misery loves company

My phones buzzes again:
You will have to hit the buzzer and say you're here to see Andrea Lombardi.

I step out of the elevator and walk to the buzzer. A girl is looking out the long window. I wonder if she should be that close to the door. I press the buzzer and recite what my text told me to. They buzz the door and I pull it open. The girl steps back a few feet. I step up to a clipboard and write my name. I recognize the name above mine and turn to the girl who was standing by the door.

"Hi Marie," she says.

"Hi. How are you?"

As the words are coming out of my mouth, I realize it isn't what I should be saying. Her hair is stringy and unbrushed and her eyes look sunken in. When you run into someone you haven't seen in almost five years and they are in the psych ward, you do not ask how they are. Obviously, she is not doing as well as she could be. Obviously, something is wrong.

"Fine," she says and asks how my eldest is. Our kids were best friends when they were two, then three. Then I moved away and we lost touch. We chatted briefly online before I moved back but I figured we didn't have much in common and I let it go.

"Did you bring her anything?" asks the nurse, ignoring my side conversation or maybe trying to spare me more awkwardness.

I turn to the counter, showing the nurse the Diet Coke, the candy and the lottery ticket I brought Andrea. The nurse checks to make sure the Diet Coke is sealed, then tells me I'm going to need to bring her back the plastic bag I brought everything in.

"Why don't I just leave it here?" I ask, pulling Andrea's junk and my own Cherry Coke out of the bag. It isn't that I am thinking of the nefarious uses of plastic bags, it is that I don't want to remember to bring the bag back to the counter. I will not forget, but I will spend my entire visit feeling anxious about remembering the plastic bag. I would rather not have something else to worry about.

Andrea walks up as I'm asking which way to go. The girl I used to know stays by the counter and I walk off with Andrea.

When we get to her room, she asks if I knew that girl. Yes, I knew her, a long time ago. Apparently she is having trouble here. I am consumed with both curiosity (why is she here?) and guilt (should I have tried harder to be a friend?). I don't think I could have saved her, but she could use a friend.

So could Andrea, obviously, and Andrea and I actually are friends. I know why Andrea is here. Her husband is a disabled veteran currently going through the process of being medically retired or "med boarded" from the Army. I am of the opinion that the med board process is enough to make anyone want to commit themselves. The hospital is pretty nice, actually. Andrea has an amazing view of Mt Rainier and the room is cute if you ignore all the rounded corners and plastic fixtures. There are yoga classes in the morning. There are silver linings somewhere between the group therapy and the overdone "pot roast."

I have been where Andrea is. I have wondered how I was supposed to do everything and stay sane. I learned, like Andrea will, that the answer is: I'm not. I'm not supposed to do everything and stay sane. I am supposed to do what I can do. If some days that means I finish my to do list, then that is what I do. If some days what I can do is get out of bed, then that is what I do. I don't need to do everything. I do need to stay sane. There is usually some kind of choice, some kind of balancing act. How much I can do will vary from day to day, but I will not be able to do everything every day and I don't have to.

I once told my best friend that my mother is depressed by the futility of life.

"Really?" she laughed, "I find it kind of comforting."

I started laughing, because she so brilliantly articulated the way I never knew I felt.

"No matter what I do, I'm going to die."

"Yes!" I agreed, "And one day, everyone who you've ever known will be dead too!"

It sounds morbid, but it feels refreshing.

If what I can do today is breathe in and out, if that is all I can do today, that is okay because one day my life will have ended whether I accomplished anything or not. If what I can do today is file paperwork, turn in forms, clean the house, make dinner from scratch and not yell at anyone in the process, one day I will still be dead. One day, no one will ever know whether or not I ate french fries for dinner or whether or not Andrea was in the mental ward or whether or not I once wore a white dress on my period in high school and, very embarrassingly, had to go to the office to borrow clothes. Nothing will matter.

Knowing that whether or not I accomplish anything today will one day not matter gives me permission to sometimes not accomplish anything. Sometimes I get to choose to play solitaire for hours instead of reading a book. Sometimes I get to flake on plans because I feel anxious. Sometimes I get to talk on the phone for hours while my husband cooks dinner. Sometimes I get to leave town, hoping everyone at home will be okay, but knowing they would be better if I stayed home. Sometimes I get to choose me and what makes me happy over what will make everyone else happy... because one day it won't matter whether or not I made anyone else happy, so why should I be miserable now?

Visiting hours are over and it is time for another group therapy session. I've spent three hours with Andrea, who is going home tomorrow. It didn't seem like that long because we spent most of the time laughing, making dark jokes about the loony bin. As I drive home, I inventory my friends here. I do not have many friends in my new home, but I know the friends I do have would bring me a Diet Coke in the mental ward and that is important... because who doesn't need a break every now and then?