Douglas Kennedy - The Pursuit of Happiness

'I'll be right over', he said, sounding worried.

He was right over. He must have dashed across the Village - because less than ten minutes after I called, he was knocking on the door of my apartment.

'It's open', I said, my voice barely audible.

I was seated in front of the typewriter. My fingers continued to grip the side of the table. Because I felt that the table was the only thing keeping me steady right now.

'Good God, S', Eric said, his face registering alarm, 'what's happened?'

'I don't know. I can't move'.

'You're paralyzed?'

'I just cannot move'.

He came over and touched my shoulders. It felt as if someone had goaded me with an electric cattle prod. I jumped, and let out a shrill cry, and gripped the table even tighter.

'Sorry, sorry', Eric said, looking even more stunned by my response.

'Don't apologize. It's me who should be apologizing...'

'At least we know you're not physically paralyzed. Are you sure you can't get up?'

'I'm scared...' I whispered.

'That's pretty understandable. But let's just try to get you out of that chair and on to the bed. Okay?'

I said nothing. Eric came over and placed his hands on mine.

'Try to let go of the table, S'.

'I can't'.

'Yes. You can'.

'Please, Eric...'

He gripped my fingers. I resisted at first, but his grip tightened. With one pull, he lifted my hands off the table. They fell heavily into my lap. I stared down at them, blankly.

'Good', he said. 'That's a start. Now I'm going to lift you out of the chair and on to the bed'.

'Eric, I'm so sorry...'

'Shaddup', he said, suddenly grabbing me around the back with one arm and under my knees with the other. Then, taking a deep breath, he lifted me straight up out of the chair.

'Thank God you haven't put on weight', he said.

'Very unlikely, under the circumstances'.

'You're going to be fine, S. Here we go...'

With that he carried me the six steps from my desk to my bed. Lowering me on to the mattress, he walked over to my closet, found the spare blanket, and draped it over me. I suddenly felt chilled to the bone. I crossed my arms, clutching my shoulders. My teeth began to chatter. Eric picked up the phone, dialed a number, then spoke quietly into the receiver. When he hung up, he turned to me and said, 'I just spoke to Dr Ballensweig's nurse. He's got an hour free at lunchtime, so he's agreed to make a house call...'

'I don't need a doctor', I said. 'I just need sleep'.

'You'll get some sleep. But you really need a doctor first'.

Eric had discovered Dr Ballensweig shortly after he graduated from Columbia. Since he swore by him, he also became my doctor when I moved to the city. We liked him because he was completely no-nonsense (the antithesis of Manhattan medical omnipotence), and because his slight stature, his hunched shoulders, and his quiet deadpan delivery put us both in mind of an old-style country GP.

He arrived at my apartment a few hours later. He was wearing an old worsted suit and half-moon glasses, and carried an ancient black medical bag. Eric let him in. He immediately approached the bed, sizing me up.

'Hello, Sara', he said calmly. 'You look tired'.

'I am', I managed to say in a near-whisper.

'You've also lost some weight. Any idea why?'

I clutched myself tighter.

'Are you cold?' he asked.

I nodded.

'And you find it difficult to move?'

I nodded again.

'That's fine. I just want to speak with your brother for a few minutes. Would you excuse us?'

He motioned for Eric to step outside the apartment with him. When he returned, he was alone.

'I've asked Eric to take a walk while I examine you'.

He opened his case. 'Now let's see what the problem is'.

He got me to sit up. It took some work. He used a pocket light to look into my eyes. He checked my ears, my nose, my throat. He took my pulse and blood pressure. He tested my reflexes. He asked me a long list of questions about my general health, my diet, my inability to sleep, and the seizure that had me clutching the table for an hour. Then he pulled up a chair by the bed and sat down.

'Well, there's nothing physically wrong with you'.

'I see'.

'I could dispatch you to New York Hospital for a battery of neurological tests - but I think they would show nothing. Just as I could have you admitted to Bellevue for psychiatric observation. But, once again, I think it would prove clinically pointless, and deeply distressing for you. Because I sense that you have suffered a minor breakdown...'

I said nothing.

'It's less of a nervous-based breakdown, and more of a physical one - brought on by lack of sleep and serious emotional distress. Your brother did mention that you've been having a rather difficult time of it recently'.

'It's all just a silly business...'

'If it's brought you to this juncture, then it's certainly not silly...'

'I've just allowed things to get out of hand. A complete romantic over-reaction on my part'.

'We all over-react to those sort of things. Even the most level-headed people, like yourself. It's the nature of the condition'.

'What's the cure?'

He gave me a paternal smile. 'If I knew that, I'd probably be the richest doctor in America. But... you know what I'm going to tell you: there is no cure. Except, perhaps, time. Which, of course, is about the last thing someone in the throes of that condition wants to hear. In your case, however, I think rest is crucial. A very long rest. Preferably somewhere out of your normal surroundings. Eric told me you're on a leave-of-absence from work...'

'More like a permanent leave-of-absence, Doctor'.

'Then take the opportunity to go away. Not to another city - but some place where you can walk a great deal. The seashore always works. Believe me, in my book, a walk on a beach is worth five hours on a psychiatrist's couch... though I'm probably the only doctor in this city who would tell you that. Will you give serious consideration to leaving town for a while?'

I nodded.

'Good. Meanwhile - though I understand your wish to avoid sedatives - I am worried about your lack of sleep. And I want to give you an injection now that will knock you out for a while'.

'For how long?'

'Just until tomorrow morning'.

'That's a long time'.

'You need it. The world always looks a little more manageable after a long rest'.

He opened his bag.

'Now roll up your sleeve'.

I smelled the sharp medicinal scent of rubbing alcohol as he poured it on the cotton, then swabbed it on my arm. Then I felt the sharp prick of a hypodermic needle, and another swab of the cotton after the needle was withdrawn. I lay back down on the bed. Within a moment, the world blacked out.

When it came back into focus again, it was morning. First light was seeping through the blinds. My head felt murky - as if a gauze had been placed in front of my eyes. For a moment or two I didn't know where I was. Everything seemed fine with the world. Until thoughts of Jack came flooding back - and a residual sadness enveloped me again.

But, at least, I had slept. For what? I reached over to the wind-up alarm clock on my bedside table. Six fourteen. Good God, I had been out for almost eighteen hours. Just as the good doctor promised. No wonder I was feeling so fogged in. I managed to sit up in bed. The thought struck me: I can actually sit up. Now that's an improvement over yesterday. Then I realized I was under the covers, and in a nightgown. It didn't take too long to work out who had undressed me and tucked me in, as Eric was asleep on my sofa, curled up beneath a blanket, snoring sonorously. I lifted back the bedclothes and gently put my feet to the floor. Then, taking one careful step at a time, I managed to make it into the bathroom.