Butterfly Dreams (7 page)

The tears just kept falling. I couldn't stop them.

No sooner had they dried on my cheeks than they were replaced with new evidence of my grief.

My mother had been sent home from the hospital two days ago at her insistence.

“I won't die in a hospital, Neil,” Mom had argued. Dad had fought her, insisting that the best place she could be was at the hospital, surrounded by doctors and nurses.

“What's the point? I'm dying. Nothing is going to change that. And I'd rather leave this world on my terms. In my home. With my family.”

My mom was dying.

In a matter of weeks, days even, she would be gone, and I'd never get to see her again.

I lay beside her on the bed, holding her hand, her cheek rested tiredly on top of my head. We had been like that for hours. I couldn't leave her. And I didn't want to sleep. I was terrified that the moment I did, she'd slip away, and I would have wasted those last moments with her.

My mom was dying.

The tears clogged my throat and burned my eyes. They wouldn't stop. I didn't think they ever would.

My father stood in the doorway to their bedroom, his grief so plain on his face, mirroring my own.

“When will Tam get here?” my mother asked. She could barely keep her eyes open. She slept more and more these days. She was also pretty looped out on the morphine that the doctors had prescribed to reduce her pain. There were times when she was so high she couldn't string coherent words together.

She was lucid at the moment, having just woken up from a four-hour nap. But I noticed the way she winced as she tried to sit up in bed.

And I clung to her hand, never wanting to let go.

“She should be here soon. She just left school and it's a three-hour drive,” Dad told her.

Mom nodded, trying to lift her arm to reach for the glass of water on the bedside table. Her hand hung limply in the air for a moment before falling back to her side.

Dad hurried over as I carefully lifted her up so he could place the glass to her lips. She dribbled some water onto her shirt.

I tried not to look at my mother for too long. I hated seeing her gray, ashy skin and bald head from the intensive rounds of chemotherapy. She didn't look anything like the woman she had once been.

Looking at her for too long made me feel sick to my stomach, and I hated myself for feeling that way.

After she was finished with her water and Dad wiped her chin, I pressed back into her side, touching my mother but purposefully not looking at her. I could close my eyes and remember her as she used to be. Not as she was
now.

I stayed like that for days. Even after Tamsin came home to see our mother, I wouldn't leave.

I remained in that bed until the final moments.

Holding her hand as the tears drowned me.

Touching her but unable to look at her face.

The face of the dying woman I loved more than anything.

I hated myself for my childish weakness.

It was a hate that would burn a hole through my gut and never really go away.

“Corin, your tests have all come back normal. I'm not sure your symptoms have anything to do with your heart. There are other things that can mimic heart problems,” Dr. Harrison said, and I felt the familiar crippling disappointment.

“Are you sure? Because my chest pains have been really severe,” I argued, rubbing at the sore spot I had become used to.

Dr. Harrison looked at my file and frowned as he flipped the pages and pages of results.

Deep down, I had known this was going to happen. But it didn't change the horrible sense of dread that felt like a ball of lead in my stomach.

Dr. Harrison was younger than Dr. Graham. He couldn't be more than five years out of medical school. He was attractive in a brainy sort of way and I appreciated how much he smiled. He had nice teeth, which was extremely important in my opinion. Straight, white teeth said, “Hey, you can trust me because I believe in stringent dental hygiene.”

But his inability to solve my ongoing medical mystery was going to put a serious crimp in our patient/doctor relationship.

Dr. Harrison scratched at his temple, his brow scrunched in concentration. “You're still having chest pains?” he asked, and I hoped like hell that wasn't incredulity in his tone.

I nodded. “All the time,” I told him emphatically.

Dr. Harrison seemed confused. “Do they come and go? Because that could be gas pains or indigestion—”

“It's all. The. Time,” I said through clenched teeth. Slow. With emphasis.

Dr. Harrison closed my file and put it down on the desk. “Let me have a listen to your heart,” he said, fitting the tips of his stethoscope into his ears.

I slumped a bit, feeling disheartened and frustrated. I tried not to flinch at the feel of cold metal against bare skin and took deep breaths when instructed.

A few minutes later Dr. Harrison put the stethoscope headset back around his neck and conferred with my file once again. “Your heart seems to be healthy, Corin. In my professional opinion that isn't the problem here.”

Not the problem…

“Then tell me why I have this pain, right here!” I demanded, pointing to the spot in my chest that I had gotten into the habit of rubbing constantly.

Dr. Harrison clicked his pen a few times, and I thought about grabbing the pen and shoving it up his nose.

“There are a lot of possible reasons for your chest pains. I tested for angina and that doesn't seem to be the problem. But you could be suffering from gastric reflux or there could be a strained muscle—”

My humorless bark of laughter cut him off.

“Strained muscle? Are you kidding me?” I scoffed. I felt a pressure in my chest that seemed to get steadily worse the more upset I became. Like a giant hand had reached through my rib cage and was squeezing my heart.

“Anxiety and stress could also be a factor,” Dr. Harrison continued, and I noted the look of concern on his face.

“This is
not
because of anxiety!” I seethed, clenching my hands into fists and trying not to use them to inflict damage on the pretty doctor's face.

“Corin, I'm only suggesting that the cause of your chest pains may be something more benign. And that's a good thing!”

“Do you know what would be a good thing, Dr. Harrison?” I asked, my voice sounding weak and thready despite how angry I was becoming. I tried to take a deep breath but found my lungs wouldn't expand. The harder I tried to suck in air, the harder it became.

I felt a little light-headed and I closed my eyes for a moment.

“A good thing would be to finally know what's wrong with me,” I whispered, my eyes still closed. The room was starting to spin and it reminded me of that one time I had gotten drunk.

Adam had brought me a six-pack of wine coolers one evening after work, and I had thrown up after drinking three of them.

I rubbed at my temple, feeling a dull throb begin.

“I want that too, Corin. I just think we need to look at other possible causes than a heart problem.”

I barely heard what Dr. Harrison was saying. Because I wasn't there, in his office anymore.

I was in another doctor's office eight years ago. Listening to similar, placating words being spoken to someone else.

“I'm positive your symptoms are a result of a nasty virus, Neil. I recommend going home and getting plenty of rest and drinking lots of fluids. You should be feeling much better in a few days.”

My father's doctor hadn't believed him either. Dad had known that something was wrong but let himself be convinced by a man with a medical degree that he was “fine.”

“No,” I mumbled, shaking my head.

“Corin, I think it's time we look at other possibilities. Psychosomatic ailments can manifest severe physical symptoms…”

“No,” I said a little louder. Not this again.

And then I couldn't breathe. I was gasping and struggling for air.

“Corin!” Dr. Harrison's alarmed voice cut through my panic. I collapsed in a heap, the good doc catching me before I slid to the floor.

I was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, and the harder I tried to get air into my lungs, the more impossible it seemed.

I recognized this feeling all too well.

The butterflies smothering me. Pulling me under…

But in that instant the only thing I could think was that I was dying.

“Take a deep breath, Corin. In through the nose, out through the mouth,” Dr. Harrison instructed, but it sounded as though his voice was echoing down a long tunnel.

The pain in my chest felt like a knife digging through skin. I fisted my hand over my frantically beating heart.

“Hurts—” I gasped.

I heard Dr. Harrison talking to someone, but I couldn't make sense of what they were saying. Dark spots swam before my eyes and the last thing I thought before I lost consciousness was
I told them there was something wrong.

I woke up sometime later flat on my back. It could have been seconds. It could have been minutes. Who knew?

What I did know was that I now felt an uncomfortable breeze in places that should definitely be covered up.

“Corin?” Dr. Harrison peered down at me and I squinted as he shone a flashlight in my eyes.

“That's what my parents called me,” I rasped dryly. At least I hadn't lost what little sense of humor I had.

My head hurt. My elbow was throbbing. And that breeze I mentioned was because my skirt was now up around my waist. Just great. I was showing the world my undergarments once again. I should just give up on wearing clothing altogether with the frequency I was flashing the goods.

The only silver lining was that at least I had learned my lesson and wasn't wearing the ratty undies that could house a family of four.

I tried to sit up but a nurse I didn't recognize put a gentle, yet insistent hand on my shoulder, keeping me down. “Just lie still for a minute. No sudden movements. You took quite a spill.” She spoke as though she were at a cheer rally and not in a doctor's office. Her overly excited enunciation made my head hurt even more. All she needed was a set of pom-poms and we'd be set.

I lay back down and stared up at the ceiling. I felt incredibly exposed with my limbs askew and the good doc and perky nurse staring at me like something icky under a microscope.

“You hit your head when you fell. How do you feel?” Dr. Harrison asked, pocketing his penlight.

I rubbed a sore spot on the back of my skull. I hit my head? That couldn't be good. How
did
I feel? Like total shit.

“Maybe I should go home and rest,” I suggested as Nurse Perkalicious helped me into a sitting position. I quickly repositioned my skirt so that it covered all parts of my body that were meant to be covered.

Neither Dr. Harrison nor Super Nurse responded to my very rational suggestion but instead fussed over me like I had contracted some horrible disease in the last couple of minutes.

“What happened?” I asked, my voice sounding like I had been gargling broken glass. It was almost hot in a sex phone operator kind of way. I tried to clear my throat but it was no use. Cheer Nurse—I really should find out her name—picked up on my discomfort and brought me a glass of water, which I downed quickly.

Dr. Harrison spoke in a low voice with Bouncy Nurse, and I tried to hear what they were whispering about. I thought I caught the words “panic attack” and “observation.” There may have been “psychological issues” and “counseling” sprinkled in there as well. I felt my face flush and a familiar, indignant anger begin to simmer.

“You passed out for a few seconds. You were having a panic attack. Was that the first time you experienced something like that?” Dr. Harrison asked, finally helping me up off the floor and depositing me into a chair.

I rubbed at my pounding temples trying to get my thoughts straight. I had experienced another panic attack. This was becoming a serious problem. But that didn't mean I had “psychological issues.” And I would rip my hottie doctor a new one if he so much as suggested it. I wasn't above junk-punching a physician.

“No, it wasn't the first time,” I admitted grudgingly. A little brokenly. I took a deep, shuddering breath and opened my eyes, forcing myself to meet the worried doctor's gaze. I hated to see it there. It annoyed me. It irritated me.

It made me worry too.

“How often do you get them?” Dr. Harrison asked softly.

I shook my head, not wanting to answer that particular question. “I really need to get back to work,” I mumbled, reaching down to pick up the purse I had dropped in my rushed meet and greet with the floor.

“How often do you have these panic attacks?” Dr. Harrison asked again, disregarding my attempts to flee.

I waved my hand in front of me, dismissing his question. I wasn't going to get into this. Not now. I had come in wanting answers for my physical problems. I most certainly hadn't signed up to hash out my supposed psychosis.

“I need to get back to my shop—” I began, but Dr. Harrison cut me off. He was proving to be a lot pushier than Dr. Graham had been. And I didn't do pushy. It made me want to throw things and yell. A lot.

“Corin, this isn't something you should brush aside. If your anxiety is a problem, it needs to be addressed. It could, quite possibly, be the cause of many of your physical issues,” he explained calmly, rationally. Too rationally. It made me feel small. And moronic. And dense.

I reconsidered the whole junk-punching thing.

Nurse What's-Her-Face stood in the corner, tidying up cotton balls or whatever, trying to be discreet as she nosed up in my business. She was failing miserably. I glared in her direction. She responded with a toothy smile that looked as though she had stepped out of a Colgate commercial. I narrowed my eyes and she finally got the point and excused herself from the room.