Excerpt: 'The Second Journey: The Road Back To Yourself'

I try to sound nonchalant, although I can see her eyes register alarm.

"Nothing out of the ordinary," I say, attempting to sound casual.

"Oh?" she mumbles, while scribbling her findings onto my chart. "Didn't you just come back from a book tour? Where did you go this time?"

"All over the place. I ended up in Philadelphia. Other than that it's hard to distinguish one place from another."

"Really?" she says, peering over the rim of her glasses with a critical glare. "Did you ever think that might be a sign that perhaps you have too much on your plate?"

"Don't we all," I joke.

"No, I'm serious, Joan. These numbers are scary. You are going to need to rethink your priorities." There's that word again. This conversation is beginning to sound all too familiar. "Well, I'd be hard-pressed to cut anything out," I snap back. "I'm off to speak in Connecticut today, and I have a pretty full calendar throughout the fall. I can't just up and quit."

"Well, you'd better figure it out. Your entire cardiovascular system is at stake. This issue isn't reversible, but it is controllable. I'm ordering a stress test to be done next week, and you'll need to see our nutritionist—your sugar levels look suspicious, too. Here are some prescriptions," she continues, ripping the papers off her pad. "I want you to have an EKG. Take everything off down to your waist and put on this johnny. My nurse will be in momentarily."

Moments later, I am flat on my back, electrodes attached to my breasts, neck, and arms, staring at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling while her poker-faced nurse stands watching the machine spit out the paper that graphs the state of my heart. Minutes later, she deftly removes each of the electrodes and informs me that I am free to get dressed. I hop off the table, pull on my turtleneck, run a brush through my hair, and leave without even bothering to stop at the desk to make my next appointment. For the time being, the medicine will take care of things. It is, after all, only blood pressure, not something that requires hospitalization or surgery, I assure myself. Besides, I need to be on the road in an hour, and I still have to pack and say good-bye to my husband.

"HOW DID IT GO?" he asks, peering over the top of his newspaper.

"Oh, not bad," I answer casually as I hurry toward the bedroom. "I still have the blood pressure issue, but it's nothing that drugs won't rectify. I have to have a stress test when I get back and maybe see a cardiologist. Her whole response was a little over the top if you ask me." "Actually, I don't think so." His stern voice stops me in midstep. "You're a runaway train, Joan—you never stop, you never say no. You drive here, fly there, all to have another damn best-seller. You've become nothing more than a publicity whore. Whatever happened to being present, living the simple life, knowing the moments—your lines, not mine," he says, sounding very much like Ro and Susan. "I'm glad you've been caught. It's long overdue. The question is, do you have enough self-respect to listen?" And with that, he tosses his newspaper in the trash, gives me a salute of sorts, and walks out the door.

How dare he leave me on such a note? It's as if everyone thinks I enjoy the pace of my life. And besides, what is he doing to help our cause? Ever since he retired, all he does is play golf and volunteer for a variety of local political committees. I know those are activities he never had time for before, but they don't relieve me of any of the pressure I feel to pay the bills and grow our savings. I rush off to the bedroom to stuff toiletries, makeup, and a warm-up suit into my overnight bag. The more I think about his abrupt dismissal, the more furious I become. Why does my marriage seem harder now than before? I suppose it has to do with the old adage about retirement: "Twice as much husband for half as much money." Besides which, his schedule is totally erratic. One day he might be playing golf and going to a town meeting, totally unavailable to me, and the next three days he's just hanging around. I never know what to expect from him, and because he's made it clear that he values his newfound freedom, I haven't dared to ask. Whatever. These issues can't possibly be resolved in haste. I scribble a note with my whereabouts and bolt—glad for the escape hatch.

From "The Second Journey," by Joan Anderson. Copyright (c) 2008. To be published in April 2008 by Hyperion. Available wherever books are sold. All rights reserved.