing this: my brain is a mind-boggling work of art. These technicolor magnetic resonance images are incredible. It's all digitized and computerized. Dr. Smyth zooms in and out, and psychedelic formations appear up close, then far away, like pulsating oceans, mountains, and volcanic rock viewed through Google Earth. I follow along as she points out the significance of different shapes and colors. Because of this, she rules out a stroke. Because of that, she rules out a brain tumor. All good news, so far. She also rules out
MS
—multiple sclerosis—her area of expertise. My relief is palpable. That's what I thought I had,
MS
, just like my dad's sister. She was diagnosed in her early teens. She'd have flare-ups the rest of her life, but it was breast cancer that killed her at age forty-nine. My poor auntie Glenda.