Whatever It Takes

Whatever It Takes Clare O’Connor

As I stood in the tomato plant section of City People’s Garden shop, I witnessed a woman in the beginning stages of an emotional breakdown.

She was rushing out the door to my right, pulling a small green wagon full of plants. I heard her trying to gulp down a sob that was rising from her throat. The wagon hit things as she yanked it, delaying her pursuit of safety—her car.

“Here, I’ll help you with these.” A young store clerk had followed her out.

I stood hidden behind the shelf of tomato plants, the woman’s car right in front of me, and watched as they put the purchases in the back of the woman’s SUV. The employee pulled the wagon across the gravel parking lot while the woman ran to the passenger side backseat door of her car. She jerked it open, threw her purse and other loose items into the back, slammed the door, and raced around the front of her car to the driver’s seat. A loud sob escaped her before she could completely slam the door shut. She hit her head three times on the center of the large steering wheel, causing the horn to beep softly each time—like a bird’s chirp, followed by a muffled sob. I watched as she slowly lowered her forehead to the steering part of the wheel, her shoulders and back heaving. I heard keening, a sound of soul wrenching hopelessness and sadness, a sound I was very familiar with. In a dark, depressing way, it was soothing to me to hear this—companionship in sorrow.

I had a momentary thought of going over and knocking on her car window to ask her if she needed help—but I didn’t. There was nothing I could do for her. Having personally experienced public emotional breakdowns, to see it unfold was like watching a version of me from the not too distant past.

Comparing her outburst to mine, I knew she had been able to push down whatever had brought her to this precipice and to keep it at bay—but only in a temporary holding cell.

Although she appeared in control, I knew from my experience that she was still on the edge. She threw the car into reverse and then into drive; pebbles and sand sprayed out behind the wheels of her car as she sped toward the exit in a desperate last attempt to escape.

I stood, still staring through the plants at the parking lot long after she had gone. Having been in that exact situation many times, I saw clearly what others had seen me do. I had done it in grocery stores, at work, at the mall, and as I walked down the street. I had come to embrace the outbursts because I was powerless to stop them. The grief was so strong and so deep that I was beyond caring what anyone thought about me.

All this familiarity brought my own emotional demon to life, and I felt it start to move within me. Shoving it back into its dark place, I took a deep breath and walked toward my car, hoping the woman had made it home safely. I hoped that, once home, she had found solace sobbing into a pillow, throwing herself into bed, or heaving a dinner plate across the living room. I understood we do whatever it takes to cope with our pain and the unexpected up welling of sadness.

I thought she would probably get the plants later…or they would die in the back of her car, forgotten.

Clare O’Connor works as a part-time receptionist for an acupuncturist and has lived in Seattle since 1985. She and her late husband, Tim Tajchman shared 20 incredible years together until he died of cancer in November of 2009.

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