Booger-Man Status

You know how when a friend does you a big favor, you thank them by saying, “What would I do without you?  You’re a lifesaver.”?  Have they really saved your life, or did they bring you Taco Bell when you were on your period?  Did they save your life, or did they take your kids so you could go to a movie with your husband?  I have some great friends who have been there for me since Cory’s accident.  They have hugged me, fed me, cried with me, and in one case, even drove my convulsing cat to the vet at a moment’s notice.

One of my friends actually saved my life.  It was about two days after my lovely conversation with Insurance Lady (State Farm, if you’re reading, offer some sensitivity training to your employees, would you?), that I found myself pushing a Mancino’s sub around on my plate, as I told Angie how I planned to kill myself.  Angie later told me the scariest part of this disclosure was not what I said, but how I said it…flatly, devoid of emotion, as if I were giving her a hot tip on where to buy a chiffon scarf that would make her sweater pop. 

For me, at least, there seemed to be a certain turning point between wishing I were dead as one might wish for a million dollars to land at their feet, and going about making my death happen much as I had planned Cory’s funeral…step by dogged step.  There was a moment where I realized, seemingly for the first time, that I could actually make it happen if I wanted it bad enough.  It was that momentary glimpse at control, and the promise of an end to unbearable pain that got my gears moving. 

At other times, I had become stalled at this point, remembering the friends and family I would leave behind, and weighing their pain against the end of my own.  Well, that just wasn’t an issue this time around.  Something had broken lose in my brain when Insurance Lady and I had our words.  I was no longer feeling connected to anything or anyone.  The guilt I felt was suffocating.  In a weird and twisted way, I felt that taking my own life would be breaking free-  free to never see her lying twisted and broken on West Michigan Avenue, four houses down from our home, ever again.  I would give anything to get that image out of my head.  Anything.

So there I sat across from Angie, telling her all about the show I’d seen on TV some years ago:  pills in slow batches, warm milk, plastic bag over the head.  Angie listened carefully, her face giving away nothing, asking the occasional follow up question, perhaps to judge the sincerity of my intentions.  When I had finished laying it out like a simple and convenient week night dinner recipe, I returned to staring blankly out the window.

Angie brought me back by asking how I thought Jake would feel if I were dead.  Sadly, my pain was just too great for me to even consider another person’s feelings- even those of my ten year old son.  I answered by telling her Tim would take care of him.  Similar pat answers were given as she went down the list of my loved ones.  I felt tired, and redundant.  Didn’t she understand?  I did not care about anyone else anymore.  I was a selfish and horrible individual…that’s how this whole mess happened in the first place, remember?

“I want to be done.”  I told her flatly, and I meant it with every fiber of my being.  There was not a single part of me that wanted anything except my daughter or to die.  If I could not have one, I must have the other.

Angie redoubled her efforts to talk some sense into me when we reached the car.  If anyone could do it, she could.  That woman has a God given talent to care for people, even when they have stopped caring for themselves.  Dimly, I realized how serious it was this time when I saw the tears rolling down her cheeks.  I could count on one hand the number of times I had seen Angie cry; she is one of the strongest women I know. 

She had the crisis counselor on the phone before I realized what was happening, and was asking what she should do next.  I leaned against the car window, picturing Cory’s face, and wondering if I should have kept my plans to myself.

She turned the car towards the clinic.  She parked it, and turned to face with me with her “mom face” on.  “Nicole, I am going inside to talk to the crisis counselor.  You can either go with me or sit in the car.”

Sheer panic took over.  I was being told on!  They would send me to the hospital!  I didn’t want to go to the hospital!  I wanted to die, now before I lost my nerve. 

Angrily, I began yelling at her through my tears, “I shouldn’t have told you!  I thought I could trust you!  Don’t you know you’re the only one I can talk to?  Now, I have no one.  I will never tell you anything again!  I can’t trust you.”

Angie remained unfazed.  “Do you want to go with me or sit in the car?”

Switching tactics, I begged.  “I’m feeling better now.  We can just go.  I don’t need to see anyone.”

“Nicole, you are not safe.  You know it, and I know it.  I’m going in- you can go with me or sit in the car.  What’s your choice?”

Swearing at the woman who saved my life that day, I fumbled with my seatbelt and followed her reluctantly inside.

The crisis counselor on duty, a robust and slightly disheveled man of about thirty met us just inside the door and led us down the hall, behind the locked doors…that’s where they keep the flight risks.  I imagine I was considered a runner at this point.

This interesting gentleman with the sweatrings under his armpits introduced himself as Jared, and got right down to business.

“Well, Nicole, let me pull up your information.  Ahhh, yes, you’re under Dr. Z’s care…well, the good news is you haven’t been diagnosed with a major mental illness.”

Did he really just say that? 

Perhaps this was part of his master plan to bring me back to the here and now; perhaps it was just a poor choice of words.  Either way, I came out of myself enough to stop thinking about suicide and start wondering who in the hell trained this guy, and what in the world was their dress code.

With tears still drying on my cheeks, I looked over his bedhead hair (not the messy on purpose sexy kind, just the kind that had a nodding acquaintance with a hairbrush, at most).  I glanced at the mysterious brown smears in the corner of his mouth.  I inspected his wrinkled shirt, and high water khakis, wondering what the world had come to, if this was considered professional attire, and if I was really meant to take advice from a man who didn’t know enough to wipe the donut icing off his mouth.

“Well, Nicole, the bad news is that your friend here is pretty worried about you, and based on what she told me on the phone, I’m pretty concerned as well.  Is it true you’ve been having suicidal thoughts?”

I hesitiated.  “Well, yes, I was feeling that way, but I’m not feeling that way anymore.  I just came in to get some coping strategies.”  Amazing how when I opened my mouth, the lies just came floating right out.  I knew how this game was planned.  The evaluator only cares about that moment in time, not how you felt two hours ago.  If you can sell it well enough, you will walk out every time.

As I got ready for his counter attack, I glanced up and spotted an unimistakable dried pale green flake clinging for dear life to Jared’s right nostril.

Dear God, seriously?

I looked at Angie to see if she had seen, and knew the moment my eyes met hers that she had.  I almost choked trying to produce a fake coughing fit.  To my disbelief, Jared realized what we were looking at, and actually –I’m not lying folks- flicked the booger into the air towards us.

Angie and I watched horror-stricken, tracking the booger’s slow and lazy descent to the floor, as we simultaneously scooted back our chairs a few inches.  I would say we tried to be unobtrusive, but really what was the point?  Why worry about being rude in front of a man who just flicked a live booger into the air in front of you during a crisis counseling session.

Anything else that Jared said was lost on me.  Let’s just say his credibility was shot once that booger hit the open air.

Well, I take that back- there was one piece of wisdom I took away with me.  It had nothing to do with suicide, but it helped me immensely, nonetheless.  He asked me about visiting Cory at the cemetery, and how it made me feel.  I told him it made me feel horrible…guilty and angry…full of rage, even.

He told me I needed to stop going every day for a while.  In fact, to stop going until I could go and walk away without feeling angry.  Was he serious?  I might never visit her grave again.

He told me visiting her at the cemetery at this point was clearly counterproductive, and I shouldn’t feel I had to, or that I was a bad mom if I didn’t.

That was hard to swallow.  He asked me how often I thought of her.  I answered, “When don’t I?”  He told me I did not have to be graveside to remember her or to honor her.  One of the best ways I could do that right now was to take good care of her mother, cause she had loved her very much.  Going to the cemetery was not a healthy choice.  “I release you from that expectation.”  he said, as if I was being knighted or some damn thing.  Instantly, I could picture this guy in holey sweatpants, playing Dungeons and Dragons.  Again, Dear God.

Angie and I made it through the parking lot, inside the car, and shut the doors before our eyes met and we were gone in gales of laughter.  Any bout of suicidal thinking from this point out would be affectionately referred to as “Booger Man Status”.