An Extraordinary Voyage for Hope

An Extraordinary Voyage for Hope

Dave Ryzen

A Novel

Copyright © 2016 by David Pyrzenski

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2016

ISBN 978-1-365-14277-2

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Author’s Note

All of the locations, cultures, people, races, and medicines in this story are purely fictional.  I hope you enjoy the world I’ve created for these characters and their adventure

1

Heart racing, breathing labored, Melissa felt a shiver raise the hair and skin on her forearms and legs.  Melissa cringed and winced and imagined a place far from the darkness engulfing her as she lay in a sea of cotton sheets, pillows tucked around securing her in place. The air was stifling.  Melissa rolled from her side onto her back and used her palms and feet to maneuver her head and back against the headboard, sitting up in the king sized bed.  Objects began to have definition in the pitch black room as Melissa’s eyes adjusted.  In the corner of her bedroom, she saw the dim light of the moon piercing through a gap in the window shade.  The beam illuminated a thin path to her dresser, not far from the bed. 

Melissa breathed faster.  Her heart beat faster too.  Concentration was beyond difficult; it was impossible, and Melissa felt herself losing consciousness.  Still pressing herself against the headboard, her right hand starting to tremble and her triceps aching, Melissa struggled to keep herself upright and to listen for a sound.  Her thoughts disoriented and focus limited, Melissa fought to hear noise, any noise.  A ceiling fan spun silently above, barely disrupting the air.  Melissa couldn’t see the fan but could feel the modest swirl of air it created.  It was a helpful distraction, but it was not enough. 

What? Melissa said aloud.  What?  What?  What?  The sound of her own voice echoed from the walls in her spacious bedroom.  The sound comforted her, but only slightly.  Melissa paused to consider her current condition from an aspect of uncertainty.  Was this onset of paralyzing mental lassitude caused by an intruder or third party catalyst?  Her quiescent mind was voided of the day’s troubles and was not pondering future or possible troubles.  There were no discernible nightmares or dreams that she could recall.  What exactly was the root cause of this current psychological and physical distress?  How? was coming next.  How long had she been asleep?  How early in the morning or late at night was it?  Turning to her left, she could barely read the faint illuminated numbers of her digital alarm clock as 4:45 a.m.  The trembling and confusion was subsiding and her concentration ability was returning.  It would not be possible to return to sleep, but she would be able to manage leaving the security of the pillows and the bed and walk to her dresser.

As Melissa swiveled on her bottom and placed her feet onto the floor beside the bed, she cleared her mind again, closed her eyes and imagined her feet touching the warm sandy beaches of a tropical resort.  She imagined the sun beating down on her pale skin and a cooling mistral soothing her. 

There were no other sounds or distracters and Melissa slowly stood upright.  There were no people.  There was nothing but serenity, but even on this warm, solitary beach, the silence and tranquility was burdensome.  The monotonous repetition of waves and wind left little to distract her.  Calmness did not engage the passive area of Melissa’s mind, which was abnormally reactive to its own devices.  The sand did not burn Melissa’s feet and the sun did not burn her shoulders.  Melissa moved into the ocean.  Her feet were in the water, but there was no surf.  The waves did not crash against her legs. The salty blue fluid mingled with her toes, but it was no cooler than the ambient air.  Her consciousness raced to find a stimulant, something to quell the internal chaos.  The idea of turmoil and uncertain breathing and heart-beating began to disorient Melissa, threatening her balance.  Her knees buckled and she was moments from fainting into the tepid ocean water.  Eyes opened, Melissa sat back down on the bed.  The concentration exercise failed. 

Come on, come on, come on, Melissa said aloud.  Shaking her head and standing once more, she focused on the task ahead—the dresser only a few steps away.  Melissa imagined casually walking to it, unabated.  Looking back at the clock, she contemplated the day ahead. 

What would she make for breakfast?  What would she wear?  What would she do after breakfast but before her afternoon appointment?  How long would the doctor’s appointment last?  Should she make the bed before or after breakfast?  Before or after a shower?  When should she do her yoga and Pilates? 

As the questions mounted, she picked and chose which to answer.  She decided to make the bed after a shower and after dressing in jeans and a knit top.  She decided to do her yoga before breakfast and eat breakfast before taking the shower.  As the questions were asked and answered, Melissa found herself standing at her dresser.  The act of reaching down and retrieving a dose of her prescription medication relieved her of her symptoms.  Simply holding the anti-anxiety medication summoned a wave of relief which, starting from the very top of her head and flowing down to her feet, washed the panic from her.  With a slow, deep breath of liberation and satisfaction, Melissa was temporarily contented.

The start of the morning was typical.  Gripped by constant, unyielding anxiety, these panic attacks were a major part of Melissa’s life and routine.  The panic attacks often terrified her, but they were always a welcome distraction from her clinical depression.  Clinical depression, crippling anxiety, chronic fatigue, muscle and joint pain, spontaneous nausea and fever, uncontrollable weight fluctuation, migraine headaches; these were the most prevalent of Melissa’s symptoms.  Melissa took five different prescriptions, a mix of supplements, and six different vitamins each day, several times per day.  Melissa went to a psychiatrist four days of each week.  Sometimes she would go on a fifth or sixth day or twice in one day.  This was the life that Melissa led for many years.  A young woman, less than thirty, she could trace the start of her illness back to her early twenties.  Although she didn’t remember an acute onset of the sickness, she recalled vividly the dates when she was prescribed various medications to combat her ailments.  The specialists and psychiatrists argued over the correlation and causation of each symptom and malady.  No one shared the same prognosis or diagnosis and there was no definitive treatment, so Melissa lived a relatively torpid life altogether without companions, or family, or friends.  Her moribund existence was confusing and sad.  She often wondered if karma played a role in abashing her hope of a normal and healthy place on this earth.  Did she wrong someone or some deity without realization?  The profound found a place between her depression and sleep and gave her an activity to occupy her mind. 

Melissa swallowed two anti-anxiety pills and rested against her dresser, seeing herself in the vanity mirror.  There were dark circles beneath her eyes and crow’s feet extended to her temples.  She studied her pale skin and each imperfection glowing in the moonlight through the curtains.  There was a small spot, as if a mole, on her neck that caught the moonlight’s beam perfectly.  She wondered if she had always had it.  When she pressed the mole and scratched it with her index finger, its color drained under stress and then returned to burgundy when at calm.  Melissa repeated the pressing and scratching until the area was reddened with irritation, and then she agreed to leave the spot alone.  She would check on it again in a few weeks to see if it changed size or color. The spot provided yet another important distraction and allowed Melissa to wander from the bedroom, through an expansive hallway, into her kitchen.  She started a pot of coffee and sat comfortably in a chair at the kitchen table, allowing her recently taken medicine to correct the malfunctions of her mind. 

Properly medicated and aligned, Melissa could eat breakfast, shower, and complete all the additional tasks of a somewhat normal day.  Throughout the day, there would be other ailments to treat, but she always had the medication waiting nearby.

Several days earlier, the nascent fever and chilling perspiration had triggered Melissa to schedule yet another doctor’s appointment.  Most of the area doctors were either unwilling to see Melissa or completely booked.  These doctors had all taken turns seeing Melissa on countless instances and, worn out by her incessant complaints, were also resigned to conclude that they were unable to help her.  Melissa refused to visit emergency rooms or walk-in clinics because of sanitation reasons. 

Melissa had finally been able to make an appointment with Dr. Carl Greenberg.  She had found Dr. Greenberg’s name online.  He was not a member doctor in her PPO, but she planned on sending a claim into the insurance company anyway.  The insurance company often paid a small percentage of Melissa’s claims.  They liked Melissa as a client.  She never needed major operations or procedures, so their payouts were minimal.  Meanwhile, they had justification to charge her ungodly premiums.  It would have been in Melissa’s interest to drop the insurance company and simply pay out of pocket, but Melissa was positive that she had something terribly complex brewing inside that, once discovered, would take a team of doctors, surgeons, and specialists to combat.  It was for this reason that she agreed to pay the premiums on insurance.  The fear of the unknown was a powerful motivator. 

At first, Dr. Greenberg had a fairly lengthy phone consultation with Melissa and asked her to forward him her medical files for review.  It took Greenberg two days to call Melissa back and inform her that he would agree to an appointment.  To Melissa, he seemed rather hopeful from his intonation.  The appointment was scheduled for two days post conversation.

This day was the day of the scheduled appointment and Melissa desperately wanted to be on time.  She reasoned that the worry of being late coupled with the anticipation of seeing a new doctor was the driving factor behind her early morning wake and anxiety.  It was easy for Melissa to get excited about a new doctor.  Each new doctor wielded the possibility to disappoint and held the promise of a long sought cure. 

Melissa relaxed herself with yoga but skipped the Pilates.  She instead used the time to arrange her clothes for the remainder of the week and dust behind the television and three other places that the housecleaners had missed on their previous visit.  Upon completion of the spontaneous chores, she had a shower and breakfast.  Although awake from an early hour, the time passed rapidly and without realization. Melissa had fallen behind schedule and was now hurried to leave the house and drive to the doctor’s; otherwise she would be late for the appointment.  The drive was nearly twenty miles.  With morning Chicago traffic, it would normally take her forty-five to fifty minutes, but now she had only forty minutes to reach the office on time.  A long, slow drive was enough to stir the ever-present anxiety, so the addition of a dwindling timetable multiplied this risk. 

On her way out the door, Melissa took a few more anti-anxiety pills and stuffed them in her pocket.  It was a small assurance.

2

A bright blue Audi followed closely behind Melissa on her drive.  The Audi was often at less than six feet behind Melissa’s white Volvo.  Twice, the Audi closed within a single foot from the Volvo’s rear bumper.  Catching glances in the rearview mirror, Melissa saw that the Audi driver was a burly man with darkly tinted glasses, or lightly tinted sunglasses.  He was bald with black hair tufts along his ears and a black hackneyed mustache.  The man had a fat pink face.  Melissa had very good vision and he was driving very close, so she could even see him scowling. 

The road she traveled was a one-lane road in both directions with no passing zones.  In three miles she would arrive at the onramp to the expressway.  Melissa watched the road ahead, the Audi behind, and the Volvo’s speedometer at regular intervals, with slightly more attention paid to the road ahead.  She was cruising along at forty-nine miles per hour and the posted speed limit was forty-five miles per hour.  There were no cars within sight in front of her and she didn’t notice any cars behind the Audi in her rear view mirror.  The road itself was clean and dry.  There had been an early morning shower, but former motorists had worn tracks through the dampened pavement, providing two distinct paths in which to align her tires. 

As Melissa drove another mile, the Audi positioned a closer average, maintaining only three feet of distance.  The man driving the car was no longer focused and scowling.  Now the man gestured wildly with his arms and hands, often letting go of the steering wheel completely.  Melissa was not oblivious to his agitation, and she reasoned that he was unsatisfied with the pace her Volvo was setting.  He obviously wanted to drive faster than forty-nine miles per hour.  What would satisfy him?  Would fifty or fifty-two be satisfactory?  The intimacy of their bumpers suggested that even a pace of fifty-two would be far from accommodating.

The anti-anxiety medication was helping Melissa manage the stress caused by the imposed intimidation of annoyed Audi driver.  Unfortunately, the medication had its limits, and Melissa felt a twinge of panic taking shape inside and her heart skipped a single beat, a sure warning sign.  The onramp was only two miles out, but Melissa had had enough.  With her turn signal clicking significantly in advance, she waited a few moments and eased the Volvo off of the road and onto the shoulder.  The Audi sped by at once and honked the horn in a long, resonating blast similar to a ship coming to port.  The man with the reddened face shook his fist and cursed at Melissa as the Audi sailed past.

There were no oncoming cars and Melissa returned to the road.  The Audi was almost out of sight and her nerves quickly eased.  Normally the nerves might stay agitated and frayed for hours after a stressful event, but the medication helped lighten the effect.  With no Audis in the rear view mirror and no cars ahead, Melissa decided to daydream for as long as the environment permitted.  She wanted to daydream about being symptom free and living in a world of opportunity without restrictions.  The road was familiar and didn’t give cause for inspection.  The scenery was familiar and vague.  Melissa daydreamed about driving through a New England town in mid-autumn.  The leaves would smell of dried fruit and late vegetables and the yellows and reds would make tourists smile.  Melissa smiled while enjoying her dream.  The moment lasted briefly, however, because the dream had to be put on hold for the expressway.

The frequency and speed of passing cars coupled with their violent lane changes tormented poor Melissa.  She interpreted the feeling to be akin to a wounded beast being overrun by jackals.  The hysteria of the freeway was not as intimidating as the Audi driver, but it was enough to block the colorful daydreaming.  Melissa decided to compensate by simply recalling past experiences and pondering their significance and future significance.  Such rational reasoning was possible amidst turbulent distractions like the buzzing traffic.  Artistic imagination used another section of Melissa’s brain, and it wouldn’t comply in such a situation. 

Melissa thought back to her first doctor’s visit after her parents died.  His name was Dr. Brian McKinley.  He was a brilliant doctor from Chicago General Hospital.  He devoted a long consultation to Melissa where she detailed all her maladies and pains.  The doctor ordered many blood and urine cultures, as well as EKG tests.  It was Melissa’s initiation into a disappointing reoccurrence.  The day of the follow up consultation was vivid. 

Good news first, Melissa, the doctor said with stoic confidence.  All tests are negative, and there are no other tests that we can do here which would make any sense.  You’ve got a completely clean bill of health.

So what’s the bad news?  Melissa was disappointed in the news.  She felt sick simply sitting in the office and had prepared herself to receive a definition for the illness that plagued her. 

How are you feeling today? McKinley redirected.

Terrible, actually.  My head is pounding, I am exhausted, and I feel this strange, almost nervous feeling, which makes it hard to focus.

Yes.  McKinley looked over a page of notes in a manila folder.  Some of those same symptoms that you came in here with.

Yeah, exactly.  I don’t feel better.  Nothing has changed, and it’s been a week and I’ve been trying to get more sleep and exercise and eat well, and I’m not drinking or smoking or anything bad.

That’s the bad news Melissa, but I want you to take this and learn from it.  I believe all of your symptoms may by psychosomatic.  McKinley let the words linger before continuing.  It’s my recommendation that you schedule a visit with a psychiatrist.  McKinley didn’t wait for Melissa to react to that suggestion.  There are a myriad of things that can happen to our brains, chemical changes that cause us to feel sick even when we are not.  In a way, our brains have been temporarily alerted and they don’t know how to handle the new information, so they go a bit off track and trick us into thinking there is something wrong physically.  It’s really common…

What could cause that? The surfeit garrulity of the explanation was bothersome.

This isn’t my area of expertise, which is why I suggest you see a specialist like a psychiatrist, but it could come from a number of places—alcohol abuse, drug abuse, chemical exposure, trauma, heredity, et cetera.  There are numerous places that these abnormalities can stem from.

Melissa sat in silence, dazed and focused on a jar of cotton swabs.  Dr. McKinley couldn’t tell if she was pondering the cause of her condition or simply overwhelmed by the suggestion, thus he continued the conversation.

Did your parents, grandparents or close relatives have a history of mental illness?

No.  God no.  Not that I know of.  Melissa snapped out of her fixation.

Do you think you would be comfortable and willing to see one of these professionals?  I could have a list of referrals given to you to choose from.

Yeah.  Sure.  I don’t see why not, if you think it will help.

Like I said, I’m not sure.  It’s not my area of expertise, but I do know that there is nothing physically wrong with you.  You’re a model of health. I think this might be very beneficial.

As Melissa merged into the furthest right hand lane to prepare for her exit, she wondered if Dr. McKinley could have been right all this time.  She also wondered if he had been wrong all this time.  What if he missed something?  All the years wasted because he didn’t check for something.  She didn’t play with that idea for long because the possibility was infuriating.  Instead, she reviewed her printed directions and confirmed the exit she would be taking.   She thought of her speed in the right hand lane—fifty-eight in a fifty-five mile per hour zone.  There were no cars behind her yet and she was happy for that.  She thought about her feelings after that first meeting with Dr. McKinley.  She could recall being both satisfied by the notion of herself as a model of health and tormented by the notion that there could be something malfunctioning within her mind.

As the off-ramp approached, she thought of Dr. Rosenberg, the first psychiatrist she visited, on the advice of Dr. McKinley.  Rosenberg’s office was in the downtown area of a city not too far from her own.  The distance was less than four miles as a crow would fly.  That was a pleasant coincidence.  The office was on the top floor of a five-story brownstone building.  There was a bakery on the bottom floor.  Melissa’s worries and reservations regarding the appointment began the moment it was made and lingered with her consistently, but as she approached the brownstone, the smell of fresh scones and tarts immediately disarmed her tentativeness.  The bakery also had fresh coffee on brew, and had she not been running several minutes behind schedule, she would have stopped for a quick treat. 

The building was very old and it was obvious from the decay of the brownstone.  However, the building was also freshly renovated with new fixtures, trim, windows, doors, lighting and flooring.  Upon entrance to the building, Melissa was delighted by how the modern components and renovations blended with the old storied walls.  She wondered how many people or businesses had occupied the building before the current stable of tenants.  She was delighted that a bakery held lease on the bottom floor.  If she lived or worked in a brownstone, she would want a bakery to be on the first floor too. 

Melissa knew from her directions that Dr. Rosenberg’s practice was located on the fifth floor, but she reviewed the directory out of curiosity.  On the second floor, there was a company called Eagle Consulting and a company called ACL Design.  On the third floor there was an architectural firm called Murphy & Naismith Architectural that had the entire floor.  The fourth floor didn’t have any tenants listed, and Melissa wondered if there was space available for lease.  Dr. Rosenberg listed his practice as East Villa Family. 

The elevator was sturdy and true and didn’t shake or take too long to move.  It was a good elevator made by Otis, which was displayed proudly both on the entrance floor plate and above the floor numbers.  It was the type of elevator that she enjoyed riding in.  It gave her no worries and she didn’t contemplate the possibility of it not working.  Off of the elevator on the fifth floor, fine burgundy and grey patterned tile led the way to Dr. Rosenberg’s office. 

The first thing Melissa noticed was that the office was well lit. Every square inch of the office was lit by a strategically placed light source, but the lighting was soft and kept at a moderate level, and most of the light came in from the impeccably clean windows that outlined the fifth floor.  The windows did not have curtains or shades drawn.  They began almost a foot from the floor and rose nearly nine feet to the ceiling but were narrow, probably no more than eighteen inches wide.  The windows were so clean and so well washed that Melissa assumed they must have been part of a renovation.  It was a good addition if it was the case.  The rest of the office fit nicely with the atmosphere created by the lighting.  The walls were left to be their natural brick, and all of the wood was old, well-oiled and a medium darkness, perhaps maple.  The tile that led to the office gave way to a plush carpet that Melissa immediately enjoyed beneath her feet, but she also worried about the winters and how mud and snow-laden foot traffic might stain and matte the lovely plush material.  The carpet was two shades of brown, which nicely accented the oiled wood furniture, and she assumed that the color would be a benefit against stains.

Dr. Rosenberg had a pleasant elderly woman ready to greet patients.  She was the type of woman who seemed generally excited to see anyone come through the door.  She said things like Well hello! and So lovely to meet you, and Isn’t it just a gorgeous day outside? and Hopefully I can sneak out for a late afternoon walk.  She was an openly flattering type of woman who would compliment a lady’s shoes or a man’s tie and mean it.  She wouldn’t be satisfied by patients reading month old magazines, and she would strike up the most disarming casual conversations.  Truly, anyone who was having a bad day and was saddened and wanted to remain saddened would think twice before even visiting Dr. Rosenberg’s office because it would be impossible to escape the warmth this woman, whose name was Martha.  Melissa chatted with Martha for only four minutes before Dr. Rosenberg was ready for her, and Martha was visibly disappointed that her new acquaintance was leaving her graces. 

Dr. Rosenberg’s office was furnished and decorated exactly the same as the rest of the office.  He and Martha may have had the same desk and chair, but Dr. Rosenberg’s office also had a sitting chair, a chaise lounge, a wide divan at the far end, a regular sofa, and a smaller coffee table.  All of the furniture was arranged in a circular fashion so the sitters could face each other, no matter the piece of furniture chosen.

The doctor was not a handsome man to Melissa.  He looked like Sean Connery, and Melissa was never attracted to Sean Connery.  On the other hand, Sean Connery’s appearance was a comforting image for Melissa, so she was glad that the doctor resembled Mr. Connery. She was also glad that she wasn’t attracted to him because she thought the un-attraction would make their conversations more candid, and she wouldn’t be inclined to hold back or be shy. 

Initially, the conversation went quite well. Melissa told Dr. Rosenberg about her life before her parents died and her recent life.  She told the doctor about some of the drugs she experimented with, the alcohol she consumed and other abuses. 

Do you need those substances to feel well?

Sometimes.  Sometimes they help me change focus.  They don’t make me feel better, but they help distract me from whatever is bothering me.  It’s like…, Melissa concentrated on the proper metaphor, being nervous with anticipation and fear as a roller coaster is climbing.  When I take drugs or drink heavily, it’s like I am able to push the coaster over the edge.  Sure, I’m still nervous as the coaster is roaring down.  It could break or I could fall out, but the ride is so exhilarating that I am distracted from those feelings.  Melissa was satisfied by the analogy.  Yeah that’s what it’s like.

And when you don’t have access to self-medicate?  What do you do in those circumstances?  Melissa didn’t like to think about those times.  Those were the worst times.

I cry.  I cry for hours.  I try to force myself to sleep.  I eat.  I watch television endlessly.  It was hard for Melissa to speak of this scenario and Dr. Rosenberg could see it. 

Have you tried going for a run, meditating, talking to someone like myself or a friend?

I don’t have any friends. Melissa didn’t let Rosenberg respond to this. And I’ve tried running and going to the gym and yoga and all that.  None of it works.  I just feel sicker.

Have you considered that this could all be stemming from depression?

"Of course.  Well, not really.  I mean, I’m depressed because of how I feel.  I feel sick and it depresses the shit out of me and things get worse, but then