"And I'm going to drag you to tai chi," Susan adds.
I look at both of them aghast. I am willing to admit that I need to slow down and make some time for myself. But I have to clean up my desk and plan this new book, not add exercise lessons to the docket. It is true that life, as I am living it, has lost its luster. But today, all I wanted was a beautiful sunrise, the quiet company of good friends, and a chance to catch my breath.
I make my way to the door, give them each a hug, and thank them for their suggestions. On the drive home I'm overwhelmed by unpleasant thoughts, not the least of which is a recurrent dream I have been having recently. In the dream, I am standing in the basement of our home—which, because of its age, has a dirt foundation. I am convinced I've murdered someone—and buried her in the corner. I visit the grave each day, praying that the body will decompose quickly so that my crime will go undiscovered. But there is never any change. When I wake up, I am always anxious, and I feel certain that I've committed the crime. Could it be that the person I have killed is myself?
Truth, like anything else, can be picked up or left alone depending upon your frame of mind. Right now I am willing to hear what my friends are saying, but I don't have the strength for prolonged self-scrutiny. Besides, there must be some small adjustments I can make that won't require a complete rethinking of my life. Any more radical overhauls will have to wait until I've finished this manuscript and gotten through the next few months of booked retreats. Still, deep down I know that the measure of my continuing identity must come from refusing to be swallowed by my goals. Having chosen my own set of complications, I have no one to blame but myself.
The light turns red and I come to a stop. I promise myself I'll analyze my calendar and begin to eliminate anything that seems superfluous—lunches that are purely social, meetings where I have no leadership responsibilities, parties that aren't appealing. I'll clear my desk of would-be writers' unsolicited manuscripts, refrain from answering the phone until the afternoon, and attempt to get help for my mother. The simple act of coming up with a few immediate, manageable solutions gives me comfort. When the light turns green, I push the gas pedal a little harder than is necessary. Everything will be fine.
TWO WEEKS LATER I finally make it to my internist, only because she won't renew a prescription unless I make an appointment. I've never enjoyed going to the doctor, and sitting here half naked in a cold, sterile examining room, waiting has me half crazed. Doctors seem to be in the business of trying to find things wrong with their patients, and since everyone has been pointing a finger at my lifestyle, I am more than certain the doctor, too, will find something to pick on. I hear the doorknob turn and brace myself.
I chose Dr. Pressman because she is a woman, recommends yoga rather than tranquilizers, is intelligent yet sensitive, and most of all, because she seems mortal. One of the things I like most about her is that she always seems to have enough time to talk a bit; her gentle, genuine questions and the fact that she remembers details about my life I forgot I even shared always settle me down. This time is no different, and as we babble for a few minutes, I start to relax. But then she slides back on track and gets to the real business at hand...my blood pressure. It had been elevated some months back and she had put me on a mild diuretic, told me to do more aerobic exercise, cut back on the wine, and lose ten pounds. Aside from the exercise, I didn't much heed her instructions.
"My God, Joan, what have you been up to?" she says, as the blood pressure cup releases its air. "Your pressure is higher than last time."
