It's Not Cancer
by Alison Linnell
by Alison Linnell
Claire: 48 year-old mother of three
Bill: Claire’s husband of 26 years
Setting: Two identical therapist’s office set up as mirror images of each other. A therapist sits with back facing audience between the two offices and turns to face each character as they speak. Over-sized props such as a Sears’ bag, a Valentine’s Day heart, and a picture frame decorate the front of the stage.
Claire sits facing the audience in the chair in one office, while Bill sits in the other office. While Claire is speaking, a spotlight shines on her, and it is dark in the office Bill is in. When Bill is speaking, the light is on him, and it is dark where Claire is sitting.
Claire: (Speaking to the therapist) My son asked me, “Do you know what I heard my neighbor yell this weekend?” He likes to tell me about his neighbor’s fights. He thinks they’re entertaining. (Imitating her son) “Put down those scissors,” he said it mockingly and then laughed. Not just a chuckle, a full on belly laugh. I asked him if he called the police. He didn’t. He said that he doesn’t understand why the husband doesn’t leave. He said his neighbor is always threatening to kill herself and that she is just plain crazy. He calls her Fruitcake.
Bill: (As if he is repeating back the question posed by the therapist) Do I think my wife’s a danger to others? No, no, of course not. Could she hurt herself? (Pause) Possibly, but no, (shakes his head) no she wouldn’t.
Claire: (Counting on her fingers) Fruitcake, Looney Toones, Kooky, Psycho. I can hear my son calling me all of those. Oh, he doesn’t know. No, I will never tell him about my attacks. I don’t tell anyone. No one knows. Well, Bill, yes, poor Bill knows. I can no longer hide them from him.
Bill: It’s her eyes. That’s how I know she’s had another one. Oh, they’re not bloodshot; she hasn’t been crying. There is this distant look in them – almost emotionless, well, they’re just blank. (Pause, sighs) And then she just lies on our bed. Sometimes that withdrawn look will last for days. (Despondent) I never know if it’s best to ignore her or try to help her work through it. Each time it’s different. I don’t think she knows.
Claire: I know it’s going to happen again. I pray that it doesn’t. I avoid so many places. So many people. So many things.
Bill: I didn’t know Sears was a trigger. I bought her birthday present there last year, and when she saw the tag, she tried to hide her panic, but I could tell. Of course, she didn’t want me to feel bad that I reminded her of another attack on a different day, and another store that has been added to the list of places to avoid. I found her present in the trash the next morning.
Claire: (Agitated) Getting anything new is hard – almost impossible. So many things can go wrong. It sounds crazy; it is crazy. I am crazy. How is this not crazy? We finally agreed it was time to replace our family room couch. My husband has been asking for several years. It’s uncomfortable to sit on, and it was taking the fun out of watching his sports. I was ready. It had been a good month. No attacks. I was confident we could do it. We went to RC Willey. We agreed on a sectional and scheduled the delivery. We made it home. All was well. I was so happy I was finally able to do something Bill wanted. And then the day of the delivery came. I thought if I stayed home, I would avoid any attacks. It was an email from a friend. It’s stupid, so stupid. How can an email cause an attack?
Bill: (Hopeless) I don’t know what happened the day our sectional arrived, but she hates it. Oh, she says she’s fine. She always does. But something happened. She refuses to sit on it. She says she’s happy I like it. I believe she is telling the truth, but I don’t know. I don’t know what the truth is anymore.
Claire: The truth. I hate the couch. I hate the pajamas my daughter bought me. I hate Valentine’s Day. I hate red. I hate the picture of us in Tahoe sitting on Bill’s desk. I hate how they control me. I hate that I’m weak. I hate that I allow all of these things to affect me. Hate. Hate. Hate.
Bill: (Stands and paces the room) One year, early in our marriage, Valentine’s Day just became bad. I’m not sure why. I didn’t know about the attacks then. I didn’t understand. She would say she wasn’t feeling well and insist we leave immediately. And she was mean about it when I probed to find out what the sudden illness could be. Was it something she ate, or an allergic reaction? I was just trying to help. For the longest time, I thought she was unhappy with me, with our marriage, with our family. Yes, it does seem irrational. She agrees. I agree. But she doesn’t choose what or when they happen.
Claire: It was at the restaurant. (Longingly) We were having such a fun evening. Bill was so sweet that day surprising me with play tickets and taking me to Olive Garden. We had ordered our food. (Irritated)And then that man was seated next to us. It was his t-shirt. A t-shirt. I couldn’t control it. (Anxious) I couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone was choking me. And then my heart began racing. I felt dizzy. I couldn’t think straight. I was scared, panicked. I had to get out. I don’t know how I got to the car, but that is where Bill found me after he made whatever excuse he could to our waiter. I just can’t do Valentine’s.
Bill: I take Valentine’s Day off work each year. My boss seems to think it is to do something extravagant for my wife. I don’t correct him. The truth sounds so pathetic. It started years ago when our eldest son kept begging his mom to help with his kindergarten class’s Valentine’s party. I knew she couldn’t do it, so I volunteered.
Claire: Bill is constantly making excuses for me. And I put him through hell. I try to tolerate things. I do. If he knew all the things in our house associated with my anxiety, he would think I’m a Fruitcake. Some things I eventually adjust to, but others (pauses, shakes head) others never go away. I didn’t mean to upset him. I just could not see him wear that shirt again. I should have explained why it bothered me, and I know he would have thrown it away himself. It’s a shirt. I should get used to a damn shirt. I just snapped when I was doing the wash and put it in the garbage. When he tore our whole closet apart looking for it, I felt horrible. I’m sure in the end he knew.
Bill: The picture of us at Tahoe has disappeared off my desk. I could ask her about it. But, I know what her answer will be. She doesn’t know.
Claire: I don’t know how bad it will get. I think I’m crazy. I sometimes think about using scissors. Bill assures me I’m okay. He says a lot of people struggle with anxiety; they just don’t talk about it. I don’t know. (Puts face in hands) I just don’t know anymore. (Lifts head) Like, the other day, (frustrated) he asked why I deleted his favorite TV show off the TiVo before he watched it. He wanted to know if it was anxiety related. I didn’t know. I did think about it. (shrugs shoulders) I don’t know. Sadly, I think everything I do is anxiety related. (adding emphasis) Everything. I wake up, and it is a part of me. All day long, every decision is controlled by it. Where I shop, what I eat, how I brush my teeth. It’s the last thing I think about before I fall asleep, if I’m lucky enough to sleep. It consumes me. It consumes him. I don’t know why he stays. I don’t.
Bill: I have thought about leaving. A million times. But, how do you leave someone who is ill? She needs me. Yet, I sometimes wish she had cancer instead. Yes, if she had cancer, it would be easier to understand. Much easier to fight. We would know the enemy. My sister was diagnosed with cancer last year. Her neighbors brought in meals, did her laundry, and watched her kids. My wife said she had a (does air quotes) real disease.
Claire: How could you be jealous of someone who has cancer? That’s crazy. I know. But that is how I felt about my sister-in-law. People understand her disease. She gives updates on Facebook and (sweeps her arms) everyone wishes her well. Can you imagine (puts her hands on her chest) me telling my Facebook friends about my latest attack? I don’t need to be called Fruitcake.
Bill: I know she doesn’t want people to know. She believes they wouldn’t understand. And maybe some won’t. She’s right; it took me years to understand. Maybe it was the cancer. I watched my sister battle the cancer, and I knew if my wife had cancer, I would do everything in my power to get her better. We would eat differently, live differently, and fight it with all we had. So, she doesn’t have cancer; she suffers from mental illness. And with this disease, we avoid some stores, we live without a favorite shirt or a picture, and we celebrate our love the other 364 days during the year.
Bill: Claire’s husband of 26 years
Setting: Two identical therapist’s office set up as mirror images of each other. A therapist sits with back facing audience between the two offices and turns to face each character as they speak. Over-sized props such as a Sears’ bag, a Valentine’s Day heart, and a picture frame decorate the front of the stage.
Claire sits facing the audience in the chair in one office, while Bill sits in the other office. While Claire is speaking, a spotlight shines on her, and it is dark in the office Bill is in. When Bill is speaking, the light is on him, and it is dark where Claire is sitting.
Claire: (Speaking to the therapist) My son asked me, “Do you know what I heard my neighbor yell this weekend?” He likes to tell me about his neighbor’s fights. He thinks they’re entertaining. (Imitating her son) “Put down those scissors,” he said it mockingly and then laughed. Not just a chuckle, a full on belly laugh. I asked him if he called the police. He didn’t. He said that he doesn’t understand why the husband doesn’t leave. He said his neighbor is always threatening to kill herself and that she is just plain crazy. He calls her Fruitcake.
Bill: (As if he is repeating back the question posed by the therapist) Do I think my wife’s a danger to others? No, no, of course not. Could she hurt herself? (Pause) Possibly, but no, (shakes his head) no she wouldn’t.
Claire: (Counting on her fingers) Fruitcake, Looney Toones, Kooky, Psycho. I can hear my son calling me all of those. Oh, he doesn’t know. No, I will never tell him about my attacks. I don’t tell anyone. No one knows. Well, Bill, yes, poor Bill knows. I can no longer hide them from him.
Bill: It’s her eyes. That’s how I know she’s had another one. Oh, they’re not bloodshot; she hasn’t been crying. There is this distant look in them – almost emotionless, well, they’re just blank. (Pause, sighs) And then she just lies on our bed. Sometimes that withdrawn look will last for days. (Despondent) I never know if it’s best to ignore her or try to help her work through it. Each time it’s different. I don’t think she knows.
Claire: I know it’s going to happen again. I pray that it doesn’t. I avoid so many places. So many people. So many things.
Bill: I didn’t know Sears was a trigger. I bought her birthday present there last year, and when she saw the tag, she tried to hide her panic, but I could tell. Of course, she didn’t want me to feel bad that I reminded her of another attack on a different day, and another store that has been added to the list of places to avoid. I found her present in the trash the next morning.
Claire: (Agitated) Getting anything new is hard – almost impossible. So many things can go wrong. It sounds crazy; it is crazy. I am crazy. How is this not crazy? We finally agreed it was time to replace our family room couch. My husband has been asking for several years. It’s uncomfortable to sit on, and it was taking the fun out of watching his sports. I was ready. It had been a good month. No attacks. I was confident we could do it. We went to RC Willey. We agreed on a sectional and scheduled the delivery. We made it home. All was well. I was so happy I was finally able to do something Bill wanted. And then the day of the delivery came. I thought if I stayed home, I would avoid any attacks. It was an email from a friend. It’s stupid, so stupid. How can an email cause an attack?
Bill: (Hopeless) I don’t know what happened the day our sectional arrived, but she hates it. Oh, she says she’s fine. She always does. But something happened. She refuses to sit on it. She says she’s happy I like it. I believe she is telling the truth, but I don’t know. I don’t know what the truth is anymore.
Claire: The truth. I hate the couch. I hate the pajamas my daughter bought me. I hate Valentine’s Day. I hate red. I hate the picture of us in Tahoe sitting on Bill’s desk. I hate how they control me. I hate that I’m weak. I hate that I allow all of these things to affect me. Hate. Hate. Hate.
Bill: (Stands and paces the room) One year, early in our marriage, Valentine’s Day just became bad. I’m not sure why. I didn’t know about the attacks then. I didn’t understand. She would say she wasn’t feeling well and insist we leave immediately. And she was mean about it when I probed to find out what the sudden illness could be. Was it something she ate, or an allergic reaction? I was just trying to help. For the longest time, I thought she was unhappy with me, with our marriage, with our family. Yes, it does seem irrational. She agrees. I agree. But she doesn’t choose what or when they happen.
Claire: It was at the restaurant. (Longingly) We were having such a fun evening. Bill was so sweet that day surprising me with play tickets and taking me to Olive Garden. We had ordered our food. (Irritated)And then that man was seated next to us. It was his t-shirt. A t-shirt. I couldn’t control it. (Anxious) I couldn’t breathe. It was as if someone was choking me. And then my heart began racing. I felt dizzy. I couldn’t think straight. I was scared, panicked. I had to get out. I don’t know how I got to the car, but that is where Bill found me after he made whatever excuse he could to our waiter. I just can’t do Valentine’s.
Bill: I take Valentine’s Day off work each year. My boss seems to think it is to do something extravagant for my wife. I don’t correct him. The truth sounds so pathetic. It started years ago when our eldest son kept begging his mom to help with his kindergarten class’s Valentine’s party. I knew she couldn’t do it, so I volunteered.
Claire: Bill is constantly making excuses for me. And I put him through hell. I try to tolerate things. I do. If he knew all the things in our house associated with my anxiety, he would think I’m a Fruitcake. Some things I eventually adjust to, but others (pauses, shakes head) others never go away. I didn’t mean to upset him. I just could not see him wear that shirt again. I should have explained why it bothered me, and I know he would have thrown it away himself. It’s a shirt. I should get used to a damn shirt. I just snapped when I was doing the wash and put it in the garbage. When he tore our whole closet apart looking for it, I felt horrible. I’m sure in the end he knew.
Bill: The picture of us at Tahoe has disappeared off my desk. I could ask her about it. But, I know what her answer will be. She doesn’t know.
Claire: I don’t know how bad it will get. I think I’m crazy. I sometimes think about using scissors. Bill assures me I’m okay. He says a lot of people struggle with anxiety; they just don’t talk about it. I don’t know. (Puts face in hands) I just don’t know anymore. (Lifts head) Like, the other day, (frustrated) he asked why I deleted his favorite TV show off the TiVo before he watched it. He wanted to know if it was anxiety related. I didn’t know. I did think about it. (shrugs shoulders) I don’t know. Sadly, I think everything I do is anxiety related. (adding emphasis) Everything. I wake up, and it is a part of me. All day long, every decision is controlled by it. Where I shop, what I eat, how I brush my teeth. It’s the last thing I think about before I fall asleep, if I’m lucky enough to sleep. It consumes me. It consumes him. I don’t know why he stays. I don’t.
Bill: I have thought about leaving. A million times. But, how do you leave someone who is ill? She needs me. Yet, I sometimes wish she had cancer instead. Yes, if she had cancer, it would be easier to understand. Much easier to fight. We would know the enemy. My sister was diagnosed with cancer last year. Her neighbors brought in meals, did her laundry, and watched her kids. My wife said she had a (does air quotes) real disease.
Claire: How could you be jealous of someone who has cancer? That’s crazy. I know. But that is how I felt about my sister-in-law. People understand her disease. She gives updates on Facebook and (sweeps her arms) everyone wishes her well. Can you imagine (puts her hands on her chest) me telling my Facebook friends about my latest attack? I don’t need to be called Fruitcake.
Bill: I know she doesn’t want people to know. She believes they wouldn’t understand. And maybe some won’t. She’s right; it took me years to understand. Maybe it was the cancer. I watched my sister battle the cancer, and I knew if my wife had cancer, I would do everything in my power to get her better. We would eat differently, live differently, and fight it with all we had. So, she doesn’t have cancer; she suffers from mental illness. And with this disease, we avoid some stores, we live without a favorite shirt or a picture, and we celebrate our love the other 364 days during the year.