Dieting Makes Cathy Crazy

by Sally Redwood

  “Hey. How are you feeling?”

  “About the same.”

  She sits on the edge of the couch. I pull my feet up to make room for her. She leans back a little.

  “Told you it wouldn’t take long.”

  “If it were me, I’d be waiting until next year for my meds.”

  “Stop it.”

  “What’s in the bag?”

  “A little surprise.”

  “What is it?”

  “Never mind what’s in there. Let’s get this out the way first.”

  She hands me the pills and a bottle of water.

  “You’re supposed to take this with water, every six hours.”

  I take out a pill. I swear it’s as big as my thumb.

  “How in the hell am I supposed to swallow this?”

  “If you don’t know how to swallow that totally explains why you’re still single.”

  “What?!” I almost want to laugh but really I just feel like putting a gun to my head right now.

  “Come on, you know guys love that.”

  “Mm.” It’s really more of a grunting noise.

  “So, you would never, under any circumstance take a man’s load in your mouth.”

  “No. I wouldn’t. Well, maybe if I was married. On second thought … Maybe if I was engaged. Maybe. Or maybe if it would make this headache go away.”

  “You expect to get a ring before that happens?”

  “It’s not like you’ve gotten one.”

  She laughs. “Just take the goddamn pill already.”

  I know I’ve struck a nerve. Zoe is my best friend, but we do have our oil-and-water moments. She doesn’t like to discuss her single status, but she can spend the whole day analyzing my lackluster love life.

  Here’s the deal with Zoe: she’s very pretty, and sweet, and smart and I love her. And she never spends a Saturday night alone unless she wants to. But men never tend to settle down with her. The longest relationship I think she’s been in topped out at eight months.

  Zoe is a free spirit. It’s because of her artistic side, I guess. Sometimes, I think she’s too free. Anyway, I read online that men prefer to sleep with blondes but marry brunettes. Somehow, I think if modern science could merge me and Zoe, we would make the most desirable woman on the planet.

  I pop the pill into my mouth and gulp it down with some water. I’m gasping for air.

  Zoe frowns. “Lift your hands up above you head.”

  I reach for the sky. My eyes water. This is pretty bad, but at least I’m breathing normally again.

  “Are you okay?”

  My voice is weak. “Yeah.”

  “Good, because you can’t take that on an empty stomach.”

  Zoe opens the takeout bag and pulls out a few containers. The smell smacks me in my face. Before I even open the box, I know what’s waiting for me inside—greasy steak sandwiches and sweet potato fries from our favorite diner.

  “You know I can’t eat this.”

  “Bull.”

  She takes a bite of her sandwich. The juices run down her chin. I want to lick her face. Okay. There’s no holding back now. I sink my teeth into mine like a lion who’s just taken down a gazelle. The salty, buttery flavors explode in my mouth.

  This just might be better than sex! And seeing as how I haven’t had that in so long, I’m on the verge of a food-gasm. Zoe and I talk with our mouths full like the kind of men we would never date.

  I smile at her. “This is so fucking good!”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You are the best friend ever.”

  “I know.”

  “Oh my God! What am I doing? To hell with it, I’ll start back on my diet tomorrow.”

  “Cathy, you’re overdoing it. Just go with the flow. It’s not about diets. It’s about lifestyles.”

  “Lifestyles? That’s easy for you to say. You have the metabolism of a preteen.”

  “I don’t know about all that.”

  “I really shouldn’t be eating this. They just weighed me at the doctor’s office and …”

  “Shut up and eat already, bitch! You know you want it. You know it wants you!”

  I laugh a little. She’s right. As a matter of fact, my headache isn’t so bad now. Maybe the pill is kicking in or maybe some real food has medicinal value all of its own.

  After dinner, Zoe leaves. She’s running late for her yoga class. I need to sign my ass up for that, too. I’m giving it serious thought as I lock the door behind her. My whole living room smells like a greasy diner, and it’s the most glorious smell in the universe.

  I take a long shower. After being in the doctor’s office and taking all those tests, I feel a little icky. When I step out, my headache is almost gone. I glance at my reflection in the steamy mirror.

  “You’re not stressed? Are you?”

  No. I can’t turn into one of those people who talks to themselves. I’m not ready to embrace that level of crazy.

  And maybe, it’s okay for me to let up on this damn diet a little. Or maybe not. I’m still torn about that.

  I head to my room and get into bed. Underneath my sheets, I feel worlds better than I did last night. I close my eyes, and I’m in dreamland in no time at all.

  When the morning comes, I’m up a few minutes before the alarm as usual. My headache is slight, but other than that, I feel just fine. I get dressed and hurry to work.

  I’m fifteen minutes early. It’s such a good feeling. I know I have a lot to catch up on. I head to my office. There are so many emails, my head is spinning.

  I take another one of my horse pills and sip my coffee as I reply to all of them with meticulous detail. Ted pokes his head in. He’s wearing a snake tie. Yeah, Ted can be goofy like that.

  “Hey, how the hell are you?”

  “A lot better.”

  “Good. I was starting to get worried about you.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Well, you look like your old self again.”

  “Thanks, I guess.”

  “Alright then, I’ll leave you to it.”

  Ted disappears down the gray hallway. I look like my old self? As in my self but old or as in ordinary…I’ll take that. And I almost feel like my old self, too.

  At lunch time, I head to the break-room and heat up my chicken stir fry leftovers. I have to get back on track after that calorie laden detour last night. I eat the brown rice and the lightly seasoned food and fantasize about going back to the diner like it was a steamy night of sex.

  My cell phone rings. It’s a number I don’t recognize. I’m this close to letting it go to voicemail. I’m not in the mood to be pitched by a telemarketer. But since it’s a local call, I decide to pick up.

  “Hi.”

  “Is this Cathy Andrews?”

  I hesitate for a second. The answer all depends on who's asking.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  “Yeah, this is Cathy.”

  “I’m calling from Dr. Patel’s office. Can you please come in for your results.”

  “I’m not in front of my calendar right now. Can I call you back to schedule a …”

  “Dr. Patel is asking that you come in today.”

  “What?”

  Chapter Five

  I sit in the exam room. Waiting. I hope this doesn’t take too long. It’s Friday, and I want to get a jump start on my work research for the weekend. Ted is counting on me. Even if he claims that it can wait until the end of the month. I know he’ll be impressed if I deliver early.

  I have never missed a deadline in my life. I have turned in all my homework assignments on time going back to the second grade. All of the kids in class used to give me dirty looks when the teacher decided to grade on a curve.

  Angela Walsh even offered to give me a free makeover freshman year if I turned in my history report a day late. In my opinion, Angela needed summer school, and I needed to set my sights on becoming class valedictorian. I almost made it. I ended up being salutatorian because my p
hysical education teacher gave me a freaking C.

  It’s not my fault that I didn’t want to be subjected to the constant stares of teenage boys when I wore my gym clothes. Well, I guess it was my fault—I was unattractive in those clothes and felt very, very self conscious. It was embarrassing. I made up any excuse to get out it. Cramps. Constipation. You name it.

  But sometimes I wish I would have been more physically active in high school. I’d probably be in much better shape now. Coming back to the doctor’s office hasn’t been all bad news so far. I’m down to 146. You have to take the small victories when you can. Wait. How did I lose two pounds overnight?

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s Dr. Patel.”

  He walks in. He looks tired. I know it’s the end of the day. I wonder how many patients he’s seen so far. All the more reason to make this quick.

  “How are you, Cathy?”

  “I’m better. The pills worked. My headache is just about gone. I can finally function again.”

  “I got back the results of your tests.”

  “Okay.”

  He takes a deep breath.

  “Is it menopause?”

  “No. It isn’t that.”

  “What a relief.”

  “Cathy …”

  He swallows hard. I see a change in his demeanor. He takes off his glasses.

  “What’s wrong? Do I have cancer?”

  “Cathy, this is very, very strange, I don’t want you to be alarmed, I’ve conferred with some colleagues, but the consensus seems to be that you’ve tested positive for Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. Now, before we leap to any hard conclusions I just want you to know that—“

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a very rare degenerative brain disorder.”

  “But … How? I don’t understand.”

  “As I told you, it’s extremely rare. There are less than 1,000 cases in the US every year.”

  “Oh God.”

  “The exact cause of your diagnosis is hard to determine. Some people inherit it, or they develop symptoms after a receiving an organ transplant. And for some people, it just happens spontaneously. Now, this in not in any way conclusive but we aren’t in a position to rule anything out just yet. It may be that—”

  “What does this mean, Dr. Patel? Is there a cure?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “So …”

  “Look, Cathy we don’t want to blow this out of proportion just yet so—”

  “Doctor, please, just tell me what I’m looking at here.”

  “Cathy, you’re not listening to me.”

  “Doctor, PLEASE!”

  He takes a deep breath, “As the disease progresses you may develop anxiety, depression, and memory loss. And the final stage is usually a coma. Most people don’t live longer than a year after diagnosis but—”

  His mouth is moving, he’s doing something with his hands, but I can’t hear anything else. I’m so numb I can’t even cry. One year to live. I’m my mother. It’s happening again. But this time it’s happening to me. I don’t want to die like that. One year. That’s what it boils down to. And along the way I’ll be an emotional wreck and probably forget my own name.

  This can’t be right. What is going on right now? What’s happening? Fucking genetics.

  We’re all inching towards death every moment we’re alive. But the thought of my own mortality is overwhelming. It’s not like I had this amazing, glamorous life to begin with. But it was my fucking life! And now it’s about to end.

  The only silver lining in all of this is that I won’t have to count calories when I’m six feet under. I’m pretty sure you eat whatever the fuck you want in heaven and not gain a pound. I just hope I end up there.

  Have I done enough good deeds in my life? I donate to the Red Cross every time there’s a natural disaster. I hold the door open for old ladies. Shouldn’t that be enough?

  Damn, I hope so. But it would be just my luck that there’s no heaven or hell at all. Just an eternal nothingness. And silence. And darkness. And being alone in my own thoughts. Fuck!

  But if by chance there is a heaven, and they let my ass slip through the pearly gates, I know who will be waiting for me on the other side. Mom. She’ll have that bright smile and probably be wearing her old, faded Bahamas t-shirt.

  She got it on the one and only vacation she took in her whole life. She got a cheap flight on one of those airlines where they don’t even serve you complimentary ice water and they make you pay a baggage fee because your purse counts as “carry-on.”

  Anyway, Mom went to Nassau one spring. Her boyfriend refused to go with her. “But my mother did something that made her really happy for once.

  She came back gloriously sunburned with pictures of herself by the beach, sipping on those drinks with the little colorful umbrellas. For many years, she talked about wanting to go back. But she never got the chance.

  Maybe heaven is like the Bahamas. And maybe if I’m lucky, I’ll find out. But my heart sinks at the realization that I might find out much sooner than I ever thought.

  I’m one of those people who always thinks about the worst case scenario. But this? This is too much for me to process. I wish Zoe was here. But then again, I don’t.

  If she heard Dr. Patel, she would be looking at me with a pitiful expression and trying to reassure me with positive mantras. That’s the last thing I need. But more scotch sounds perfect.

  “—forward these to them for a little more insight before moving forward. Cathy? Cathy? Did you follow what I said?”

  “What?”

  “Are you listening to me, Cathy?

  “Doctor, I—”

  “Tests, Cathy. I said that the best course of action is to do another round—”

  I can’t be here, this is not happening.

  “I have to go.”

  “Cathy wait!”

  Everything is a blur as I leave the doctor’s office. I don’t bother to look both ways before walking across the parking lot. What’s the fucking point? It’s probably better to be run over by a car than to have … What the hell do I have again?

  There’s something in my hand. I look down at the info packet Dr. Patel gave me. All About Creutzfeldt-Jakob Disease. I want to throw it in the trash. Why should I even waste precious minutes of my life reading about the exact way I’m going to die?

  I unlock my car door and sit behind the steering wheel. I turn on the ignition. I start driving, I don’t know where I’m going. Cars are zooming by. I hear the honk of a horn…a lot of them. Oh fuck, that was because of me! All of the sudden, I can’t move. I pull over. Tears stream down my face. If this wasn’t so fucked up, it would be hilarious.

  I’m a sobbing mess, as I bury my head in my hands. I think of all the things I will never experience. Marriage. Children. A perfect condo. A trip to the Bahamas. Hell, I’ve never even been out of the country.

  It dawns on me that I may never even have sex again. Who will want me now? Ronny probably isn’t even desperate enough to give me a pity fuck. And I wouldn’t want that anyway. Especially not from him.

  My pity fuck would have to be Ryan Gosling. Yes! One night with that body and that face and I just might be cured. Maybe I could write a letter to one of those Grant A Wish foundations.

  They help terminally ill people all the time. Kids with cancer get tickets to Disney World. Seniors with Lou Gehrig’s disease get reunited with their best buddies from high school. Surely, they could make arrangements for me and Ryan Gosling to get together. I don’t think that’s asking too much.

  What the hell is wrong with me? Sex should be the last thing on my mind. There are so many practical things that I have to tend to.

  First, I need a will and an executor for my estate. Not that I’m worth a ton of money, but I do have some savings. Stocks. 401k. All that shit that I will no longer have any use for.

  And I guess I should go ahead and plan my funeral. A lot o
f people do it. Most of them wear dentures and adult diapers, but if they can do it, why not me? I can even pick out a casket and the dress I want to be buried in.

  A black dress that draws attention away from my muffin top. Why am I even thinking about that anymore? I should just go crazy and eat whatever I want. But I’m sure there’re some hippies out there who would say something about a healthy diet easing my symptoms and possibly extending my life. Fuck them!

  Okay. So instead of living for another year, maybe I can make it fourteen months if I stick to my diet? Nope. Fuck that. I’m done with that. This shit is the perfect excuse to just let myself go.

  And then more tears come because I know I will never get that night with Ryan Gosling. Hell, there’s a good chance that I will never feel a man’s touch again, unless I hire an escort.

  Maybe a gigolo isn’t such a bad idea. It’s not like I have to worry about STDs anymore. It would take much longer for any sex disease to kill me off than … What’s this shit called again? Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease.

  I am wailing now. What the fuck did I do to deserve this? After a life of following all the rules this is the thanks I get?

  I hear a tap on the window. When I open my eyes, I see a petite lady standing by my window. She tilts her head.

  “Are you okay?”

  I nod and wipe my eyes.

  “Okay. I’m just checking. Would you like me to call someone to …”

  “No! I’m fine.”

  “Okay. Okay. Please, take care of yourself.”

  And please, go fuck yourself! I can tell she’s just pretending to care.

  Fuck’s sake. I can’t blame her for checking on me. I’d probably do the same thing. I couldn’t just walk by a person crying their eyes out. Maybe a side effect of this thing is the bitch that’s been coming out of me the last few days.

  I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror. The whites of my eyes are red. My face is pink. There’s a line of snot running down from my nostril to my upper lip.

  That pity fuck from Ryan Gosling or any other man is out of the question. Even if I offer money, they wouldn’t go near this pussy. But maybe if I put a bag over my head. That’s a great idea! And I know just where to get the perfect bag.