39. The Results are In

          “But do you know when they might be e-mailed to me?” I asked, tapping a pencil to the desk in my Den, wanting a cigarette. “The man in the lab said ‘within a week’ but I didn’t know if that meant a five day work week, or a seven day week?”

          “Hopefully they’ll go out today,” the Nurse on the other end of the phone said, “But maybe tomorrow. Your appointment was only five days ago, sir.”

          “Yes, yes, I know. And thank you for working with me. It’s just that I’m leaving on a trip later today, and I was hoping I would know by now, you know, to ease my mind.”

          “I’ll see what I can do,” the nurse said, sort of sounding like she meant it. “Just keep checking your e-mail.”

          “Okay, thanks.”  

          It was Monday and we were leaving for the Lady Gaga concert in Tulsa in four hours.  Thad was still asleep, having spent the night again, in preparation for the trip. I had not slept much, worrying about the stupid Garden Rapist, wondering if she was going o come back and kill us in our sleep, and having stress dreams over my lab results. In the latest one I found little pools of blood all over the house, and at first I thought Charlotte Bronte was bleeding, but then I realized there were too many of them to be from her, that she didn’t have that much blood in her, as they were everywhere, all over the floor…hundreds of tiny blood pools.

          I went to check my e-mail again. Work crap, Shakespeare listserv crap, students complaining about grades, but nothing from the doctor.

          So I went back to packing for the trip.

Everything was laid out and labeled on the dining room table. I had five outfits selected for the next 24 hours: One for driving, one for hotel lounging, one for dinner, one fabulous one for the concert (with appropriately fantabulous   sunglasses), and one for the formal brunch tomorrow and the drive back.  Each had its own accessories, jewelry, hat, and shoes. And surrounding the clothes was everything else that was necessary for me to take to feel calm: bags of toiletries, bags of medicines, maps,  cameras, power cords, batteries, snacks for the drive, and on and on, just for one night. And looking at all of this crap, I just felt sick.

          The OCD liked to stay close to home, really close to home, for it was safest at home. Now I had worked on it, and could travel, in fact had been traveling the world for more than a decade now, but it was difficult on me. Or to be exact, the leaving was the difficult part. Once I got out, I was fine. So to ease that leaving process, I used organization as the balm. If everything was ordered, leaving was easier; never easy, but easier.

          I looked over to the part of the pile that Thad had contributed: 2 shirts and a rumpled pair of chambray shorts in a Wal-Mart bag. Yup, that was it. Oh, and a container of glitter for the concert. That was his idea of packing.

          Good lord how different we were. 

          I went back to my computer to check my e-mail and wait: still nothing.     

          Thad got up around 10, so it was safe for me to start dragging the big luggage out of the bedroom and really get to the orgy of packing. He watched TV for a while and then announced “I have to go get...something…from my apartment,” which was this week’s recent unsubtle code for going home to sit and smoke.

          “Yeah, sure.” I just wished he would or wouldn’t smoke instead of this weird grey dance he was doing.  

          As the front door shut, I heard my laptop e-mail alert binged.

With hesitant hands I checked, as I had all morning. I just wanted to be done with this waiting, have it over and know one way or the next. I opened it up and  there it was, from Dr. Deeds.

          And my heart kinda stopped. This was it. This would decide my fate; this one stupid, puny e-mail. I didn’t think I was dying, but the OCD sure the Hell did, so I just needed an answer so I could either go on with my life or start weaving my patch for the AIDS quilt.  

          I clicked it open….blah, blah Cholesterol good...blah, blah, no hepatitis… blah, blah, no STDs…blah, blah, and no HIV.

          And that was that.

          I was alive. And healthy. 

          And suddenly I was awash with joy and freedom and music and birds and old people kissing and fireworks and life and clapping and clapping and more clapping. I wasn’t dying! I wasn’t dying! And as much as the OCD tried to find a way around it, this was only good news: A complete clean bill of health for the first time in years! And the OCD, for just a mite, was gloriously, gloriously vanquished.  

          Grabbing the phone, I called Thad to tell him and he, “Yeah! I’m so happy for you! I knew you were fine, you big worrying girl.”

          “I know! I’m just so glad the waiting is over! And I always knew I was fine, but God damn it, it’s nice to have it confirmed by e-mail.”

          “Good for you, honey,” he said as I heard him trying to quietly light a cigarette from his end.

          Letting him go, I got up I danced around the room with such life and zip and pop that Charlotte ran for her life, and I felt alive. Alive.   

          By 1:30 we were on the road, blaring Lady Gaga, talking about Lady Gaga, and laughing about how crazy Lady Gaga was. It was great. I was totally looking forward to the concert, and thrilled that he and I were getting to go, and that he had even bought my ticket. It was a beautiful day, and now-finally- I had the mood to match.

          Merging on to the Turnpike past Oklahoma City to head up to Tulsa, I said, “You know I can’t believe I was so nervous about going to the Doctor. I mean, it was such a minor thing –a trifle really- and I feel so good now.”

          “Good,” he said.

          “I mean so good,” I continued. “Like better than I have in years. Like I should have just gone years ago. I mean to have a clean bill of health is just so nice.”

          “That’s great,” Thad said with less enthusiasm than I expected.

          “What?” I asked.

          “Nothing,” he said flipping through his Vogue. He always read magazines on car trips, as driving made him nervous, and pictures of skinny models in haute couture apparently seemed to help. 

          “I mean I’m just so psyched!” I laughed.

          He flopped his magazine down. “Yeah, I know. It’s all you’ve talked about. Yeah, you’re alive!” he said sarcastically. “What did you expect? You’re fine, it’s great. Move on.”   

          “Spoil sport,” I muttered, frowning. “You just hate it when the attention is not on you…” and as I said it I knew I had gone too far, as I had…said…the… truth.

          “Shut-up!” he snapped.

          “Sorry, sorry,” I backtracked, not wanting to be the one who ‘ruined the trip.’    

          We sat in silence, he moodily looking out the window, magazine closed.

          A few minutes later I said, “Do you think she’ll be wearing the meat dress?” to try and goad him back into conversation.

          He was silent.

          “Maybe with a ham hat,” I continued, “And live hamsters as clogs.”

          He giggled and I knew I had him back.

          We drove on, me so happy to be alive even though Thad did not seem to particularly care.