Regrets Collect Like Old Friends
Lea had taken to penning things down, boycotting the use of more advanced technology in getting her thoughts down and out.
Twenty years ago she'd been a prodigy with volumes of short stories and poems to go toe to toe with any published author. She hadn't a computer in the early days and so everything was painstakingly typed out keystroke by keystroke on a keyboard that was ancient, even by the then-current standards. Twenty months ago had seen her writing daily still, jotting things in her moleskin books with her green and blue ballpoint pens. She used to fill the margins in with designs in black ink, lovely little embellishments that were rarely related to the words on the page. These days, she kept notebooks all over the house in plain sight and avoided them all.
Lea always had a pen on her and there was one in each book, noting the next available page with it's mere presence. She had things that inspired her, errant thoughts to write out and expound upon. But she didn't. She didn't write. No poems, no drabbles, and definitely no novel-length tales of whimsy or anything else made itself known to the world by dripping down her arm to her hand and out through her pen on the paper straight from her brain. She was hung up. There was something wrong and the pressure of it was mounting within her.
Each passing day the pressure grew and grew. The tightness in her chest unbearable, causing several instances of palpitations and severe anxiety. She couldn't put into words what had her feeling this way, tried to ignore she was even feeling it, tried to carry on as normal. Until she wasn't normal. Her pulse had skyrocketed from it's average of sixty-two beats per minute to an erratic 115 and she hadn't even gotten up from her drivers seat when she stopped the car. Her respirations were shallow and labored. She tried to think calm thoughts and breathe and try not to die.
Thirty-two was too young for cardiac issues, too young to die. She had goals, she had great stories to write and to share with the world. How was she meant to do that when she couldn't even drive an hour with what could only be deemed a panic attack. That is what she would call it. She shook it off and got back on the road, the ache in her chest still constant and so filling in the most unpleasant of ways. She felt strangled by the seatbelt, the slight extra pressure of it atop her chest which was already full to bursting from that damnable pressure. She just needed to get to class and sit for the lectures for the next eight hours before she could drive home and continue to avoid her notebooks, avoid the issues, and avoid feeling.
The sharp shooting pain down her left arm and straight down her left thigh woke her up with a strangled gasp, several hours after she'd eventually gone home. This was not normal, this was not okay. Lea couldn't ignore that. She popped an aspirin and drove herself, as calmly as possible to the ER. Once the leads were attached to her chest after she'd been scurried through triage and into a curtained area, she tried to train her breathing back down. Being anxious about being anxious wasn't going to make the situation any more comfortable. It was too cold in the Emergency Department to be comfortable anyways but it was better than being dead. She lay there, alone on the gurney with a dozen wires suspended between her body and the monitor.
For the first time in years, she didn't even think of calling Steve first, or even at all. Twenty years ago, she still had a family left and maybe she would've bothered one of them to come with her. Twenty months ago, she would've called him before she called her own girlfriend and made excuses for it. He was closest to the hospital but they hadn't spoken to him since just before last Valentine's day. She felt conflicted, wanting to ease the sadness she'd felt he was radiating, but know she had to get back inside her own apartment and get back to real life. He was depressed, a sad, blackhole of a person who was lonely even when he wasn't alone. No amount of love or attention could satisfy him, he was a bucket with too many holes and he refused to be patched and stay full. He had acted out and she hadn't spoken to him since. These days, she didn't even think about him let alone even miss him.
The ticking on her wrist watch sounded off for an instant which caused her to instinctively look down as the rhythm was disrupted. The day clicked over to the next and lo and behold, it was Valentine's day again. Her girlfriend was long gone, not wanting to deal with Lea's own depressive tendencies, and so she had nobody to go home to this year unlike the last. She was her own, independent woman now and she needed nobody. The funny thing is that when she stopped to look at her clock and saw the date, the chest pain stopped. It's as if her body had been gearing up for something cataclysmic to happen this year on this date that it didn't think she would survive, but she did. She let go of the deep breathe that she hadn't realized she'd been holding in. She felt lighter and inexplicably happier. She could survive on her own, health problems permitting.
When the doctor came back in the rattle off the list of off levels on her CBC and show her what she already knew on the paper print out from the heart monitor, she wasn't shaken. That Mat Kearney song, "Closer to Love" started up in her head and the doctor asked her if there was anyone they should call. Lea shook her head, "No, m'am. But if you could get me a pen and some paper. I'd really appreciate it. My days are numbered, my words may as well be lined up." If this was going to be the last thing she would have an opportunity to write, she was going to write it. She was going to draw beautiful, pointless little embellishments in the margins. She was going to write her last little drabble. She was going to but she didn't. What she did write made the nurses shake their heads sadly after the cleared the room following her coding. The top page of the steno pad read a one line directive, "Burn the notebooks. Put the ashes in with mine, my soul and I combined at rest."
Twenty years ago she'd been a prodigy with volumes of short stories and poems to go toe to toe with any published author. She hadn't a computer in the early days and so everything was painstakingly typed out keystroke by keystroke on a keyboard that was ancient, even by the then-current standards. Twenty months ago had seen her writing daily still, jotting things in her moleskin books with her green and blue ballpoint pens. She used to fill the margins in with designs in black ink, lovely little embellishments that were rarely related to the words on the page. These days, she kept notebooks all over the house in plain sight and avoided them all.
Lea always had a pen on her and there was one in each book, noting the next available page with it's mere presence. She had things that inspired her, errant thoughts to write out and expound upon. But she didn't. She didn't write. No poems, no drabbles, and definitely no novel-length tales of whimsy or anything else made itself known to the world by dripping down her arm to her hand and out through her pen on the paper straight from her brain. She was hung up. There was something wrong and the pressure of it was mounting within her.
Each passing day the pressure grew and grew. The tightness in her chest unbearable, causing several instances of palpitations and severe anxiety. She couldn't put into words what had her feeling this way, tried to ignore she was even feeling it, tried to carry on as normal. Until she wasn't normal. Her pulse had skyrocketed from it's average of sixty-two beats per minute to an erratic 115 and she hadn't even gotten up from her drivers seat when she stopped the car. Her respirations were shallow and labored. She tried to think calm thoughts and breathe and try not to die.
Thirty-two was too young for cardiac issues, too young to die. She had goals, she had great stories to write and to share with the world. How was she meant to do that when she couldn't even drive an hour with what could only be deemed a panic attack. That is what she would call it. She shook it off and got back on the road, the ache in her chest still constant and so filling in the most unpleasant of ways. She felt strangled by the seatbelt, the slight extra pressure of it atop her chest which was already full to bursting from that damnable pressure. She just needed to get to class and sit for the lectures for the next eight hours before she could drive home and continue to avoid her notebooks, avoid the issues, and avoid feeling.
The sharp shooting pain down her left arm and straight down her left thigh woke her up with a strangled gasp, several hours after she'd eventually gone home. This was not normal, this was not okay. Lea couldn't ignore that. She popped an aspirin and drove herself, as calmly as possible to the ER. Once the leads were attached to her chest after she'd been scurried through triage and into a curtained area, she tried to train her breathing back down. Being anxious about being anxious wasn't going to make the situation any more comfortable. It was too cold in the Emergency Department to be comfortable anyways but it was better than being dead. She lay there, alone on the gurney with a dozen wires suspended between her body and the monitor.
For the first time in years, she didn't even think of calling Steve first, or even at all. Twenty years ago, she still had a family left and maybe she would've bothered one of them to come with her. Twenty months ago, she would've called him before she called her own girlfriend and made excuses for it. He was closest to the hospital but they hadn't spoken to him since just before last Valentine's day. She felt conflicted, wanting to ease the sadness she'd felt he was radiating, but know she had to get back inside her own apartment and get back to real life. He was depressed, a sad, blackhole of a person who was lonely even when he wasn't alone. No amount of love or attention could satisfy him, he was a bucket with too many holes and he refused to be patched and stay full. He had acted out and she hadn't spoken to him since. These days, she didn't even think about him let alone even miss him.
The ticking on her wrist watch sounded off for an instant which caused her to instinctively look down as the rhythm was disrupted. The day clicked over to the next and lo and behold, it was Valentine's day again. Her girlfriend was long gone, not wanting to deal with Lea's own depressive tendencies, and so she had nobody to go home to this year unlike the last. She was her own, independent woman now and she needed nobody. The funny thing is that when she stopped to look at her clock and saw the date, the chest pain stopped. It's as if her body had been gearing up for something cataclysmic to happen this year on this date that it didn't think she would survive, but she did. She let go of the deep breathe that she hadn't realized she'd been holding in. She felt lighter and inexplicably happier. She could survive on her own, health problems permitting.
When the doctor came back in the rattle off the list of off levels on her CBC and show her what she already knew on the paper print out from the heart monitor, she wasn't shaken. That Mat Kearney song, "Closer to Love" started up in her head and the doctor asked her if there was anyone they should call. Lea shook her head, "No, m'am. But if you could get me a pen and some paper. I'd really appreciate it. My days are numbered, my words may as well be lined up." If this was going to be the last thing she would have an opportunity to write, she was going to write it. She was going to draw beautiful, pointless little embellishments in the margins. She was going to write her last little drabble. She was going to but she didn't. What she did write made the nurses shake their heads sadly after the cleared the room following her coding. The top page of the steno pad read a one line directive, "Burn the notebooks. Put the ashes in with mine, my soul and I combined at rest."