Looks Aren't Everything
I have been waiting, dragging the minutes uphill against a fierce headwind, like wreckage that must be cleared before I can flee from the storm; it takes forever to move just one out of my way. I rest my palm gently against my stomach, which has been trying all morning to jump out of my torso and run away. I picture it escaping through my belly button, all sloppy and legless, hopped up on adrenaline and running down the sterile corridors like a cartoon germ. With the other hand, I grip the hard plastic edge of the chair. When I start to see spots, I duck my head down between my knees and force myself to breathe. My insides have scattered, run for cover as though someone has just dropped a bomb.
I have decided that I will try something new. I am telling the truth, about everything, even to myself. This means I must not try to hide the fear that is blazing like an asteroid trapped inside me, bouncing off the walls, occasionally getting trapped and sizzling somewhere behind my stomach before it burns itself free. It means I can no longer act like it's not there.
She knocks once quickly and before I can make a sound, she has entered the examination room. I am sitting down and I am frightened, so she seems much larger than she ever has before. And soft. She wears layers of summer linens in muted colors, quiet shoes, and hair that is tempered by gray.
She puts down my chart and opens her arms. I am confused by the gesture, it seems so incongruously humane for the room we are in. And because this has happened so rarely to me in life, I feel befuddled, the way I might if I arrived in a culture where gift-giving or bowing were the customary greeting. But I do understand that the arms are opening for me, and that I am supposed to move into them. So I do.
Once I am there, I feel like a guest in a predicament. I am being offered the largest piece of cake and do not know if it is rude to accept it-—or refuse it? I want to do the right thing, but I can only guess at what it is. I am aware of her limited time. But she hangs on to me while I think these thoughts. She presses me to her full, mother-chest, and she is warm. She holds me longer than is obligatory when one wants to be kind. She holds me long enough to let her comfort begin to sink in, and this sends sparks of grief and gratitude up into my eyes, and I feel the sting behind my lids that means I am going to cry.
“Thank you,” I whisper into her shoulder. And I hold very still. After a few moments longer, she gives me a squeeze, and then lets me go. She sits on her stool and I sit in my chair and we talk about what’s happening to me. Succinctly, rapidly, with hand gestures and much searching of the ceiling and the floor, I tell her everything.
"I'm sorry," she says. And she means it. I feel shy and also grateful. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your e-mail sooner. And I’m sorry that I treated you with hormones instead of looking into this.”
She is genuine and kind. I used the words that should have alarmed her, but she just didn’t think to ask the questions that would have revealed the real problem, when I came to her last year.
“It’s just that you look so good,” she says.
**
“How have you been?” asks my physical therapist.
“Not great,” I say. “I had ten days of migraines and then a terrible cold and now on top of the cold, I have allergies. And today my back went into a spasm so intense I had to call a neighbor to come and pick me up off the floor. Also, today is the first day in almost a week that I haven’t coughed until I threw up.”
“Wow,” he says. “Well--you look great.”
**
I called xxx at 5:30 on a Sunday morning and left a message virtually begging him to make some time for me. 12 hours later, I sat on his couch and said, "Since the day after our fight I have had a migraine almost constantly. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m throwing up. And for two days I couldn’t even use my eyes. It has to stop. I have to get my work done. I have to be able to live. I think that it has something to do with not seeing you or talking to you. I think if you and I can be okay, if we could start communicating and be in each other’s lives again, I would feel better. I think my headaches would go away. I can’t go on like this anymore.”
I was exhausted and desperate. I gritted my teeth, shook my head like a dog shaking out the rain, lifted my chin, but the tears were unstoppable.
“You don’t look sick,” he said from his perch in his easy chair. He narrowed his eyes a bit, “You don’t look like someone who’s been through all that.”
**
“I have so much pain inside,” I say. “I feel crazy with hurt. I can’t stop it, can’t solve it, I’m always alone with it, even right now, while we’re here together in this restaurant.”
“Well, you look great!” she says. “You look beautiful. You know you could get any man you want. You’re gorgeous.”
**
“I’m sad,” I say. “I’m having a very hard time. A lot of physical and emotional pain. It’s very difficult.”
“Well, you look incredible,” she says. “You look amazing! I can’t believe you are going through this.”
**
“Yeah,” I say. “I get that a lot.”
I have decided that I will try something new. I am telling the truth, about everything, even to myself. This means I must not try to hide the fear that is blazing like an asteroid trapped inside me, bouncing off the walls, occasionally getting trapped and sizzling somewhere behind my stomach before it burns itself free. It means I can no longer act like it's not there.
She knocks once quickly and before I can make a sound, she has entered the examination room. I am sitting down and I am frightened, so she seems much larger than she ever has before. And soft. She wears layers of summer linens in muted colors, quiet shoes, and hair that is tempered by gray.
She puts down my chart and opens her arms. I am confused by the gesture, it seems so incongruously humane for the room we are in. And because this has happened so rarely to me in life, I feel befuddled, the way I might if I arrived in a culture where gift-giving or bowing were the customary greeting. But I do understand that the arms are opening for me, and that I am supposed to move into them. So I do.
Once I am there, I feel like a guest in a predicament. I am being offered the largest piece of cake and do not know if it is rude to accept it-—or refuse it? I want to do the right thing, but I can only guess at what it is. I am aware of her limited time. But she hangs on to me while I think these thoughts. She presses me to her full, mother-chest, and she is warm. She holds me longer than is obligatory when one wants to be kind. She holds me long enough to let her comfort begin to sink in, and this sends sparks of grief and gratitude up into my eyes, and I feel the sting behind my lids that means I am going to cry.
“Thank you,” I whisper into her shoulder. And I hold very still. After a few moments longer, she gives me a squeeze, and then lets me go. She sits on her stool and I sit in my chair and we talk about what’s happening to me. Succinctly, rapidly, with hand gestures and much searching of the ceiling and the floor, I tell her everything.
"I'm sorry," she says. And she means it. I feel shy and also grateful. “I’m sorry I didn’t get your e-mail sooner. And I’m sorry that I treated you with hormones instead of looking into this.”
She is genuine and kind. I used the words that should have alarmed her, but she just didn’t think to ask the questions that would have revealed the real problem, when I came to her last year.
“It’s just that you look so good,” she says.
**
“How have you been?” asks my physical therapist.
“Not great,” I say. “I had ten days of migraines and then a terrible cold and now on top of the cold, I have allergies. And today my back went into a spasm so intense I had to call a neighbor to come and pick me up off the floor. Also, today is the first day in almost a week that I haven’t coughed until I threw up.”
“Wow,” he says. “Well--you look great.”
**
I called xxx at 5:30 on a Sunday morning and left a message virtually begging him to make some time for me. 12 hours later, I sat on his couch and said, "Since the day after our fight I have had a migraine almost constantly. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m throwing up. And for two days I couldn’t even use my eyes. It has to stop. I have to get my work done. I have to be able to live. I think that it has something to do with not seeing you or talking to you. I think if you and I can be okay, if we could start communicating and be in each other’s lives again, I would feel better. I think my headaches would go away. I can’t go on like this anymore.”
I was exhausted and desperate. I gritted my teeth, shook my head like a dog shaking out the rain, lifted my chin, but the tears were unstoppable.
“You don’t look sick,” he said from his perch in his easy chair. He narrowed his eyes a bit, “You don’t look like someone who’s been through all that.”
**
“I have so much pain inside,” I say. “I feel crazy with hurt. I can’t stop it, can’t solve it, I’m always alone with it, even right now, while we’re here together in this restaurant.”
“Well, you look great!” she says. “You look beautiful. You know you could get any man you want. You’re gorgeous.”
**
“I’m sad,” I say. “I’m having a very hard time. A lot of physical and emotional pain. It’s very difficult.”
“Well, you look incredible,” she says. “You look amazing! I can’t believe you are going through this.”
**
“Yeah,” I say. “I get that a lot.”
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