by PJ Mayhem
Despite the fact that it’s after midnight when I do it, I find a couple of places to email. I have loads of leave. I’m not sure how I’ll wrangle it with Broomstick and everything that’s going on but, once again, I had to find faith. An answer would come.
The medical centre is busy for a Friday. Each time one of the consulting doors opens I look up from the vintage copy of The Australian Women’s Weekly I’ve taken from the stack. Perhaps there’s a universal waiting room law against having anything too current and interesting in case it causes someone to miss their name being called. Four people who aren’t me are called for their appointments, which leaves me with more time to think about why I’m here, and I really don’t want to be doing that.
It isn’t that my insomnia and anxiety have, in medical terms, become chronic and I spend most of my time feeling that I can’t breathe. And even though waking up each morning to the room spinning and having to steady myself to get out of bed would be just cause to be here, it’s not that either. Nor is it the constant queasiness and weakness—unless I know Frankie is around, then I summon all my postural poise for him. It’s also not the constant headaches and migraines, or that all the painkillers are eating away my stomach lining. Despite the fact I’d been trying to pretend it wasn’t there, the tingling from my neck down my right arm, the pain in my wrist, elbow and forearm that mean I sometimes can’t use my right hand and that the pain of this RSI fights with the anxiety to see which one will propel me from sleep first is a valid reason too. I know that will take care of itself when I have a more reasonable workload, so it’s not that either.
It’s one hundred percent pure vanity. When the guy sitting on the seats outside the station near work spoke to me this morning I’d had trouble making sense of his slurring, indecipherable drawl.
‘What, sorry?’ I’d asked.
He tried again. ‘You jus bin dussip la?’
‘Sorry, still didn’t get it.’
We went through it a few more times, and by the fifth go we got there. Turns out ‘You just been dosed up, love?’ was what he was saying.
Motherfornicating bastards of Buddha hell! He thinks I’ve just come from the methadone clinic! How shit do I look?
Not really the image I was going for. No wonder Frankie hasn’t taken the note or Yoghurtgate any further. It’s not that he’s not available, he probably thinks I’m a junky whore with a novel approach to turning tricks.
‘Fiona Johnson?’ Finally! One of the conveyor belt doctors calls me in.
‘How can I help you today?’
‘I feel nauseous all the time.’
‘Hmm. You’re not likely to be pregnant are you?’
‘No,’ I snap. I don’t mean to be rude but I really don’t need the reminder of how long it is since I’ve had sex or that it doesn’t seem to be likely in the foreseeable future. Bugger Frankie throwing a Molotov cocktail of desire at my loins then running off like I was the cops about to charge him with arson.
‘Anything else unusual happening?’ the doctor asks as though he’s ticking off his list.
‘I’m a bit stressed but I manage that naturally.’
‘How long has that been going on?’
‘A while.’ Seriously, why is he asking me probing questions? I specifically chose a medical centre so I could duck in and out. Just grab something for my nausea because I was sure if I could get rid of that, everything else would be easier.
‘How long exactly?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, a few months, maybe longer.’ I really couldn’t remember.
‘How’s your sleep?’
‘Not great.’
‘How many hours a night do you get?’
‘A few, I mean four, maybe.’
‘You seem quite agitated.’
I realise I’ve got my hands shoved under my thighs, my legs jiggling. I feel like a cornered animal. Honestly what did he think he was playing at? Should I remind him that he works in a medical centre? ‘Look, I don’t want to take up too much of your time. I just came in to get something for my nausea.’
‘Any other symptoms?’
‘I’m getting a lot of headaches.’
Big mistake. After taking my blood pressure, which is fine, he picks up his little torchy thing. Quite a bit of hmming ensues as he examines each eye, then makes me follow his finger with my eyes and finally touch my nose with my finger.
‘Well, I can tell you I’m pretty sure it’s not a brain tumour.’
I hadn’t thought I was dying, not in a serious way. I mean Amethyst would have picked it up in my energy field, surely?
‘What’s happening in your life? Do you a supportive partner? Do you enjoy your work? How long since you’ve taken a break from work?’
Those little questions cause treacherous tears to spring from my eyes.
‘Sorry, it’s just that I’m not feeling well.’ I wipe the tears away. ‘I’m fine, my life is fine. You know how things are with insomnia. You get all brittle.’
Just because I’m crying at the drop of a hat every five minutes these days it doesn’t mean anything. I’m not cracking up. Not that there is anything wrong with cracking up. It’s fine for other people to do it, just not me. I cope, that’s what I do, I’d always coped and now wasn’t going to be any different.
I’m in a state of complete mental, physical and emotional exhaustion—burnout. That’s the official medical opinion. It sounds so much better than a breakdown, even if a breakdown is the next step if I don’t do something, or so the doctor says.
Walking into work with a medical certificate stating that I need to take some serious leave and soon is one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. Admitting I can’t keep going is even harder than any of the times I’ve made myself go into PGGG. I’d been thinking about it all weekend, trying to find a way around it. Maybe if I just made sure I worked shorter hours and gave myself a break. I didn’t want to have a big bang–type breakdown, but I did feel that my catalyst to ‘do something’ was a bit dull. I mean, most people have life-changing epiphanies after their world comes crashing down in a major event or when they faced death, but my non-breakdown was more like simmering a pot until it went dry—I’d been given the opportunity to grab it off the heat before it totally cracked. There I’d been, wanting an answer about what to do about my life and though it hadn’t come in the form I would have chosen, it was all working out perfectly, in an imperfect sort of way. I’d even had emails back from two of the colleges I’d contacted about courses. The one that I had the best feeling about had a six-week intensive running in a month’s time.
‘You’re just going to have to get a temp to cover me,’ I say to Broomstick when she starts turkey gobbling. ‘It’s not like I’m going on leave tomorrow, I can do some handover.’
As soon as I’m back at my desk Angela and Tiffany come teetering up. Honestly, it’s like they were born with supersonic gossip sensors.
‘Fiona, have you done it, have you resigned?’ they ask.
‘No, I’m going to China!’ I practically squeal with excitement.
‘Oh, you’re leaving us.’ Their faces fall, which is pretty touching really.
‘Only for six weeks. I’m doing a language course.’
They look at me blankly. I know it’s not really their thing. It wouldn’t be most people’s thing. Most people ordered to take R&R would go sip cocktails on a tropical island but I’m not most people and I’m starting to feel more and more comfortable with that.
‘Ohh, maybe you’ll meet someone in China,’ Angela says excitedly.
Tiffany and I shoot her a look. After Suparman, they’d agreed that maybe it was best they didn’t force me back onto Meet My Friend and stayed out of my romantic affairs.
Of course I don’t tell them exactly why and how I’ve been able to get leave so quickly. They don’t even ask—they’re so accustomed to asking for what they want and getting it that the question simply wouldn’t occur to them. Broomstick’s agreed not to mention t
he whole burnout thing to anyone. Not out of kindness and consideration, more out of the fear that I could launch some sort of worker’s compensation claim, I’m sure.
Of course I’ve made a People to Call and Share My News With list. That night, I send my application to the college and there’s no doubt in my mind that it’s going to be accepted. I’m so certain that I book my flights too. It feels good to be doing something like this for myself again. I haven’t planned a trip for years. Not that it’s a trip, exactly. It’s a research mission. I’ll be intelligence gathering—looking for a job, scoping out my new life and laying foundations. Of course I won’t tell anyone this.
Jane is the first person I tell. I am so excited that I can’t hold it in.
‘Jesus Christ, Kizzo, about fucking time,’ she says when I call her after I’ve booked everything. I know she’s not just referring to the study trip, but to putting my foot down with Broomstick and saying what I need and, yes, taking her advice to go to the doctor. I let her think it was her advice; it makes her happy.
Of course, she’s also not protesting because it means I’m not mooning around, waiting for Frankie. I still haven’t told her about the note or Yoghurtgate.
Lionel says people’s immediate reaction always gives away who they are at their core. Actually maybe that was one of Mum’s Dr Phil-isms, but whatever, it turns out to be pretty much true. Over the next few days there’s:
Mum—‘But you’ll miss two family lunches.’
Dad—mute on all fronts; Mum speaks for him.
Catherine—‘Do you get a qualification of some sort?’
Bing—‘Mei Mei, I wish you’d wait and come with me and the family.’
Stephanie—‘Good on you, you need to take your chances when they come and live your precious life.’
OK, so Stephanie’s was a bit surprising, she’s always so factual and efficient, but she’s not herself lately. Who would be, in her shoes?
I don’t really mention my burnout to any of them. It isn’t that I’m embarrassed, I just wanted to focus on the positive.
Lionel, who of course I’ve told everything, is so happy that the hug he gives me actually brings a tear to my eye and not in an ‘I can’t control my emotions anymore’ way.
41
The four weeks fly by. It’s a bit of a blur really. There’s so much to do between work and trying to pack up my life here so I can make a hasty permanent exit from it on my return. I’m still tired but my aura feels so alive and sparkly that I cancel my session with Amethyst. She could sense I was on the cusp of a major shift, she tells me. This must be it.
On the Monday of the week I’m due to leave, I’m waiting for Jack to make my coffee, staring at the doorway, when Frankie bounds in. Of all the things I fear in life, it isn’t exactly the biggest, but still … timing, gentlemen. I give a little prayer for Jack not to say anything flirty or grab my fingers in front of Frankie.
‘Hi, Frankie.’ My words come dancing out loudly, and I fear a tad too enthusiastically given my surrounds. I may be heading to China to scope out my new life as Ms Middle-of-the-Road-Driving-Her-Own-Destiny-and-Moving-On but I’m immediately flushed with excitement at the sight of him.
Behind the coffee machine, Jack raises his eyebrows. ‘Do you know Frankie?’
Jack’s reaction makes me look at my pedicured toes peeking out of my sandals. They’re almost touching Frankie’s sneakers. It feels so perfectly natural and comfortable for me to be there, cocooned in Frankie’s aura, that I hadn’t realised how close we are. That zing—it’s not my imagination.
‘Yes, I do know Frankie,’ I say, which may be a little over-familiar as I don’t really know him or any of the details of his life.
‘He’s terrible,’ Jack says, with what I assume is territorial jealousy.
I feel bad that I’m not able to contain my Frankie excitement even for the sake of Jack. He really is so much sweeter and more into me, in an overt way at least, not to mention technically more attractive (if I overlook his forearms). Still, here I am, every cell of my body tingling with life at being so close to Frankie.
As though we’ve been caught out, Frankie and I take a small step away from each other.
‘Are you enjoying the cooler weather, Fiona?’ Frankie asks me in a move towards one of our world-record-breaking scintillating conversations.
‘Yes. The weekend was lovely. Did you have a nice one, Frankie?’
It’s ridiculous, the way we’re both looking at each other, trying not to smile, keeping our conversation so proper.
‘Yes, I did have a nice weekend, thank you, Fiona. I had one of the best sleeps I’ve had in ages: nine pm to five am.’
‘Oh my god, that’s fantastic!’
‘What time do you start work? You seem late,’ Frankie says.
I am Ms Middle-of-the-Road-Driving-Her-Own-Destiny-and-Moving-On, I am not going to swoon or give an internal squeal of excitement that he notices what time I go by … until I do.
‘Fiona’s work is busy, sometimes she has to go in really early, before you’re even there, other days she goes in later because she’s worked late!’ Jack virtually spits in an attempt to put Frankie back in his place.
I can’t help imagining them having a little tussle over me. I hold my breath for a dramatic moment when Frankie moves away from me and steps up to Jack at the counter, thinking it might happen.
I hadn’t been expecting a duel but as Jack passes me my coffee, Frankie occupies himself looking at the paper. Before his fingers are barely off my cup, Jack is looking at the highlight that Frankie’s making comment on, holding it up to show him. Had I wanted to force my hand, I could have chosen that moment to announce my trip to Shanghai—or try to. Announcements aren’t really my style, not to even just one person, let alone two, and when one of those people is Frankie—forget it.
Not that I’m into game playing or playing one man off against another, but it would’ve been interesting to see how they responded, which one threw himself at my feet and whether the forearms that wrapped themselves around my ankles and begged me not to go were attractive to me or not. But here I am, veering off the white lines of the centre of the road again.
‘Bye!’ I turn to wave at them as I walk to the door. Of course I run into the coffee beans as I do it. All the times I’ve been in here, I’ve not once run into them before. Bloody Frankie!
At 7.55 Sunday morning I step outside my gate. Bing, who has insisted on taking me to the airport (much to Mum’s distress) is parking his little black car.
Fuck it! (I’m not even going to apologise to Spirit for expletives today, I need the release—everything feels so intense.) I rush up before he has time to get out and give his cheek a quick peck through his half-open window.
‘Da Ge, I’m just going to run down and grab a coffee. Want one?’
‘Plenty of time, Mei Mei, I’m early.’
I freaking well know!
‘Why don’t I come with you and we can sit and have breakfast?’ Bing starts to get out of the car. I lean my weight against the door to stop him opening it.
‘Oh no, Da Ge, I’m a bit anxious to get to the airport. I’ll only be a minute.’ A volatile cocktail of sleep deprivation (four hours), amped-up excitement (if I could I’d be doing backflips and cartwheels), anticipation and urgency with a dash of desperation see me in no mood for fussing around and giving in to what other people want me to do. Before Bing has time to argue, I’m running down the street. My heart is beating so hard it’s making my brain rattle.
I’m all Amy Shark in ‘Adore’. She captures everything I feel in this moment so perfectly. Seeing Frankie before I go feels like the most important thing I’ve had to do in my life.
Putney Bridge Road is deserted, everything feels different. Maybe I’ve willed the street out of the suburb just so I can adore Frankie, or at least say goodbye. Or perhaps it’s always this quiet at this hour on a Sunday, I just haven’t witnessed it before.
What if BIG is there
to cramp my style?
‘Back off and get back to your buns, BIG.’ I imagine giving him the same ‘now is not the time to mess with me’ treatment I just gave Bing.
Fuck it twice! No Jack. I’d hoped he might be there despite it being Sunday. I’m disappointed but not devastated. I’ll see him when I get back.
I make it down to PGGG in about five desperately determined strides.
I gasp and think I am going to cry.
Fuck it thrice! Not open—devastation beyond devastation.
Then I realise they are, it’s just my bloody appalling eyesight again.
‘Hi Frankie, I bet you didn’t ever expect you’d see me here this early on a Sunday,’ I sing-song as I swan in, blessing Spirit, the Universe and every single atom of the cosmos for having him there.
‘It’s nice to see you so early,’ Frankie replies so sweetly it risks turning me into an instant diabetic.
If I was being suave and true to our Retro FM relationship I’d break out into Juice Newton’s ‘Angel of the Morning’, but it doesn’t cross my mind.
‘Oh no, it isn’t ever good to see me early really—I’m not a morning person.’
Frankie approaches me. I approach him. Soon we’re facing each other with less than a foot between us.
‘I wanted to come and say goodbye. I’m going to China for a while. I have to go because if I don’t I’m just going to drop dead at my desk,’ I blurt in one big whale spout of words as I look forlornly into his eyes. This isn’t at all how I wanted it to happen—I’d spent half the night imagining a normal exchange: ‘I’m going to China.’ ‘How long for?’ ‘Oh well, I’m not sure …’ ‘What are you going to do there?’ ‘A language intensive course and I’ll look for work while I do that.’
I feel like I’m going to cry or vomit or pass out or maybe all three. And if that happens, some bloody cosmic ombudsman will have hell to pay.
