Tess: Well, I think we should do some research on this. I can talk to my aunt. Since she had breast cancer, she keeps pretty well informed on the cancer front. I’ll also talk to some of the doctors where I’m doing the group-therapy sessions, see if anyone knows anything.
Me: I’m gonna go online and see what I can find . . . Adam was so great. He said, “We’ll figure it out. We always do.” I was really worried about what he was going to say. I guess at this point, nothing fazes him . . . So, I see Sabrina’s still pouncing.
Tess: Yeah, but she’s getting much, much better.
Me: What happened to your hand?
Tess: Oh, well, she still likes to attack me in the night. I try to stay covered up, but—
Me: You’ve gotta get rid of this cat.
Tess: I know. I know . . . you want a cookie? Or some dough? I’ve already eaten about a quarter pound of the dough. I’m starting to feel nauseous.
Me: No, that’s okay. I think I’m gonna head home. Sorry I just dumped all that stuff on you.
Tess: You didn’t. I’m sorry you have to deal with all this.
Me: I’ll call you later. Thanks. Love you.
Tess: Love you too.
With Tess still a year and a half away from becoming a full-fledged psychologist at this point, I take an enormous amount of pleasure in pointing out all her “How does that make you feel?” and “What are you feeling right now?” inquiries. But to be fair, sometimes I like it. Sometimes it’s nice just to be asked. Because no one ever asks that. Not in a real way. Not looking for an honest answer. Not really.
Worst-case Scenario
Dr. Lesaux: You came back. I wasn’t sure I’d see you again.
Me: I’ve thought a lot about the appointment last week, and—
Dr. Lesaux: Let me just set this alarm.
Me:—to be honest, that really bothered me last week. Can’t you just glance at the clock once in a while? The alarm—it’s very abrupt.
Dr. Lesaux: I’m sorry. I just haven’t found a better way of keeping track of the time.
Me: Yeah, well . . .
Dr. Lesaux: Let’s see . . . where did we leave off last week? We talked about panic attacks. Did you have any this week?
Me: I have them every day.
Dr. Lesaux: How many times a day? Your best guess.
Me: Um, three or four times.
Dr. Lesaux: And do you feel they are starting to affect your daily routine?
Me: Yes.
Dr. Lesaux:
Me: Yes. I would say they do.
Dr. Lesaux:
Me: . . . affect my daily routine . . . are you waiting for me to say something in particular?
Dr. Lesaux: No, I was just listening. You know, I’ve got a handout that I think you might find helpful. It discusses common symptoms of panic attacks and different ways to address each symptom . . . let me find it . . . it’s been a while since I’ve used it . . . Here it is.
Me: “Attack of the Panic,” by Dr. Thomas Lesaux.
Dr. Lesaux: You’re smiling.
Me: Catchy title.
Dr. Lesaux: I think it’s good to try and address many of these types of issues with as much humor as possible.
Me: No, I totally agree . . . So, should I read this all now or—
Dr. Lesaux: No, take it home and really take some time with it. We can discuss any questions about it next week.
Me: More homework. Great.
Dr. Lesaux: I’d like us to start exploring why you’re getting these attacks.
Me: Okay.
Dr. Lesaux: Last week I asked you to try to notice any patterns. Did you find “Build It and He Will Come” helpful at all?
Me: Well, I definitely understood what you were saying. I mean, I know I’m creating these attacks by what I’m thinking about, but my problem is, I don’t know how to stop thinking the thoughts—without thinking about them. Ya know what I mean?
Dr. Lesaux: Yes, I do. Why don’t we get back to what we talked about last week, and I think we might start to figure out ways to change your thinking. So . . . patterns. When or where do you typically get an attack?
Me: Well, I mentioned the freeway. I also get them in movie theaters, when the seats don’t have headrests. I need those big stadium seats. I get them in the hair salon. I sometimes get them in restaurants, when the seats have low backs. I get them if I look down while walking up a staircase. And . . . um . . . I get them when I talk to my mom on the phone.
Dr. Lesaux: You mentioned seats with low backs. What do you think that’s about?
Me: I don’t know. If I don’t have a headrest, I feel . . . out of control.
Dr. Lesaux:
Me: Like . . . I feel like my neck can’t support my head . . . my head doesn’t feel safe.
Dr. Lesaux: You don’t feel safe.
Me: My head. My head doesn’t.
Dr. Lesaux: And have you paid attention to what you’re thinking about right before these attacks happen?
Me: Not really.
Dr. Lesaux: Do you find yourself worrying about having a panic attack?
Me: Of course. I sometimes think to myself, this would be a really bad time to have one.
Dr. Lesaux: You know, I think I’ve got an article you might find helpful. It’s something I’ve used for quite a few years, not on my call-in radio show, but just as part of my private practice . . . here it is. Take it home; look it over. It lists the most common symptoms of panic attacks. I think you’ll find it not only educational, but comforting as well. This sensation in your head, this light-headedness, is really very common. So, back to the hair salon: If you had an attack in the hair salon or movie theater, what’s the worst that could happen? Let’s really explore this . . .
Me: I don’t know. The whole thing would be incredibly embarrassing, for one thing.
Dr. Lesaux: Okay, so, give me a worst-case scenario.
Me: Okay. Um, so, let’s say I’m having my hair cut and I pass out from an anxiety attack. Except no one knows what happened; they think I’m choking or something. So some slobbery patron suffering from advanced gingivitis starts CPR while the salon owner calls an ambulance. I am sprawled on a hairy floor with the entire salon hovering over me, staring down at my pathetic, anxiety-ridden carcass. And just as the firemen prepare to hoist me onto a stretcher, I come to. The man in charge shouts, “There’s nothing to see here, folks. False alarm. She’s a faker.” It would be like the scene in Terms of Endearment where the grocery checker yells over the intercom, “She doesn’t have enough money.” That’s the kinda thing I worry about, generally speaking. You know, total and utter humiliation. That sort of thing.
Dr. Lesaux: That’s definitely a worst case. But, to be honest, it’s very rare to pass out from an anxiety attack. One might feel dizzy, light-headed, but people rarely lose consciousness.
Me: Really? That’s a relief.
Dr. Lesaux: It can happen, but it’s very, very rare. You know what, let’s consider a more realistic scenario and see if we can reduce some of your negative—beep-beep-beep—I’m sorry. I thought I turned that off. That must be my backup alarm.
Me: What were you—
Dr. Lesaux: Time.
News
So, today’s the day. Today’s the day I tell my mother and father they aren’t going to be grandparents. They’re not gonna get to spoil the fruit of my loins, at least not right away.
I’ve been mulling over the exact verbiage. I’m not so worried about telling them I have to wait as I am about them asking why I have to wait. Actually, I’m worried about my answer to their question of why. Because no matter how I say it—casually mention it, give a shout-out to the waiting—my mother will inevitably throw herself back into the pit of despair she just recently clawed her way out of. She’ll have an endless string of questions, most, or all, of which, I can’t answer. Or won’t answer. She’ll call all my doctors. Demand a conference. Demand a recount. It’s not going to be pretty. It’s not going to be fun, but it’s got t
o be done, and the time is now.
Okay. Deep breath. Maybe I won’t tell her. Maybe I should wait. Yeah, wait for the right time. Okay, so, yeah, I’ll wait for the right time, which clearly isn’t now. I mean, I don’t want to worry her. I don’t want to cause me—I mean, her—any unnecessary anxiety. Yep, just gonna wait this bad boy out. Because I’m a good person.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I’m gonna blurt it out no matter what. I know me. Dial the number . . . okay . . . deep breath . . . and . . . I should ease her into it. I don’t need to go into all the medical stuff—just stick to the facts. I can’t get pregnant now, Mom. Doctor’s orders.
Or I could just lie.
I’m sterile. I just found out.
Adam and I have decided we don’t like kids.
A dog is a big enough responsibility.
Adam got fired. We can’t afford to feed another mouth right now.
Adam can’t get me pregnant. He’s shooting blanks, but don’t mention I said anything to you. He’s very sensitive about it.
Me: Hello, Mom?
Mom: Hi, honey.
Me: Mom, I need to talk to you about something Dr. Gregory mentioned the other day. He . . . you aren’t going to like this . . . said . . . but don’t freak out, because I’m still investigating the issue . . . that . . . I know this comes out of left field . . . Adam and I have to wait to have children.
Mom: I have to start dinner. I’ll put your father on. He has something to tell you.
Me: Wait, Mom—
Dad: Hi, hon.
Me: Dad, Mom was really weird just now. I was trying to tell her—
Dad: I got the pathology back today from that mole on my back.
Me: Finally. It took long enough. It really shouldn’t take—
Dad: It’s melanoma.
Me: I’m spinning. Everything is spinning. Where am I? . . . okay, stay upright. I feel cold under my feet. Cold in my hand. I’m gripping something hard and cold. A countertop. Okay, hold on to the granite. Don’t pass out. My legs are bending. Shit. Okay, I’ll sit right here. I’ll lie right here. My legs are curling up. Knees to chin. I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe. Focus. Be in the moment. Listen . . .
Dad: Your mother’s taking it really hard.
Me: . . . um . . .
Dad:
Me: Um . . . I don’t understand. Your dermatologist said it looked fine. He . . . ah . . . he said it was nothing to worry about. Didn’t he? Who the fuck is this guy? He said worst case it’s basal, right? I don’t understand. Who did you talk to? Did you talk to your doctor? Who called with the report?
Dad: The doctor did.
Me: The doctor who said it was nothing to worry about? That doctor?
Dad: He said he was surprised. But that’s why he took it off, because he wasn’t sure what it was.
Me: Did he tell you the thickness? What stage is it? Did he say?
Dad: I didn’t ask.
Me: Didn’t he tell you? What did he say, exactly?
Dad: Just that it was melanoma. I have an appointment set up for next week.
Me: Call him back. You need to get in there this week.
Dad: His schedule is all booked.
Me: If you can’t get in before next week, you should at least call the office and have them read you the pathology report over the phone.
Dad: I’m sure he’ll go over all that when I see him.
Me: But I . . . you don’t want to wait that long, do you?
Dad: Now, I don’t want you to worry about me. You need to focus on your own health—
Me: I’m fine.
Dad: You don’t need the extra stress.
Me: Dad—
Dad: I’ll be fine. I’m strong. We come from hearty stock. I don’t want you to worry. Promise me.
Me: I—
Dad: It’s your mother I’m worried about. She’s been through so much already.
Me:
Dad: I have to be strong for her.
Me:
Dad: How do you feel?
Me: What?
Dad: How do you feel?
Me: Dad, please call the doctor.
Dad: I’ll see him next week . . . I’ve gotta run, honey. I’ve got a conference call in a couple of minutes.
Me: Put Mom back on . . . Mom?
Mom: I’m here.
Me: Did you talk to the doctor?
Mom: No, just your father.
Me: Dad didn’t seem to have any details. I’m sure the doctor must have told him something.
Mom: We’ll find out everything next week.
Me: Mom, I want you to call the office back and ask a nurse to read you the path report over the phone. I want you to ask—get a pen; you need to write this down. I want you to ask the Clark level, the Breslow thickness, and if they got clean margins when they removed it.
Mom: Their office is closed now. I’ll have to call back in the morning.
Me: No. I want you to call right now. I’m sure they have an emergency number on their answering machine. Page the doctor and have him explain everything in detail. I can’t believe Dad didn’t ask any questions.
Mom: There is no need to page the doctor when we’ll find all this out next—
Me:—week. I know. Jesus fucking Christ—don’t you want to know?
Mom:
Me: You know some of this information already, don’t you? You’re just not telling me.
Mom:
Me: Mom, tell me everything the doctor told you.
Mom:
Me: Mom, for fuck’s sake. This isn’t helping me. Not telling me is not going to keep me from worrying. This is bullshit. Tell me what the fucking report said. What was the thickness?
Mom: I promised your father I wouldn’t—
Me: Mom!
Mom: Um . . . it was . . . two something.
Me: Point-two or two-point-something?
Mom: 2.43.
Me:
Mom: What was yours, again?
Me: I don’t remember . . . .4, .4, .4, .4 . . .
Mom: Your father didn’t want to tell you any of this because he doesn’t want you to worry about him.
Me: You don’t understand. I want to know everything. I’ll feel better knowing.
Mom: Okay.
Me: Is there anything else?
Mom: No. As far as I know, the doctor told your father the thickness and said we’d discuss everything else when he comes in for his appointment.
Me: I can’t believe they can’t squeeze him in this week. And this doctor. Do you think he’s good? Maybe Dad should come here for his excision.
Mom: Let’s just wait and see what this OSU doctor says; then we can decide . . . I’ve gotta go, honey. I’m making your father tuna fish casserole. His favorite. We’ll call you tomorrow.
Click.
The fear. It’s bubbling up. Creeping, sneaking, trying to make a break for it. Trying to take over completely. It’s building an army. I feel the stomping of millions of little feet in the pit of my stomach. Their march is echoing to the tip-top of my ears, and I can’t shake them. I can move them around, shift them from right leg to left, down to my toes and back up again, but I can’t shake the army, not completely. I can’t shake them out . . . off . . . I want to jump out of my skin. Out of the body that is curled up on the kitchen floor, shaking and twitching. My skin is crawling, and I want to follow suit. Crawl far and fast away, leave behind not just all that I’ve heard in the last five minutes, but all that has happened in the last fifty days.
Maybe I just need a good cleaning out. Maybe I could remove my head, clasp it firmly on either side, and shake the hell out of it. That might work. I’ll empty it out. Because I know too much. I need shit out. And if in the shaking of my own head I lose other valuable information, so be it, because I don’t want to know what I know. I don’t want to feel how I feel. Everything I narrowly escaped and gladly pretended didn’t happen is happening to my father. And I’m sick with fear. And I’m just going to lie here. And wait for s
omething to happen. For something to happen that will help me figure out my next move. Because I have no more moves . . . I’m just gonna wait riiiiiiight here. And pray.
Ring, ring, ring, ring.
You’ve reached Adam and Hillary. We’re not in right now, but leave us a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible. You can also try me on my cell. If you’re someone I’d want to talk to, you already have the number.
Beep.
Adam: Hey, babe, it’s me. I thought maybe I’d catch you at home. Just got a call from my bro. You won’t believe it: Nancy’s pregnant again. I wanted to give you a heads-up. I think Nancy’s hesitant to call. She’s afraid she might upset you. I understand. But you should call to say congratulations if you get a chance. I can’t believe they’re having another baby. I’m going into a meeting, but call me later. Love you.
Click.
Beep-beep-beep, beep-beep-beep-beep.
Ring, ring, ring, ring.
Hi. We’re not in, so leave us a message and we’ll call ya back . . . Jackie, honey, say bye.
“Byeeee.”
Beep.
Me: It’s Hillary. Adam told me your, um, good news. I’m, I’m really, really happy for you guys. I’m, um, sure . . . you guys are, uh . . . really, really happy . . . too. It’s such good news . . . to hear. So, um, yeah. Just wanted to say congrats. Congrats to good, happy news.
Click.
The Sun’ll Come Out . . . Tomorrow
I’m chopping onions and liking it. My eyes are burning and running, my nose is red and stinging, and I’m lovin’ every second of it. Cryin’ and choppin’. Cuttin’ and sobbin’. And in the red corner, standing in a pile of piss, with a snot bubble in her nose . . . I can taste salt, and onion, and . . . pain. It’s like a metallic taste in the back of my mouth. And my jaw is aching. It’s aching because it’s been clenched since one this afternoon. It’s aching because I want it to. I want everything to ache. All at once. Give it all to me! I want to cut my fingers off with this knife and rub the bloody, stubby leftover digits in onion juice. I want to take a cheese grater to the tips of my toes and shave ’em down a bit. Not too much—just enough to know I shouldn’t dip the leftovers into a bucket of Clorox . . . give it all to me. I want it all. I want it all now, today, this very second, because tomorrow I don’t want any of it. Tomorrow’s a new day. Tomorrow . . . will be perfect. Tomorrow will give me all the good that has piled up from my last couple months of bad. See, someone’s fucked up. Someone, somewhere, has got the numbers wrong. Their fingers slipped off the keyboard and messed up my turn. ’Cause it’s my turn for something good. My chance to hear something happy and nice and fun. I’m due. I’m due for a huge fucking good thing. Whatever it is, it’s gonna be good. I just know tomorrow is gonna be great. Tomorrow’s good will let me forget today’s . . . not so good.
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