Routine Remedy

I hadn’t realised I was holding my breath until now - I let it out. Darren continued, “The good news is... you’ve got the promotion.”

“That’s fantast-“

“Well hold on, I’ve got better news. Senior management want to offer you an extra $20,000 a year.”

My lips part but no words come out. After a second I spit out, “Wow.” As Darren outlines the next few weeks, I excessively nod and smile. The ringing in my ears starts up again. “No, no no” I think as I discretely massage my temples. A familiar dizziness starts as the call comes to an end, I shut my laptop and put my head between my knees.

Five minutes (or maybe thirty?) must have passed by when the distinct ping of my phone brings me back to reality.

How’d it go??!

With the ringing in my ears now a tolerable hum, I look at my phone and decide to text my mother back later. There are neon post-it notes hanging off the sides of my laptop and waves of scattered sheets crashing onto the table. These notes are unimportant and fleeting. I look over to a small faded black notebook on my desk and smile. The notebook, opened to reveal the words “key wins” underlined in neat penmanship, was where I compiled everything important. Herein, lies my “five-year plan”, with its list of oddly specific but achievable career goals. I think of the dinner parties I traded for overtime hours, the relationship I sacrificed moving from Vancouver to London, and the health I swapped for body aches, ringing ears, and sleepless nights. I breathe out a sigh of relief.

As I walk over to the kitchen, I boil the kettle and longingly look over to my barely used espresso machine, reminiscing about the last time I tasted velvety smooth coffee. There isn’t much I understand about my nearly year-long illness, but I have realised that even just the smell of coffee can bring on unbearable migraines. I open the window, hoping the delicate scent of the roses in my front garden reaches my kitchen.

I hear the shuffling of his feet before I hear his voice.

“Those bastards have done it again”. With a wavering grip, Pat hands me a small package through my window. Just from the handwriting, I can tell it’s from my mother.

“Chipper as usual, thanks”.

“Don’t you mock me, also your bins have been out all morning” Pat quipped.

“It’s quarter to ten, but since you mention it, I’ll wait all morning before bringing them in”. Petty, I know. Pat throws his hand in the air and shuffles away, I assume to bother other neighbours. To say I have a strained relationship with my 80-year-old neighbour is putting it lightly. Last summer, Pat cut off a good half of my roses as they were, using his words, “trespassing” onto his front garden. He used comically large garden clippers on them just to spite me.

I place the package on my kitchen table, carefully unravelling the packing paper. Inside, sits a heavy bag with the label “Pure Calcium Bentonite Detox Clay”. I turn the bag over, murmuring “Hmm, edible clay?” Ruffling through the rest of the box, I pull out a handwritten note,

Hi hun! Maura (remember we went to one of her classes together?) recommended this - please try it. Her daughter had loads of health problems like you and swears by it! I think Gwyneth Paltrow uses it?

Well, at least it’s not a jade egg.

…

I tried three different sleep meditation apps last night. The third nearly worked, but as Cillian Murphy’s voice describing a calming midnight train ride neared its end, my heart sprang out of my chest. I couldn’t stop thinking about my new job.

At the crack of dawn, I take out two chilled spoons from the fridge and place them over my puffy eyes. I wonder how I will get through the working day, toying with the idea of taking my first ever sick day. No, I’m going to pull through. A spray of dry shampoo and a very thick lather of tinted moisturiser later, and even my mother couldn’t tell I slept two hours.

As if in a dream I hear a loud “Gah-danggr..” and the sound of something heavy hitting the ground. I freeze and decide if I really heard anything at all. No, it was real. I hurriedly walk over and look out through my kitchen window to see a figure lying on the ground just outside my front garden.

“Pat!” I yell as I scramble out of my front door. “Are you alright? Did you break anything?”. I lean down to help him up, “Here, take my hand”.

Pat grumbles. “My knee, that dang gate swung out from me.”

“Let’s get you inside.” As Pat leans on me I lean against him to counteract the heaviness of his body. He smells like the pub on a Sunday afternoon.

Inside and hunched over on a large armchair, Pat points to a small notepad across the room and says “The nurse’s number’s in there”.

My eyes wander around Pat’s living room as the phone dials. Uncharacteristically, his sofa is covered by a soft red rosebud print. The interior of Pat’s home surprises me. I assumed he would have minimal decor and muted colours given his annoyance at anything out of place. However, the reality is quite the contrary. Warm yellow lampshades and frilly lace curtains hang on the back garden windows. A sparkling chandelier glimmers in the morning light of the living room and intricately carved wooden frames house an array of family photos on the wall. The place is set up as if he is expecting guests this afternoon; side tables dusted, the faint imprint of the vacuum on the large rug visible, and three remotes set on the coffee table in size order, pointing directly at a television set.

The nurse, a petite woman in her 40s with short brunette curls, arrives quickly.

“Hiya, Pat. That’s your second fall this year, you have to be more careful” she says in a warm, reassuring voice. Moving through Pat’s flat with familiarity, she swiftly kneels down in front of him to examine Pat’s now-swollen knee.

Pat seems tense, and apologetic to the nurse. He answers her questions promptly. “No dizziness, been sleeping fine..ooh that hurts”.

“That’s not good, I’m gonna book you in for an x-ray. Might take a couple of weeks, you know how they are. We’ll need grocery delivery to your flat and daily check-ins but I’m not available this week.”

The nurse turns to me, “I don’t think we’ve met before, do you live nearby?”.

“Actually, I live right next door, I wouldn’t mind checking up on him and picking up a few things while I do my shopping.” Must be the lack of sleep that’s made me so philanthropic.

Pat interjects, “No, no no that’s alright I’m alright.”

“It’s no bother Pat”. My phone rings, it’s work. As I pick it up and start inching towards the door I shout out “I’ll pop in tomorrow morning, don’t worry about it!”

I exit Pat’s flat listening to Darren’s booming voice. “I’ve got you on three new projects starting tomorrow. Can you send me the quote for the Asbury client by end of day? Also Kate’s on holiday next week. ”

The ringing in my ears starts up again. “Darren can I call you back?”

My front door was just a few steps away but I could not hold myself up. Gripping my gate I crouched down, hyperventilating with tears streaming from my eyes.

“Are you alright?” I heard the faint voice of Pat’s nurse.

I couldn’t bring myself to speak and I shook my head.

“Hun, you’re having a panic attack. Listen to me, I want you to breathe in to a count of four and out to a count of six.” She started counting and I did as I was told. “Okay, now I want you to count as you breathe in and out.”

“One, two, three, four…”. My breathing slowed but I was still crying.

“That’s good, now this might sound odd but can you tell me five things that you see that are red?” I didn’t question her.

Through watery eyes I looked up. “Your shoes, uhmm that car over there, this button, that front door…”

“One more.”

I turned my head around. “My roses.”

“Good.” She went through four more colours before she asked me how I was feeling.

“Much better now, thanks. That’s never happened outside of my flat before.”

“Have you had anxiety for long?”

Her question surprised me. “I don’t think it’s anxiety, it’s more to do with my physical health.” Yes, I was crying, but it wasn’t like that.

“It can manifest in many ways…” She had an understanding look on her face.

“Okay, thank you again.” I slowly stand up, still holding onto the side of the gate for balance.

…

It’s been three weeks of daily Pat check-ups, grocery visits for items I’ve never bought before (black pudding is not what I thought it was), and of text messages like this:

5:38 am Pat: “More bread”

1:03 pm Pat: “NEXT TIME WHITE NO WHOLEMEAL!!”

Every morning, I walk over to Pat’s for tea before starting my working day. In the beginning, we would awkwardly discuss the weather and local gossip about who’s cat sat in who’s garden. As the days passed we eventually moved to discuss the more personal details of our lives. I learned that Pat’s wife passed away three years ago and that he’s nervous about losing his independence if he were to fall again. I told him about my health problems, which unsurprisingly turned out to be rooted in work anxiety. This morning was like any other.

I sit at Pat’s kitchen table. “Alright what’s on the list for today?”

While the kettle boils, Pat checks his fridge, his pantry and the other nooks and crannies in his kitchen to see what needs stocking up. I scribble it all down in my small black notebook.

“Nothing from the pharmacy?”

“No no, thanks that’s good.” Once finished with the list of tasks for the next couple of days Pat starts his routine of questions, “How’d you sleep, did that clay help? Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

“You know I’m supposed to be checking in on you, not the other way around.” Pat chuckles, a sound I’ve been happily hearing more of lately. As Pat reaches for the tea bags I ask “Can you make me a coffee instead?”

Pat lifts his eyebrows, shrugs, and takes a dusty tin of coffee from the cupboard. “Better add coffee to my shopping list”.