Читать книгу Mother Of Prevention - Lori Copeland - Страница 10

I left La Chic early Wednesday afternoon. On my station calendar, penciled in bold red and circled, was my annual physical appointment. This year I’d have blown it off, only I was in my responsible mode now; I was obligated to take care of myself. Plus, my right ear had been giving me fits on takeoffs and landings. Sometimes the pressure was so bad I was doubled over.

For me, seeing a doctor was like pulling teeth. I had a white-coat phobia—my blood pressure, heart rate and anxiety level all shot through the roof when a doctor or nurse approached. Dad had feared doctors and he’d passed the phobia along to me. Same with storms—every time a dark cloud came on the horizon he’d pace the floor and warn Mother that they’d better get me to shelter. I’d spent half my youth crouching in a dank cellar, praying the storm wouldn’t touch us. I knew God promised safe passage to those who loved Him, and in those years I wasn’t aware of any gales other than nature’s fury. I’d taken God’s promise literally. Safe passage to me meant safe passage—it didn’t have any hidden meanings like “You might not make it through the storm, but you’re promised ‘safe passage’ into heaven.” I was starting to see that life’s fury was every bit as lethal as Mother Nature’s temperamental displays.

A little before five, a nurse showed me to a small cubicle lab, comically labeled the Vampire’s Den. The sign served its purpose and I smiled in spite of my apprehension. Three vials later, I was handed a brown bottle and pointed to the bathroom down the long hallway.

Later I settled on a hard examining table covered in white paper and waited, my eyes roaming the built-in desk with boxes of rubber gloves, lubricant, ear swabs and wooden tongue depressors. Some sort of tool lay in plain sight. Torturous, no doubt.

An hour later, or at least it seemed that long, the doctor breezed in, reading my chart. “Kate. How are you coping?”

“Hi, Dr. Bates.” I hadn’t been in his office since last year’s physical, but he’d been kind enough to make a house call and prescribe medication when Neil died.

He paused, peering at me over the rims of his glasses. “How are you doing, girl?”

Tears smarted in my eyes. When anyone got that tone of voice—the I’m-so-sorry-about-Neil tone—I still lost it. I knew people meant well, but they couldn’t help, so the tone was always there, plunging me back to my black pit.

“Not so good, Dr. Bates, but friends say it will take time.”

He patted my shoulder and lifted the foot extension, snapping it into place. “I lost my wife a couple years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, my mind now on what the nurse was doing. This whole process gave me the jitters.

He paused, squeezing my hand with calm reassurance. Dr. Harry Bates had given me my first high school physical, so I should feel comfortable in his presence, but I was jumpy as a pea on a drum.

“People lie,” he said. “You never get over losing half of you, Kate. Not entirely, but you manage to go on.”

I closed my eyes. “What if I don’t want to go on?”

“Well.” He went about his business and I tried to think of my “happy place.” Sunning on the beach, with plovers and turnstones soaring overhead, rolling surf—ouch!

The mystery tool.

“Trust me,” the doctor said. “Given time, the pain will ease and some morning you’ll wake up and decide life’s a pretty good deal after all.”

“If you say so,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I’m still in the tearful stage—but making progress.”

Later I sat in his plush leather office chair and waited for results. Demons swarmed my mind. Had he found something? Would he walk through that door with a sober expression and regretfully break the news that I had only scant weeks to live? I shuddered, clasping my arms around my middle. There had been an odd pain recently—near the upper rib cage. What organ would that involve? Did they have treatment for my particular case? No. They wouldn’t if I had scant weeks to live.

Scant. How many weeks were in “scant,” anyway?

I had broken out into a cold sweat when Dr. Bates sailed into his office and sat down behind his desk.

“First the good news—you’re healthy as a horse.”

I felt faint with relief, although the comparison wasn’t exactly flattering.

“You’re a little anemic, but nothing unusual for a woman your age. And you could use a few extra pounds. So eat up.” He scribbled on a pad, then tore off the sheet and handed it to me. “Get this filled and take one a day. With food.”

I scanned the prescription. “Okay.”

The doctor settled back in his chair, his dark eyes studying me. “Now for the bad news.”

I glanced up, heart racing. He’d said I was healthy as a horse. I knew it—healthy as a horse can be in my condition.

“Your right eardrum has a small tear, minute but worrisome. You fly almost every week, if I recall.”

I nodded. “Twice a week. I teach classes out of state.”

He shook his head and steepled his forefingers, resting his mouth against them for a prop. “Sorry, Kate, but I’m going to have to ground you. That tear will heal if we’re careful. If not, I’ll want to watch it over a period of time before we consider surgery. You’ll be running the risk of hearing loss in that particular ear if we don’t take care of the problem once and for all. Didn’t we talk about this last year?” He glanced at my chart. “You were complaining of pressure, and you had a sinus infection and drainage.”

I nodded. He’d touched on the subject, but at the time the eardrum wasn’t perforated.

“I have considerable discomfort on takeoffs and landings. Even with the antibiotic and allergy medicine you prescribed last year, the pain is intense.”

“Then you’ve got to stay out of planes for a while.”

“But my job…” Did I have to remind him I was sole breadwinner now, and my job necessitated flying?

He shook his head, his expression stern. “That right ear is in jeopardy. You’re grounded—at least until the problem is corrected. Talk to your superiors. I’m sure something can be worked out.”

I left the sprawling medical complex in a daze. If I couldn’t travel, I couldn’t teach. If I couldn’t teach, La Chic would have to replace me. And who knew for how long or if I’d ever get the position back? Dr. Bates had said the tear might not heal even if I were careful. Surgery loomed like an approaching cold front.

I took a chance that Maria, my superior, would still be in her office. When I pulled into the salon, I saw her white Lexus parked in back. I used the employees’ entrance.

Maria glanced up when I tapped on her door. The French-born, attractive brunette always seemed rushed, so I stated my case as quickly as possible.

She folded her hands on the desk and stared at me, noncommittal for a moment. I could see my career—and paycheck—flying out the window.

“For how long, chérie?”

“The doctor doesn’t know—there’s no way to know. Maybe as long as a year.”

“A year.” She gave a French-sounding tssk. The row of silver arm bracelets tinkled melodiously when she reached up and touched her cheek. “One year. Disturbing.”

“Maybe sooner,” I offered. I adored my job, and I didn’t want to lose any part of it, though the idea of not flying made me almost giddy. No more angst-filled flights, crowded airports and overbooked airlines. No more cold and impersonal hotel rooms, lugging baggage, cabs in unfamiliar cities. I hadn’t realized it before, but now I was stunningly aware I didn’t really want to fly anymore. In fact, I didn’t care if I never saw another plane.

“Well, you are much too important for us to lose, ma chérie.” Maria smiled. “I will make a phone call in the morning—perhaps something can be worked out. Your talents are not limited to teaching, Kate. La Chic can work around your condition until you are healed.”

For the second time that day I felt faint with relief. I could keep my job. If God and I had been on speaking terms, I would have thanked Him.

“See me tomorrow.” Maria dismissed me with a harried glance. “We’ll talk then.”

When I climbed back into my car I realized I had survived yet another disaster and not come unglued. Life was getting better.

Kate, you’re made of Teflon, I told myself.

But in fact I knew I was made of pudding, and one more catastrophe would send me over the edge.

What would La Chic do with me? I could always work in the shop, but I knew that without the teaching challenge I would get bored easily, and I didn’t want to dip into the insurance money. I needed something more than cuts and permanents; I needed the adrenaline that came with watching talented students evolve into gifted stylists under my tutelage.

But then beggars can’t be choosers, so I would take whatever Maria could find, and baby my right ear until I could resume travel.

No more flights for a while.

Maybe I’d have Kris and Kelli offer a brief thank-you to God tonight in their prayers.

Will Rogers World Airport teemed with travelers when the girls and I climbed out of a shuttle Saturday morning. My head was still spinning from the rapid changes gripping my life.

Maria had called me into her office Thursday morning and broken the news—La Chic’s affiliate San Francisco salon needed a manager. The present one had been involved in a car accident two days before and required a lengthy recuperation period. There was only one hitch. The girls and I had to move to California.

At first the idea repulsed me. Leave everything I’d ever known—including irreplaceable memories of Neil? I couldn’t do it…yet I couldn’t remain immobile forever. Everywhere I looked, every street I drove, every restaurant we’d shared a meal reminded me of Neil. I couldn’t face memories of my deceased husband day after day and move on with my life. Maria was offering not only a job, but a new start. So I had agreed to move.

I unloaded backpacks and luggage out of the shuttle and wondered how Dr. Bates would react if he knew I was flying to San Francisco on a house-hunting expedition. I knew what he’d say, and I also knew the risks, but driving to the Bay Area was out of the question, and trains scared me to death. Every time I heard a newscast it seemed some passenger train had been involved in an accident, either here or overseas.

“Is the plane going to crash, Mommy?” Kelli slipped into her backpack, staring up at me with Neil’s dark eyes.

“No, honey. The plane isn’t going to crash.” She’d overheard me talking to Mom on the phone last night, and I’d expressed my usual flying hang-ups.

Kris helped me load bags on a cart and we wheeled our baggage inside the terminal and headed for our airline counter. A long line snaked around the cordoned area. I checked the time and noted that our flight left in a little over an hour; we had plenty of time.

The line moved slowly. Once or twice a new window opened, but only long enough to check in first class or frequent flyers. The girls waited patiently; their behavior made me proud. Neil had always taken care of baggage and checked in when we traveled. Was it only last year that we’d stood in this exact line, happily anticipating one glorious sun-drenched week at Disneyland? The girls had chattered with excitement, and Neil had teased that I was looking forward to the theme park more than Kelli was.

I mentally shook off my thoughts. Stay focused, Kate.

By the time we checked in and the luggage cleared security, we had fifteen minutes. The boarding gate was F12.

The three of us broke into a trot when we cleared security and headed for the assigned gate. I lugged a heavy shoulder bag and my purse, Kelli had her backpack and Kris pulled a small overnighter behind her. Threading our way through the teeming crowd, we sprinted toward the gate with five minutes to spare.

Passengers were on their feet studying their boarding passes when we arrived. It looked to be a full flight this morning.

A woman’s voice came over the PA. “Passengers on flight 224 to San Francisco—there has been a gate change. That flight will now be boarding from gate F3.”

“F3,” I told the girls. I picked up the heavy shoulder bag, and we set off for the eight-gate jaunt.

Breathless, we arrived a few minutes before the other passengers. Kelli peeled out of her backpack and let the canvas sink to the tiled floor. I set the shoulder bag down and rubbed my aching shoulder. An old rotator cuff injury had flared up.

“Mommy, are we going to eat breakfast on the plane?”

“Kelli, there are no meals on shorter flights. Didn’t you eat a bowl of cereal this morning?”

My daughter shook her head. “I couldn’t see it.”