Phone call

Things are feeling very fast to me now.

10:30 am Tuesday.

I was in the middle of writing when I got a call asking me to confirm an MRI appointment on Thursday. Since I have to have one of those before the surgery, I assumed they were scheduling me then.
"Am I scheduled for surgery?" I asked.
"I do see an endoscopy," the voice said.
"For what time?"
"Well, it doesn't say. But the MRI is for eight, so you need to be here earlier.
"When?"
"Let me put you through to scheduling."
After being on hold for a few moments, I enjoyed some awkward dialogue with the next female I was connected to: "Yes, I'm scheduled--I mean, I think I'm scheduled for surgery--actually, I trying to find out if i am, or not-scheduled--yet. Or for what time. I mean I'm scheduled for an MRI, so i assumed. . .
"Call your doctor," she finally said.

"I need the number," I said to Trudi. "You have my wallet? The card's in there."
"I don't see it," Trudi said as she unloaded the contents of my small zip wallet.
"Shit," I said. "I couldn't find it yesterday. I lost the card. Goddammit."
"We're going to have to look it up- you want me to do it?"
"No no," I said, and the annoyance in my voice surprised me. I have been handling things in stride until this point. But it's all beginning to feel wobbly. My voice just isn't right. I am trying to hide it, to suppress it, to keep moving ahead rationally.

But I feel very porous. Things keep invading my space. All morning, it was knocks on the door for the house--Rafael and the painters came, but I asked him to give me some time to write and have quiet. Then the plumber came to fix the hot water issue. I have been glad we have been keeping things moving with the house; it's helped to me look ahead-to remind myself in the most concrete and practical ways that there will be a future. But this morning it felt like I was surrounded, and just as I finally got to sit and write, bam, the call about an MRI. I shouldn't have gotten that call--the schedule isn't confirmed yet because they're waiting on insurance confirmation. Needless confusion and angst. But it doesn't matter.

Trudi walked over, stood over where I was lying in the bed with my laptop. She held out her palm with two little pills.
"I want you to take these," she said.
"what's that?" but I knew they were her anxiety pills.
"Xanax and Klonopin. You're getting too upset, it's not good for you. You need to relax."
I took a second before i spoke.
"I'm fine," I said. "I just need some time to sit and write. If I have that, I'll be fine."
Trudi made her bullshit face. "You've had two hours--"
"No I haven't," I said, my voice getting louder. "It's been the plumbing, Rafeal, picking paint this morning--I just sat down to write at ten--it hasn't even been forty minutes." I could picture it, the peace I am sometimes able to feel when I can really write something, when I can access some piece of information, some idea, some feeling that I couldn't access before I sat down. That's all I want.

I need to try to get it without the drugs. It could be a remnant of my drug history, my fear that I am running away from life and into chemicals. Sometimes that fear can do me harm, and this could be one of those moments--where I make myself needlessly suffer. But I am afraid of being wiped out. I'm afraid killing the anxiety will kill the experience. I don't want to miss out on anything right now.
"Look, here's what we'll do, I said. "The doctor gave me that script for Adavan. Go fill that for me, it's not as strong as the Xanax. Get me those, and I'll take a half--"
"take a whole."
"I"ll take a half and if it doesn't work in a hour or so I'll take another one, okay?"
"Okay."
I went back to writing. Before Trudi left, I told her I was sorry if I got snippy with her.
"It's ok," she said, calmly, though her voice was more tired than warm. "It doesn't matter."