One Last Thing ✅

forty-nine things

Dr. Maycomb, my pediatrician, is an elderly man with white hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He sits, alternately looking over my chart and peering at me. Grams sits nearby, her purse in her lap. Her knuckles are white.

Finally, he sets down the folder. "So what can I do for you today?"

I look at Grams.

She looks at me. "Go ahead. Tell him."

Dr. Maycomb waits expectantly. I examine the back of my hand, a wave of nausea washing over me at the prospect of describing my suicide attempt to this man who treated me when I was just a little girl. How do I explain to someone who saw me when I was so small, so innocent, just how screwed up my life has become?

"I..." My voice shakes. "I tried to kill myself."

No use in finding a euphemism to explain my actions. Throw in the towel just doesn't capture the reality of the situation. I don't want to tiptoe around it. I did it; I must own it, put it out there for everyone to see. And judge. That's part of taking responsibility, accepting the consequences for my actions.

Dr. Maycomb sighs. "I heard about the accident. I wondered how you were doing. Obviously not very well."

I look down at my hands and shake my head. Even now, I'm wondering what kind of instruments are hidden in the cabinets behind Dr. Maycomb's head. Whether I could get them to leave me alone in here so I could investigate. And—no. I consciously have to end the thought. Just focus. Concentrate on what's happening. Don't think about escape.

"Tell me about your symptoms, Lil," Dr. Maycomb says.

I rub my palm, suddenly sweaty, against my jeans. "The main thing is that I get really anxious and I can't breathe."

"When does this happen?"

I think of the morning I tried to walk into Mrs. Edwards's classroom. "I don't know. When I'm stressed out. When it feels like everything is closing in on me."

Dr. Maycomb nods. "Sounds like anxiety. And... given your suicide attempt, I'm guessing you're dealing with a lot of depression."

I nod.

Grams speaks up. "Dr. Knowles told us that we should speak with you about getting some medication."

Tapping his chin with his index finger, Dr. Maycomb looks at me thoughtfully. "I don't think that would be a terrible idea. I'm hesitant to prescribe SSRIs to teenagers because of the possible side effects, but as long as she comes to check in, I have no problem writing a prescription for, say, sertraline."

I stare at him blankly.

"Zoloft," he says. "It will help with your anxiety. It will also help even out your moods a little, so not everything seems quite so life or death."

I wonder if that's even possible at this point. It's like, since the accident, I've been on a roller coaster spiraling down and down and down until I'm with my friends and there are a few bumps, lifting me upward, until I start falling down again.

"There is a possibility that this could lead to more suicidal thoughts, however, and that's why it's very important that we communicate about how you're feeling. Are you going to counseling?"

"Yes," I say, my voice tiny.

"She's meeting with the school counselor three times a week."

Dr. Maycomb nods. He pulls a small pad of paper out of his front pocket and scribbles a few words on it, rips off the top page, and hands it to Grams. "One pill each morning. It's unlikely that one could die from an overdose, but I suggest that you hold onto these, just in case. It'll take a few weeks to take effect."

Grams accepts the paper, folds it in half, and stuffs it in her purse. "Thank you," she says to the doctor breathily. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"This isn't a band-aid," Dr. Maycomb cautions. "This is only part of her treatment. She's going to need support and counseling. And time. Lots of time." He turns to me, puts his hand on my head in a fatherly way. "But I've known you for a long time, Lil. And I have faith that you'll get through this. I really do. You've just got to be strong."

I smile, but my lips are wobbly. "Thanks."