Life Unbothered Read online

“Don’t worry about the doves,” my mom said with a slight chuckle.

  “Are you absolutely sure you don’t want to get married?” Bob asked.

  “I’ve tried to feel differently, Dad. But I know Pamela is not the right one. I can’t imagine spending the rest of my life with her. I already returned all the wedding gifts and snail-mailed letters to all our guests yesterday.”

  Putting it into an accommodating perspective, Bob said, “Well, Son, then I would say that you dodged a bullet.”

  “Yes I did,” I said faintly, thinking about the gun to my head less than forty-eight hours earlier.

  “Just go on, don’t give the wedding another thought,” he said.

  Bob and Evelyn’s attitude made the incident with Pamela manageable to escape from, untying at least one knot choking me. Deep in my mind I knew their reaction was going to be pretty much as how it happened in real time. My parents were always even-keeled and fair, which made it a comforting relief that I could somewhat transition from wedding to non-wedding in a mentally seamless manner. But in the end, it was easier for me to place emphasis on Pamela’s shortcomings instead of addressing my own problems with forthright honesty˗˗an undignified copout tugging further into my esteem.

  As I finished ironing a polo shirt and started in on a pair of straight-legged pants, my dad left the laundry room while my mom stood across from me, obviously in meaningful thought. She always knew the deeper truth to life’s challenges. I could never fool her.

  “Do you think you should see a doctor again?” Evelyn asked in a sweet, concerned way only a loving mother could.

  “None of them helped. This is a relationship problem, not a therapy concern. Anyway, some medication worked for a while, but the talking did nothing.”

  “I’m sure it seems that way to you, but remember Dr. Crouch? At least he’s familiar with your condition. Don’t sweep this under the rug, Wade. If you’re having problems, go in and see him. Regardless of the situation with Pamela, it may be good to attend to other things you may be going through.”

  I had acquired a disdain of doctors, especially psychiatrists. They kept churning me through their therapy like a car on an endless assembly line, adding little tidbits and accessories to my psyche, yet never really completing the product. As I slid the iron over my pants, I figured Evelyn’s cryptic suggestion had a point—and no other breakneck options came to mind.

  * * * *

  “So how does that make you feel?” Dr. Stanley Crouch asked as he twirled a tuft of thick mustache hair below his right nostril.

  “Dr. Crouch,” I grimaced, “what kind of a question is that? I need concrete solutions, not psycho-babble.”

  Keeping his head still, he glanced at me over the top of his glasses, then resumed looking at his notes. “Let’s see, you initially saw me six years ago and last saw me two years ago. I also referred you to Dr. Leibostein in Phoenix. How did that go?”

  “He really didn’t help me. Just wanted to know about my childhood, et cetera. My childhood was fine, I need to know how to deal with the present.”

  “How many other doctors have you seen in the past six years?”

  “About a half dozen.”

  “Okay.” He paused and rubbed his nose. “I recall you also visited Dr. Smythe. What about his therapy?”

  “Dr. Smythe? I remember him,” I said. “He was into what he called, ‘The natural path to healing your pain’. It wasn’t effective.”

  “And why do you think that was?”

  “Well, his treatment was all natural, so he prescribed a cocktail of remedies such as magnesium, gaba, kava, and some Internet sounding thing—HTTP3 or something.”

  “5-HTP,” Dr. Crouch corrected me.

  “You believe in that natural stuff too?”

  “It has been shown to help some people, but it’s not my normal path of therapy.”

  Dr. Crouch slumped in his worn high-back leather chair that had most likely been in his Beverly Hills office since he opened his practice about twenty years ago. Wavy, style-challenged sandy hair sat on his thin oval head like an oversized helmet. His languid body looked lost in the chair as his eyes darted between me and the memo pad on his lap.

  “Did any doctors help you?” he asked.

  “Not their talk therapy, but some of the medications did.”

  “Why did you stop taking them?”

  “Because I thought I was better and didn’t want them to eat my brain away.”

  “Wade,” Dr. Crouch looked straight into my eyes, “you have an extensive history.”

  “I know but—”

  “You have a severe case of anxiety disorder with panic attacks and depression.” Dr. Crouch leaned forward. “Have you been having any obsessive traits or thoughts?”

  “Besides worrying about going crazy, that’s the only enduring theme. But I do like ironing my clothes a lot.”

  “Ironing,” Dr. Crouch noted. “Is that affecting your life? I mean do you avoid things to iron?”

  “No, I do it just for relaxation I guess,” I said.

  “Well, I didn’t recall any obsessive-compulsive tendencies in our previous sessions, but watch for any ritual that goes beyond normal.”

  “I will. It’s more of a relaxing obsession,” I added.

  “Have you had any scary thoughts?”

  “Scary thoughts?”

  “Thoughts of violence or hurting yourself?”

  The scene in the desert with the gun played in my head, yet I didn’t feel comfortable enough with Dr. Crouch to approach the subject, nor did I believe he could do anything about it. After recalling how close I came to splitting my head open with a bullet, I would not be trying to kill myself anytime soon, I hoped.

  “No,” I said.

  Dr. Crouch consulted his notes while tapping his pen on the pad. “During your last visit, you mentioned having trouble traveling. Is that still the case?”

  “Just flying,” I answered with muted defensiveness.

  “When’s the last time you flew?”

  “Three years ago—and it was a horrible flight. Panicked from the tarmac through to just before the landing. It was screwed up.”

  “Hmmm. Any other avoidances?”

  “Well, I’m starting to not like traveling beyond a certain point at all, even by car.”

  “Is that getting worse?”

  “Yes,” I said with resignation.

  “So you still suffer from agoraphobia. That’s another one to put back on the list.” He sighed and nestled deeper into his chair.

  Agoraphobia. The dirtiest word in my vocabulary. The fear of open spaces, the terror of being detached. I felt it was more the fear of fear—which evolves into fear of everything ultimately. I rarely said it aloud and tried never to even internalize the word. It brought an immediate pang of anxiety just hearing Dr. Crouch say it.

  “Have you experienced any particularly stressful situations lately?” Dr. Crouch asked.

  “Yes… I guess. My fiancée and I just broke off our wedding due to irreconcilable differences.”

  “I see. Been there, done that. So how does that make you feel?” he said with a slight grin.

  I gave him a thumbs-up and we both let out a chuckle. At least Dr. Crouch had a sense of humor integrated under his wavy hair. His comment helped dissipate the lingering definition of agoraphobia doing an ugly dance in my head.

  “Well Wade, you have an extensive resume of treatments. You attended my group sessions in the past. How did you respond to those?”

  “They made me feel better solely because many in your group were so much worse off than me. At least I’ve been able to remain somewhat functional. The sessions didn’t really help—they just made me temporarily feel better through the misery of others.”

  Dr. Crouch lifted his pad to scan over old notes sitting on his l
ap. “I still think medication is the most viable path for you to stay stable.”

  “You mean I’m unstable?”

  “No. It just seems you function better while on medication.”

  After a measured pause, I nodded sheepishly as an indication of agreement.

  He fumbled again through sheets of paper. “Looking through your medication history—let’s see, you’ve taken Ascendin, Norpramine, Lithium, Zoloft,” he flipped to another sheet of paper, “Prozac, and the list goes on. Xanax seemed to be the most effective as I remember.”

  “Xanax was good for anxiety, it did help. But I didn’t continue taking it because I knew it was addictive. I don’t want to be on drugs all of my life.”

  Dr. Crouch’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Maybe you should rethink your philosophy on that.”

  “You mean, actually take a drug for the rest of my life?”

  “It’s done all the time. People with heart trouble, thyroid problems, high blood pressure… many reasons.”

  “But this is for mental problems, not a physical condition.”

  “Consider this a lifelong physical disease. I’m going to put you back on one and a half milligrams of Xanax per day. Then I want you to return in two weeks.” Dr. Crouch stood up, a cue our time was over. “I suggest you start learning more about your disorder so I can help you effectively.”

  He handed me the Xanax prescription. I nodded at his parting comment but held my breath to muzzle the immediate snap of anger that filled my body. I had read almost every book on the subject of panic disorder and probably knew more about the disease than some of the psychiatrists for whom I helped pay their country club dues, violin lessons for their kids, and Range Rovers for their pretty second wives. What I hadn’t learned is how to successfully apply my studies to the subject.

  6. The Intervention

  Two days after my appointment with Dr. Crouch, I had yet to fill the Xanax prescription. The script remained neatly folded in half traveling about in my right-hand pocket, transferred day-to-day when I changed pants. My fingers rubbed the softening paper in my pocket as I entered the bar area of Poquito Gato, a popular Mexican restaurant located at the waterside of the Los Angeles Harbor. I was there to meet my ex-best man, Richard Haverport, for some drinks.

  As I walked into the crowded bar area appropriately called the “Cantina,” I spotted Richard and we exchanged a firm handshake followed by a quick masculine hug.

  “Hey Wade. Isgood?” Richard asked in an upbeat tone.

  “Isgood,” I responded automatically.

  Isgood was a slang term we invented in high school as a substitute for the more standard, “How are you doing?” Over the years it had just become another senseless greeting.

  We sat at a window table overlooking the main channel of the harbor as container ships inched past filled with everything from household trinkets to advanced electronics, mostly from the Far East. A young waitress in a senorita-style miniskirt arrived to take our order when we sat down. I ordered a Crown Royal and water. Richard ordered a margarita.

  “Got your email. Thanks for letting me know you aren’t getting married,” Richard said, sporting a shit-eating grin while he chewed on a flimsy cocktail straw. “How’s Pamela?”

  “Thanks for asking,” I said facetiously. “She moved out of the house and into an apartment. We haven’t spoken since then, and I don’t plan to.”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  I exhaled a laugh. “Right. You never liked her anyway.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, please make arrangements to call off any parties or activities you set-up. Sorry about all of this,” I said.

  Richard sighed. “That’s okay, I’ll take care of it. Too bad, we planned a great bachelor’s party for you next week.”

  When the waitress came back, I took the glass directly from her tray and lifted it to my lips. The first biting sip made my mouth clamp like an over-tightened vise.

  “So, Wade… what are you going to do now? Start another business?”

  “I don’t know… I’m dabbling in a couple of things.”

  I looked at Richard cautiously. Our close friendship hadn’t wavered a bit since we met during our freshman year of high school. By the seriousness that flushed his face, I could tell he knew I wasn’t the balanced package I was trying to present.

  “Hey Wade, before you go off and do anything stupid, I’d like you to consider taking a job with my company. Marine engineering is a steady business. There will always be ships coming in and out of this harbor. My business is getting pretty big now and I need someone to handle things like insurance, benefits, payroll. You know, stuff like that.”

  “Thanks for the offer. Maybe later after I figure some things out.”

  “You must have something going on?”

  “A couple of irons in the fire,” I said with little conviction.

  “Like what?” Richard prodded.

  “Nothing big enough to talk about.”

  Richard set his margarita glass down and leaned over the table. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “Huh?” I said, feigning surprise. “Nothing. I just called off a wedding. You know the one that was supposed to happen soon. I mean—”

  “No, I’m not talking about the wedding with that dumb bitch. There are other things. For the past few years, it’s as if you’ve disappeared or something. You backed out of our trip to Cabo last year. Before that, you missed skiing in Tahoe. I don’t hear from you very often anymore—except for the wedding crap.”

  I fiddled nervously with a cocktail napkin as I heard the truth. It hurt to admit, but I had withdrawn from living, recoiling into my own cloistered world. I just didn’t want to hear that fact from anyone else, even my best friend.

  “Then when I talk to you, you don’t seem the same,” Richard continued. “Like you’re dragging or bummed out. What the fuck is going on?”

  “It’s nothing, really,” I said. “But you’re right, I haven’t felt like myself the past year. Maybe Pamela—”

  “I hate to tell you this, Pal,” Richard cut me off, “but you’ve been wigging even before Pamela. Yeah, that situation added to it, but something’s been going on for a while.”

  As Richard finished his sentence, a big smile came across his face. He looked beyond me to the entrance of the bar area. I turned my head to see Scott Mundovich, another close high school friend and ex-groomsman. Scott, or Mundo as his friends called him, was my height and about thirty pounds heavier. The added poundage was not in fat, but muscle. His jet-black hair was short, flat on the top and shaved on the sides and back. A career Marine, he graduated from the University of Washington while enlisted in the ROTC program. He was a Captain based at Camp Pendleton, the Marine facility between Los Angeles and San Diego. I noticed his nonmilitary garb, a thick green t-shirt and olive pants loaded with cargo pockets splayed on the legs. One leg pocket had paper sticking out of the top.

  I turned back to Richard as Mundo approached. “What’s he doing here?”

  “You need to be with some friends right now.”

  “Look, Richard, I said I didn’t want to be with a bunch of people.”

  “Mundo!” Richard said as he stood.

  “Hey Richard.”

  I lifted out of my chair slowly. “Hi Mundo.”

  “Wade,” Mundo said as he compressed his husky arms around me, almost depleting the air from my lungs. “Great to see you.” He stepped back and smiled. “Oh, and thanks for inviting me tonight, asshole.”

  “Well, I’m in town just for a short while and—”

  “Yeah, don’t feed me that,” Mundo said. “Besides, we have a surprise for you.” He looked at Richard. “You didn’t tell him yet, did you?”

  Richard’s eyes shifted to mine. “No… I didn’t tell him.”

  “What?” I sai
d.

  Mundo tapped his hand on the papers sticking out of his leg pocket. “We’re going to Vegas.”

  “No we’re not,” I said.

  “We thought since you made us all miss the bachelor’s party, we’d just go to Vegas tonight to make up for it,” Richard said. “It’s in honor of your called-off wedding. May as well have some fun.”

  I looked at both of them as my chest muscles tightened and breathable air became a scarce commodity.

  “Our plane leaves in a couple of hours, so drink up,” Mundo said.

  “Guys, I really appreciate this, but there’s no way I’m going to Las Vegas tonight.”

  Richard grabbed my arm. “Don’t be such a pantywaist. The three of us are going to Vegas. Forget about the rest of your drink. Let’s go.”

  “Please don’t do this to me. I can’t go.”

  “Yeah you can,” Mundo blared out as he navigated me through the rows of tables with a couple of well-placed nudges to my torso.

  On the way to Richard’s car, I could feel the adrenaline race straight to my head, creating the sensation of a balloon expanding inside my skull. Mundo and Richard were on either side of me, tucked in close.

  “When are we coming back?” I asked my escorts.

  “Don’t know,” Mundo answered. “It’s Vegas. Maybe tomorrow, or the next day. Who cares?”

  I looked at Richard. “What airline?”

  “Festival,” Richard said.

  “Festival Airways? That’s bargain basement. They don’t even assign seats, it’s festival seating. That’s why they’re named Festival. I think they still fly 727s, their fleet is ancient, the planes should be condemned to the Mojave jet graveyard.”

  “Wade,” Richard said with an amused tone, “you’ve flown all around the world in worse shit than that. Las Vegas is a mere hour away. And Festival assigns seats now. They quit doing that run-to-your-seat thing years ago.”

  “Let me get some clean clothes out of my car,” I said.

  “You don’t need any clothes, Wade. You look as sharp as ever with your creased pants,” Mundo responded.

  “What about my car? I don’t want to leave it in the parking lot.”