Okay

I hold my breath in the moments between clicking “End Meeting for All” and the browser closing, keeping my face frozen and hopefully giving the air of confidence and being unfazed.

The discussion did not go well. Our partners at the state agency are unimpressed with our efforts to resolve the glitch that’s causing their enrollees to receive multiple erroneous letters and text messages alerting them of a change in their benefits. The program manager ended the meeting with a threat to end our contract if it’s not taken care of within the week. 

For me, this is bad news. I won’t have a job if that contract ends. But if I were their program manager, I guess I’d feel like I was cornered without any other options; she’s been taking a lot of heat from the agency director because of how many calls from confused seniors they’re receiving. 

The screen now blank, I feel tension settling into my shoulders and I give the left one a few squeezes in hopes of rubbing out the knot that’s forming but find no relief.

I open a new tab and write out a request ticket for our Data & Engineering Department as if it will do any good. Everyone knows the problem exists and the last I heard, there was even a sense of what is causing it; some kind of issue with our “ingestion pipeline” – whatever the hell that means.

My boss, Rose, keeps sending me back to them for answers and two months later I still have received none aside from being told it’s “in the queue” and will be worked on in the “next sprint.” From what I gather, though, sprints are two-week periods and there have now been four of them without any change or improvement.

Maybe today will be different, though, I tell myself.

“Stay positive, Tamara, nothing good will come from worrying about it,” I say aloud, breaking the silence of my apartment. I click send on the ticket and moments later hear the ding of a personal message coming through from Tom, one of the Engineering Team leads.

“Tamara: I saw your ticket. That wasn’t necessary, we still have the request from last time. I’m going to delete this new one.”

I reply and attempt to gently reinforce the urgency, but it doesn’t land well from what I gather, as Tom doesn’t bother with a reply and instead gives a thumbs-down reaction. When I try to clarify if that means the work won’t be addressed this week, the message status changes to “Read” but no further response follows.

Well, shit.

I feel my throat begin to tighten. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with Vocal Cord Dysfunction and while some people experience problems from the disorder when they exercise or encounter strong scents, like candles or perfume, stress is my most common trigger. I haven’t been doing my vocal exercises for the past few months; things have been much too busy at work to stick with my normal routine. But my speech pathologist always advised that the most important thing was to stay on top of those, otherwise when the bad days arrive, I won’t be in control. And of course, today is the day I seem to be learning how true that is, as the visualizations she taught me aren’t mitigating the closure whatsoever.

I switch to breathing exercises. Inhaling through my nose with my tongue pressed to the top of my mouth. Exhaling out of my mouth with my tongue lowered. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. On and on, but the cords stay stretched taut and little air is getting past the vocal folds. I feel my aching shoulders rise on the next inhale, a sure sign that my body is working too hard to get its needed oxygen, as good breaths occur in the belly and diaphragm, not the shoulders and chest. 

Of all the things to be bad at, breathing seems like something no one could fail at performing until reaching the end of one’s life. But I always was special.

Maybe vocal exercises will work better, I think. But just as I start to let out my first hissing “s” sound, the phone rings.

“Hi Mom, I was just thinking about you,” I greet her.

“Oh, good, I’m glad for a change that I’m on your mind. You know I haven’t heard from you in two weeks.”

Her chilly tone tells me that whatever is to come will not be pleasant, as if I need more to deal with right now. I should have not answered, I lament.

She proceeds to go on about how the last grocery order I placed for her was missing several needed items and if I can’t get these arrangements right then it doesn’t actually help her. She’d be better off going to the store herself and lugging everything home alone. Sure, it will make her back issues worse. No, it won’t help her respiratory problems. But at least for a change, she’ll get what she needs.

I open the app to review the last order as she expounds on her hardships and see that three items were out of stock at the store and only one had a substitute available. I begin to explain the cause, but she cuts me off.

“Some days it feels like I just have to do everything myself.”

There’s no point in arguing with her, I’ve learned, so I remain silent. I see another message coming through on my work laptop and as I click it open, I immediately regret not muting the phone so she couldn’t hear anything.

“What’s that? Are you even listening to me? I guess I’ll let you go.” The sigh she heaves hits my ear with such a loud whoosh that I have to pull the phone away.

“Sorry, you caught me at work. But I can get your order together over my lunch break in a bit, it’s no trouble at all!” I say reassuringly.

“An hour? Then it won’t be here for what, three to four hours? Hmm, I guess I could have a late dinner.”

I told her when we first made these arrangements that I need a day of notice to turn orders around because I can’t just dip out of work on a whim. But this seems to be how it always works out; a pressing need that needs to be addressed right now.

“Okay, hold on, I’ll grab my other laptop and we’ll get it placed now.”

As I collect my personal laptop from the other room, she lets me know that the neighbor is still parking his second car in front of her house and she’d like me to talk to him the next time I’m in town. And when will that visit occur, she wonders, reminding me it’s been over three weeks since the last time. Despite the five-hour distance between us, I do still manage to get there monthly, even if only for a single night. But I lost track of time and realize the weekend ahead won’t be possible for travel because the HVAC folks are returning to finish installing a part that was on back-order for my central air. She does not take the news well.

“I see, busy again. Well, I certainly wouldn't want to be a bother. You know, I'm actually going to let you go. I see Emily's car next door and I think I'll see if maybe she can take me to the store.”

Ah, Emily. The perfect girl next door. My arch-nemesis of sorts. She was a cheerleader, so pretty and popular back when we were in school. She wouldn’t even stand near me at the bus stop lest our classmates mistake our proximity as friendship. But that didn’t stop her from being chummy with my mom, who always donated to Emily’s Athletic Department fundraisers even though she couldn’t seem to find time to bake anything for the sales I organized for the Drama Club.

Emily moved home at the start of the year and occasionally dropped by to see if my mom needed anything while she was out, or mail taken to the post office, and so on. I remind myself that her checking on my mom is a kindness I must remain grateful for. Plus, Bob and Jo really do need a lot of help since he was diagnosed with lymphoma and began radiation treatments the same week that her mom had knee surgery. It’s terrible of me to harbor any resentment for her.

My mom, on the other hand, is in fine health. At her last check-up, our family physician declared that she might just live forever. I have it easy. I’m lucky. I forget how blessed I am because I’m an ungrateful little bitch, just like Mom told me when I was asking for new toys or fun snacks while out shopping with her as a kid. How dare I always be wanting more when I’ve been provided with so much already?

As the usual narrative continues in the background of my mind, I assure her that I’ll move the HVAC appointment and come this weekend. It will probably cause another significant delay for the work because the company is always so booked up, but another few hot and muggy weeks sweating the day away here on my own can’t be worse than the fallout of not going.

“Whatever you think is best. I just want you to be happy. If it’s easier not to come, just stay there. Do your work – I know your job is so important to you. How is it going, by the way?” she asks.

It’s always a loaded question. If I say it’s going well, then she’ll imply that’s because I focus so much on my work that there’s nothing left for her. If it’s not going well, then I’m not trying hard enough.

I settle on, “It’s going okay.”

“Okay, huh? Wow. So much enthusiasm. You must be knocking their socks off with that attitude.”

“It’s been a challenging couple of weeks with one of our partners who is unhappy. And I can’t seem to get folks here aligned on how to fix the problem,” I elaborate cautiously, beginning to rub slow circles on my temples.

“You never were much of a team player. Always off in your own world, you know? Sometimes you’ve got to take a look around and see what other folks need.”

Although I can’t see her, I am certain that her head is tipped to the left and her right hand is on her hip. That’s her “you’re not even fit to be my daughter” stance.

“I hear you, Mom. Let’s get this order placed now, okay?” I suggest.

Once her order is submitted, she quickly wraps up the conversation because the news begins at noon, which reminds me how late in the day it’s gotten. I sigh, realizing that I’ll once again have to choose between eating lunch or having my status report ready in time for the weekly team meeting.

I set the phone down and begin to rub my face. First my forehead and along the hairline, then balling my fists up and pressing them into my eye sockets and rubbing back and forth. My ex-boyfriend always thought this was the weirdest behavior and made fun of me every time he saw me do it. I told him it was something that arises when I’m sleepy, but I read a while back that babies do it to self-soothe. This discovery did nothing to boost my confidence that I am a capable, functional adult. Since our break-up, I’ve been careful to keep the activity private.

Finally remembering the message that arrived earlier, I return to my work laptop and see that Tom delivered the verdict that the “ingestion issue will be addressed in the next sprint.” After deliberating how to reply, I finally elect for the thumbs-up response, accompanied by an “okay, thanks.” Nothing I say will make a difference anyway.

A half-hour later, my status report is uploaded for the team and I have just enough time to run to the bathroom before the weekly meeting begins.

Rose greets the team warmly and energetically, as always. I feel so lucky to get to work with her, she really knows her stuff and is the nicest boss I’ve ever had. When I came aboard, she explained to me that her previous job did a lot of work around nonviolent communications and emotional intelligence, so she made it a practice to always begin our meetings by checking in so everyone can understand the energy that each of us is bringing to the conversation.

When my turn comes, she asks the customary question: “How are you arriving today, Tamara?”

I never want to be a Debbie Downer, but Rose has told me time and again how important is to her – and the whole team – for me to bring my authentic self to our interactions. Finally, I reply, “It’s been a bit of a crazy day. The folks at the state are really pissed and I can’t seem to put a fire under the D&E Team to get anything done. I also had a challenging conversation with my mom a little bit ago. And I have so much to do this afternoon, things are just so busy. But I’m okay!”

Although I put myself back on mute, Rose remains on mute as well, her face looking expectant on my screen as though there’s more to be said.

Eventually, her red microphone icon turns white and she speaks up, saying, “Okay, Tamara. That’s what’s going on with your day, what’s happening. But how are you feeling?”

She returns to mute and I come back off of it to clarify, “I’m feeling like I’m not sure how I’m going to get everything done. But it’s going to be fine!”

We alternate our mute status once more and she replies gently, “Tamara, I’m not asking for your work updates yet, let’s revisit that in a moment. If we need to adjust priorities, then we will. What I’m wondering is: how you are feeling? What emotions are you experiencing right now?”

It seems like such a simple question. Yet somehow, more often than not, I answer it incorrectly. She’s so frequently pressing back on me after my check-ins, seeking a different response. It’s just another thing I can’t do right – breathing, feeling, communicating – it’s amazing that someone as capable and talented as Rose can put up with me.

In my lap, my hands clench together tightly as I ponder what a more appropriate response will be so that we can move along to more important topics, like how the hell we’re going to keep this contract and my job.

“Um,” I begin hesitantly, firmly pressing my right index finger and thumb down on top of my left thumbnail. “I guess I’m stressing.”

Her expression tells me she’s underwhelmed by this, but fortunately, when her icon turns white this time, she replies, “Okay, you are feeling stressed. Well, thanks for sharing that with the team so we can better support you today.”

Rose moves on to present the question to my colleagues, who are respectively feeling “accomplished” and “proud” because a proposal was submitted, “distracted” and “worried” about their ill grandmother who lives overseas and could not be reached by phone yesterday, and “happy” and “excited” about picking up their new puppy after work. Then Rose shares that she’s feeling “apprehensive and nervous about what’s happening with our state partners, because if we lose that contract then it could cause serious problems.”

“It’s scary, but I’m glad to have you all here to help navigate it,” she says before moving on to the first agenda topic.

As the team switches gears, Rose messages me directly. I’m surprised to see that the notification alert is coming from her; she’s always insistent that we not do work on the side during meetings so we can all be fully present with one another.

“Let’s catch up later. I’m worried about you.”

My eyes begin to mist. I blink back tears as I type out, “I’m okay, don’t worry!”

But, as I clear my throat for the millionth time to try and open the passageway to fuller capacity, I have to wonder: Am I okay?