Today's writing

I know what this means.

This means stepping back into the game and letting Hope have one more shot. It means finding a doctor – no phone books this time, I have health insurance and a list of preferred providers – and calling for an appointment. It means keeping the appointment, not rescheduling multiple times out of fear.

Sweaty palms on the drive over. A jittery wait while pretending to read Harper’s Bazaar. A snapping feeling in my chest when the white-coated assistant swings open the door and calls a name ... and it’s not mine. The desire to leave, to find the door and use it. The strength to keep my ass in the seat.

Outward calm while I am ushered in and my vitals – height, weight, blood pressure and body temperature – are plucked from my body and recorded. The eternity behind a closed white door, counting floor tiles and reciting names of Beatles albums to keep calm. Please Please Me. Magical Mystery Tour. Yellow Submarine. With the Beatles. Rubber Soul, my favorite, the one recorded while the boys were fairly soaked in marijuana. Maybe I could smoke some weed before the doctor’s appointment. I live in Berkeley, it’s like finding the color yellow in a cornfield.