Dieting Makes Cathy Crazy

by Sally Redwood

  Finally, I step off the elevator and head down the hall to Dr. Patel’s office. There are a few people in the waiting room. The receptionist behind the counter looks me up and down.

  “Hi, I called in for that emergency appointment.”

  “Yes. Sign in please.”

  I grab the pen and feel weak. My head is hurting so bad for a moment that I’ve forgotten how to spell my name. I scribble something and grab a seat by the magazine rack. Nothing but old issues of Healthy Living and Pregnancy.

  I doubt I’ll be needing the latter anytime soon. In order to get pregnant, you have to have contact with a penis. In order for that to happen, you have to meet a guy. Both seem equally improbable.

  I wasn’t always like this. I really used to believe in love. I was one of those girls who had her wedding dress picked out by age 13. And I wanted my bridesmaids to all wear lilac. Please don’t ask why.

  But high school sent my cynicism into overdrive. The cliques. The bullies. The obsession with hair. I just couldn’t keep up. And with my acne and flat chest, I was an afterthought to every guy I had a crush on.

  My second cousin ended up taking me to the prom. I made him swear on his life not to tell a soul we were related. I was so mortified. But my mother thought it was adorable.

  Fast forward to college and things started to look up a little. I started dating for the first time. I had fun, but I never let it get in the way of my studies. If you haven’t noticed by now, I’ve always kept my priorities straight. Always.

  Through the years, I’ve met some nice guys but haven’t really felt that spark. Maybe I never will. Some people just aren’t wired like that. And I don’t believe for a minute that love is the stuff of sappy rom coms.

  For me, it will probably be more like a business transaction. First, I’ll have to connect to a guy who doesn’t annoy the hell out of me. Then, if he comes from the right stock (educated, decent credit, etc.), maybe it can grow into love or something that’s close enough to love where neither one of us will know the difference.

  Some people might say it’s sad, but I don’t see it that way at all. I’m a realist above all else. And while I doubt that I’m experiencing early menopause, I’m not as young as I used to be. I have to play the cards I’m dealt.

  A petite nurse opens the office door, holding a clipboard.

  “Cathy Andrews, Dr. Patel will see you now.”

  I stand up and feel woozy all of the sudden. I force myself to smile. Slow steady steps, I think as I follow the nurse through the door. As we approach the scale, my heart skips a beat.

  I really don’t want to know how much I weigh. I know that scotch probably threw my metabolism way off. I try not to hyperventilate as I step on. The nurse slides the metal beams around until she finds the right balance.

  “148.”

  I frown. The last time I checked I was four pounds lighter but it’s probably because I always weigh myself naked. At least, I hope that’s the reason.

  The nurse glances up at me. Does she think I’m fat? I’m like a fucking walrus compared to her. She’s 115. Tops!

  “Okay. Let’s get your blood pressure.”

  She leads me into an exam room. There are medical diagrams on the wall of a heart and other organs. Just looking at the illustrations makes me nervous. What the hell is wrong with me?

  The nurse wraps the pressure cuff around my arm and the machine goes to work. It tightens so much I feel like my arm will explode. Why do they always overinflate the damn thing? Maybe I should have stayed home with my scotch.

  “130 over 72.”

  “Is that normal?”

  “You can discuss that with Dr. Patel.”

  But I asked you. Why can’t you just answer the question?

  “Open wide for me.”

  I open my mouth. She sticks the thermometer in. I hear the beep, and she pulls it out.

  “Looks like your temp is normal.”

  “How about my blood pressure?”

  She hesitates.

  “Dr. Patel will be with you shortly.”

  Before I can say another word, she’s gone. She shuts the door behind her. It’s like I’m being held captive. Dr. Patel will be with me shortly my ass! I might be here until this time next month.

  I pull out my phone and send a text to Zoe.

  Hey.

  She takes a minute to reply.

  You’re texting at work? Are you actually taking your break for once?

  I’m at the doctor’s office.

  Are you okay?

  Just a really bad headache.

  Keep me posted. I hope you feel better soon.

  Me too. It fucking sucks.

  Let me know if you want some of this lasagna before I freeze it.

  Okay.

  : )

  Not okay as in I want it. Okay as in I’ll let you know.

  : (

  Zoe is my best friend in the world, but I’m a little annoyed with the emojis right now. On top of that, rich, Italian food is the last thing I need. Not after seeing that number on the scale. I need to put my diet into overdrive.

  There’s a knock on the door. I’m so surprised that I answer like I’m at home.

  “Who is it?”

  “Dr. Patel.”

  Of course it’s Dr. Patel. Either him or that skinny nurse has come back to antagonize me some more. I wonder if she’s on a diet?

  “Oh … Come in.”

  He opens the door and smiles at me. He’s a brown skinned man with a streak of gray hair. He wears the kind of glasses that were really popular in the 80s.

  “Hello, Cathy. How are you feeling today?”

  “Not good. This is the worst headache of my life.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. When did you start to experience this?”

  “Um … two days ago. I thought I could sleep it off but …”

  “Well, I’m glad you decided to come in. Where is the source of the headache?”

  I point to the base of my neck and draw an invisible line up to my forehead.

  “Oh dear. That means it’s basically all over.”

  “Yeah. That’s what it feels like.”

  “Any other symptoms?”

  “My vision was a little blurry the other day but it’s fine now.”

  He adjusts his glasses up on his nose.

  “Anything else?”

  “No.”

  He looks down at his clipboard.

  “I pulled your medical chart. According to this, you don’t have a family history of aneurysms. Is that correct?”

  “As far as I know… Dr. Patel, what do you think of my blood pressure?”

  “It’s fine. Slightly elevated but not a big cause for concern.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He pulls out his stethoscope and listens to my heart. Then, he points a little light at my eyes and looks.

  “Dr. Patel, do you think it might be … No, never mind.”

  “Please, go ahead.”

  “Could it be early menopause? I was reading something online about it and …”

  “At your age, that is highly unlikely. But I think I know what the culprit might be.”

  “You do?”

  “Your health seems fine.”

  “I have gained a few pounds though. That’s what happens when women go through the change of life. At least that’s what I read.”

  He tries not to smile.

  “Cathy, we can’t rule anything out at this point. But as far as I can tell, all of your symptoms point to stress.”

  “Stress?”

  “Stress can cause migraines. Absolutely.”

  “What about blurry vision?”

  “Well, severe migraines can cause blurry vision. Our bodies are very interconnected. One problem often spills over into another.”

  “But I’m not stressed. Not at all.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. I’ll be even better when I get back on track with my diet.”

&nbs
p; “Speaking of that … You don’t need to diet. You’re at a healthy weight.”

  The words healthy weight make me cringe. That’s not good enough for me. I’m counting down the days until I won’t need to cut off my circulation in Spanx to look halfway decent in my little, black dress.

  “A happy life is one of balance. Exercise. Eat well. But if you want a cookie, don’t deprive yourself.”

  But one cookie often leads to me devouring the whole damn box. And that’s a risk I can’t take. Moderation has never been my strong suit. But Dr. Patel has no clue. So I just nod and try to smile.

  “And how are you feeling emotionally?”

  “I’m okay.”

  Is he trying to imply that I’m crazy? Neurotic, sure. But I’m not unbalanced. I don’t need Zoloft or an appointment with a shrink. I’m totally fine.

  “Are you sexually active?”

  The blood rushes to my cheeks. He’s my doctor, I should feel comfortable talking about it with him. But I don’t like to discuss my drought with anyone. I even try to avoid the topic with Zoe. I figure a little white lie won’t do much harm.

  “The guy I was seeing … We broke up a few weeks ago.”

  Technically that’s not a total lie. Five months comes out to 20 weeks. It’s not like it was five years ago even though there are days when it feels like that.

  “Breakups can be stressful, Cathy. Self-care is important, too.”

  “I broke up with him.”

  “Oh.”

  There’s an awkward pause. What exactly is he thinking? What business does an average chick like me have dumping anybody? Well, I admit I’m no Zoe, but I refuse to settle for some Burger City assistant manager—I didn’t need those damned fries tempting me!

  Dr. Patel glances at his chart and scribbles something. Then, he takes off his glasses and takes a deep breath.

  “Cathy, I don’t think you have anything to worry about, but I’m going order a CAT scan, a stress test, and your blood work just to be on the safe side. How does that sound?”

  “CAT scan?”

  “Yes. We want to have a look at your brain and see what’s going on there.”

  “Okay.”

  “In the meantime, I’m going to write you a prescription for your headache. You should feel better in a few hours. These pills work fast.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Patel.”

  “Absolutely. And please promise me that you will watch your stress levels.”

  Chapter Four

  I’m exhausted from all the testing. I’ve been poked and prodded. I feel so violated. The phlebotomist didn’t even take me out to dinner before sticking me with that thing … a sharp needle that is! God, I hate them. And I lost count of how many vials of blood he took from me. I just hope Dr. Patel is satisfied that I subjected myself to this abuse.

  I stand outside of the doctor’s office, waiting for my Uber. Dr. Patel’s words play on repeat in my mind. Could all of these symptoms be because of stress? That’s not humanly possible. It has to be something else. But what?

  A few minutes later, I hop into the back seat of a green Audi. Leather seats. Nice. The driver has white hair and a red face, almost like a skinny Santa Claus without the beard or the cheery attitude.

  I don’t mind that he hasn’t said a word since I got in the car. I’m not really in the mood to talk, even though I’ve no doubt that this guy has more than one entertaining story in his repertoire. I just want to go home and climb back into bed. This migraine refuses to let up.

  The driver pulls in front of my condo. “Have a nice day.”

  He says it like he really means, go fuck yourself, but it’s probably the migraine talking at this point.

  I nod. “You, too.”

  I wait for him to drive off before I head inside. You can never be too sure nowadays. He might be some weirdo who tries to attack me, tie me up and make me watch TV with him while he paints my toenails. Hmm, sounds like it could be a great night in, but in my current condition, I don’t know about the smell of nail polish…so… Jeez, what is this migraine doing to me!

  The second I get inside, I send a text to Zoe:

  I’m home.

  How did it go?

  They drew so much blood I can barely type this.

  : (

  Do you mind filling my prescription?

  Np. On my way.

  Np? Come on Zoe! Just type no problem. But I’m not going to complain. Damn, why am I behaving like such an asshole? I need her help more than I care to admit. I feel so weak right now that I regret not asking her to come with me to the doctor in the first place.

  I plop down on the couch and turn on the TV. I flip the channels and land on the Maury show. It’s a paternity episode of course. I can’t help but laugh. But I immediately regret it because it feels like my head is going to explode.

  I turn off the TV and close my eyes. I’d do anything to make it stop. I hope the medicine works. Zoe can’t get here fast enough.

  Knock. Knock.

  “Come in.”

  Zoe’s voice calls out: “Sorry. I forgot my key.”

  What’s the point of her having a key to my place if she doesn’t bring it at a moment like this? Zoe can be a so absent-minded sometimes. But I guess that must be a part of her artistic nature. Why am I being such a bitch!?

  She makes a living as an interior designer, but her true passion is making vases. Zoe has a whole studio in her house … every type of clay you can imagine, ceramic paints, and a wood kiln. She had dreams of becoming a professional sculptor, but her parents urged her to choose a more practical career. And who was she to argue? They were paying her tuition, after all.

  But still, Zoe’s dreams seemed a lot more tangible than my hopes of becoming an Olympic skater. Not that it matters. People give up on dreams every day in every corner of the world. I think it’s how you know you’ve reached adulthood. It’s not the ability to buy cigarettes and booze legally, it’s when you face the monotonous existence of having a real job.

  I slowly stand up and haul my ass across the room. I’m in agony by the time I open the door. I can’t even fake a smile. Zoe looks like she’s seen a ghost. Perhaps I’m dead already.

  “Oh my God, Cathy.”

  “It’s not that bad.”

  I hurry back to the couch and sprawl out.

  “Where’s the prescription? I’ll get it filled right away.”

  “In my purse.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Like I said, it’s not that bad.”

  “What did the doctor think?”

  “You’re gonna laugh at this one … he thinks I’m stressed.”

  “Well, there might be something to that.”

  “What in the world do I have to be stressed about?”

  There’s an awkward pause. Wow. There could be a zillion answers to that one if I allowed my denial to subside for one minute. Okay, maybe I’m not really happy with my job. And maybe I wish I did have someone to call my own. And maybe, just maybe this diet is stressing me the fuck out, too! I miss chocolate, and wine, and food that doesn’t taste like sawdust.

  “I’ll be right back, Cathy.”

  “Not right back. It usually takes an hour.” There I go again. The diagnosis is going to come back as an acute case of bitchinitiss!

  “I’ll tell them to put a rush on it.”

  She smiles. It just might work if the pharmacist happens to have a cock. Men completely lose themselves in her eyes. She has some sort of mind control over them.

  She heads for the door.

  “Leave it unlocked!”

  “You sure?”

  “If some serial killer bursts through here, he probably won’t think I’m worth the trouble. It would be a boring murder. I don’t have the energy to scream or put up a fight. But if it happens, you make sure they use the right picture of me for the eleven o’clock news. The one of me at your mom’s beach house. My hair is perfect in that one.”

  Zoe laughs as she walks out.
I close my eyes and try to take a nap. It’s useless. I grab my phone and a wave of sadness comes over me. I’d live with this migraine for the rest of my life if I could just talk to my mother one more time.

  She passed away from pancreatic cancer four years ago. God, I miss her so much. She was a single mom, so we were very close. In many ways, she was almost like a big sister. She was only 21 when she had me.

  My dad was a loser who didn’t even stick around long enough to see me take my first steps. I don’t remember anything about him. In fact, the only evidence I have of his existence is a picture of him holding me when I was a newborn. He had this look on his face like What the fuck am I gonna do?

  I’m glad he split. Growing up, I never felt like I was missing out on anything because Mom loved me so much. She worked her ass off five days a week but on the weekends, she made me feel like a princess. Movies. McDonald’s. Macadamia cookies. In that order.

  But our life wasn’t without struggle. There was always second hand furniture and clothes from the discount stores. We moved around a lot. I changed schools often … I was forever the new girl. That bugged the hell out of me. But I never complained because I knew Mom was doing her best.

  That’s one of the reasons why I always focused in school. I was determined to get a college scholarship. I didn’t want to be a burden on Mom. In fact, I dreamed of the day that I’d be in a position to take care of her.

  The way it all happened … I still hate thinking about it. It was just before Thanksgiving when Mom got the news. The doctor said she had six months to live. It turned out to be five.

  And the sight of her pale, thin body in that hospital bed was too much for me. Most of the time, I couldn’t look at her without sobbing. When she took her final breath, I felt alone for the first time in the world.

  Since then, not a day goes by when I don’t think about her. If she were here, she’d probably tell me to stop my crazy diet, look for a career I’m passionate about, and stop being so afraid to fall in love. She’d also bring me a dozen macadamia cookies and dare me not to eat all of them.

  The door opens.

  “Either it’s you or the serial killer.”

  Zoe walks in with a bag from the pharmacy and takeout. I can tell by the delicious aroma that whatever’s in that bag is going to exceed my calorie count for the day. She puts the bags on the coffee table. Damn her.