PRESSURE POINTS

Another email from Donald, 3 in a row. Nobody can squeeze between his goofy emails to me. Usually I open one and delete the rest but today my fingers are getting telepathic cyberspace energy. The first one says,’Hello.’ The 2nd one also says ‘Hello’ and in bold it reads, ‘I’ve had enough. Donald.’ Without taking a moment to open #3, I email back, ‘Enough? Enough of what?’ My letter reaches him faster than the Tokyo express could. I had barely hit ‘send’ when # 4 arrives. ‘Everything. Everything!’

It’s 8 A.M. I am worried. Black, roiling clouds don’t let the sun come in. Huge raindrops make turbulent rivers down my kitchen windows. I call my friend, my long ago lover. He has caller ID, knows who it is but asks, ‘Who’s calling so early in the morning? You woke me up.’ My ears ring as he shouts into the phone, ‘I mean it. I’ve had it. I’ve got the big ‘A’. This isn’t right. I’m too young. Did we talk yesterday? I don’t remember. Were we married before went to Aruba?’ ‘Donald, calm down. What Big A do you have? Asthma, Arterial sclerosis, Aruba worms or a big, red Stayman Apple?’

His voice is shaky, trembles as if he were freezing. He is not playing a game with me. He’s headstrong, doesn’t think things out, just rushes his opinions and beliefs. With no discussion, no warning, he woke one morning, told me he had enough, packed his small traveling bag and disappeared for weeks. To this day I have no idea what ticked him off. It could have been my bright red toe nails or the way I slump at breakfast. The sad part is, Donald can’t explain his leaving to me because he doesn’t know. I can still clearly see him leaning on the rattan table, his eyes closed tight, taking a long drag on his Camel. The words came out staccato. ‘That’s it. I’ve had enough, more than enough.’ No explanation, no hug, no goodbye.

Aside from seeing each other once in a while when our urges urged us to meet, we continue our strange friendship, for instance, today’s loud, unexpected outburst. I grab my red and white golf umbrella and a light weight jacket from the hall closet and go to save him from himself-again. The non-stop rain is clogging the sewers. Donald is crazy and I’m crazier. I can get killed out here. Slow down to a crawl. Check your brights. Wham, a branch tears off a swaying tree and hits my roof. Oh, my god, I’m going to die, but I don’t. The rain slows a little, enough for me to make out Donald sitting on his front steps. He is shoeless, has on shorts and a soaking wet T shirt. His hair is plastered to his head. A closed umbrella lies on the pavement.

‘What took you so long, Chrisie?’ I can’t help but laugh at this pitiful man. ‘Didn’t you notice we had a whopper of a storm? Let’s go inside. I’ll dry you off.’ Rubbing him dry works well for both of us. The big ‘everything’ that pulled me here has evaporated. Donald is warm, loving and apologetic. He puts on dry clothes and starts to sing, goes back in the bathroom and comes out with a box of Rxes. He empties them all in the toilet, repeats, ‘I’ve had enough. No more medicines for me, Chrisie. Thanks for being here. Go home.’ ‘No, I’ll stay with you for a while.’ The ‘while’ passes and Donald takes me to the door, kisses me and sends me home.

I sleep easily knowing I saved him, got him back on track one more time. The phone rings at 3 a.m. It’s Donald. ‘Thanks, again. Goodbye.’This time he did have enough of ‘everything’. He must have had more medication someplace, took it all and has no more worries.

What did I do wrong? What should I have done? I am lost, empty and have had enough, ‘enough of everything.’