Solo Trip

By Steven Heer

For many of us life is safe, secure and sometimes even routine. There’s always unexpected issues and events that can set us back, but we eventually and hopefully recover, then return to the mundane.

Benjamin Dawson’s busy life, physically and mentally stressed him to the point of needing a break and a time to heal. On the advice of his doctor, he ventured out on a quest for solace. An uninhabited resort island getaway was the prescription. But what happened on the island and to the world around him was anything but ordinary and the life he once knew would forever be changed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Steven Heer
• Release date: Apr 3, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370273133

Steven Heer

.

Book preview

Prologue

Ben Dawson never liked seeing doctors, shrinks, dentists, or anything to do with pricking, poking or probing. Who the hell does?

This time around, it was a psychiatrist. His main fear was that he would expose his most inner thoughts, emotions and layers of experience and that the doctor would extract them all—like poking a small hole in a raw egg and sucking out the embryonic liquid—leaving an empty shell, easily cracked, easily crushed and completely vulnerable. Preposterous! Get a grip Ben, he told himself. All that would happen was this. He would share a few thoughts with the doctor, get a quick diagnosis, a packet of sample pills and be sent on his miserable way.

He wanted to make up an excuse, turn around, and forget the whole thing. He didn’t really need help! After all, he was relatively smart—or so he thought. He had a great job and a wonderful family, who adored him. He was physically fit. He still had some youth in him and he was handsome, according to his wife. It was everyone’s dream life—right? So why was he here? He was beginning to think this was a very bad idea.

It started a couple of months ago—or was it longer than that? Perhaps there were a few critical work deadlines and maybe a few family issues keeping his brain challenged. It was ordinary stuff that he should have been able to handle. Usually he can absorb that kind of pressure—in one ear, out the other. But this was different. Ben was going through some very odd emotions. One day everything would go his way, the next, nothing seemed to be in sync. The episodes and nightmares came and went but seemed to be less frequent now. It could have been a mid-life crisis, although he was only 37. He was worrying a lot too. Sometimes it felt like there was a crushing, impending doom hanging over his head—as though something vast and dreadful were going to happen. Upsetting words would pop into his head. Paranoia, schizophrenia, obsessive compulsion disorder, those were just a few of them.

Nevertheless, here he was, on his way to see a shrink, someone who might be able to tell Ben what was going on in his messed-up brain. He really wanted to turn around and go home, but his conscious was driving him, and before he realized it, he crossed the street and was already there.

The downtown Richmond office was situated on the top floor in the southwestern corner of the 19-floor marble and glass clad building. It looked fairly new. The glass panels reflected the surrounding buildings and trees like a large segmented mirror with sepia-colored images. One would like to assume a psychiatrist’s office would be near the ground level, especially for those who were coming to combat something like acrophobia, the fear of heights.

Doctor Peter Ford was actually a good friend of Ben’s. He was one of the gopher brigade, as they called themselves. The gopher brigade was a group of four friends—all men, who got together once a week to play either golf or poker depending on the weather. At some point, he doesn’t remember when, the group created the gopher acronym loosely based on the words golf and poker. The other two members were Chris Jones who owned a steel fabricating business and Kevin Manning, who was currently the sports editor for the Richmond Times-Dispatch.

Kevin who was a long-time friend of Ben’s all the way back from the high school days, were on the links one extremely humid afternoon trailing their soon to be friends, Peter and Chris, by one hole. Ben didn't remember who won this particular game, but he does recall the intense heat and sweat that dripped from every pore. They bumped into the duo again at the air-conditioned clubhouse after the game. Chris, who is definitely the most boisterous of the gopher brigade, made a glancing comment regarding Ben’s ability to drive the ball so well despite that fact that he was a lefty. This began a lively, but friendly exchange of comments and jokes regarding the abilities and disabilities of left-handed people. Ben took no offense in the bantering. He was used to the teasing of his directionally-challenged appendage. After a couple more rounds of the liquid type, they all agreed to a foursome—same time and place next week. Thus began the formation of their friendship, albeit an odd mix of personalities.

Peter Ford, the psychiatrist who he was about to see, never discussed his professional life, not even anonymously. He strictly abided by the doctor-patient confidentiality code of conduct. He did however, have a knack of injecting humorous analytical observances smoothly into the crux of the group’s conversations. He was so good at it, it would sometimes take a few minutes for someone to get the meaning of the joke. He was definitely a master at oral communications.

It was last week on the eighth hole that Ben quietly disclosed his symptoms to Peter who seemed genuinely concerned and was miraculously able to squeeze Ben into his tight schedule. When Ben told his wife Helen about his appointment, she seemed vaguely concerned. When he told her that he was seeing his friend Peter Ford, she didn’t seem to be surprised, or even curious. She simply said that she'd hope it went well and quickly left for a kitchen need of some sort. Perhaps it was Ben’s paranoia-infused mental state, but something seemed wrong to him about their conversation. It made him think she was being less than supportive to his needs. Or perhaps she was playing disconcerted in order to scale down the seriousness of Ben's affliction to satiate his fears. Sometimes he had a hard time reading her. Sometimes he had a hard time reading himself for that matter.

As he entered the waiting room, the Doctor’s assistant was busy chatting on the phone while clicking away on her mouse. She gave him a quick raised eyebrow acknowledging his presence, which relieved Ben the task of interrupting her. Her appearance was not as one would imagine for an expensive doctor like Peter Ford. Instead of being the slim, curt and pant-suited female assistant that one would expect here, she was rather frumpy looking, a little over-weight, and wearing a clingy flower-patterned dress that clashed with the furniture. Otherwise, she had a simple and relaxed air about her with a huge Texan-like smile revealing a mouthful of perfect white teeth. Probably a good thing for calming down the whacked-out cases that came in here, Ben thought—oh, that’s right—I’m one of them. She motioned for him to have a seat while she typed an entry in her appointment calendar.

The light-subdued waiting room was appointed in warm earth tone colors with oceanic-themed paintings that adorned the mute colored walls. There were at least fifteen or so live plants in various places and a soothing fountain in the corner. He could almost hear one of those mood CD’s playing the sounds of the jungle coming from somewhere nearby. Ben pulled out the ever-present tube of Carmex from his left-front pants pocket and proceeded to apply a thin layer to his dry lips. Ever since college, lip balm was his obsession. He’d tried all the other brands and types of moisturizers at one time or another, but Carmex from the tube was his favorite. He was never without it and sometimes—probably during stressful moments—he would find himself applying it at least every 10 minutes. Helen would often complain about finding the damn tubes all over the house. He wondered if he should bring this up with the doctor.

As she finished her phone conversation, the assistant looked up at him bringing that gigantic smile to bear: You must be Benjamin Dawson. Come on over hun’ and let’s get this paperwork started. Yep—definitely Texan.

After exchanging more pleasantries and insurance documents, she motioned for Ben to take a seat to fill out the usual lengthy health questionnaire, which he quickly finished in about ten minutes.

The warmth of the waiting room and the comfort of the leather-bound chairs caused him to close his eyes and drift into thought. His mind replayed the day’s busy activities at work. Because submission deadlines were due just two days from today, most of the time was taken up by article reviews. He had to chastise a new writer who took on an article that was perhaps too challenging. The young writer was bright and energetic, and had parlayed his youthful ideals and side comments into the article, which, in turn, projected a sense of immaturity to the content. Ben actually liked his writing style, but the magazines audience, which was in the 35 to 70 year old range, wouldn't understand some of his younger generation comparisons and euphemisms. The writer had walked away crestfallen.

Ben was meticulous about details like that. As editor-in-chief, he had to be. Some say newspapers and magazines are a dying breed due to the popularity and instant availability of the World Wide Web. To address that, printed publications needed to be unique and first-rate in both style and content. This was but one of the things that tightened Ben’s pressure points.

He flipped through the waiting room magazines looking for his own publication, but could not find a single issue. Just when he was about to reach for a magazine titled: Trailer Life, Doctor Ford—Peter, magically appeared in the waiting room with a toothy grin and simply said Come on in, Ben.

Okay then, here we go.

After taking a seat on an over-sized, overly comfortable chair that was strategically placed angle-wise to the doctor’s chair, the analysis began. Even though Ben knew Peter fairly well, he was still somewhat nervous about seeing him professionally. Maybe he should see someone he didn’t know personally. Maybe he should just get up, walk out, and let whatever happens, happen.

The doctor was scanning Ben's hand-written questionnaire although he probably knew a lot more about Ben from their social encounters than from any other means. He spoke to him in his professional tone—not in the jovial way Ben was used to hearing.

So, how are Helen and the kids? Peter asked.

Ah, the old redirection approach in order to get the patient to feel at ease and comfortable, Ben thought. He would play along even though he didn’t need to be calmed.

They’re fine. Helen just snagged a contract with Pfeiffer and Smith who are setting up a few title insurance offices in the area.

Helen’s an interior designer, correct?

Yes, that’s right. As if Peter didn't already know that. Helen had redecorated Peter’s office just last year.

And the girls?

Taylor and Morgan are just beginning their summer break, so you can imagine how excited they’re feeling right now. Ben wanted to talk about how absolutely wonderful they really were. Always so bright, always so inquisitive, he longed to be sitting with them now instead of going through this dreadful inquisition. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes longer than a normal blink would take, trying to subdue his obvious impatience. However, it was too late. His expression gave him away.

Dr. Peter Ford, as keen as a red-tailed hawk searching for far-away prey, read Ben’s body language and let out his own sigh.

"Ben, normally I try to avoid treating relatives and friends. Therapists need to have anonymity with their patients in order to set aside any influential knowledge. Consider this… just an information gathering session. If I find that you need some serious counseling, which I really doubt, I'll refer you to another qualified therapist—whom you do not play rounds of golf with. So let's just use this time informally. Pretend we're in the clubhouse throwing back a couple of beers—okay?

With a few simple words, Ben felt a lot more at ease. Peter was a freaking expert at this.

So let's discuss you, Ben. I know we talked briefly on the fairway, but if you don’t mind, I would like to hear it again from the beginning.

The doctor proceeded to reach for a small recorder and clicked it on. Ben was suddenly having second thoughts again. He was still trying uselessly to wriggle out of this.

I don’t think it’s anything too serious. Perhaps if I wait it out…

In a tone that seemed well rehearsed, the doctor interjected.

Ben, mental health is just as important as physical health. It doesn’t hurt to get a little checkup occasionally and make sure everything is okay up there too. Your mind controls your body—and hopefully you control your mind. So, enlighten me.

Ben took a deep breath and almost reached for his Carmex, but held back.

"It began sometime last year. One night I woke up with blocked sinuses that were keeping me awake. When I finally went back to sleep, I had dreams about being trapped somewhere and I was buried alive or under water—it was blurry. My heart was beating fast. I got up and took some antihistamine that seemed to help. About a week later, I experienced the same thing, but this time it was while I was awake. I guess I would call it a panic attack. It usually goes away in about five or ten minutes, but during the time of the episode, the feeling is very dreadful."

Have you had a recent physical?

Yes, right after this started happening. I had a heart check as well. Nothing unusual was found.

Tell me about your job—chief editor of a major magazine sounds like a stressful one to me.

True, Ben continued on. Technology rags are challenging. As soon as something new comes out, it hits the web immediately. Magazine production lags two months behind that, so it’s a challenge to make it appear fresh. It can be stressful there's no doubt about that. But that's the nature of this kind of work.

Ben unconsciously changed the subject. By the way, I didn’t see any copies of HomeTECHniques in your waiting room. Didn’t I set up a complimentary subscription for your office?

People like to take them home—it’s a pretty cool magazine. So, how do you recover from these episodes? Do you have any particular method? Dr. Ford stayed on subject.

Usually I just try to take deep breaths and concentrate on some inanimate object or mundane thought. That helps, but it also seems to go away on its own.

Does it always occur at home, or does it happen in public?

It happens mostly when I’m alone, but there have been times when it has occurred in public, but not very often.

Has your family noticed any changes in your behavior?

I suppose that I’ve been a bit short and grouchy. Lately, I’ve been asked more than once ‘are you okay?’.

For a moment, Peter was silent—probably going through the standard list of questions in his head trying to pick out the right one to find the underlying cause of the ailment. Taking advantage of that, Ben casually rose from his chair to look out the window. The office had a splendid view of James River and Gimbles Hill Park. This time of year, the trees were at their peak leaf growth and flourished throughout the area. Since it was a modern building, the windows did not open—so jumping would be out of the question. Why was this thought even entering his mind? Maybe he did need help after all. He secretly took out his Carmex and applied a coating—he needed a fix.

"Let's talk about the lip