Thanks to Theresa’s perceptive and skillful direction, our first therapy session is grueling—a real emotional workout. It starts with my telling her my abbreviated life story:
I grew up in Toronto in a typical dysfunctional middle-class Jewish family. I felt like the black sheep—the disobedient daughter who dated non-Jewish boys, who left the nest before getting married and moved to the other side of the country. My mom is fiery and flashy, spontaneous and demanding; my dad is laid-back and refined, cautious and accommodating. They have been married for forty-four years, and while learning to love one another they perfected the fine art of arguing, carrying grudges, giving each other the silent treatment, and blaming the other. They taught their children well. All three of us—me, my younger sister, and my baby brother. We spent much of our childhood embroiled in battles, tearing down trust, building up walls. It drove my parents crazy. Especially my mom. She had a short fuse, and her conflict-resolution techniques were often framed as questions. Sometimes she’d wait for an answer, like a TV game show host waiting for the contestant to make up her mind.
“Will it be curtain number 1? Or would you rather have what’s behind curtain number 2?”
“Are you going to stop that crying, or do you want me to give you something to really cry about?”
“Will you apologize to your brother, or do I have to teach you a lesson that’ll make you really sorry?”
“Can you and your sister stop that fighting, or should I bang your heads together and knock some sense into the both of you?”
Choices, choices, choices. It never really mattered who decided what—we usually got what we didn’t want. And for me, the only thing worth getting was away. Far, far away.
I made my escape in 1986, when I was twenty-two. I moved to Vancouver, to study at the University of British Columbia. One year shy of completing my undergraduate degree in psychology and fine arts, I left school and started my own successful art business, Robyn Levy Studio. I sold my original paintings, greeting cards, and T-shirts across Canada and the United States and even in Japan (where my company name was advertised as Lobyn Revy Studio). In 1991, I met Bergen; in 1994, our daughter, Naomi, was born. Six years later, I started working at CBC, in radio.
“And why are you here to see me?” Theresa asks.
“Because I can’t stop crying. I’ve never been so depressed in my life.”
“Do you have any idea what might be causing your depression?”
“Probably lots of things,” I sob. “Wonky hormones from PMS and premenopause. Stress at work. Stress at home. Naomi is depressed. We’re fighting a lot. And she’s having trouble at school. You know, girl culture; girls can be so mean. She’s different, and it’s hard to fit in when you’re different. Then there’s our house. It’s unfinished. Bergen is slowly fixing it up in his spare time, but it’s taking forever. There are always power tools and messes everywhere. I hate it. But the worst thing is my dad was just diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease.”
“Are you close to your father?”
“Very close. Always have been. I am so sad that he’s sick, and I’m so far away. I wish I lived closer so I could be there, to help him.”
“How is he coping?”
“Not well. He’s incredibly depressed and anxious. Can’t sleep. Can’t work. Losing weight. Slowing down. He can barely talk on the phone. He’s having all sorts of adverse reactions to meds. It’s like my dad has disappeared.”
Theresa nods, then says, “It sounds as if you are in mourning.”
“But my dad didn’t die. He’s still alive.”
“Of course he is. But given your dad’s health, he may never be quite the same as the dad who raised you, the person you are used to. It’s possible you’re mourning the loss of your pre-Parkinson’s dad.”
I let this idea sink in. Images of him from photos taken over the years flash through my mind: playing tennis, driving his vintage red convertible, hugging his three kids, napping on the brown couch, napping on the white couch, napping at the Blue Jays game.
Then a memory I’d long forgotten surfaces.
“I was in my early twenties, and my dad and I were walking on a path in a park. I had picked up an ordinary stick from the ground and was shifting it back and forth between my hands as we chatted. After a while, my dad wanted to see the stick. So I handed it over to him, and he casually asked, ‘Do you mind if we share it?’ It was an odd but sweet request, and I must have nodded yes, because he snapped it in half, passed me one part, and kept the other for himself. Then we continued walking, neither of us mentioning the stick again.”
Theresa says, “Maybe nothing needed to be said. It sounds like the sharing was complete.”
Suddenly I feel my chest tighten, and I begin gasping for breath. Theresa crosses her arms, places her hands flat against her upper chest, and says, “Try doing this with your hands. And breathe deeply.”
I do, and within seconds I am overcome by grief—Theresa a witness to my weeping, my wailing, my Cry Lady crescendo, and the first of many mournful farewells to my aging, ailing father.
When I eventually calm down, I complain of a pounding headache and tingling in my left hand and left foot. The same tingling sensations that I’ve been experiencing on and off for weeks now.
“Would you like to do something to help relieve your headache and get rid of the tingling?”
“Are you offering me heroin?”
Theresa smiles. “Nope. Sorry, I’m all out of heroin. But I can teach some exercises that will help you feel better.”
So for the last part of the session I mirror Theresa’s movements: self-massaging my temples and jaw and neck, deep breathing while moving my head from side to side, raising my arms up over my head and then flopping them down at my sides, and stomping my feet. Surprisingly, my headache disappears, and the tingling in my hand and foot is almost gone. But not quite.
Our time is up, and Theresa says, “You worked really hard tonight. Drink lots of water when you get home; your body needs it.”
After scheduling next week’s appointment, I walk carefully down the steep staircase, out into the drizzling rain, and drive myself home—exhausted and cranky and thirsty as hell. I am thankful that Bergen and Naomi instinctively stay out of my way the rest of the night. Only Nellie, with her squeaky toy, dares to approach.
COME SUMMERTIME, work conditions are perfect for a TV sitcom but pitiful for real life: poor management, tight deadlines, big egos, and hot tempers, and to top it all off, the entire CBC building is under construction. It looks like a war zone. The grounds are a wasteland of rubble and dust. Trees and shrubs lie wounded in piles. Parking lots are tunneled into massive graves—out of which will eventually rise the TV Towers condominiums and a world-class broadcast center—with an integrated multimedia newsroom, state-of-the-art technology, a performance studio, public spaces, and more. It’s all part of CBC’s Vancouver Redevelopment Project, which will take three years to complete.
Month after month, season after season, we toil away at our desks, despite the nerve-racking noise of dynamite blasting, pneumatic drilling, and jackhammering. We write scripts and edit tape in workspaces speckled in drywall dust and demolition debris while breathing in noxious fumes from paint, cutting oil, and glues. We conduct live on-air interviews with guests while construction workers make a ruckus above our not-so-soundproof studio.
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 f
or 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.
Most of Me Page 2