PEP TALKS AND PAYPHONES
In September of 1980, I was a carefree 10-year-old in fifth grade. I had spent my summer roller skating, riding bikes, watching Cubs day games on WGN, listening to my 45 of “Another One Bites the Dust” on our record player and trying to master Pitfall on the Atari.
So, it made no sense when I woke up with a sick feeling in my stomach one morning before school — like something bad was about to happen. I wasn’t physically sick. I felt scared. I was nervous. I felt overwhelmed by something nameless. What I did know was that the feelings of fear and dread were real and debilitating. I did not want to go to school that day.
As my Mom was getting ready for her day as a reading aid at a public grade school, I approached her with my symptoms. I knew they were flimsy. There was no physical evidence of my illness. It would take throwing up or fever to keep us home for the day — something that could be seen or measured. At that moment I wished I’d never cried wolf in the past — never placed the thermometer on the light bulb hoping it would show a fever so I could stay at home and watch Rocky and Bullwinkle.
Mom sat beside me on her bed as I tried to explain how I felt.
“I don’t want to go to school today. My stomach feels weird.”
“Do you feel like you’re going to throw up?”
“No,” I said as I tried to put into words what I was feeling. “I feel really nervous.”
“Do you have a test today?”
“No.”
“What are you nervous about?”
“I don’t know…but I am,” I said as I choked back tears. “I can’t go.”
“Yes, you can. You will feel better after you get there and get settled.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then they can call me and I’ll come to get you.”
I knew this was a burden for my Mom. She would have to miss work to come and get me. I slowly stopped my tears and got ready for school with the cauldron of nerves sloshing in the pit of my stomach.
I made it through the first day without calling Mom. I remember holding in tears, people asking me what was wrong, being unable to speak for fear I would cry in front of everyone. As the day progressed, Mom was right, I did feel better.
But just like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day, I woke up the next morning with the same nervous feeling. It was more intense the second day. The tears came faster as I dreaded going to school and desperately tried to convince Mom to let me stay home.
We had the same conversation on the edge of her bed as the previous morning.
“I can’t go today.”
Mom launched into her reassuring pep talk from the day before, and the one she would have to give me every morning for the next month: There was nothing to worry about. Take deep breaths. Take it one class at a time. If it became too much, she would come and get me. And then, she took it one step further.
“I’ll give you my office phone and twenty cents for the payphone. When you go to music class, call me if you are not feeling well and check-in.”
I could call her? During school? Game changer. I was still feeling nervous, but I had the 20 cents in my pocket — an escape if things became too much. So, as I walked to school with puffy eyes, I massaged the two dimes around in my pocket, a tangible reminder that I held the power to survive the day.
I gave Miss Nelson the note Mom had written when I arrived in homeroom. I imagined it said, “you better let my Rachel use the payphone to call me OR ELSE!” But I’m sure it explained my anxiety and asked politely if it would be OK for me to call her on the way to music class. Miss Nelson assured me that I could call her if I needed to. I was exhausted from a long morning in my head. I was still trying to catch my breath from the crying I did as I prepared for the day.
Music class was at 10:00 a.m., and there was a payphone in the hallway right outside the door. While my classmates filed into Mrs. Riley’s music class in their orderly single-file lines hoping they might get hands-on time with the glockenspiels, I hung back to make my call.
I carefully took my two dimes out of my pocket. I got on my tiptoes to put them in the coin slot. I took Mom’s phone number out of my other pocket and dialed like it was my one phone call from jail. Would she answer? Would she be there?
“Hi, Mom. It’s me.”
“Hi, sweetheart, how is it going today?”
“I still feel nervous but I think I can make it through the day.”
“I know you can. Deep breaths and I’ll see you when you get home.”
“OK, Mom. Bye.”
Then I walked into music class and finished my school day with a lighter feeling in my stomach. I just wanted to know that she was there, that I could reach her if I needed to. I could. I was not alone and trapped in a horrible situation. Mom was just a phone call away. She was my safety net and for that month of fifth grade, I just needed to test that it was there in case I fell.
I still felt nervous the next morning before school. Mom gave me the same reassurances and two new dimes. I never had to call her at work again. The dimes empowered me to push through the day. The morning anxiety disappeared just as mysteriously as it had arrived.
I never knew why I was nervous. But Mom knew that why I was nervous wasn’t really that important. It was more important to get me out the door. Moving forward through my unknown fear. Overcoming something that could not be named. Mom knew that all I needed was 20 cents and her reassurance that she was there. Mom was right.
