Excerpts

Chapter One anxiety's new normal   The idea for this book came to me in a gallbladder-my husband's gallbladder, actually.   I was waiting for Ronnie to come out of surgery to remove a whopper of a gallstone that had shown up during a routine physical. The doctor had said we could leave it alone and maybe nothing would ever happen, or he could operate and take out the gallbladder and Ronnie wouldn't have to worry about needing emergency surgery someday. Now, when I go to the doctor, I ask ten million questions; the more I know, the less anxious I feel. But my husband is a practical man. He needs only enough information to make a rational decision. "Why take a chance?" he asked. "It's a simple procedure; why would I want to be traveling through Europe and suddenly find myself in a foreign hospital in agony? Let's do it. When can we schedule the surgery?"   Which is how I came to be sitting in a room with about a dozen other people, all waiting to either go in for surgery themselves or hear about how their loved ones had weathered their procedures. I was mildly anxious but not overly so; I knew Ronnie's surgery wasn't risky because I had pelted the doctor with questions: "Does he need his gallbladder for anything?" (No.) "What does laparoscopic surgery entail?" (Several small incisions; very simple, very routine.) "How long will the surgery last?" (An hour; hour and a half at most.)   I like information when I'm anxious; it comforts me. It provides a framework on which I can layer facts and opinions and second opinions that enable me to make good decisions. As Ronnie's surgery approached, I learned everything I could about gallstones, gallbladders, and anything else the surgeon happened to mention. I'm pretty familiar with my anxiety (after thirty years as an anxiety professional, that's no surprise), and I know that when I'm anxious, information is my friend: not only does it enable me to understand what's going on, but it also helps me ensure that my loved ones are getting the best possible care.   I had carried with me into the waiting room a satchel containing a bundle of magazines and newspapers, a PDA full of emails that I needed to answer, a novel, a container of almonds, a bottle of orange juice, and a stack of journal articles I had to read for work. I had brought all this stuff because I didn't think I'd be able to sit and concentrate on any one thing, and I was right. I opened the novel, stared at the same sentence for five minutes, and put it back; pulled out Newsweek and then The New Yorker, read a few paragraphs, put them back; took a sip of juice; prodded my PDA, glanced at an email, put back the PDA; grabbed The New York Times, looked at the headlines, opened it, closed it, and thrust it back into the satchel. Losing myself in reading wasn't going to work; I wanted to be occupied but present, somewhat distracted but available to see the surgeon the moment he entered the waiting room.   That's another thing: I'd chosen a chair that faced the elevators so I could see whoever was coming off. From where I was sitting, not only would I see the surgeon as soon as the doors opened; I'd be able to study his expression so by the time he reached me, I would be prepared for whatever he had to say. If he looked happy, I could leap from the chair with joy; if he looked grim, I could brace myself for bad news. I could imagine either outcome, but I simply could not imagine sitting with my back to the elevators because I knew when those doors opened and the surgeon strode out, I needed to be the first one to see him.   The doors slid open; no sign of the surgeon. I checked my watch and saw that the hour was up. What was taking so long? Was everything okay? I approached the perky woman behind the check-in counter.   "Gee, it's taking longer than I thought," I Excerpted from One Less Thing to Worry About: Uncommon Wisdom for Coping with Common Anxieties by Jerilyn Ross, Robin Cantor-Cooke All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.