Cause and Effect

I drugged my husband because he ran into the Golden Gate Bridge. I didn’t mean to, and he didn’t mean to, and the two events were separated by 26 years, but they are nonetheless related.

We were in his 1971 Chrysler Newport Custom, a huge white boat of a car that would probably be illegal in San Francisco these days. It was a bright, beautiful Starsky-and-Hutch day. People kept telling us the weather was unusually sunny and cheerful, which we in our premarital bliss, attributed to our very presence there.

As we crossed the bridge, we were both looking to the right at the bay, marveling at water so blue, so clear, so unlike the Mississippi. I was transported; swept up, up and away as I always am when I see the ocean. Its foreverness, its depth and power, make me speechless, filled with a C.S. Lewis’ longing. As my friend Belinda once said of a sunset, “It’s so beautiful, it hurts.”

I turned to look at Pat, to share in the wonder of the moment. His eyes were on the bay; I turned back to admire some more, only to feel the car drift to the right, hit the guardrails, hear the cruel sound of metal on metal as the bridge nudged us back to the lane, back to reality.

And though we weren’t hurt, and the gash in the paint was minor, I’ve never gotten over it. Over the years, instead of conquering this irrational fear, I’ve practiced it, fossilized it.

Whenever Pat takes a hand off the wheel, or his eyes off the road, I’m certain we’re headed straight for a lamp post. If he points out a landmark, I refuse to look, because if he’s not looking, then of course I have to - or we’ll crash. If he gets too close to the car in front, I brace myself against the dashboard, apply my imaginary brake. All these reactions are maddening to him, as they are to me when I have a nervous passenger. But I can’t help it.

I try to be a normal passenger, to appear relaxed, to forget that I’m riding in a weapon of mass destruction, but after visualizing running into parked cars, I resort to leaning my seat back so I can’t see over the dash, if not outright climbing into the back seat and lying down. Ignorance isn’t exactly bliss, but it definitely helps.

As does Valium, a few of which I have leftover from my daughter’s adolescent seizure disorder. I’ve taken a half of one here and there when we’ve gone on road trips. (I sound like those people who say, “I never watch Oprah, but the other day I was….” Because who wants people to think you watch afternoon TV, or take Valium?)

I really don’t hardly ever watch Oprah – I mean, take Valium. That’s why I forgot about the 2 and a half pills that I’d put in the Tylenol bottle that somehow navigated from my purse back to the medicine cabinet, sans Tylenol, unbeknownst to me.

Pat had woken up with a headache. He grabbed the Tylenol bottle, took 1 and a half pills, drank his coffee, and sat down to his cereal. A little while later, he told me, “I feel weird. Dizzy.”

“Maybe it’s sinus.”

“I don’t think so. I had a headache. Took some Tylenol.” He was staring into space; a common pastime I happen to enjoy, but which is not in my task-oriented husband’s schedule.

“I can get that blood pressure tester,” I offer.

Before I had a chance, he said, “What were those yellow pills in that Tylenol bottle? I took one and a half. Maybe it wasn’t…”

Oops. It slowly dawned on me. The Valium. (That I rarely take, mind you.) “I think you took some of Joanna’s old Valium. I’m sorry. I put it in there a long time ago. I don’t know how it ended up there.”

He was so relaxed all he said was, “Huh?”

In a cheap attempt to defend myself, I tried, “Who takes a half a Tylenol? Didn’t you notice?”

He took .7 mg of Valium and was so wiped out, he lay down on the couch and slept until lunchtime.

I told my coworkers what I’d done, thinking they’d enjoy a laugh. Instead, they screeched, “You what!!? Don’t you know better than to mislabel prescriptions! Never, ever do that!!!!” Nina, a nurse turned ESL teacher, who is so organized she carries a little container of salt in her purse, along with all other necessities, was merciless.

“They’re only .5 mg. My daughter took 3 a day at age 12. How bad could it be?” I weakly tried to defend myself again. When he didn’t answer the phone, I began to worry, so I Googled, “How much valium does it take to overdose?” – a question that will take you to some mighty strange places.

At lunch I told Nina, “I looked it up on the internet and it’s almost impossible to overdose on Valium.” Another coworker had just relayed the story to my boss, who, too, felt compelled to reiterate the folly of my ways. So far, no one had laughed.

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That was only the first in a week of mishaps designed, if such things are designed, to showcase my somewhat (of course, I have to qualify) disorganized life.

My anesthesiologist friend called, “This surgery’s taking so long. I won’t be home for hours. Could you please go to the house and let Bassie out?”

“Of course. Where are the keys?”

“You have a set, remember? From when Natalie took care of Bassie.”

Keys. We have lots of keys. A drawerful of unidentified keys. “I’ll look,” I said. But I wasn't optimistic.

At home, Joanna helped me look. “That’s her key chain – the Disney one – I remember.” She remembers everything visual.

Fine, but why aren’t the keys on there?

I filled my pocket with stray keys, went to her house, and unbelievably found the right ones.

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The next day it started pouring rain just before my afternoon class. I had no umbrella. I had no raincoat. Spying a green raincoat on the coat rack that I reasoned was probably mine, I asked Becky if she thought it belonged to somebody else. (Nina had left; she would have known whose it was.)

“It’s pouring. Go ahead and take it. I’m sure it’s yours.”

It was a bit snug, but I was glad to have it, though I got drenched anyway walking to class. After class it was still pouring down, so instead of going back to the office, I sloshed my way to the car.

Later that night, about 8:00, it hit me. I don’t know for sure that the raincoat was mine. When I needed it, somehow I was sure, but now I’m filled with doubt. It was kind of small. It couldn’t be Nina’s; she’s so tall.

What if I had run off with someone’s coat? What if it’s Clare’s, who was innocently teaching her class in the warmth and dryness of her classroom, secure that she was smart enough, organized enough to bring a raincoat? Only she went to the office, found it gone, and was forced to get drenched going to her car.

Joanna, who remembers everything visual, said, “No, that’s not any of our coats. I’ve never seen it.”

Great. The woman who mislabled dangerous prescription drugs has now run off with someone else’s raincoat.

The next morning, I carried it in timidly. Nina’s there. Everyone’s always there before me. (Except Becky, who had said, “Go ahead, take it.”)

“Does anyone know whose coat this is? Because I took it yesterday, and now I’m afraid it was Clare’s, but I thought it was mine. It was raining so hard….”

Nina said, “It’s not mine. And it’s been hanging up there for months.” Definite. She would know.

I was so happy. It had to be mine, if it had been there for months! Clare wouldn’t leave something hanging around for months. She’s organized. Probably has a salt shaker in her purse.
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There is a pile of mending under my sewing machine. It’s been there for at least 5 years. I know that because I remember seeing the same pile in our last house. All of it belongs to Pat. If I have something that needs mending, I dispatch it straight away to Goodwill. I hate sewing.

There was a blue moon, so I decided to try and be a good wife and bless my husband by doing some mending. (I stole that joke from Ronnie Stevens.) “Give me the three things you want fixed the most.”

I sewed a button on some work pants, hemmed some nice Dockers that I’d bought him at least three years ago, and sewed the crotch of some raggedy blue jeans. “They’re great to work in.” I had decided not to argue.

A couple of nights later, he asked, “Did you sew this button on?” After one day’s wear, it was hanging on by one thread. The next night I called him to see why he was so late for the church chili dinner. “I had to go home and change. You know those jeans you sewed for me?"

Yes, I remembered those obscene ones with the crotch out.

"Well, it all came undone.”