The test results are in. It doesn’t look good. I’ve scored 612 on the Holmes-Rae Life Event Stress Scale.
“Mom, you need help, seriously. A score over 300 means you’re headed for a meltdown.”
“You sure that’s my score?”
She rechecks. “Oops, I made a mistake. Holy crap, you actually scored 732!”
“Okeedookee then.” I slide my mug across the table. “Top up my coffee with a little of that Bailey’s, sweetie.”
“Maybe you should think about seeing someone. You have been a little… um… sort of… well… on the edge lately.”
I study the sympathetic, Mom, you’ve lost it, look on her beautiful face. When had I changed from her super-hero to the poor women slipping over the edge? Perhaps she’s right. There is no denying that it has been a very tumultuous year, or two, or fifty…
Two years ago, on an icy winter day, Gordon bought the farm. It was a terrible shock. When the snow finally melted, we discovered that we owned 300 acres of the sandiest soil on the planet. Not even a blessed potato will take root in it. Neither will our children. Empty nests are difficult for mothers. All my children have flown, and not to sensible locations like Hamilton or Guelph. No, they’ve headed off to the remotest corners of the earth, and the words: Don’t worry, It won’t cost much, and Can you store my stuff? still rings in my ears.
I inhale my coffee. “Maybe it is time to seek professional help.”
Abby nods. “It’s kinda fun.”
“What? Therapy? How do you know?”
“It’s a requirement for my master’s. Everyone goes through analysis.”
My life flashes before my eyes and I see Abby sharing it all with her shrink. It’s always the mother’s fault. Oh, God, has she told about the naked plumber? Disclosed what I did to her turtle? Or… Lord, please not the Han Solo poster on the bedroom ceiling. There are so many ways I’ve traumatized this child.
Sitting in Dr. Olivia Kendal’s waiting room I fear I’ve made a mistake. Enya plays softly in the background. Chai tea spices the air. I peruse her glossy brochure: I’m OK, You’re Not OK, So Let’s Talk. Her twenty-something frame emerges wearing the same ruffled skirt and peasant blouse I’d worn in the sixties. She points to my feet and then to the No Shoes sign on the wall. “There are slippers in the basket.”
“Are they Freudian?” I say, trying to break the tension and calm my nerves.
She looks puzzled. “Ah, no. They’re fleece.”
I follow her to the inner sanctum and sink into a big velvet chair. A large print of Starry Night hangs on the wall. “Interesting choice of art.”
“Why’s that?”
“Van Gogh for a therapist’s office.”
“Who?”
“Never mind.” I scope out the exits.
“So Ms. Taylor, tell me why you’ve come today?”
I search for the right way to begin, for something profound, but not too revealing. “Well, Doctor, I was pondering what Plato said about the unexamined life not being worth living, and it got me thinking that my lived life was worth examining.” My cleverness amazes me. I wait for applause and affirmation.
She seizes the pencil tucked behind her ear, writing furiously. I hear delusions of grandeur scratching across the page.
“People think I’m nuts. I need help.”
She chews her pencil.
I notice a squat table in the corner, filled with sand and toys: shovels, dump trucks, action figures, farm animals… Ah, common ground, we can relate on the topic of children. “I see that you’re a child therapist as well?”
“No, I just treat adults.”
“Oh.” I look at the sandbox.
“That’s part of my treatment model. Helps one dig down, get in touch with deep issues.” She judges over her glasses. “We won’t go there for months.”
I sit in silence. She asks, “What goes through your mind right now?”
I resist revealing, An extra large Tim’s, double cream, and an apple-cinnamon cruller. “Sex.”
The session is enlightening. Apparently, I’m depressed, repressed, angry and in deep denial. I’ll need of months, perhaps years, of intensive therapy at $120 per hour.
I drive home, longing for the asylum of my 300 acre sandbox. Abby and several friends are playing volleyball. They somehow always know when there’s lasagna for supper. The ball lands by my foot. “Nice shoes Mom.” I look down at the fuzzy pink slippers, recounting the stops I’ve made since my appointment: bank, supermarket, pharmacy… I might be a woman teetering on the Freudian-brink, but at least I’m wearing comfortable slippers.
Second Place, The Writing Fairy Humour Contest