Leaving her bedroom, Amanda nervously glanced back to make sure the bed was made, and the clothes were put away and off the floor. She knocked three times on the hallway wall, ducked into the bathroom and washed her hands, scrubbing them four times. Anxiously, she grabbed her purse to recheck that she had her lipstick, her hairbrush and her keys. In the kitchen, she counted out 73 cornflakes, added 1 teaspoon of sugar and ¼ cup of milk to her bowl which she had washed and dried three times. Before leaving her house, she checked to make sure the refrigerator door was closed, the light switch was off and the burglar alarm was turned on. Three times!

She couldn’t get the thought out of her mind of her boyfriend taking off his socks and exposing the bottom of his feet last night. She shivered violently when she thought of it.

She climbed into her car, making sure the mirrors and seats were adjusted correctly. It took her at least four trials. She felt anxiety creeping in as she pulled into traffic, craning her neck again and again to make sure that she was not going to be hit by another vehicle. She thought of what she must do if an accident occurred. She must get out of car, (don’t touch him, he’s not clean) let him see her driver’s license (don’t let him hold it), copy his license plate number, check it to make sure it’s correct (4 times) and write his driver’s license down on her own pad of paper (don’t use his paper). Thinking of what complicated maneuvers were awaiting her made her tremble in dread. Maybe she should take the back roads or turn right instead of left. Maybe then it wouldn’t happen. Thoughts of harming the other driver entered her head but she pushed them in the back of her mind, over and over. After all, nothing had happened yet but she kept obsessing that maybe it would. She knew that she needed to know for certain that it would not occur. If she couldn’t suppress her thoughts, it would increase their frequency and feed back into her obsession.

“I have to get over this,” Amanda thought. She contacted a therapist who informed her that over 80% of OCD sufferers could overcome their compulsions. He informed her that the only way to beat OCD is by experiencing and psychologically processing triggered anxiety(exposure) until it resolves on its own without trying to neutralize it with any safety seeking action(response or ritual prevention).

Amanda was thrilled to discover that she could do something to help herself.

She began to expose herself to her fears instead of avoiding them and gradually realized that she was recovering. She smiled as she realized that there was hope for her and that her responses were changing.

He loves gardening, the pruning, the digging, the cutting, the growing, the flourishing, the minutiae of caring for another living thing. It's been a hard winter but he's been able to get some budding from the greenhouse, though he has to get up early to scrape off the snow before sunrise. So what was once new has become familiar, each new day bringing an iota of warmth into the cold, bleak, February mornings.

Of Isabel he thinks when his eyes water or his glasses fog with effort in the crisp air. His eyes glaze as he puffs on his carved bone pipe. What sick coincidence that though it was he that smoked , it was she who developed cancer. She used to love the scent of the pipe tobacco he smoked, the heady perfume that stuck to him and all the clothes he wore. That followed him as he went from room to room in their house, as he went from room to room in the hospital. She always knew how to find him, even without calling his name.

He stopped smoking after she died, from guilt, from shame, from longing. But the withdrawl from the years of nicotine abuse was too strong for his fragile body do endure without her to keep him strong. He smoked day and night for months, his mouth turned to ash and his skin sallowed and greasy. He smoked everyday until their anniversary.

He woke up coughing as usual, reached for the oxygen, drew two shallow breaths and fell back in bed, sick from the effort of living. He reached for his pipe and tabacco pouch with trembling hands, dropped them lazily, and consigned himself to his fate by rolling over in bed. Three hours later he digs around his bedroom for the pipe, reaching under his bed, sifting through old things, forgotten things, that lay molding in this air of depression.

He uncovers his wedding album, at first seeing only her, then, as his fat tears roll along the cellophane pages, they roll into the forgetmenots pressed into the pages. He'd never noticed them before. Each page carefully adorned by a bouquet of flowers, dried and clumsily painted a lackluster version of themselves.

Everywhere he looks, where once there was nothing, now there are flowers. He thought he knew everything about her. He left his pipe unfound on the floor, chilled by the February snow. He drags his tired body to their library to dig up any books they have on flowers.