Before I Go

by Colleen Oakley

  nineteen

  ON TUESDAY MORNING, I’m twenty minutes late to my appointment with the respiratory therapist. Instead of paying attention to the seven-mile route to Athens Regional, I had been going over my mental to-do list for the day:

  Grocery store to buy Greek yogurt, organic baby carrots, rice chips, toilet paper

  Post office to mail Jack’s graduation announcements sitting in a box in my trunk

  Clean bathroom

  And one more thing—what was it?

  As I was trying to conjure the missing task, I looked and realized bewilderingly that I had somehow taken a wrong turn and was on a street in Athens that I had never been on before. I slowed down, looking for clues as to where I was, my heart thudding in my chest and my lungs tightening. If I hadn’t been so frightened I would have laughed at the irony of having a panic attack on my way to learn how not to have panic attacks anymore. Finally I saw a sign that said the university campus was five miles straight ahead and it reoriented me. I took two rights and was back on Milledge and the familiar path to the hospital.

  I park next door to the cancer center in the lot for the Pulmonary, Allergies, and Sleep Center, and even though I’m late, I sit in my car for a minute, hoping the motivation to walk into another doctor/specialist/cancer appointment will gather like clouds for a storm and propel me through the afternoon.

  In the waiting room, I check in at the front desk, apologize for my tardiness to a woman with large gold earrings that look like spaceships, and sit down in an uncomfortable wooden chair. I grab a magazine off the table beside me, but I have no interest in reading, so I look around the room.

  There are just two other patients besides me. In the corner sits a birdlike woman with reading glasses perched on the point of her nose, a beaded chain drooping from the ends of them and around her neck. And directly across from me, a balding man with a rotund belly and skinny legs taps on a BlackBerry. He’s wearing a checkered button-up that—

  Shit.

  He looks up at the exact same moment that I look at him. Accidental eye contact.

  Don’t talk to me don’t talk to me don’t talk to me.

  He talks to me.

  “Pretty day outside, huh?” he says. There’s a gap so wide in his front teeth you could fit a jelly bean through it.

  I nod and smile and look back at my magazine, hoping to convey that I am not available for conversation.

  “Dr. Brunson’s running behind today,” he says. “Been here thirty-five minutes. Don’t know why I have to be on time, but they never are.”

  If I were to respond, I would tell him that I’m not here to see Dr. Brunson, but I don’t want to encourage him. So I smile again to acknowledge that he has spoken, but that I’m so involved in this ESPN article on ultimate Frisbee that I couldn’t possibly tear myself away from it to chat.

  “You got allergies? They’re terrible this time of year.”

  I look at him and sigh at his inability to grasp social cues. I offer one sharp shake of my head and two words: “Panic attacks.”

  “Hmm,” he says. “Woulda pegged you for allergies.” He rests his hands on his pregnant-looking stomach. “I’ve got sleep apnea myself. Lost fifty pounds ever since I died, but Doc says that’s not enough. Gotta lose fifty, sixty more.”

  I’m not sure that I heard him right. “Ever since you died?”

  He grins like a fisherman who just got a tug on the line. “Yep. Heart attack. Was gone for seven minutes until the EMT started up the old ticker again.”

  I find myself grinning back at him, surprised that my annoyance has dissipated and genuine affection has taken its place. This is his cocktail party story, like my scar is my cocktail party story. And it’s a good one.

  The door to the waiting room opens up. “Michael?” says a nurse in blue scrubs.

  “Just Mike,” he says, hefting himself out of his seat with a groan. He winks at me. “You have a real nice day now, ya hear?”

  “You, too,” I say to the first man I ever met who had died. It’s not until the door closes behind him that I wish I had asked him what it was like.

  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.

  “Daisy?” A voice jolts me back into the present. I look up and into the eyes of Charlotte. No, wait. Caroline? I’m fairly certain the name of the limber blonde standing before me starts with a C. I know she’s limber, not only because she looks so flexible in her black stretchy pants and tank top, but because I’ve actually seen her in action in Bendy Mindy’s hot yoga class.

  “Hi!” I say, shielding my eyes from the sun to better see her, and that’s when I notice how intently she’s staring at me. I wonder if I literally have egg on my face. I reach up to discreetly wipe the corners of my mouth with the napkin that came with the quiche.

  “I haven’t seen you in a few months,” she says. “Have you, um, been going to a different studio?”

  I stand up, because it feels rude not to, and she reaches out to grab my arm, as if she’s afraid I’m going to topple over any second.

  I stare at her and realize the intent look dripping from her eyes is concern. I know I’ve lost some weight, but do I look that bad? As if I need to be supported, like a little old woman crossing the street?

  I look down at her hand where it’s grasping my wrist and she quickly removes it. But my eyes remain glued to my arm as if I’m seeing it for the first time—and I’m shocked at just how brittle it looks.

  “No, ahh . . . I’ve just been really busy, you know? End of semester stress and all that.” I force a chuckle. “I’ve been meaning to come back.”