Till it Stops Beating

by Hannah R. Goodman

  “Let’s see. Where do I begin?” He reaches for more bread. With Dad, there’s no bread knife there’s just the “rip and dip” method as he calls it when he eats Mom’s famous soup and bread.

  “Just tell me what the deal was with the crazy part. Did she talk to voices in her head? Did she have these attacks like you and me have?” I tuck my hair behind me ears.

  Dad scratches his head. Then his face changes to what I call his professor face but then it flashes to another face. All his features fall.

  “I loved my mother. She was a total lunatic, but I loved her.” He chuckles. “She was so crazy. You know we were poor, I mean the kind of poor where my mother owned the same house dresses for at least the eighteen years I was home. So poor we used to reuse tea bags for an entire week. So poor that when I had my bar mitzvah, we used the money I got from relatives and friends to pay for the party that we had in the basement of the temple.”

  He sits back and folds his arms over his small, pot belly.

  “And I admit they were backwards. We didn’t call Mother crazy though. At least not until later, after she died.” He looked at me like I forgot this entire story, but this part I knew:

  “She played piano by ear and had these great jobs playing at local pubs. But she screwed it up every time. She wouldn’t wear a real dress, just those housecoats. Even though she played incredibly, she was fired after a few nights. She stopped completely before I finished elementary school.”

  I put my spoon down.

  “Father brought her home one night, and he had her wrapped up in one of his long trench coats. She was crying, and he was cursing her under his breath. I was sleeping upstairs, but those row houses, the walls were paper thin.” He runs his hand over his face, the crumbs fall away from his lips. He looks old to me with the light from the glass chandelier bouncing off his eyes.

  “She had gone to the club in one of those house coats and one of the managers gave her a dress to put on. She completely lost it and ripped off all her clothes and ran out on stage to play. Father was working at the plant that night, but they called him to come get her. He was fired for leaving and Mother never played again.”

  He stares at his empty bowl and his eyes are red.

  “Dad,” I say softly. “What happened to her then?”

  “They put her away, and she died a few years later.”

  “Did you get to visit her?”

  “Yeah…” I can see that whatever happened in those visits, he doesn’t want to talk about.

  His face changes again, and he looks like a professor. “She was mentally ill but back then they didn’t call it anything. They gave her all the wrong medicines. If she were alive today, she would have therapy and the right medication.”

  I don’t know what to say. My problems seem small. Can’t get over ex-boyfriend. Can’t think about college. Obsession with googling That Which I Have No Control Over. Constantly worried about everyone around me. But I do wonder if I have what she had and if it’s only because I live in the twenty-first century that I’m not locked up.

  Dad and I silently do the dishes and he disappears up to his study but before he goes he says, “Maddie, you aren’t my mother. You don’t have her life.”

  “But I read that anxiety can be hereditary.”

  “And so is alcoholism.”

  I don’t say anything.

  “And you aren’t an alcoholic.”

  I considered that. “But that’s ‘cause I don’t drink.”

  “Right. But you don’t drink because you are aware of what it could do to you.”

  “How am I supposed to avoid anxiety?”

  “I don’t think you avoid it, but you can prevent it from getting out of control.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He walks over and strokes my hair. “You need to see the doctor and most importantly, go back to school.”

  . . . . .

  Later, sitting on my bed, I stare out the window at the streetlights glowing in the dark starless sky. A shiver of fear runs down my arms, and I hug myself thinking about the things I love to do like run, or write at a coffee shop, and how now those seem impossible.

  Chapter Six

  The Doctor Is In

  My eyes travel over the pale blue walls lined with wainscoting of Dr. Foster’s office and then land on the small clock on the wall. Monday the 18th. 8 am, 11 am Pacific Time. While Bubbie is being wheeled into the operating room, I’m about to learn my psychological state.

  Mom still smells faintly of hot iron. She dressed up a little for the doctor or maybe it’s for a client she hasn’t told me about this afternoon. Dad sits at the edge of the white chair with his arms crossed.

  I look at the scatter of magazines on the table before us. Highlights, US, People, and The New Yorker: The young, the stupid, and the intellectual. That just about covers everyone who will probably show up to this office.

  In the corner of the waiting room is a small white noise machine. A basket of hard candy sits on the table next to us. My mouth tastes rancid, so I lean over, barely standing to reach for a mint. Mom re-crosses her legs. Dad’s eyes are closed. I think of Bubbie again and what she said to me last night, “Tomorrow is a big day for us both. We have to let other people do their jobs and help us. We have to. No choice.” Amen.

  “Madeline Hickman?”

  I haven’t even unwrapped the mint yet. I stuff it in my dirty sweatshirt pocket. I’m the only person besides my parents in the waiting room, so I find it funny the receptionist says my name.

  I stand up, self-conscious of my appearance. The baggy, saggy look as my mother lovingly referred to it under her breath right before we left the house. This is certainly not becoming of a “together” person. But then again, I guess I’m not that together, and maybe I should just kind of embrace it. I don’t know. I hope my deodorant works because I haven’t showered. I lift my purse and put it over my shoulder. I don’t even know why I brought it. Habit. I haven’t driven since last week or even checked my cell phone or email either.

  As I walk past Mom and Dad, they throw me looks that say, want us to come with you? I shake my head. The receptionist leads me past her desk and through two more closed doors, around a short hallway, and to an open door. I peer into the room and see a large leather chair and a framed picture on the wall. It’s a cartoon drawing of the most awesome penguin character in the world. Opus. He is sort of floating with the word “why” in thought bubbles around him. Thanks to my dad, who has some collectors’ books of the comic strip Outland, I’m practically certified in all things Opus. I laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” And there he is. I’ve never met with a psychiatrist before, and I thought he’d be wearing a suit or a doctor’s white coat. But instead a short man with a gray ponytail, wearing a small diamond earring emerges from another door in the room.

  Before I open my mouth, a flood of forgotten things come to me: I have an essay due in AP English on Monday, I haven’t heard from Sean, and I was supposed to have the final edited copy of the literary magazine in Mrs. Dubois’s hands yesterday.

  “What’s so funny?” Dr. Foster asks again. His face and voice match each other well. Mild is the word that comes to me.

  “Oh, uh…I love Opus.” My purse dangles from my hand.

  “Isn’t that before your time?”

  “My dad has a bunch of books.”

  He smiles so that his eyes practically disappear. I step all the way into the room and see the leather chair is diagonal from a couch and across from a large desk.

  “Take a seat.” He gestures to the couch.

  I sit on the end closest to the door.
He sits in the chair.

  “So,” he folds his hands together.

  I cross my legs like my mother does because I don’t know what to say or what he wants me to say.

  His smile stays, his face so pleasant, with the crinkly smallish eyes and ponytail. We sit like this for another few moments. Then he says, “You want to tell me what brings you into my office today?”

  No. But I nod my head.

  He cocks his head to the side, waiting.

  I can’t seem to find any words to begin so I shake the leg that’s crossed.

  He continues to smile, but his eyes narrow onto the shaking leg.

  I stop and uncross, re-cross my legs the other way.

  He leans forward and says, “Just begin with how you feel right now.”

  I think for a minute but inside it’s all white paper, blank, nothing. “I don’t know.”

  “Your mother told me that you had a panic attack recently?”

  I nod.

  “Why don’t you tell me about that?”

  We look at each other and I hear the sound of something ticking faintly and then even more faint is the white noise machine in the waiting room.

  He gives me another gentle smile and for some reason that’s when I find my voice. I tell him everything that’s happened since last Friday. When I’m done, I slump back into the couch.

  “Nothing like that has ever happened before?” He asks.

  “Nothing that lasted long. I mean I’ve had little panic attacks but nothing that really scared me.” I smooth the messy bun I threw my hair into this morning.

  He nods and reaches back to his desk and pulls out a sheet from a drawer and grabs a clipboard from the desk. “I’m going to ask you a bunch of questions. There’s no wrong answer.”

  I nod.

  “Now, tell me if the statement I read is always true, never, or sometimes.”

  I have done this with Josephine before, so I know what I’m about to get into. I look at Opus behind Dr. Foster. I wish I could make out all of the words not just “why.”

  “‘I do things slowly.’, ” Dr. Foster begins.

  “Umm…” I haven’t done anything but eat, sleep, and pee lately. But none of that has been particularly slow so I answer:

  “Sometimes.”

  “‘My future seems hopeless.’”

  Lately… “Yes, I mean always.”

  He nods without looking up. Ugh, it’s hot in here. Oh God I hope I don’t get an attack here. I start to unzip my sweatshirt.

  “‘The pleasure and joy has gone out of my life.’”

  “Yes. I mean always.” I wiggle out of the sweatshirt and put it on my lap.

  “‘I have difficulty making decisions.’”

  “No.”

  “‘I have lost interest in aspects of life that used to be important to me.’”

  I haven’t run since last Friday morning. “Yes.” I stare at the comic strip and squint to try again and make out the other words but all I see is “why”, “why.”

  “‘I feel sad, blue, and unhappy.’” Why, why, why…

  …And frustrated and scared. “Yes. Sometimes.”

  “‘I am agitated and keep moving around.’” Why.

  “No, never.” I tear my eyes away and look right into Dr. Foster’s. They are blue, blue like Justin’s. Blue like my mom’s.

  “‘I feel fatigued.’”

  Focus! “Always.”

  “‘It takes great effort for me to do simple things.’”

  No, no just the hard things like leaving the house. “Sometimes.”

  “‘I feel that I am a guilty person who deserves to be punished.’”

  I laugh.

  He finally looks up with that same slightly amused look. “I take that as a never?”

  “Never.”

  “‘I feel like a failure.’”

  I want to tell him I’m too scared to feel failure or guilt. “Sometimes.” I answer.

  “I have one more questionnaire, and then we can talk some more.”

  I nod. Even though I’m hot, my heart is steady. I grip the sweatshirt in my lap. The panic monster has been locked in a closet. I know he’s there, but safely away. For now.

  Dr. Foster rapid fires the next set of questions. Most of which get a yes:

  “‘Do you experience sudden episodes of intense and overwhelming fear that seem to come on for no apparent reason?’”

  “‘During these episodes, do you experience symptoms similar to the following: racing heart, chest pain, difficulty breathing, choking sensation, lightheadedness, tingling or numbness?’”

  “‘During the episodes do you worry about something terrible happening to you, such as embarrassing yourself, having a heart attack or dying?’”

  “‘Do you worry about having additional episodes?’”

  I begin to sweat. He continues:

  Have you experienced or witnessed a frightening, traumatic event, either recently or in the past?

  Do you continue to have distressing recollections or dreams of the event?

  Do you become anxious when you face anything that reminds you of that traumatic event?

  Do you try to avoid those reminders?

  Do you have any of the following symptoms: difficulty falling or staying asleep, irritability or outbursts of anger, difficulty concentrating, feeling “on guard”, easily startled?

  I laugh and almost answer “yes” to this one because of my googling habit:

  Do you engage in any repetitive behaviors (like hand washing, ordering, or checking) or mental acts (like praying, counting, or repeating words silently) in order to end intrusive thoughts or images?

  Dr. Foster fills in the answer to the last question and then looks at it briefly before putting it on his desk. I relax my shoulders a bit and sink further into the couch.

  “Can you tell me what you think about these attacks?” He leans back in his chair, which squeaks a little.

  I think I’m crazy. But I can’t say that. Instead I say, “I think my parents want me to take some medicine. I just want these attacks to stop.”

  “Before we go to the medication discussion, I think we should talk a bit about the attacks and then have you get a complete physical, just to rule out anything.”

  The panic swoops down on me and I clench up, wrapping my sweatshirt around myself. “What do you mean? Like what? Like a seizure or something?”

  “Oh, no. Probably not. I have all patients get physicals before the medication conversation, anyway. Standard procedure.”

  “I need medicine?”

  He smiles patiently. “You might. But I think this is up to you. You’re almost an adult.”

  “Not till June.”

  “That’s not that far away.”

  The terribleness washes all over me again. My throat tightens. “Yeah,” I croak. “Tell me about it.”

  “What are your plans for college?”

  “Uh…I applied to a bunch of places.” I’m lying, but the confession lodged in my throat is about to erupt. “I wrote the applications. Some. I need to send them out.”

  “Oh? How come you haven’t sent them?”

  He looks me directly in the eye and I squirm. “Well…uh…I…”

  “Um…” Then before I know it, I tear up and then full on cry. I don’t want my parents to hear. I think of the white noise machine gratefully.

  Dr. Foster pushes the tissue box towards me.r />
  I smile weakly at him and wipe my nose.

  “I have a diagnosis. Are you ready?”

  I nod, weak from crying.

  “Separation anxiety.” His voice is calm and even.

  “Separation anxiety?” I curl my fingers around the tissue. “Does that mean I might start sucking my thumb again?”

  “Only if you want to.”

  “Hmmmm…”

  “It means you are afraid to leave the nest.” Dr. Foster says but his face is calm, almost amused.

  “The nest?”

  “The nest,” he confirms.

  I look at Opus and his thoughts bubbles. Afraid to leave the nest. Why?

  Chapter Seven

  In the Clear

  That afternoon, I wake up from a long nap to Mom standing at the foot of my bed, tears in her eyes, but smiling. She hands me the phone. “It’s Bubbie. Good news!”

  I take the phone. “Hello?”

  “Sweetie! Guess what?” Her voice is groggy but excited. “We’re in the clear! They scooped out my enormous tumor, which was contained! Home-free and no radiation or anything required! Just recovery from the operation! I’m looking forward to my friends waiting on me hand and foot!”

  By now I’m sitting up, the sleep gone from my eyes. Mom is grinning. She leans over and says into the phone, “We can make those plans for Christmas now!”

  “Absolutely!”

  The rest of the afternoon and evening I do normal things. Read some of my history textbook and even work on an essay for English. I watch that same reality make-over show, which normally makes me laugh. But today the host screamed at this girl for wearing acid wash jean shorts and fishnet stockings together, instead of following the “guidelines of style” presented earlier in the episode. My heart started to pound again. Poor girl wasn’t ready to venture out of her comfort zone. I can relate. I had to flip to a home make-over show on HGTV. Simmered that anxiety way down to a dull boil.