9. Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine
Jane
A good six-feet-four-inches tall and forty-ish, the vascular surgeon, Dr. Vaughn, sauntered into the exam room as if I hadn’t been sitting there for over an hour.
He smiled as he took his seat on the rolling stool. “It’s good to see a younger patient for a change.”
I didn’t mind being referred to as young, but seriously? What prompted the man to say such a thing, let alone as a greeting? “I take it most of your patients are elderly?”
“Mm hmm.” He turned to the computer screen, typing in his credentials. “So what are we seeing you for today?”
Though I’d explained everything to the nurse, I summarized the pushups and the CT scan finding FMD as well as the dissected carotid artery.
With his nose to the monitor, he skimmed through my notes. “I see.” He clicked to to Google and typed in fibromuscular dysplasia . Then he took a moment to read an article, but from my position I couldn’t see the fine print. “I’m not sure you have FMD. It’s extremely rare.”
“Oh? Did you look at my scan?”
He changed the screen to the radiology results highlighting my neck arteries. “Here’s the s-bend twist in your left carotid…and the appearance of a string of beads.” He pointed to a frayed bulbous mass on my right. “Here’s where you dissected. You must have been pushing yourself too hard.”
That was an understatement. “Nothing more than I’m used to, but I have been under a lot of stress at work.”
“Ah huh.” He turned off the monitor and stood. “Well, you don’t need any stenting because you have mild to moderate stenosis. Your dissection will heal in a couple of months. Until then, go easy on the pushups.”
Stenting? Because the doc was moving toward the door, I stood as well. “So, that’s it? ”
“Yep.”
“Do I need to follow up?”
He shrugged, putting his hand on the knob. “It’s up to you. Maybe come back in a year?”
“But what about my bruit—the whooshing in my ears?”
He gave me a look much the same as the one I received from the urgent care doc I had to plead with in order to get the CT. “Bruit? What? Did you read about bruits and pulsatile tinnitus on the internet?”
“Of course I did. It’s one of the symptoms on the FMD Society of America website.”
“You know, many of my patients often read things on the internet, and when they have a few symptoms that are similar, they convince themselves that they are sick.” He smiled, except there was no warmth in his grin. “I only needed to look at you to know you’re not sick.”
My face burned hot as I followed him out the door, wishing I could grab his arm, twist it up his back, throw him to the ground, then dig my knee into his bicep and let him know exactly what I thought about his diagnosis. “Tell me, are most of the patients to whom you’re referring women?”
“Believe it or not they are.” The bastard pointed to the exit sign. “The lobby is that way. Have a good day.”
I stormed past the receptionist’s desk and out to my car. There was no way in hell I was ever going to make another appointment with Dr. Vaughn. I wove through traffic on the freeway, gunning my way back to the office. When will I ever learn? I shouldn’t have gone to see the damned vascular specialist. Once he actually came into the exam room, it took him a record two minutes to throw up his wall of medical gender bias.
Why in God’s name would I imagine something like a thundering pulse in my ears?
Why in God’s name did my imaginary bruit hammer so loudly it sometimes woke me up at night?
Asshole!
Most of the time I’d deal with being completely brushed off by focusing on something else. But I’d done quite a bit of research and I didn’t think my “torturous and twisted” carotid arteries ought to be discounted as unimportant.
The FMD website listed a number of clinics that specialized in the disease, almost all of which were on the east coast. There was only one doctor in Colorado who specialized in FMD and when I called his office, they said my PCP had to send in a referral, but the specialist was presently booked out eight months.
I figured by the time I got ahold of Dr. Panda’s office and she submitted a referral, it would probably be a year until I got in to see the guy. Was I blowing things out of proportion? Was I overreacting because of the data I’d read online, even though I was accessing credible sources? Maybe Dr. Vaughn was right, I didn’t have anything to worry about, and everything would heal on its own. I mean if he, a vascular surgeon, wasn’t concerned, then why should I be?
The FMD website did indicate that most patients who had the disease could lead normal lives with a few modifications, like no martial arts and no car accidents. I’d already informed my sensei I wouldn’t be at the test for my second-degree black belt. He wasn’t surprised because Renee had told the whole class about the pushups.
Moving into the right lane, I signaled for my exit. Then I barely made it through a yellow light, sped for the office, and zoomed into the parking lot, telling myself to put all this health business behind me.
Curt and I had negotiated a satisfactory deal with Hydroade and things were looking up in Philly. I needed to give my other plant managers some TLC for a change. I’d have my admin book flights and tour every plant within the next few weeks—make sure we were meeting all of our housekeeping and safety goals before I pushed them to submit their budgets.
I made a resolute decision as I marched toward the building. I was fed up. I was going to forget about FMD since Meg didn’t appear to have it. There was far too much on my plate to worry about a little artery dissection that would heal. By the time I walked into my office, I had a renewed sense of purpose and none of it centered around my heath, thank God.
Except Leon Worthington was sitting in my chair. “You’re late,” he boomed, those black eyes as humorless as a rattlesnake’s.
My heart jolted while I glanced over my shoulder. “Sorry. I just had a follow-up appointment and I’m happy to say I have a clean bill of health.” I set my briefcase on the desk, steeling my nerves for bad news. “Is something wrong?”
“Shut the door.”
The harsh edge in his tone prickled the back of my neck. I did as he asked, then slid into the guest chair, gripping the armrests. “If this is about Hydroade, Curt and I met with the VP and ironed out an agreement to supply pallets direct from line to truck until— ”
“You only thought you had an agreement.”
“Thought?” I shook my head. “They said they were happy with everything we’ve done and—”
Leon threw a newspaper in front of me. “Read the fucking headline, Jane.”
I looked down. “ Bethany Plastics’ Contamination Blunder .”
My breath stopped, turning to fire in my lungs. “Oh, shit.”
“The VP was fired this morning.”
My mouth drier than the Mohave, I sat back.
“I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise to hear the CEO of Hydroade called me this morning with a new list of demands.”
I didn’t like the way Leon glared at me—as if he had a six-shooter pointed at my heart under the desk. “But we already fired thirty-two employees and—”
“You’ve done a decent job up until today.” Leon jammed his pointer finger on top of the newspaper. “Now I’m backed into a corner.”
He didn’t have to say another word for me to figure out what he was planning to shoot me with. I tried to breathe. I tried to talk. I tried to look away, but all I managed was to freeze, still gripping the armrests of the chair, my knuckles white.
Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit!
The rims of my eyes stung. “Are…are you firing me?” I finally asked, my voice haunted. I’d given the last twenty years of my life to this company. Aside from a couple of doctor appointments, I came in at seven and left when the job was done—almost always after the dinner hour. He couldn’t just write me off!
“You’re close enough to retirement.”
I crossed my arms and squeezed. Hard. For the love of God, Leon was five years older than me. “I didn’t put the goose shit in the damned bottle.”
“No, but someone under you did, and that makes you culpable.” He sliced his hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter. You’re still entitled to your stock options and you’ll receive a substantial severance package equivalent to five years’ salary—minus unearned bonuses, of course.”
I didn’t care about the money. This was untenable. Worse, the damned twisted veins in my neck pulsed with mind-numbing pain, threatening another dissection. An aura spun in my vision blurring Leon’s scowl like I was looking through a kaleidoscope. This was going to be one mother of a migraine—one I absolutely did not need right now. “If you do this, I’ll never work again. ”
He pushed an envelope toward me. “You won’t need to.”
My entire body shook. I couldn’t think straight. Hell, it took enough effort to breathe. Five years’ pay was a lot—more than I needed to retire comfortably, but that’s not what I wanted.
Still, I knew how this worked. The person on the chopping block had no say in the decision. I picked up the packet. “So this is it?”
“Yep.”
“Can I ask who my replacement is?”
“Nope.”
“Are you going to close the Philly plant?”
Leon rolled up the newspaper and slammed it on the desk, making every nerve in my body jump. “I’ll give you a half-hour to clean out your office.”
I saw a movie once with a man in a straitjacket thrashing and screaming in a padded, soundproof room. I don’t recall why the man had been restrained, but if he wasn’t already insane, he would have been by the time he was released.
I now knew exactly what it was like to be that man. Except I was doing all my screaming and thrashing on the inside.
A hundred times or more I’d replayed my last meeting with Leon—his cold voice haunted me, made goosebumps rise on my arms. I was fifty-nine years old and washed up.
Humiliated.
Damned for something over which I had no control.
How could I show my face in public?
How could I tell anyone?
How could I tell Meg?
I’d been lying on the couch in my pajamas for three days, hugging my doggie pillow, not even bothering to take the five-second walk down the hall when it was time for bed. The taste in my mouth was sour. Stale. I stank. I don’t remember the last time I’d eaten.
I wasn’t hungry.
I didn’t care.
What in God’s name was I going to do now?
If only the damned dissected carotid artery had killed me .
I picked up my water bottle and sucked on the straw, drawing in nothing but a gulp of air. Groaning, I threw it across the room, hitting the television’s blank screen, and clattering to the tiled floor.
I ought to go see my mother. But it was hard enough to leave the couch when I had to pee. I ought to call Meg. At least she’d be happy because I no longer had a reason to cancel our vacations.
Except I don’t want to be seen as a failure in my daughter’s eyes.
I picked up my phone. Shit . I had no service. Obviously, my number had already been cut off by Bethany Plastics. I didn’t have a landline either.
Around midday, I got up and stumbled to the bathroom, taking a good look at myself in the mirror. I stretched the skin around my mouth and let it drop back, sagging into jowls that seemed to appear overnight. God, I looked old. My eyes were bloodshot, my hair was smushed on one side, the part showing a wide, thinning swath where my scalp glistened with oil.
Blech.
Grabbing my toothbrush, I refused to scrutinize myself for another second as I cleaned my teeth. Then I turned on the shower and stood under a pelting stream until it ran cold.
On my way back to the living room, I stopped in front of a picture of Meg taken when she was a sophomore in high school—when we lived in Wisconsin. At the time, I’d been a plant manager near La Crosse. Honestly, of all the places Bethany had moved me, I think I liked Wisconsin the best. At least every month aside from January and February.
Still, those months were tolerable if a person dressed for the cold. And nothing beat good old Midwest values. Wisconsinites not only worked hard, I’d say they were the friendliest people I’d ever met.
I touched Meg’s smiling face. Jeez, she was beautiful—deep blue eyes, all that red hair, and the cute freckles across the bridge of her nose. She thought she was too heavy, but she was just curvy in a very feminine way. I used to look at her and marvel that she’d come from me—the living stick woman.
A cavern swelled in my chest.
I missed her.
Why had I spent so much of my adult life pursuing the corporate dream? I’d never been satisfied, always setting my sights on the next promotion—making plants more profitable, proving myself. And for what? Why did I push myself so hard as if I never measured up to my superiors’ expectations?
Yes, Jack had been awful during the divorce. He’d soured me toward marriage so much that afterward I’d pushed men away at the first sign a relationship might get serious. But, jeez, the past twenty-two years had been lonely.
My stomach growled.
My slippers scuffed over the tiles as I made my way to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It was empty.
I needed a phone.
It was time to swallow my shame and face the world.