Falling Forward
Authors: Olivia Black
All characters appearing in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 Olivia Black
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 1491058927
ISBN-13: 978-1491058923
DEDICATION
To the memory of anyone whose life or loved one has been stolen by cancer.
For all those who were there for me during my troubled times; Lord knows there were a bunch. I promise to always return the favor.
A special thank you to my best friend for those special walks on that Hawaiian beach that inspired this book and the ones to come.
I died on my 42nd birthday. I can tell you from my own personal experience that it doesn’t get any more final than reading your own obituary. Most unimportant people like me don’t have any influence over what theirs will say. I had always thought obituaries should be written for the living. After all, as far as I know, a dead person can’t read. I also thought it slightly pompous that some of my patients thought they were important enough to craft their own obituaries well before their impending demise. But I was wrong. Thanks to some good advice from a very special friend, I was fortunate enough to have the wherewithal and the opportunity to write my own.
I reached under my bed and found a beautifully handcrafted Koa box. I sat staring at it, admiring the craftsmanship as memories filled my mind and a rare tear ran down my cheek. I opened it and pulled out a wrinkled and water-stained cocktail napkin. On it was the obituary I had written for myself so long ago. I could barely decipher what it said from the now smeared and faded ink, but the words will forever be etched in my mind:
Award-winning oncologist Dr. Olivia Marie Garvin died of unnatural causes on her 42nd birthday. Dr. Garvin ran into a wall at full speed. She never saw it coming. She saved hundreds of lives, but she could not save herself. She is survived by no one and nothing. There will be no funeral, no prayers, and no service. Her request is to be completely forgotten.
Award-winning
. Everyone who has ever won an award of some sort always puts that phrase on everything they do for the rest of their lives. It doesn’t matter what award you’ve won – it could have been the worst award you can possibly win, perfect attendance – it’s still an award. Although I was one of those kids that did win the perfect attendance award in high school, among other real awards grounded in academia, I was most proud of the awards I had received in my career. Last year, I won the B.J. Kennedy Award and Lecture for Scientific Excellence in Geriatric Oncology. The huge 36” rectangular pine frame hung prominently in my office behind my desk – you couldn’t possibly miss it. It was like a billboard about me. It wasn’t my idea to hang it there, but I have to admit, I didn’t mind the recognition. It was one of those things that reminded me daily that I was doing the right thing with my life. Or so I thought.
Unnatural causes
. People who die due to unfortunate incidents tend to mask the true cause of death in their obits. The death of my soul was due to a truly unfortunate incident. I did mention that I ran into a wall at full speed, but that was vague at best. There simply isn’t enough space to list the causes of my death in a typical obit. I decided that would be this book. Thanks for reading my extended obituary – I promise not to bore you.
She saved hundreds of lives, but she could not save herself.
Most physicians are terrible patients. We’re harsh and judgmental know-it-alls. We dish out advice and counsel others until our voices are strained, but we seldom follow our own imparted wisdom. We’ve spent half of our lives in school, so how can we not assume we know everything?
She is survived by no one and nothing. There will be no funeral, no prayers, and no service. Her request is to be completely forgotten.
It was true. I had no children. No husband. No surviving parents, that I was aware of. No aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews – no one. Fortunately, I had a few really good friends. A typical physician’s schedule doesn’t allow for much socializing, other than a few holiday parties and a seminar here and there. But who wants to hang out with other doctors? That would be like talking to yourself. Half the new recruits were Indian or Pakistani. Brilliant men for the most part, with surprisingly very few women. Truly nice gentlemen. Unfortunately, most of them had really bad poorly grown wiry mustaches.
Oooh
, I can’t stand mustaches, nonetheless
bad
mustaches. I couldn’t seem to get past that.
Obviously, Olivia Marie Garvin is not
literally
dead. I can say without hesitation that every single dead person I’ve ever encountered is not capable of reading her own obituary, and I have certainly seen quite a few dead people in my years as an oncologist. Most of the folks I had chanced upon in my own life up until my 42nd birthday were quickly approaching death. I would help them all I humanly could, using fabulous technology and all the advances science could offer, but sadly, my intervention was usually not much more than a delay of the inevitable. Men and women in the twilight of their lives – some in their prime, many with small children who depended on them for guidance and safety – were living out their death sentence as best they could. With as many people as I’ve counseled in my career, I still cannot imagine what it would be like to keep a happy face knowing my own trip would soon be ending. Looking back, I admire their bravery. Their optimism. Their faith – in God, and in me. My admiration may have been the catalyst for the changes I made in my own life.
More than anyone, I accept the fact we all must die. I would rather it be a complete surprise. And I got my wish. I received the surprise of my life on my 42nd birthday.
My metaphoric death was a transition in life. I realized I had been sleepwalking for more than twenty years. As it is for most, my marriage, my career, and my entire existence had been on autopilot. The same exact routine morning after morning, day after day, year after year. Sure, I smiled a lot and laughed once in a while. I whole-heartedly enjoyed the caustic beauty of a sunrise, the overwhelming smell of fresh jasmine, and the bitter taste of a warm cup of Earl Grey, no sugar. But being on the Dean’s List during my entire college experience, earning countless degrees, and all the awards and certificates that adorned the walls of my office failed to enlighten me.
School doesn’t teach you what’s truly important. Ironically, I learned more about life from a surfing instructor than I did from any teacher, institution, or seminar I ever attended. For the first time in my life, I was awake. I became one of the enlightened few who escaped the mundane box in which most people spend their entire lives. I realized that we don’t have to hunt for miracles – they were omnipresent. Miracles were unfolding constantly and everywhere, in everything we see, and can’t see. The fact that nothing but energy comprises nearly every bit of matter we can perceive – and that a brick never forgets to be a brick. And that non-descript blade of grass that somehow knows how to create sugar from sunlight and that it should be green, narrow, and grow towards the sky. And that single drop of dew – an unlikely and fragile concoction of two parts hydrogen and one part oxygen bonded together at the perfect temperature range that makes everything we know possible. The energy created from nothing more than organic matter that somehow allows a lucky human heart to beat over two billion times – sometimes fast, when excited or scared, and other times more slowly. Even a malignant cancer cell is a miracle. It isn’t aware that it’s a bad thing, but it’s alive. It grows. It somehow reproduces and knows to take advantage of a situation that will serve it well. Suddenly, everything I saw, heard, touched, or felt was no less than extraordinary. I wondered how humanity had strayed so far from the realization that everything we do or know is no less than miraculous.
Hopefully, it won’t – or didn’t – take you 42 years to figure out that you’re sleepwalking and not making the most of your life. I recommend writing your obit as early as you can. I guarantee it will be worth every word.
My alarm went off at 6:05 AM. I managed to hit the snooze button before my husband awoke – he never got up before 7. The sky was turning that deep blue just before the sun was able to begin to reflect its orange glow beyond the horizon. I stretched long and wide, and my body felt more energized than usual as I slid across my slippery white cotton sheets. I had that giddy feeling, you know, that happy feeling you get when it’s your birthday. You feel special – like you’re wearing a magical tiara – and everyone and everything is supposed to cater to your every whim for that one revolution of our planet. I’m not typically quite that selfish, but I thought one day a year wouldn’t hurt.
This birthday was supposed to be particularly special.
Richard had planned a dinner at my favorite restaurant, The Saffron Café. We hadn’t been there in a while because it’s kind of out the way, but their beautiful riverfront patio is to die for. It’s on the wrong side of the water for a sunset, and the river often smells foul, but it’s a beautiful view nonetheless. Unfortunately, the highway in front of the restaurant is wide and well-travelled, and you had to park on the other side due to the slim piece of real estate the restaurant sits on. People have actually died crossing that highway to get to the restaurant. Some joked that incident brought a whole new meaning to “to die for.” I was worried they might begin to use that for a slogan. Theirs was the best salmon I have ever tasted. It was encrusted in baked parmesan, served with asparagus, saffron rice, and finished with a garlic-infused crab sauce. My mouth still waters when I think about it.
And, in a few days, we were set to take our first vacation in more than eight years. Ever since I was a little girl, I had always wanted to go to Hawaii. Richard wanted it to be a surprise, but one night he left Expedia open in the browser of his computer with the details of the trip. I quickly scrolled down and looked at the flights and hotel. I could have jumped out of my skin right there and then, but I’m not really that kind of person. In fear of getting caught uncovering this fabulous surprise, I scrolled back up to where I thought his screen was when he left it, and set his computer to sleep. Although I hate surprises, I didn’t tell Richard. I didn’t want to ruin anything. Richard would be pissed if he knew I looked at his computer. He was a fairly private person.
I snuck into the bathroom and carefully slid the pocket door closed so I wouldn’t wake Richard. I pulled my long dirty blonde hair up tight, the way I always wore it back then. It was easy, and I didn’t think messing with my hair was worth all the trouble. After all, I was happily married for almost 15 years – who did I need to impress? I had phased out most of my makeup too, after learning about the toxicity of what was actually in some of those compounds. Fortunately, I had pretty good skin, and I didn’t believe I was awful to look at, even with my hair up and no makeup. I grabbed my ridiculously bright day-glow neon-green running clothes, slid them on, and went downstairs to grab some water. I was hoping to find a birthday card and maybe some flowers on the kitchen counter, but there was nothing there yet. Maybe Richard was planning something wonderful and was saving it for later. Or, maybe he forgot it was my birthday. Again.
I disabled the chime setting on the house alarm so Richard wouldn’t hear me leave. I don’t normally do that, mainly because I wanted him to know that I was leaving – for his sake, and for my own security. But he looked so peaceful. I think he may have been grinning. I wanted him to rest up for our big night and our secret surprise trip.
I left from the side door of the garage for my daily run. I run at least two miles every single morning to get my blood flowing, rain or shine, hot or cold. It was still dark outside, but my neighborhood was pretty well lit. There was a strange chill in the air. It wasn’t cold enough for a sweatshirt.
Mrs. Rodriguez, my grumpy old Puerto Rican neighbor, was outside watering her immaculate flowers in her pastel pink flowered muumuu. I smiled, and she growled through the brim of her well-worn straw hat, exactly as usual. That didn’t bother me; we had gone through that same routine since we moved in to the big green house on the cul-de-sac. Routines had always comforted me.
Linda’s little Yorkie-Sheltie mix ran along the fence with me happily barking as she always did in her best effort to say “Good Morning.” She would lay down on her back when outside the fence, happily exposing her soft and furry belly for some well-deserved scratching. Linda calls her an “attention hound.” But when Dixie was behind the fence, she was always on full attack guard dog duty. I felt bad that Dixie might wake up the neighbors, but that’s kind of Linda’s fault for leaving her out there that early. Even if I ran on the other side of the street, Dixie was still there to greet me.
The pressure washer guys were readying their equipment as I approached the corner. I hated their oversized orange redneck pickup truck with no doors – it made the neighborhood entrance look a little seedy. The front license plate holder had a tag that proudly displayed
Deer – the other white meat.
Ironically, their father was a Christian minister of some sort at a local church. He’s a pretty big deal, from what I’ve heard. The irony of a man of God shooting a deer for sport troubled me. Honestly, venison is particularly nasty. During a work lunch, many of us were tricked into sampling it by a former vendor who fashioned it into meatballs. I think people eat it just to brag that they eat it. One night, after several glasses of wine, I almost asked him at a neighborhood party, but I was afraid my question might create a backlash that might affect Richard’s business, so I bit my tongue. And his boys and their tattoos that went from their wrists to their shoulders were always prominently displayed. I assumed Wal-Mart had a special section for tattoo t-shirts. But even that didn’t bother me quite as much on that day.
As I passed the jasmine bushes by the entrance to our development, the air smelled a little sweeter than usual. The sun was beginning to poke up from the horizon along the long lake behind my community. I suddenly felt flush, and my body suddenly felt a little warmer. I was like a small child on Christmas morning, with the anticipation of running down the steps to see what wonder Santa had left under the tree. I wrote my pleasant feelings off as birthday bonuses, with something in my psyche that was enhancing everything I was experiencing on this special day. I turned left to leave our gated community, as I had always done.
And that was the exact moment when my reality shifted. Suddenly, nothing seemed right. A strange sense of fear and confusion came over me. My warmth suddenly escaped. I felt cold, confused, and scared. My legs began to ache. I thought for a moment I might be having a stroke, or maybe a transient ischemic attack, which is like a mini-stroke. I had one of those when I was 23, but none since. I yanked the headphone buds out of my ears and threw my iPhone on the grass.
I had none of the physical symptoms I recognized. My arms weren’t weaker than usual. “What the hell is going on here on this street?” I said out loud, not noticing any slurs or having any difficulty enunciating anything, as far as I could tell. I stopped for a moment and quickly inventoried my body and mind for the more subtle signs most people aren’t aware of. I raised both of my arms in the air. I forced a smile. I stuck my tongue out. I think it was straight. As far as I could tell, all was normal. I determined I was physically fine. Whatever had just happened to my reality, I decided to shake it off. I picked up my iPhone, and pressed on to finish my two miles.
I went to open the tall black wrought-iron gate at the front of my community. There is a small latch on the gate that normally pushes up and allows it to swing open. But today, the latch wouldn’t move. I tried it a couple of times, and banged it with the back of my hand to no avail. Those teenagers who run around stirring up trouble at night in their golf carts must have broken it. The same kids had recently defaced the pool area and broke the water fountain – they actually smashed it so badly it fell off the wall. I couldn’t comprehend why these kids needed to break things for entertainment. Or more so, how their parents let their early teenage children out late at night, unsupervised, on dangerous motorized vehicles, and didn’t worry about them.
There was another entrance about a quarter mile down the street. I would have to deviate from my normal path. I shook off my hesitation, turned up
Mr. Valentine
by Font, and ran down the street towards the other entrance. I was proud of myself for seamlessly adapting to this new pattern, and thought perhaps I should alternate my routes to introduce some new curbs, grass, obstacles or pathways that might work out muscles I may have missed during my typical run.
As I was running down the street, I saw flashing lights in the distance. The sounds of sirens began to eclipse my headphones. I rarely saw police in my neighborhood, so this was quite unusual. The last time they came by, someone thought Mrs. Rodriguez has fainted on her lawn and called 911. They couldn’t have known she was trimming a low hanging bush, so all the fuss was over nothing. I think she may have eked out a rare smile during that incident. These police cars were moving quite fast. I stopped and pulled my headphones out as I watched this drama unfold. What could have possibly happened in my quaint, safe, quiet little neighborhood? Was it the heavily tattooed power washing guys with the big orange truck? Did they do something wrong? I quickly thought about ignoring it and finishing my run, but the suspense was too powerful. I turned and ran back towards the action to see what was unfolding.
My heart nearly stopped as I approached the flashing lights. The police were parked in front of my driveway – MY driveway! I can’t begin to explain the horror of finding police dispatched to your own home, especially with sirens and lights blaring so early in the morning. Two officers were sitting behind their doors with their guns drawn. As I attempted to run to my door, an officer grabbed me from behind and pulled me down to the grass, then rushed me behind his car. I was shaking inconsolably as I repeatedly asked the officer what was happening. I was terribly worried about Richard. Had I forgot to lock the door behind me, and someone snuck in and was holding Richard hostage? Had he managed to fight off the intruder long enough to call 911? Or had Mrs. Rodriguez watch the entire incident unfold and called the police on his behalf?
On the ground trying to look up and see what was happening, I struggled to utter a few words with a shaky voice. “What – what are you doing here? What the hell is going on? Why are you in my home?” He quickly but gently covered my mouth and told me he would explain in a minute.
And then it happened. The kick in the teeth that would shatter my smile for all eternity. As my luck would have it, all the neighbors were out, awakened by the sirens, to see Richard,
my husband
, walk out of my house in nothing but his underwear and handcuffs. Two officers escorted him into the back of a police car. I yelled to Richard, and all he could seem to muster was “
Call Paul
” as they pushed his head down and slid him into the back seat.
The officer who was restraining me asked me who I was. I told him. He asked me if I was alright and if I needed any medical assistance. I told him I was fine, and demanded he explain what the hell just happened. Another officer approached. “Mrs. Garvin? I’m Lieutenant LaShonda Allen. Mr. Garvin was arrested on suspicion of attempted murder. I can’t give you any more details, but you might want to contact an attorney. We will need a statement from you.” She walked away.
I was troubled that she had handled that so callously. I mean, this cop had come to my home, and paraded my husband, in his underwear, and in handcuffs, while all my neighbors watched. My entire life had just been upended in minutes. Any sane person grounded in reality knows you can’t ever fully recover from a situation like this. I knew people would be talking behind our backs for years. And I’m sure one of my knucklehead neighbors was recording this. It was only a matter of minutes before this ended up on the news, or worse, permanently viral on YouTube.
Although I was still in shock, kicking pieces of my disturbed and now faded pine bark mulch off my cobblestone driveway while watching the six or seven police cars pull away with their lights still flashing, I was already doing damage control. The evil Christian minister remained in front of his house, staring ominously, shaking his head, noticeably judging me. What a dick, I thought. Obviously, we’d have to move. There was no way we could stay here and ever return to anything closely resembling normal. It would be years before enough of my neighbors moved away, and even then, the stragglers would perpetuate the legend of what had just happened at my home.
Thankfully, I don’t lose it in crisis situations. I quickly came back to reality and realized I needed to call work to tell them what was happening before it hit the news. Hopefully, I could save my job. But what about Richard’s clients? How could I possibly save his business after a story like this? Once you’re arrested for anything in this day and age, you’re guilty until proven innocent. We would definitely have to leave the area – and possibly the state. Depending on what the outcome of Richard’s situation was, maybe we’d have to leave the country. I had always wanted to visit Iceland.
At that moment, it hit me. For the first time, I realized what it must feel like to be on the receiving end of a cancer diagnosis. I had been handing them out for years, nonchalantly, never realizing what’s really going on in their minds. Someone just told you that you have an incurable disease that will assuredly cause an inconvenient, uncomfortable, and untimely demise. I found it difficult to explain the emotions that you experience in a moment like that. The only way I can seem to equivocate it is when you feel like you’re running at full speed with your eyes closed, knowing you’re about to inevitably run face first into a wall. Everything just stops. You’re in a surreal daze. Nothing seems normal, and nothing – not the past, present, or future – seems to matter. You feel as if you have already died, but you’ve been given the benefit of some additional time to clean things up.
