April 30th, 2009
JerryAnn
Dr. Reese’s exam room is the same, but I’m not. My red, puffy eyes are proof.
“Jerry,” Dr. Reese swings the door open and shuts it behind him. Today his Hawaiian shirt has red fish on a blue background. He plops down on his stool and spins to face me. “You’re a grown woman. I’m a pediatrician. You’re not my patient because you’re not a kid, and I can’t bill your insurance because I am not nor can I ever again be your doctor. Jerry, why are you here?” He runs his hands over his bald head with frustration.
I drop my head in my hands and cry.
His stool scoots closer, and he must stand because his hand is on my shoulder. “I take it this isn’t about you having autism?”
I shake my head, still in my hands. “No, it’s not about autism.” I meet his eyes, sniffling. “My dad and his fiancé and her daughter told me I have to get help, and I don’t know who else to turn to.”
Dr. Reese whispers. “Jerry, what’s wrong?” The frustration in his voice has been replaced with gentleness. “Is this about your injury? Have things gotten worse? Are you unable to play anymore?” He hands me a tissue from the counter behind him.
I take it and wipe my eyes and then my nose with the same tissue, and I’m sure there’s a hygienically correct way to eliminate snot and tears, but I’m pretty new to this crying thing, and like everything else in my life, I don’t know what I’m doing.
He hands me another tissue.
“No, physical therapy is going well.” I take a deep breath. I’m not lying because as far as my physical recovery goes, I turned a corner. “My doctors and physical therapists are optimistic.”
Dr. Reese’s shoulders relax, and he waits for me to talk.
I take another deep breath. “I’m pretty sure I’m bipolar.”
There’s a lot of head nodding coming from Dr. Reese, and he appears to be trying hard not to smile. He schools his expression. “Nine months ago, you were certain you were autistic, and now you think you’re bipolar?”
I frown. Is this entertaining to him? “I know it sounds crazy, but ever since visiting my mom, I cry about everything: movies, commercials, songs on the radio. It’s not normal or healthy. Bipolarity would explain these extremes, right?” I lean toward him. Being bipolar would mean there’s an underlying condition affecting my emotions, making me constantly vulnerable.
Dr. Reese leans back a bit on his stool. “Jerry, what happened at your mom’s place?”
I tell him about the drive, our discussion, the tears that followed and have hardly stopped since. I gloss over Toby’s engagement.
Dr. Reese nods, smiles, and encourages me throughout the whole conversation. When I have nothing left to say, he pats me on the knee and smiles wide. “Tell me about Toby.”
“He’s a guy.” Here’s the thing. I have all the emotions but no words to express them.
“I gathered that.” Dr. Reese leans back and waits.
I mentioned Toby once during my entire explanation of what happened at Mom’s house, and Dr. Reese has narrowed in on Toby? I shrug. “I coached girl’s middle school basketball with him in the fall.”
He places his hand on his heart for a second then lets it drop. “Jerry, I don’t want to minimize your feelings, and I’m not a counselor or psychiatrist or psychologist, but you came to me, so I’m going to tell you what I think whether you like it or not.”
I nod.
He sighs. “You’re in love with Toby.”
My head falls into my hands, and I cry like a three-year-old. Yes, I’m in love with Toby, it’s the one thing I’ve figured out, but this is bigger than Toby. I’m an emotional wreck. Since visiting Mom, I’ve gone through three boxes of tissues. I’d never even bought tissues before. I clench my fist, look up at him and glare. “I know.”
His eyebrows raise, then he leans toward me. “And what have you done about it?”
The paper under the exam table crinkles as my legs wiggle in agitation. “I kissed him, okay. I kissed him, and he didn’t kiss me back.”
He folds his arms. “And you told him how you feel?”
I stretch my hands out wide and let them drop. “Isn’t that what a kiss is for?” In every book and movie, the kiss says everything, and I put everything into that kiss.
Dr. Reese folds his arms and leans back. “How many guys have you loved before Toby?”
Easy question, quick response. “None.”
“Despite not loving any of them, how many did you kiss?” That’s not an answer I want to broadcast. Before Toby, I’d kissed eight guys, but none of the kisses meant anything to me.
My mouth drops open.
“Guys are vulnerable, too. Without you telling him how you feel, he’s just another guy, you’re just another girl, and it’s just another kiss.”
I nod ten times before I realize how ridiculous I must look, but it’s nowhere near as ridiculous as I feel. I lost Toby because I never told him how I felt.
Dr. Reese stands as if the visit is over. “Jerry, just tell him how you feel.”
My head drops back in my hands, and I grumble, “He’s engaged.”
Dr. Reese sits, again, grabs another tissue, and swivels back to hand it to me. I wipe my nose first, and then my eyes, and it’s way grosser. I think a booger is in my eye. He hands me two more tissues. “Jerry, what you’re feeling is normal. You have a broken heart, and broken hearts can hurt as badly as physical pain.”
I wrap my arms around myself. “This hurts worse.”
He stands and gives me an awkward hug, but despite its awkwardness, I melt into his arms. Dad doesn’t hug, I can’t touch Cate, so I cry into the tropical fish swimming around on Dr. Reese’s shirt. He pulls away first, sits down, and studies me. “There is good news.”
I smirk and he laughs. “If your heart can break this badly, then you can love this strongly. I don’t think that was something you could do before.”
Head shaking and palms up, I ask, “How is that good news?” I drop my hands and gaze out the window. “Toby is getting married to a perfect tiny girl with car eyelashes, and the only person I can talk to about my problems is my pediatrician.”
He laughs again. “It’s good news because anyone capable of loving as much as you’ve loved Toby will find love again.” His smile falls, and he nods. “But Jerry, you can’t close off your heart. You’ll have to continue being vulnerable and emotional.”
I shake my head. “No, feeling nothing is better than this!”
He lets out a big breath. “As bad as your pain is now, that’s how great your joy will be later. That’s how it works.”
I fold my arms across my chest and glare. “Really? Is that really how it works? Can I get it in writing? Because I’m going through tissues like crazy, and I don’t know what joy feels like.”
He socks me on the arm. “Sure you do. When you and your mom worked things out, I bet it felt great. That was joy, and I promise you will experience it again.” He stands and puts a hand on each of my arms. “I’m so proud of you.”
I shake my head at him as tears well in my eyes. "Is it just me, or does joy involve a lot of crying?"
He pulls me off the exam table, gives me a quick hug, and with a hand on the doorknob says, “Feel all the feels, and I promise, things will get better.” He blusters out of the room.
I clean myself up in the exam room sink. The puffiness of my eyes and the tears on my face will fade, and I hope my heartache will too.