Delivering Doctor Amelia by Dan Shapiro

Author:Dan Shapiro
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780307425485
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2007-12-18T00:00:00+00:00

Session Thirteen

It’s fraud day,” Amelia started, “but I’m unprepared for class.” I didn’t know what she was talking about. My confusion must have registered on my face because she continued, “You remember? You asked me at the end of our last session to tell you why I think I’m a fraud.”

Now that she’d said it, I remembered. What had I been after? My memory was slow. Sleep deprivation. I’d been consumed with thinking about pregnancy. I still hadn’t spoken to Terry about my reservations about continuing fertility treatments, and life in our house felt dense and slow. Meals were quiet. The corner of my left eye was occasionally fluttering and a thin crease of skin on the inside of my cheek burned. We needed to talk.

I tuned my attention back to Amelia in time to hear her say,

My father had one talent in the kitchen. He could bake. He could bake circles around my mother. Focaccia was his bread of choice. I baked focaccia last night. I bake sometimes when I’m upset. I can think when I’m doing it and there’s an honesty in baking bread. Nothing you say or think can make the bread better. The only way to get good focaccia is to take your time. It forces my mind to slow down; there’s a natural rhythm to it.

I love working warm dough, the fragrances of yeast and olive oil, oregano and butter. Scents that take me back. I told you my bedroom was right off the kitchen when I was a kid. At one time my bedroom had been a large pantry but the people before us had put a door on it and installed a window. My grandfather lived in there until he died. When I was a girl I’d play in there until my father’s loaves were ready. He used to top them with Parmesan and pecans or sometimes with browned onions and rosemary. I can be anywhere and smell Parmesan or rosemary and instantly picture my father in his apron. Mr. Serious. He was always stern when he baked; I think he did it to prevent us from touching his loaves before they were done.

So last night, Jay was in his studio and I was in the kitchen. I was working the dough. I had the radio on, that alternative station. I felt a tickle in my chest, I tried to ignore it but it grew. Slowly. Ignore it. Work the dough. Pounding. Jackhammer. Ignore it.

Then I couldn’t breathe. Everything was in slow motion. What’s happening? Tachycardia, pain in my arms and chest. I was having an MI, a heart attack. No breath. I got over to the phone and I dialed 911. When the person answered I realized that it wasn’t a heart attack, it was a panic attack. I hung up without saying anything and they called back. Jay came in as the phone was ringing. I forgot that they know where you’re calling from. I had to tell them I was okay and that they didn’t need to send anyone.

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