Page 35 of Healed Heart
“Yes,” he says, “youarestill here.But survival isn’t the same as living, Dr.Lansing.You could be surviving just fine while not really living your life.”
I blink at him.His words resonate with me, stirring up thoughts and feelings I’ve carefully kept buried.
“We’re getting off track,” I say briskly, eager to steer the conversation away from my personal life and maybe toward Lindsay.“The point of this session is for you to make sure I have adequate support and coping techniques to deal with a possible negative outcome of the surgery.”
“Indeed,” Dr.Engel replies, shifting his position.“But in order to assess that, we need to have a clear understanding of your current state of mind and overall well-being.”
Fuck.
I should have known he wouldn’t let me off the hook so easily.
I sigh, lean back into the plush leather chair, and cross my arms.“Fine.What do you want to know?”
He pulls out a notebook and pen.“Let’s start with your mood.How would you describe it?”
“Good,” I say.
He raises an eyebrow at me but doesn’t contradict me.“And how about your sleep?Any disturbances or nightmares?”
“No,” I say quickly, averting my gaze.It’s not true, though…
Or maybe it is.
I haven’t had nearly as many sweaty nightmares since I began seeing Angie.
“Any loss of appetite or changes in weight?”
“No,” I reply, shifting uncomfortably under his gaze.My patience is beginning to wear thin, but I’m careful not to let it show.
Dr.Engel nods, scribbling some notes.After a moment, he looks up again.“Have you been experiencing feelings of hopelessness or guilt recently?”
Hopelessness?
No.
Guilt?
Fuck…
I hesitate before answering.“Guilt, sometimes,” I admit, staring at his sleek glass desk.
“Hmm.”Dr.Engel taps his pen against the notebook.“And how often do you find yourself thinking about the accident?”
More than I’d like to admit.
“Often,” I mumble.
“Are these thoughts accompanied by a sense of panic or anxiety?”he asks.
“No.”
And it’s true.I’m not anxious.I feel guilt, of course, but not anxiety, other than my newfound desire to know whether my wife actually committed suicide.
“I see,” he says.
I clear my throat.“I think I need to postpone the surgery anyway.”
He widens his eyes.“And why is that?”
