My Year with Eleanor (18 page)

One day I was taking a patient's milkshake order and her roommate, who was a diabetic, overheard.

“Can I have one too?” a voice called plaintively.

I walked over to the other side of the curtain separating the beds. An Asian woman in her forties looked at me with pleading eyes. “I'm sorry, but your blood sugar is too high this week,” I said gently. “I'm not allowed to give you one.”

“Please? I won't tell anyone.”

I tried to fathom how sick you'd have to be to be willing to make yourself sicker just for a moment of relief. “I'm sorry, but I can't.”

She burst into tears. “You don't understand!” she said, burying her face in her hands. “This has just been the most awful day.”

I'm a monster,
I thought.

B
ecca and I always took the subway home together. When we got to her station, she hopped off and called out, “See you next week!” I reached into my backpack and pulled out the
New York
Times
. At the next stop, a group of kids clattered onto the train, talking so loudly that I looked up from my newspaper. They all wore some kind of school uniform, but two of the boys also had baseball caps. The girls had rolled the waistbands of their plaid skirts to raise the hems to horrifying heights. Another boy was with them, and though he wore the same clothes and haircut, he didn't quite fit. There was an air of desperation around him, an overeager quality that teens, especially, seem to find unappealing. When he tried to sit down with them, one of the baseball cap boys stretched his leg out across the remaining available seats.

“Uh, did we say you could sit with us, loser?” he sneered.

The kid, visibly deflated, took a seat a few sections away, directly across the aisle from me. He stared very hard at the subway ad over my shoulder, on the precipice of tears.

There's an unspoken rule among New Yorkers that you don't speak to people you don't know on the subway. But something about this boy pulled at my insides. I wanted to build a time machine just for him so I could show him that in a few years, he wouldn't care what these idiots thought. Also, I was still questioning whether I'd made the right call that day with Mr. Weiderstein's son, and I didn't want to regret not saying anything to the boy. I leaned forward in my seat, resting my elbows on my knees. I wanted to be close enough that the other kids wouldn't hear.

“It won't always be this way, I promise,” I told the boy.

He looked at me, startled, clearly wondering if I was a subway weirdo or someone who wanted to tell him about Jesus. The people near us looked at me oddly too. I could feel my cheeks tingle a little but didn't care.

Holding his gaze, I said: “People are meaner when they're younger. They just are. But it won't always be this way. Once you're out of high school, you'll be surrounded by all new people. And almost everyone you meet will be nice to you. This world that you're in right now, it's not the real world. Just remember that. One day there will be lots of people who'll want you to sit with them.”

I didn't want to make him uncomfortable by waiting for a response, so I went back to reading. A few minutes later, I sneaked a glance over the top of the paper. He was staring off into space again, but with a small smile on his face.

M
rs. Andrews was in her late fifties. Over the last two months I'd watched her beautiful red hair dwindle to a few select strands. When I'd asked for her order last week, I could tell it had taken all her effort just to listen to what I was saying.

This week I entered Mrs. Andrews's room cautiously, but to my relief, she was still here. Barely. Even in her sleep, she was breathing laboriously. A man I assumed was her husband was folded into a chair in the corner. He was rumpled, like he'd been sitting there for days.

Rubbing his hands over his haggard face, he said, “Her condition just keeps getting worse, Doctor. Isn't there anything you can do? ”

I looked over my shoulder, but no one was behind me. He thought I was a doctor. In the Contact Isolation rooms, all hospital staff wore the same long-sleeved yellow gowns, so it was difficult to tell if we were wearing a volunteer apron or a doctor's coat underneath. His eyes were desperate, looking for hope. I couldn't give him hope. I couldn't even give him strawberry.

“I'm sorry, I'm just a volunteer. I, uh—I make milkshakes.” I said, feeling ridiculous. “I'm here to take your wife's dessert order. Do you happen to know what flavor she prefers?”

He blinked at me for a moment, confused. “What?”

“I'm taking milkshake orders. We have vanilla or chocolate . . .” I trailed off.

His eyes went down to his lap. He didn't respond.

Finally I asked, “Can I help you with anything else?,” though it was clear I couldn't.

V
isitors rarely said the right thing when leaving a cancer patient's room. One day I delivered a milkshake to a patient just as a group of his work colleagues was leaving.

“Get well soon!” a few of them said.

One of them patted the man's spindly shoulder. “You'll be back at the office in no time!”

Their remarks were patently absurd. A few months ago I'd have said the same thing. Now I wanted to shake them. The man smiled indulgently at his friends but he obviously knew—as we all knew—that he'd never set foot in an office again. I'd recently overheard one doctor telling another that he was DNR—Do Not Resuscitate.

“Usually it's because they're terminal,” Becca explained later. “The patient is basically saying, ‘Let me die.' ”

How isolating it must have been to have your loved ones faking it all the time. To be
handled
. To be spoken to like a child whose parents insisted on pretending there was a Santa Claus long after you'd stopped believing.

I wanted to reach out in moments like that, but it was inappropriate, given my position. There were counselors here who came around to talk to patients about such matters. And Becca and I only got a few minutes of interaction with each person, hardly long enough to become a confidante. But there was something else I could do for them, I realized. These people's organs were being ravaged by disease and I was willingly damaging my own every night. Out of respect for them, I knew I had to give up the sleeping pills.

Chapter Ten

Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. Today is a gift. That's why it is called the present.

—ELEANOR ROOSEVELT

T
his was easier said than done and, frankly, not that easy to say. In the two weeks that followed, I told no one about my decision because I was afraid I would fail and then I'd have to face their disappointment. I didn't even tell Dr. Bob. During our next session when he asked what I wanted to talk about, I brought up something else that happened that week. I'd been researching a freelance article about Internet dating when I came across the personal ad of a woman named Jasmine. In response to the question
If you could be anywhere in the world at this moment, where would you be?,
Jasmine had written, “In the moment.” Most of her competition had gone with Cancun, so her answer stood out.
How often am I really in the moment?
I'd wondered.

“Well, how often
are
you in the moment?” Dr. Bob prompted.

“I'm not even sure I know what that means. That's why I asked you,” I said with more edge to my voice than I intended. Two weeks of sleep deprivation was making me grouchy.

He didn't acknowledge the change in my tone. Instead he took a deep breath, the kind people take when they're about to explain something that's fairly complicated. “What we're really talking about here is mindfulness,” he said. “Mindfulness is a technique where you concentrate on the immediate present experience, without judging or trying to control what is going on. To be fully aware. This practice is at the heart of many forms of Eastern meditation, especially Buddhist forms. But you don't have to be Buddhist to practice mindfulness.”

“So you're suggesting I take up meditation?” I was already spending hours a night lying still with my eyes closed, alone with my thoughts. The idea of doing that on purpose was unbearable. “That doesn't fit into my project. There's nothing scary about sitting cross-legged and chanting for a while,” I snapped.

His face remained patient, but he clearly knew something was up. So he waited me out. Finally I blurted out, “I'm sorry. I'm just so tired. I'm trying to get off the pills.” I was reducing my intake gradually, because going off five pills at once was dangerous. Still, going down to four pills a night kept me tossing and turning for hours.

“This is great news,” he said warmly. “Not that you're tired, of course. But it actually speaks to what we're talking about it. We know that your insomnia is linked to anxiety. Practicing mindfulness will help you address the root causes of your worry.”

Dr. Bob propped an elbow casually on the arm of his chair. “Not only that,” he went on, “mindfulness will help you stay in the present, where fear does not exist. Fear exists in the past, like worrying about the dumb thing you said to your boss yesterday, or in the future, as in fretting over whether your plane will crash.”

I tried to imagine living in the present. As a blogger, I'd been trained to live in the future, always looking for the next story. The day Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes's baby was born, my editor had stopped by my desk and asked, “What are you working on?”

“Well, Suri Cruise was born this afternoon—” I started.

“That story is so one-hour ago. Get Katie's trainer on the phone and write a story on how she plans to lose the baby weight. Then round up some photos of every celebrity baby born in the last three months and let's do a poll asking, ‘Who do you think Suri Cruise should go on her first playdate with?' ”

“The kid hasn't had her first bowel movement, and we're booking her social calendar?”

“We have to keep advancing the story. Always be asking yourself, ‘What's next? What's next?' ” the editor said, snapping her fingers together in rapid succession. That was how I'd lived most of my life, actually. In high school, I'd been focused on getting into college. At Yale, everyone was obsessed with landing the best summer internships. After graduation, I turned my attention to getting a job, then getting another job, then a promotion, and so on.

“But how does that help me manage my fears?”

“We tend to treat our thoughts as though they are reality. If we think something, then it
is
so. We tell ourselves
I'm a failure
or
My life is a mess
and accept it as truth, and our emotions get worked up about it.” Dr. Bob leaned forward. His grayish brown curls did a little dance and settled into their new position. “Mindfulness teaches us to view our thoughts as
just thoughts,
not facts. We don't have to be afraid just because we think fearful thoughts.”

“But I've tried meditating in yoga class, and my mind always ends up getting distracted.”

He gave me a reassuring nod. “You might start by paring down the distractions in your life so you can focus more on the moment. Television, for example, is used to escape real life. Cell phones and the Internet claim to make us more connected but actually pull us away from real relationships. And they make it difficult to connect with ourselves.”

“Giving up all my technology, now that would be scary,” I said, half in jest. Then my mind flashed back to August 2003. There had been a massive blackout in the Northeast, and New York lost power for two days. People were trapped underground on subways and in elevators that had stopped without warning. All stoplights went dark. Tourists flooded the streets, unable to open their hotel room doors with electronic keys. People had no money but what was in their wallets because ATM machines didn't work. The governor declared a state of emergency. Yet the hardest part of the experience for me had not been climbing thirty flights of stairs to my apartment or not having air-conditioning in stifling heat. It was the restlessness and loneliness that came from not having cell-phone reception, Internet, e-mail, or TV.

“F
irst time on Cape Cod?” my cabdriver asked as he pulled away from the Hyannis bus station.

“It is! I mean, I've been to Nantucket before but—”

“Not the same,” he said crisply. “Here on business or pleasure?” His Kennedy-esque accent was fantastic.

“Both, I guess. I'm here on a five-day silent retreat.”

“You're paying someone else so that you don't gotta talk? Hey, whatever works for ya.”

“It's more than just not talking. I'm cutting off the Internet, e-mail, texting, the works.”

“Don't own a computer, don't wanna!” he said proudly. Based on the third of his face visible in the rearview mirror, I placed this guy somewhere in his eighties.

He gestured toward the distance. “Down thaddaway is Kalmus Beach. Named after the fella who invented Technicolor,” he said, pronouncing it
Tek-nee-kuh-luh
.

It was drizzling heavily, and I saw the world as if through a screen door. The houses were, unsurprisingly, Cape Cod style with steep roofs designed to easily shrug off the snow, shingles weathered to a distinguished gray that matched the color of the sky.

“Say, is it usually in the forties in April?” When I'd booked this trip, I'd pictured myself taking daily walks on the beach, feeling the warmth of spring on my back.

“Nippier than usual out here this week,” he said. “The cold off Nantucket Sound just seeps into ya bones.

“See that marsh out there to our left?” he asked, nodding his head at the radiant crimson swamp that could've been designed by Mr. Technicolor himself. “That's a cranberry bog.”

“No kidding!” I craned my neck. It was like being in the presence of celebrity after all the vodka cranberries I'd drunk in my life. I continued gawking until it dropped out of sight when we turned off into a neighborhood.

Most silent retreat centers are religious based, so since I'm a practicing Catholic, I'd gone with the closest Christian one I could find. I attended church every Sunday, which used to instill a sense of peace that lasted for the rest of the week. But lately, sitting in the same place for an hour felt torturous. I was on my knees like everyone else, but instead of praying I was checking my watch, thinking, “Can we move this along? I was hoping to get out of here before the Second Coming of Christ.”

“Ah, here we are,” said the cabbie. He stopped in front of a house with a sign in the front yard announcing the name of the retreat. There were about ten small cabins flanking the driveway. As I scooted out of the car he handed me his business card. “In case you get tired of the silence,” he said with a wink.

“W
hat is it that you're looking to release here and what are you trying to receive?” asked Alice, the fortysomething woman who ran the retreat center. We were sitting in the country-style dining room to fill out some last-minute paperwork. She was one of those incredibly serene people who've either answered a religious calling or stashed bodies in their basement. She had a shoulder-length mom haircut she was allowing to gracefully turn gray. Behind her rimless glasses, her face was completely unlined.

“I'm afraid I'm turning into one of those people who can't live without their cell phone, TV, or the Internet,” I admitted. “So I guess I want to release all those distractions and relearn how to just . . .
be
.”

“Silence is about quieting your mind as well as your voice,” she said, pushing a lock of her sensible hair over one ear. “Most people find it difficult to be truly be alone with their thoughts. Would you like me to teach you a technique you can do on your own to calm your mind?”

“Sure.”

Positioning her hands over her heart, she closed her eyes and said, “I am here.” She waited a few beats and opened her eyes.

I cocked my head. “That's it?”

“Simple as that. You're telling your heart that you're present and ready to listen to what it has to tell you.”

She handed me a pen and a form to fill out my address and credit card information. “You're free to do as you please here. The only thing we ask of our guests is that they respect one another's silence by not speaking to them—though you are allowed to sing during services. From now on I'll speak to you only when necessary.”

I nodded, unsure whether I was supposed to be silent already. Alice pointed me toward one of the small one-room cabins flanking the driveway. When I walked in, I peeled off my coat but quickly pulled it back on with a shudder. The thermostat read sixty-seven. I cranked it up to eighty.

You think
this
is cold?
I thought to myself. Exactly three months from today I'd be climbing Mount Kilimanjaro, where temperatures could reach thirty below zero at the peak.

I knelt over the roaring fireplace in the corner. Feeling no warmth on my hands, I peered inside. The flames were fake. So were the logs, which were also—gloriously—coated in glitter.

Smiling, I stood up and noticed the wicker bureau for the first time. Sitting on top was a new flat-screen TV. Next to it, a cheerful sign announced that complimentary wireless Internet was also available. I'd forgotten that the retreat operated as a regular hotel during tourist season. I pulled out my cell phone and made one final call before going silent.

“So I think my fireplace is gay,” I announced when Matt answered.

“What?” The Albany newsroom was abuzz in the background.

“Never mind.” I flopped down on the faded floral comforter. “Just wanted to let you know I got here okay.”

“How is it?”

“It's a little unsettling, to be honest,” I said, looking around my cabin. One of the walls, I noted, was a sliding glass door with a flimsy lock. “It feels like one of those horror movies where they lure you here to experiment on you, knowing no one expects to hear from you for five days. And by the time people catch on, my captors will have already fled with my internal organs.”

“I can't believe I don't get to hear your voice for five days,” he said. Matt and I had never been one of those couples who fight and then take a few days to cool off. We basically never fought at all. Our longest argument took place on the F train and we didn't speak for three subway stops.

“Me too,” I said, swallowing back the lump rising in my throat. It was hard enough not seeing his face five days out of the week.

After we hung up, I reluctantly shut down my phone. I set the BlackBerry on the bureau and stared at the forbidden electronics. Not exactly the three temptations of Christ, but having them in the same room for five days would make them harder to resist.

There was a knock at the sliding glass door.

Alice poked her head in. “We're having a community prayer service in a few minutes, which you're welcome to attend.”

I nodded, eager for a change of venue. I put on slacks and followed the brick sidewalk to St. Mary of Magdalena Chapel, a handsome cottage located behind the main house. As I slipped inside, Alice materialized and handed me a prayer book.

“We're so pleased you could join us. Right this way.” There were roughly thirty chairs with hymnals placed on the seats. In the middle of the front row sat a heavyset woman in her midfifties, wearing spectacles and a baggy sweater.

“This is Margaret. She arrived yesterday,” Alice said. Margaret and I smiled in silent greeting. “Shall we get started?”

My smile froze.
Wait, what? I thought this was a community prayer service. Three people isn't “a community.” It's not even doubles tennis.

The way Alice explained it, this was a call-and-response with Margaret and me singing alternate verses. It had been only a few months ago that I'd first mustered the courage to sing in front of other people. That had been a rap song with a booming sound track, and this was two people going a cappella. Margaret looked over expectantly as she opened her songbook. I was about to politely decline, but then I remembered I was not allowed to converse. And so commenced an incredibly awkward twenty minutes of my struggling to read music. Trying to hit the high notes felt like trying to knock a cereal box off the highest shelf in a grocery store. It was a relief when Alice moved on to the prayer readings.