Alison Strobel - The Heart of Memory

He followed them as they shuffled out, noting how conversation didn’t begin between anyone until he was about to close his office door. He was losing them, he could tell. This did not bode well.

He set aside the notes from the meeting and woke his computer. He checked for new email, then clicked the icon on his desktop that opened his account with his online stock broker. It had been almost a week since he’d purchased that stock, and he just knew one of these mornings he’d open his account and see the little green line shooting up.

When it loaded, he almost had a heart attack. The little green line had plummeted. The amount listed as the worth of his purchase was a fraction of what it had been. He scrambled to open a web browser and look up the company’s website, and once he was there he wanted to cry.

A lawsuit over patent infringement. This can’t be happening.

He read the article listed on the website, which assured stockholders that the plaintiff in the case didn’t have a leg to stand on, and once the case got to court it would certainly be thrown out.

But that did him no good if it took months to get that far. He needed to get that money back now.

He put a sell alert on his stock, hoping to recover at least part of what he’d spent. Something would be better than nothing-though not by much.

He grabbed his keys to leave, then sat back down. He couldn’t afford to waste gas on aimless driving, even if it did help him think. He was stuck here.

He was stuck, period.

SAVANNAH’S KNEE BOUNCED AS SHE flipped through a six-month-old magazine without reading its contents. She’d gotten to Dr. Boxer’s office with ten minutes to spare and was now wishing she’d spent them in the car. Knowing she was about to be analyzed made her nervous, and she began to wonder if choosing a non-Christian therapist had been a good idea. She’d wanted to avoid people who would likely tell her to just pray harder, and people who would likely know who she was, but at least their approach would be somewhat familiar. She had no idea what to expect here.

Dr. Boxer’s office door opened and a young couple came out holding hands. That gave Savannah some hope. A few minutes later a woman about her own age popped her head out of the door and smiled at her. “Savannah Trover? Come on in.”

Savannah smoothed her pantsuit as she stood. She wasn’t sure why she’d felt compelled to dress up, but it seemed like a good idea. She was kicking herself now for not dressing in something more comfortable. The suit just added to her sense of unfamiliarity with her own self.

Dr. Boxer nodded to a couch set under the window. “Feel free to take a seat. I just need to switch my files around here.” Savannah sat and looked around the office while the doctor fiddled with some papers on her desk. After a minute she sat across from Savannah with a notepad and pen. “So, Savannah, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you too.”

“Why don’t you start by telling me what brought you in today?”

Savannah took a deep breath to calm her nerves. “Well, I had a heart transplant about two and a half months ago.” She explained the circumstances leading up to it, even though the details weren’t pertinent; she needed time to acclimate to telling a complete stranger about her most intimate thoughts. “And I feel like every day when I wake up I discover something else that has changed about me, or my personality, or the things I liked or didn’t like. And it’s not just in my head; my family and coworkers have noticed it too. But the worst part is that I have this anger that I just can’t shake. I don’t know why I’m so mad, but I am, all the time, and it doesn’t take a lot for me to really show it.”

Dr. Boxer pulled a form from a desk drawer and handed it to Savannah. Depression Inventory. “Do any of these apply to you?”

Savannah scanned the list. Are you often sad or irritable? Have you noticed changes in your sleep patterns? Have you lost interest in activities you once enjoyed? Her frustration mounted as she saw where this would likely lead. “Well, yes,” she said after reading all ten items. “They all apply, actually. But not because I’m depressed, because I’m not.”

Dr. Boxer nodded as she wrote on the notepad. “It’s quite common for transplant recipients to experience a wide swing in moods after their operation. Depression is very common-”

“But this isn’t depression; it’s anger. I’ve counseled people with depression before. I know what it looks like. This is anger.”

“Anger is very common as well.”

“For people who lost out on a lot of their life waiting for a heart-yes, I’ve read about that. But that’s not true in my case. I went from healthy to transplant in less than a month.”

“Anger can also be a symptom of depression.”

“But I’m not depressed!” She took a deep breath, trying not to let her anger get the best of her. “Depression and anger are obviously two different things, otherwise we wouldn’t have two separate words for them. I’m angry. And more importantly, I’m angry at God, around whom my entire pre-transplant life revolved. A little anger would make sense, but not this much-and not at someone that I wouldn’t have even considered blaming before. Now I don’t think he’s even there to be blamed. And that makes no sense. It scares me. I’m not me anymore. And I want to get back to who I was.”

Dr. Boxer’s even expression made Savannah want to slap her. “I understand that, Savannah. But until you’re willing to work with me and with what I believe is your diagnosis, you’re not going to get any better.”

Savannah tried not to roll her eyes. “Alright, what is my diagnosis?”

“I believe you’re suffering from clinical depression, and I propose that you see your doctor about starting an antidepressant. We can continue to meet, if you want to, to work through the underlying issues that are manifesting themselves as anger toward God.”

Savannah slouched back in the couch, resigned to the fact that this woman had no idea what she was talking about. “Fine, fine – I’ll call my doctor.” She stood and gave Dr. Boxer’s hand a brief shake, then left the appointment twenty minutes early.

She knew she’d never be able to explain it to the therapist, whose mind was obviously made up, but Savannah just knew she wasn’t depressed. It made sense that no one would believe her, but she wasn’t going to play along with a diagnosis that she knew was incorrect, and she certainly wasn’t about to add yet another pill to her daily regimen.

She sat in the car and tried to decide her next move. She didn’t want to, but she knew her best bet was likely going to be with Rose, the counselor to whom A &A often directed local women when they called for advice. She and Rose had known each other for almost ten years, and while they weren’t close friends, Savannah hoped Rose knew her well enough to know she wasn’t in denial about being depressed.

She called Marisa on her cell and got Rose’s number, then called the counselor’s office. “Rose? It’s Savannah Trover.”

“Savannah! Honey, how are you – I heard about the surgery.”

“Well, you know… I’m not that great, actually. I was wondering if I could come talk to you some time this week?”

“This week? Nonsense. Can you come at 5?”

She smiled in spite of herself. Maybe this is a good omen. “Tonight? Yes, absolutely.”

“Wonderful. I’ll carry in some sandwiches and we can chat.”

Savannah hoped the encouragement she already felt wasn’t misleading her. They rang off and she headed home to change out of the ridiculous pantsuit and into her new jeans.

Savannah pulled up to Rose’s office at five and smiled when she saw the Jimmy John’s Sandwich delivery car in the lot. She went in just as the delivery boy came out, and was quickly greeted with a hug from Rose. “Come on in, honey. I’ve got a sandwich right here for you. Just pull up a chair to my desk.” Savannah did as she was told, then froze when Rose said, “Shall we pray?”