I am in shock. I’m not quite sure how to react. I’m going to live. But that means someone else is going to die. How awful! But then, get a grip, I’m the one who is going to live. And that’s a good thing. Isn’t it? But that poor woman. She’ll have even less time than me to tell her family. To decide how she wants to spend her final weeks. And now I, who have usurped her precious days, have all the time in the world and I feel like I’ve lied to everyone. I’m so confused.
“So what’s wrong with me then, Dr. Mackenzie?”
“Nothing,” he says with a larky lilt. All of a sudden he’s so upbeat. I’m sitting here in turmoil and he’s unashamedly cheery. How dare he!
“But I feel so ill,” I say. “I’ve been regularly sick, I’m tired beyond belief, I have nosebleeds, I’ve been overwhelmingly depressed. All the things those leaflets said.”
His face darkens. “Which of the drugs I prescribed have you been taking?” He’s speaking in that same accusatory tone. I’m pushed to my limit.
“Why do you always make it sound like everything is my fault? If I don’t come in soon enough, it’s my fault. If I take the drugs you prescribed, it’s my fault. Well, I haven’t taken a single one of those drugs on that prescription, Doctor. And I’d say that was your lucky break. Because, let’s not forget, this is your fault . . .” I don’t enjoy watching him squirm but frankly! “And to think my mother thought you were some kind of god.”
He splutters. His Adam’s apple bounces. He knows he has no rebuttal.
“I wish the mistake hadn’t been made, and for that I’m very sorry.” He blows out a quick puff. “I only asked about the drugs because you could have been having a contra reaction.”
“Obviously not.”
“Hmmm,” he says, his mouth turned down. “Of course, these things could well be psychosomatic. The mind is very clever.”
Is that what he’s telling me now? That I’m conjuring up a fake fatal illness because I’ve been told I have one?
Then I remember Emily and her hypochondria. I wonder whether her symptoms were as real to her as mine are to me? That, to be fair to Doctor Mackenzie, maybe he’s right on this one. Is there such a fine line between what’s real and what we make real?
“So what did my actual blood tests show?”
He clears his throat. “You are anemic, hence the tiredness. I’ve prescribed iron tablets. And you’re entering menopause.”
I’m staring at him aghast. “Are you saying I’m nothing other than menopausal?”
“Yes!” Gleeful—again! “Perimenopausal.”
“But I’m so sick.”
“Well, it’s no picnic.”
“Thanks, Doctor!”
He shakes his head, smoothing an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, Jennifer. But it could be psychosomatic.”
“I am not inventing it,” I say, fighting for my credibility, as though it matters more than my health.
“Hmmmm,” he says.
We stare at each other. Taking stock.
“So what happened to the person whose results I got?”
“I’m not in a position to discuss that with you, dear. Let’s focus on the positives. You are going to live.”
“But how did she take it? By my reckoning, this error has denied her half the life she had left. I mean, do you not think I should go and see her? To maybe—”
“I understand your concern, but patient confidentiality means that is not possible. You are getting your life back. Let me take responsibility for the rest.”
I stare back at him. Right. I must think positively. “So I’m going to live.” It’s like I’m testing the sound of the words. “And of course that’s a good thing. So why am I feeling so damn awful?”
He scratches his head. “The menopause is not easy. But to put your mind at rest, would you like me to take more tests?”
I throw him a look.
“It was a bad mistake, Jennifer. It won’t happen again. The woman who put the wrong test results in your record has been dismissed.”
“Oh,” I say. “That makes me feel doubly terrible.”
“You should feel fantastic. You must go home and celebrate.”
“Seriously? I think I’ll be the first woman to celebrate her menopause.”
He laughs. Dr. Mackenzie actually laughs. I’m grateful. It defuses the tension. “I’m going to take another blood sample. We should find out why you’re being sick. Just in case.”
“In case of what?” I say. “I don’t want any more bad news. I’d rather live in denial.”
“It’s up to you,” he says, unhooking his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He raises his bushy gray eyebrows in a way that says it’s not up to me at all and he’s already made the decision.
“Okay, Dr. Mackenzie,” I say, rolling up my sleeve. “Do your worst.”
But we both know he already has.
PART TWO
1
You’re probably thinking I should be elated: celebrating my good fortune, as instructed by Dr. Mackenzie. But it’s not that simple. For a month and a half I’ve been mentally preparing for my death. It’s a shock to discover I’m going to live. A good shock, of course, but no less traumatic. I feel guilty. Perhaps it’s survivor’s guilt because what about the woman who should have gotten those results? I know Dr. Mackenzie said I should let him take responsibility for her, but still. The very notion of her haunts me. Did she get the chance of a dying wish? Is she already dead? Did anyone hold her hand? It’s too awful to contemplate.
I also feel weirdly embarrassed. I don’t know how to handle this news. How am I going to tell people? “Oh by the way, I’m not dying after all. I’m perimenopausal.” Did it have to be quite so prosaic? Could it not have been a little more spectacular? I feel ashamed, foolish. Mortified, in fact.
And there’s something else that might seem odd and churlish. I realize that I’m going to miss the attention.
I appreciate it might sound ridiculous but when people around you think you are dying, they put you center stage. You become the person they’ll drop everything for. They think about you more than they normally would and, if I’m being candid, I liked that. Now I’m worried people won’t be interested in me anymore because I’m just me again. Plain old boring Jennifer from HR. Listen, I know I’ll adapt to normal life, the way you do after a great holiday, but at this moment in time, the thought of going back to an unremarkable normality feels pretty unenticing.
My mind is going over and over everything, trying to make sense of it. If nothing else, I think I might have post-traumatic stress. Dr. Mackenzie’s office certainly seems to think so. They have given me a year of free psychotherapy. “It might help you to talk this through with someone,” Dr. Mackenzie said. What does that tell you?
But I don’t feel like talking to anyone, let alone a therapist. I’ve turned off my phones because if anyone calls I’ll have to tell them the truth and I’m not ready. The mistake wasn’t mine, but I feel like a fraud all the same.
Olivia won’t think I’m a fraud. She’s going to be thrilled. But what about the others? Will Frank be embarrassed about showing his vulnerability, letting down his guard? Will he let me have my job back or will he no longer be able to look me in the eye?
What will Isabelle think? Will she regret telling me about Barry since I won’t be taking her secret to the grave? Did she admit more to me than she would have if I wasn’t going to die? And if I ever bump into Andy, will he be shocked and annoyed, thinking he was emotionally blackmailed into admitting the truth about his marriage?
But, oh, agony and shame! Will Harry still love me? Oh, please let Harry still love me.
Let’s face it, would I have written those damn letters if I hadn’t thought I was dying? Of course not. But perhaps that’s the point. Making a stand for yourself is worth the risk. More important than your pride. More impo
rtant than your fear of losing your dignity. Even when you’re not dying. I need to convince myself of that.
I open up my laptop and start wantonly googling menopause, knowing the dangers. I have to. I need to see precisely what it means. What is the significance of peri?
There are myriad sites. I pick the one that appears most user friendly and scroll down to “Symptoms.” The number of parallels with what was once my “oh so rare blood disorder” are ridiculous. Sweats, dizziness, depression, lack of sleep, mood swings. Okay, so it never gets as bad as fever and delirium, it never quite reaches vomiting blood or coma, the things the leaflets told me about my ’osis, but no wonder I never questioned anything.
You should see the plaintive cries on this forum I’m reading. There are women going through menopause who feel like they are dying. Sometimes they even want to die. There’s no reason to think my suffering has been psychosomatic. It gets that bad.
I should have been prepared. But I’ve never been prepared for anything hormonal. My mother would never discuss our bodies. When Isabelle and I were old enough to learn about sex, she simply handed us the book Where Did I Come From? I learned the rest from changing room gossip at school. Sometimes I think she wished she’d had boys so she could have left the intimate stuff to my father.
It should be a mother’s duty to warn her daughters of all the potential hazards of being a woman from puberty onward. And to do it in a way that Google can’t. Because googling any kind of medical ailment makes you want to blow your brains out. A mother can hold your hand, look you in the eye, and discuss everything openly so that when it happens, you can remember the file she so diligently placed in the back of your brain and think, Ah yes! I will survive. After all. Look at Mum. She was on HRT and she was just tickety-boo.
Of course, I have no idea if my mother was on HRT. I imagine she was. It was medication, after all, and my mother was one of life’s great pill poppers. She didn’t understand the notion of stoical suffering. Antibiotics are bad for you? Nonsense, she’d say. But why couldn’t she talk to us about bodily things? Why were sex and vagina and menopause such dirty words that she couldn’t even utter them? What was she so afraid of? Our wrath? That we might hold her responsible for our gender?
I need to talk to Isabelle. I must ask her how she’s dealing with her daughters. I hope she won’t make the same mistake as our mother. Daughters need to be empowered. In all things. Now more than ever.
I check the time. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I’ve spent hours just staring at a screen. I have to go to bed and somehow get myself ready to face life and tell everyone my illness was a fraud. No! Not a fraud. A mistake!
I get undressed and stand in front of my bathroom mirror, preparing to brush my teeth. I tell my reflection I am well. I am merely entering a new hormonal cycle, horrible though it is. And I am a good person. My friends will get past this error; they’ll be thrilled for me. Still, I’m not going to fool myself into believing it’s going to be plain sailing. This is going to be the biggest test of love and friendship I’ve ever been through. Thank God I never allowed Pattie to convince me to tell everyone at work.
And then I pull myself up. I’m going to live.
I’M GOING TO LIVE!
I asked for it and either a compassionate god or the universe heard or it was serendipity. And none of the people I hold dear to me will be anything other than over the moon. I have to stop being so negative.
I go to bed and resolve that tomorrow I will deal with reality. I will start to tell the ones who matter my good news.
Tomorrow it will all be tickety-boo.
2
I slept fitfully last night, dreaming of the moment I told everyone it was a mistake, staring out at a crowd of anonymous faces, listening to them cheer, only to wake up and realize my big reveal is yet to come and I can’t put up the banners just yet.
They should be phoning me from the doctor’s office today with my latest results. Dr. Mackenzie said he would put it on fast track. I wonder why I haven’t heard from them?
Shit!
I’m such an idiot. I’ve forgotten I unplugged my house phone and turned off my mobile when I didn’t want to speak to anyone. When I was in my hole. I mustn’t do that anymore. I can’t just burrow away from the world while I decide how to confront my future.
I turn on my mobile phone. It pings several messages. My voice mail starts ringing and just as I’m listening to the woman’s voice telling me I have twenty-one missed calls—twenty-one!–I hear my doorbell. I am glued to the spot, looking wretched in my dressing gown, torn between my phone and the front door, not knowing which to deal with first. The doorbell rings again, frantically. Whoever it is is holding down the buzzer. I throw down my phone. Who the hell can it be? The postman is never this aggressive. I peer through the spy hole.
OH GOD!
It’s Olivia with Dan. She looks gray and frightened. I immediately register why she’s there.
I want to skulk away and hide, but I owe her more than that. I open the door . . . slowly . . . guiltily.
“Jennifer! Shit, Jennifer! I thought you were dead!” She’s hysterical. “Where have you been? Why haven’t you answered your phone?” Dan is standing with his arm protectively round her as though I am the enemy.
“Come in,” I say. “I’m sorry. Everything’s okay.”
“Well, obviously!” she says, tearfully. “What the hell is going on? I mean . . . oh, God, I shouldn’t be angry, Jennifer, forgive me. I’m sorry to sound harsh, but we’ve been worried sick about you. You go away and then no reply.”
“Did you think Harry had murdered me?”
“Don’t joke. I thought I was about to find you spread-eagled on the floor. This is not a good time for you to cut yourself off from the people who care about you. It’s not fair.”
“I know, I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. Really, I am.”
“Well, good,” she says, drawing a jagged breath. She clutches my arm, her mouth downturned. “I’m just glad I’ve had the opportunity to be angry with you.”
I give her an apologetic hug, feeling more ashamed than ever. She’s about to say something but I stop her. “Olivia,” I say. “I owe you a huge apology. I’m sorry to have put you through that worry.”
She smiles halfheartedly. “Apology accepted.”
“And we all need a cup of tea and to put things into perspective because something rather weird and wonderful has happened.”
Olivia’s face registers curiosity. “It has?” She stretches her long neck, shaking her head and rolling her shoulders to relieve the aftermath of worried tension. “What? What’s happened? You’re going to marry Harry?”
I scoff. “I’ll tell you when we’re sitting down. Go into the sitting room and I’ll put the kettle on. How do you take your tea, Dan?”
“Milk, no sugar,” says Dan.
Olivia stares at him as if he’s lost his mind. “You’re talking tea?” she says. “I want to hear what’s happened!”
“Tea first,” I say. “Go and relax in the sitting room.”
“Relax? I want to know. Now!”
“Sitting room!” I say, trying to josh her. “Behave, please.”
She looks at me with suspicion. “I’m not sure who should be told to behave. I mean, I’m not going to lie to you but when I saw your face at the door, I felt like throttling you.” She takes Dan’s hand. “Come on. Let’s leave the lady with the funny hair in the bathrobe to her tea bags.” She’s still pissed off.
I take in a tray with three mugs of normal tea and put it down on the sideboard. I’ll never touch ginger tea again. It tastes of death. It’s time to get back into my old routines.
Olivia and Dan are sitting tightly next to each other on the sofa, Dan looking out of place and uncertain, Olivia eager and restless. I hand them each a mug and Olivia’s eyes follow me wildly. “Well?” s
he says.
I sit down in the armchair, sip some tea, shut my eyes for a second, then blurt it out. “There’s been a mistake,” I say.
Silence. I look at both of them. Their faces are a picture.
“What do you mean?” says Olivia. “A mistake. What mistake?”
“A medical mistake. A good one.”
From nowhere, a wave of relief washes over me. I put down my mug, bury my head in my hands, and burst into tears.
I hear Dan whisper, “Should I go?”
“No!” Olivia mutters. And then tentatively she says, “What is it, Jen? Is it what I think?”
“They gave me the wrong test results,” I splutter. “I’m not dying. Of all things, I’m entering frigging menopause. I’m going to be hot and sweaty and moody and unpredictable, but I’m going to LIVE!”
She puts her tea down on the floor and throws her hands in the air. “I don’t believe it. I don’t bloody believe it!” She stands up and starts doing high knees on the spot. “Come over here, you silly old menopausal woman and give me the biggest hug ever. What were you waiting for, Jennifer? Were you going to wrap up the news and give it to me for Christmas?”
“Christmas,” I say. “I’d forgotten about Christmas. I’m actually going to see Christmas.” And I let out a visceral whoop.
We’re waving our hands in the air with joy, and Olivia grabs me and rocks me from side to side, like we’re doing a bad jive.
Death and Other Happy Endings Page 17