The Telephone Call

      First of all, I am stealing the title of this post from the works of the immortal Dorothy Parker ( note to self: Always steal from the immortal.)

Secondly, the narrative I am about to share with you is from Andrew Solomon's; "The Noonday Demon",  his brilliant book/atlas on depression.

"My analyst and I discussed the situation: I was depressed. We tried to get to the root of the problem while I felt the disconnect slowly but relentlessly increasing. I began to complain that I was overwhelmed by the messages on my answering machine and I fixated on that: I saw the calls, often from friends, as an impossible weight. Every time I returned the calls more came in."

Darling Andrew: I experienced "traumatic telephonitis" long before you did.

Gentle Readers: Yes, I am well aware that this is not a contest between Mr. Solomon and myself.

It was a summer night, long ago, when I had unlocked my apartment door. The entrance way was dark but I could still see a giant shadow. That shadow was the repulsive red light blinking relentlessly from my telephone: yes, my voicemail was calling me.

It had been a perfect night...up until that moment... when the telephone was no longer a friend...it was now, "an impossible weight".

Quite honestly, I have never recovered from that night or the "impossible weight" of the telephone.

Last month was fraught with telephone calls beckoning my immediate attention.

Every one of these calls required a huge-almost Herculean effort on my part.

One call a day, I whispered to myself.

"I got this"; replied my frail ego.

One morning found me unable to get out of bed for over three hours even with my bladder about to burst, I lacked the courage to call a government subsidized agency that assists tenants  in clearing up their rental arrears.

Once connected, I rattled on ad infinitum in atrocious non sequiturs. Fumbling over my words, ending sentences with the dreaded "upspeak", an ailment that plagues only the female sex.

In short, I was a big, hot mess.

I readily admit to having a peculiar way of communicating. I don't finish thoughts or sentences, but old friends seem to have grown accustomed to my messy trainweck way of speaking. So upon meeting a new and befuddled acquaintance, I usually just giggle and say ; "Don't mind me, I am just a graduate of the Diane Keaton School of Speech." If they are over forty and film literate, this reference usually gets a laugh.

Now, there was a time in my life when I did possess a normal relationship with the telephone.

When I was eighteen, my grandfather passed away from a sudden massive heart attack.

His death was a major inconvenience to my parents.

Why?

The man had to die on the same day my newly-divorced aunt was moving to a new residence, some 1700 miles from her family .

In those "Alice Doesn't Live Here, Anymore " days, your landline would usually be installed a few days after you moved into your new home.

In retrospect, nothing was ever "immediate" like it is now, in the 21st century.

This conundrum left my parents bewildered.

How would they ever be able to reach my aunt?

That night, I took over the grow-up reins from my parents and dealt with the situation.

I dialed the long distance operator and had myself connected to the Palm Beach Police Department and explained the situation to them (yes, I completed sentences and thoughts back then.) I gave the police my aunt's new address and within the hour, my aunt had called my parents.

My "stuck-in-the dark ages" family marveled and fawned all over their daughter and my new, proven, and adultish problem-solving skills.

Time and technology march on.

Families fall apart.

People die.

Last summer, my father was in the hospital.

My brother refused to call my aunt who is now happily-re-married once again, to my uncle.

Wildly perturbed, I took over the grown-up reigns and made the call to her.

In less than 10 hours, my father was dead.

This small window of time left my aunt unable to get a flight to come home to be with her brother, one last time.

Hell hath no fury like a relative who feels they have been treated like shit.

She was furious and had every right to feel that way.

My aunt asked only one request from my brother and myself. After the cremation, she wanted us to put some ashes in an envelope and send them to her via snail mail.

I found this request to be odd and a little macabre. Lots of bad jokes came to mind and being me, I spun every one of these funny (but macabre) tales to all who would listen.

My brother ignored the request.

No effort of communication had been made by any party since last summer.

This huge-Herculean kerfuffle should have been a priority on "my calls to be made" list....last month.

I delayed.

I rationalized.

I played martyr. (why am I always the one with all the responsibility?)

Last evening, I punched in the number.

I listened for a dial tone.

The phone was ringing.

I heard my aunt say; "Hell
I felt a lump in my throat and paused before I spoke...... while "an impossible weight" came over me.o..."