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90834

Image credit here.

Image credit here.

“He used to let me do everything for him.”

“Life was so good,” she sighs, “until the accident.” She wasn’t even sure how it had happened. Sherry recalled having felt out of sorts that day. She had asked Marco to put an extra shot in her Americano but the creeping nausea had caused her to reconsider. She had broken the rules and stolen a few moments on the cool leather couch in the women’s lounge off limits to staff. But in the end, she had thought it better to get up and push through. Sherry had been an athlete, and she understood this paradox: the cure for too much activity is more activity.

She had finished her shift at the restaurant, pulled out into traffic, and come close to waking up in the afterlife. Instead, she had come to in a hospital room, awakened by the sound of her own breathing. Her first thought: “And I didn’t even finish ironing John’s shirts.”

Sherry’s heart attack had left her with one good eye, one good arm, and one shiny blue wheelchair. “Cobalt,” she smiles, “I thought it would bring out my eyes. John always did like my eyes. He used to tell me what to wear and how to do my hair so I’d look like a million bucks.”

Past tense.

John had visited Sherry in the hospital. Once. After that, their conversations had taken place through attorneys. However, Sherry is not one to dwell on her misfortunes. She understands his wanting to protect his assets–what, with her care being so costly–and she doesn’t take it personally. “He is very, very close to his mother,” she confides, “and it seems only fair that he should have her money to himself once she’s gone.”

Sherry is a mite disheartened that John has not returned her calls. A few times she has used a paratransit service to organize a ride to his new condo. One time, a woman answered the door. “The cleaning service, I guess.”

Sherry doesn’t mind living with her mother for now. Not really. She had been disappointed to learn that she would not be able to return to the cape cod she had shared with John. She had had little choice but to go from the rehab facility back to her childhood home. The house isn’t fully accessible but she manages well enough with help from mother–though she is sometimes impatient and rough. Sherry imagines her mother’s disappointment at spending her golden years negotiating ostomy bags, and she forgives her.

“Now that the divorce has been final for a few months, we should be able to get back together. What’s a piece of paper, after all? I know John has been holding off to be sure all the legal stuff has settled.”

I take a deep breath, blink, and lick my lips, as I buy a moment to formulate my response. Before I can speak, Sherry continues.

“So do you think I should try calling this time or just show up?”

90834 is the billing code for a 45 minute individual counseling session. This is the code most commonly approved by Medicaid for individual therapy. You can find another post about a therapy experience here.

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The Chicken or the Egg

The Chicken or the Egg

A little girl lives within the wrinkling woman.

She answers only to Pippi—if she answers at all. She is semi feral.

Pippi looks at me with her cool, unblinking grey eyes. Her head cocks slightly. And then she is gone, pigtails swishing. She moves like lightning.

For the longest time, I didn’t know she was there. She skirted the corners of my vision but was gone before my mind could fully apprehend her.

Things went missing here and there but I still doubted–until one day when she went too far. She carried off a jar of green olives I had been saving for myself. I caught her sitting against the bricks of my childhood home in the secret spot beneath the shrubs. I know where kids like to hide. Her toes were happily kneading the clean dirt while the rest of her was engrossed in my olives. One by one, she popped them in her mouth, sucked their delicious brine and then, as penance, swallowed the lifeless pulp.

I watched her for some time before she noticed my spying. We sized each other up in silence for several moments, and she did not run. Her calm unnerved me. It was I who backed away. I had the odd feeling it was I who had intruded instead of it’s being the other way around.

I tried offering Pippi food and clothing. The clothing she had was worn and dirty, her bare feet stained green with grass. Something sticky and now dirt covered ran down her chin and neck. I am pretty sure she had been in my peach tree. She ran from me every time I held out my hand.

I learned to pretend. Usable items ended up on my doorstep in a paper bag designated for charity. I looked the other way when articles disappeared. Other times, I made a big show of leaving the house after grocery shopping or cooking a good meal. Of course, I forgot to lock the door behind me. Warm sugar and spice cookies were her favorite.

I guess Pippi needed to know I wouldn’t try to control her. A wild creature senses that dependence can be dangerous. What if she allowed herself to rely on me? She might lose the stamina and skills she needed to return to life on her own, and that could be fatal.

Over time, we have become friends of a sort. Pippi can talk, but she says little. She doesn’t seem to have need of it, as she prefers the ways of leaves and earthworms.

Once Pippi decided I was no threat, she became comfortable enough to continue her singing in my presence. I learned she could read when I saw her sitting in the boughs of her beloved apple tree last August singing Christmas carols from booklets she could only have pilfered from my attic.

I took an enormous risk one day and hired a neighbor to build a sturdy tree house in her tree. I knew she would never ask. But would she accept? She did. As if in thanks, she walked into my kitchen the next week in broad daylight and whispered: “Cookies and milk, please.” We celebrated communion.

We’ve entered a new chapter. Every now and then, Pippi sneaks into my bed at night and curls up against me. I pretend not to see her even as I stroke her head and listen to her sighs of contentment. I cuddle her the way Jesus does me.

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