Most of Me Read Free Page A

the stick. So I handed it over to him, and he casually asked, ‘Do you mind if we share it?’ It was an odd but sweet request, and I must have nodded yes, because he snapped it in half, passed me one part, and kept the other for himself. Then we continued walking, neither of us mentioning the stick again.”
    Theresa says, “Maybe nothing needed to be said. It sounds like the sharing was complete.”
    Suddenly I feel my chest tighten, and I begin gasping for breath. Theresa crosses her arms, places her hands flat against her upper chest, and says, “Try doing this with your hands. And breathe deeply.”
    I do, and within seconds I am overcome by grief—Theresa a witness to my weeping, my wailing, my Cry Lady crescendo, and the first of many mournful farewells to my aging, ailing father.
    When I eventually calm down, I complain of a pounding headache and tingling in my left hand and left foot. The same tingling sensations that I’ve been experiencing on and off for weeks now.
    â€œWould you like to do something to help relieve your headache and get rid of the tingling?”
    â€œAre you offering me heroin?”
    Theresa smiles. “Nope. Sorry, I’m all out of heroin. But I can teach some exercises that will help you feel better.”
    So for the last part of the session I mirror Theresa’s movements: self-massaging my temples and jaw and neck, deep breathing while moving my head from side to side, raising my arms up over my head and then flopping them down at my sides, and stomping my feet. Surprisingly, my headache disappears, and the tingling in my hand and foot is almost gone. But not quite.
    Our time is up, and Theresa says, “You worked really hard tonight. Drink lots of water when you get home; your body needs it.”
    After scheduling next week’s appointment, I walk carefully down the steep staircase, out into the drizzling rain, and drive myself home—exhausted and cranky and thirsty as hell. I am thankful that Bergen and Naomi instinctively stay out of my way the rest of the night. Only Nellie, with her squeaky toy, dares to approach.
    COME SUMMERTIME , work conditions are perfect for a TV sitcom but pitiful for real life: poor management, tight deadlines, big egos, and hot tempers, and to top it all off, the entire CBC building is under construction. It looks like a war zone. The grounds are a wasteland of rubble and dust. Trees and shrubs lie wounded in piles. Parking lots are tunneled into massive graves—out of which will eventually rise the TV Towers condominiums and a world-class broadcast center—with an integrated multimedia newsroom, state-of-the-art technology, a performance studio, public spaces, and more. It’s all part of CBC ’s Vancouver Redevelopment Project, which will take three years to complete.
    Month after month, season after season, we toil away at our desks, despite the nerve-racking noise of dynamite blasting, pneumatic drilling, and jackhammering. We write scripts and edit tape in workspaces speckled in drywall dust and demolition debris while breathing in noxious fumes from paint, cutting oil, and glues. We conduct live on-air interviews with guests while construction workers make a ruckus above our not-so-soundproof studio.
    By early spring, our laid-back Radio 3 office has been laid to rest, and our team is transplanted into the brand-new corporate cubicle farm. Ergonomic specialists tweak our workstations—adjusting table heights and chair angles, computer monitors and keyboard positions, bending over backwards to make us comfortable and productive. My chronic back pain makes sitting difficult, so they give me three chairs to try. My left hand gets tingly and clumsy while typing, so they buy me a special keyboard. But no matter what they change, replace, or adjust, I’m Goldilocks from hell; nothing feels just right. Still, I do my best to settle in to this new workspace—not just for me but also