Left Neglected

Chapter 30





It’s Monday morning. I know it’s Monday morning because we drove back to Welmont from Cortland last night, and so last night was Sunday night. It’s the beginning of March, and I’ve been out of work for four months now, which also means that I’ve been existing for four whole months outside of the rigorous daily schedule that used to map out my Who, What, When, Where, and Why for every single waking hour of the day. I know it’s a weekend when we’re in Vermont, and I know Mondays and Fridays because we’ve either just returned or we’re packing to leave again, but the days in between have started to blur together. By Wednesday, I won’t know if it’s tuesday or Thursday. And it doesn’t much matter.

I also know it’s Monday because Linus didn’t go to day care today. He still goes there Tuesdays through Fridays, but he doesn’t go at all now on Mondays—one of the many efforts we’re making to save money. Charlie and Lucy are at school, Bob is at work, and Linus and my mother went to the grocery store. I’m home alone, still in my pajamas, sitting in my favorite chair in the sunroom. My sacred space.

I’m reading The Week magazine instead of the Sunday New York Times. I’m so done with the Sunday New York Times. I discovered The Week in the waiting room at the pediatric dentist’s office, and I love it. It debriefs me on the week’s main stories in three quick pages and includes opinions from the editorials and columnists of major newspapers like the New York Times. It even devotes a page to us closet People fans on the latest Hollywood “News.” All the articles begin and end on the same page, and the whole magazine is a pleasurably manageable forty pages.

It possesses the same qualities I appreciate most in my favorite Berkley consultants—efficient yet thorough, cutting straight to the chase. As I flip the page and dwell on this comparison, I suddenly remember the 80–20 rule.

Considered to be a universal truth and one of the Ten Commandments for Berkley consultants, the 80–20 rule is an economic principle that states that 20 percent effort yields 80 percent value. Essentially, it means that for anything anyone does, only 20 percent really matters. For our consultants who need to deliver an answer to the client in a few weeks and therefore don’t have the luxury of studying a particular business problem for the next year, the 80–20 rule reminds them to focus on the 20 percent of information that is vital and to ignore the 80 percent that is likely to be irrelevant (our superstar consultants are the ones who have an intuitive sense for what to focus on and what to ignore).

The editors of The Week have basically culled the 20 percent of news that matters to me and published it in a tidy little magazine. I’ll finish this whole issue by tomorrow if not today, which means I’ll be sufficiently informed of the week’s world events by Tuesday, which leaves the rest of my week free and clear to do something else. The 80–20 rule is pure genius.

I look out the windows into our suburban yard and then through the French door windows into the living room and sigh, unable to think of what that something else might be. There are only so many word search puzzles I can work on, only so many red balls I can find and pick up off a tray. My outpatient therapy, which was two times a week, is now over. It’s not over because I’ve fully recovered (I haven’t) or because I quit (I didn’t), but because our insurance only pays for ten weeks, and my time was up. How any human being with a molecule of reason, a shred of compassion, and a pulse could establish and stand behind this preposterously premature cutoff is beyond me.

After waiting on hold on the phone for what felt like ten weeks to speak with an actual human being at our insurance company, I expressed my unedited outrage to some poor customer service representative named Betty, who I’m confident had no part in creating the policy and who surely has no influence over changing it. But it felt good to vent. And so that’s it. If I’m to recover 100 percent, it’s going to be 100 percent up to me from here on out to make it happen.

I finish reading The Week. Now what? I’m surprised that my mother and Linus aren’t back yet. Linus is really on the move now, running whenever he gets the chance simply because he can. He hates to sit still, and he’s exceptionally single-minded, a trait my mother claims descended directly from my DNA. He doesn’t get it from the wind, she says. I hope he isn’t giving her a hard time. She’s been amazing with all three kids, juggling their schedules, preparing their meals, laundering all their clothes, and she’s enjoying the time she spends with them, but I can see by four o’clock on most days that she’s worn out. I feel bad that she’s working so hard, but I can’t imagine how we’d be managing without her.

I snuggle into the deep chair, close my eyes, and absorb the relaxing greenhouse-like warmth of the sunroom. But I’m not tired and don’t feel like napping. I wish it were Saturday. If it were Saturday, we’d be in Vermont, and I could go snowboarding. I can’t wait to go back.

The phone rings. My mother handed me the phone like she always does before leaving me alone in the house, but I don’t see it tucked into the cushion next to me where I normally keep it. It rings again. I follow the direction of the sound and locate it on the small occasional table opposite me, remembering now that Linus had been playing with it and must’ve discarded it there. Three feet and miles away.

I could get up and granny cane over to the table, but probably not in four rings. I should let the machine answer the call, but I was just wishing for something to do. I’m going to try to beat the machine. The phone rings again. I only have three more.

I grab Granny by the shaft and shimmy down until I’m holding one of the rubber feet. Then I reach out and lob the handle end onto the table. I wiggle the cane until the phone sits inside the U of the handle. Ring number four. I yank on the cane, and the phone flies off the table and smacks me square on the knee. Ow. The phone rings at my feet. I reach down, pick it up, press Talk, and almost yell I win! instead of Hello?

“Hi, Sarah, it’s Richard Levine. How are you?”

“I’m good,” I say, trying not to sound out of breath or in pain.

“Good. I’m calling to see how you’re doing, and if you’d be ready to discuss the possibility of your coming back to work.”

How am I doing? It’s almost noon, I’m in my pajamas, and the proudest moment of my day will be that I retrieved the phone with my granny cane before the sixth ring.

“I’m doing great, much better.”

Am I ready to consider going back? My mother would probably point out that if I can’t coordinate the steps it takes to change a diaper, how would I possibly coordinate human resources? But Bob would say that I’m ready. He’d tell me to go for it. And customer service Betty from our health insurance company would tell me that I’m ready. Pre-accident me is popping corks of champagne, patting me on the back, practically pushing me out the door.

“And I’d love to discuss coming back.”

“Great. When can you come in?”

Let’s see. I was planning on going for a walk around the block this afternoon before taking my nap, my mother’s coming home from the grocery store, which means I probably own a new word search puzzle book, and there’s a new episode of Ellen on the DVR.

“Any time.”

“How about tomorrow at ten o’clock?”

“Perfect.”

“Great, we’ll see you then.”

“See you tomorrow.”

I hang up the phone, tuck it into the seat cushion, and absorb the impending consequences of that unexpected conversation along with the heat from the sun. Both are making me sweat. I’m ready to discuss returning to work. But am I ready to go back? I ripped into poor customer service Betty, denouncing her criminal policy for discontinuing my therapy before I was 100 percent recovered. Before I was 100 percent ready. So how recovered and ready am I? I can read and type, but it’s slow. Walking is even slower. I worry about being late for meetings and deadlines, about not noticing some critical document placed on the left side of my desk, about forgetting to open files stored on the left side of my computer desktop. I think of the 80–20 rule. Am I even at 20 percent?

I’ve always prided myself in being a perfectionist, for dotting 100 percent of my i’s, for doing it all. But what if less than 100 percent were enough? What if I’m 20 percent recovered, and that’s enough to return to my job? It could be. My work is in human resources, a desk job. It’s not performing surgery (requiring two hands) or the fox-trot (requiring two feet). I can be less than 100 percent better and still be brilliant at my job. Can’t I?

I sit in my favorite chair in my sacred space, my heart pounding, each beat fueled by equal parts exhilaration and fear, wondering if my proclaimed readiness is reasonable optimism or a laughable lie. I look out the windows into our yard and sigh, unable to lean far enough either way into an answer. I guess we’ll all find out tomorrow.