Writing Anxiety

The high-pitched tone blaring in my head is drowning out those terrifying words. I knew the news wasn’t going to be good when the doctor called to set up the appointment, but this…this was bad. She is still talking, I’m sure of it.  Her mouth is moving and there’s a muffled sound of words. It reminds me of when I was a kid playing in the pool with my best friend, yelling at each other under water. I can make out some of the words – “malignant”, “surgery”, and “chemotherapy”. We never yelled those words in the pool, I’m sure of it.

She’s still talking. But the images of my Mother are pulling my concentration elsewhere. Her bald head is the first image I see. I remember berating her misplaced vanity for thinking of her hair first. Then I imagine my gleaming head. Now my pulse is slamming in my ears. I’m sure that I must walk away from this room at this very moment or I might die right there. I’m looking madly around for an escape, but there’s no recognizable shape or form. Everything looks alien.

The doctor looks concerned now and I sense other movement in the room. The nurse with the polite smile from out front is handing me a glass of water. What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I don’t think there is any air in this room. It’s so warm and close. I can feel sweat running down my scalp, tickling the hairs at the nape of my neck. I’m tempted to throw the water on my sweltering head. The nurse’s voice is louder than the doctor’s. I can make out that she’s talking to me. “ …with me…lie down for…call your…”. I realize now that I’m making a scene.

The need to run is leaving me now. I feel heavy and clumsy, like the forces of gravity have focused extra attention on me. The nurse is pulling me to my feet very gently, and I see they think I’m falling apart. I’m embarrassed and afraid. More afraid, I guess. I can hear my voice apologizing as the nurse leads me to small dark room that holds a large couch and coffee table.  There are tissues.  I’m sure I’m going to need those in a moment. I’m still apologizing. The nurse is cooing sweetly and it really is relaxing me. She leads me to the couch, saying something I still can’t make out. She turns on the light, turns and shuts the door behind her as she leaves.  She was going to call home for me.

After a moment, I stand and walk to the door. My thought is to walk out, find the doctor and apologize for my behavior. But I just turn off the lights and walk back to the couch. Grabbing the tissues, I wait for the tears. I wait for the release. I know only then will I be able to face what’s ahead. The pulse is slowing now. I can hear footsteps in the hallway now, too, although the high monotonous tone is still there in my ear. And then a single tear puddles out of my eye and rolls across my nose. Now I can cry.