Callie drove straight home after stopping for gas. She was relieved the downpour subsided making her drive easier. The radio's music fills her head, pushing all that transpired earlier out of her overactive brain.
Sofia screeched "Mama, my Mama" for more than a half hour before exhaustion took over and the little girl fell prey to sleep. Callie's heart broke for Sofia; she felt guilty for driving off without allowing Arizona and Sofia to say their goodbyes. She tried to tell herself that she needed to shield Sofia from Arizona's frantic, disturbing revelations and so she escaped. Who was she kidding? Callie knew leaving was to avoid any additional disclosures, further widening the fissure existing between them.
Words clogged in Arizona's brain finally let loose like a broken pipe; her wounded soul gushed out. 'She would rather be dead?' Callie couldn't absorb the thought that her wife would have rather died than have lost a leg.
Callie believed that Arizona didn't grasp all that she said in anger. In the past, Arizona had often lashed out, picking a fight to hide her fear and pain. Was her tirade just that, a smokescreen? Even if true, it did not excuse her from accountability.
Arizona's harangue made it clear that she saw herself as Callie's ultimate failure. 'What was that all about? Did she not know I considered her my everything, my biggest success?' Words held meaning for Callie and her wife's words continued to erode her confidence - her belief in herself as a good surgeon, wife and supportive partner to Arizona.
Callie never, for one moment, regretted being with Arizona. She was so proud of her wife, of them, well, that was until…. She was happy to see the progress Arizona seemingly made in getting back to herself; being a surgeon, a 'Mama' and a more communicative partner since Bailey's wedding and the x-ray room. Callie thought she offered enough reassurance to Arizona that, in no uncertain terms, she was as desirable and worthy as she was prior to the crash.
Callie shook her head trying to rid her mind of the confusion and shame. She meant what she said; she was done fixing people. Arizona needed to fix herself. Even 'all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Arizona together again' if Arizona wasn't vested in her own recovery; even conventional wisdom would not argue with that.
Pulling into her tranquil neighborhood, she sees an unfamiliar pickup truck in front of her house. Slowly, she pulls into the driveway with Sofia fast asleep in her car seat. Callie opens the car windows, and exits the car. Puzzled, she walks to the back of her house, noticing an unfamiliar figure exiting her shed. It was a boy about 16 years old. Obviously, he is old enough to drive.
"Oh, Mrs. Torres, you're back," the youth stammers.
"Stop right there!" Callie demands, making the teen go pale. "My mother is Mrs. Torres, and she is kind of old and crotchety," Callie smiles. "Call me Callie, please," as she extends her hand to shake his.
A look of relief washes over the boy. "I can't do that. I'm supposed to be respectful," he explains, shaking his head.
"Hmm, well what about Dr. T, it's a mix of formal and informal? My students often use that," she suggests. "How about you? Do you have a name? I'm guessing you're my Good Samaritan who mows the lawn?"
"I'm Zach," he replies looking sheepishly at the ground. "Yah, that's been me."
Callie pulls out her wallet; "Here, let me pay you."
"No. I can't take your money. That's not how things work around here," the boy earnestly discloses.
Callie looks at Zach surprised.
He continues. "Haven't you ever lived in a small town before? Everyone helps each other out. You're new, and it looks like you're on your own. People talk...my sister, Jessie, baby-sits for you. You have a new job, a kid, a lot to do…I dunno."
Smiling at the sincerity of the youth's words, Callie offers: "I have cookies inside and I'm a pretty good cook. Cookies are okay, right?"
Zach smiles as he follows her into the house. For Callie, these little kindnesses extended to her during her short stay are a balm to her wounds and a quiet reminder that Pullman is a healing place.
Returning home, the dampness from the drenching rain fills Arizona's every pore and even the hot shower could not warm her.
Kicking herself for once again spewing acrimonious rhetoric to Callie, she thinks her mouth has a mind of its own. Over the past week, she wondered how much worse it could get: today was worse. Remembering 'baby-gate', she questions whether her insistence to Callie that she "wasn't broken, or some psycho-drama," was untrue.
She actually told Callie she would rather be dead. Had she meant that? Was that really true? Arizona took enough Psychology classes to know that such words don't just randomly pop out in conversation. Somewhere, deep within her, there must be some validity to them.
She needed help. The storm was over and the aftermath left seemingly insurmountable challenges. She knew it was time to make a phone call that she'd been avoiding. Gathering her determination, she dials the familiar number.
"Mom?" Arizona's voice is hoarse and broken from sobbing.
"Arizona?….Arizona, are you okay?...Arizona, please talk to me," Barbara frantically demands.
Through the sobs: "Oh Mom. I really…Callie and Sofia….."
Her mother can hear the devastation in Arizona's jumbled words, and she uses all her strength to not panic as well. Barbara yells to Daniel to pick up the other receiver. "Stop for a minute and just breathe. Now Arizona, take your time honey and tell me what's happened."
Through the tears, Arizona explains her day, her week, her month and what was happening behind the façade of her life.
She knew her parents must be crushed to learn of the separation, but they did not let on. Her mother responds, "We know how hard this must be for all of you."
While Arizona is certain disappointment barely begins to describe how they view her indiscretion, they refrain from commenting, allowing her to work through her feelings with their quiet, and attentive presence.
"How can you not say I'm a screw up, an idiot, and stupid for throwing away the best things in my life?" she weepingly challenges.
Her mother easily replies. "A parent's love doesn't judge Arizona. You made a mistake. Yes, mistakes come with consequences, but as painful as they are, it is not the end of the world."
Finally, her father speaks. She dreads what he will say, because she knows his views on honor and Arizona did not act honorably in this instance. "Arizona," the Colonel pauses, "This is not how we raised you to be."
Arizona's heart sinks with his words. She expects them, but they hurt nonetheless.
"This is not you. Since that damn crash you insisted on recovering your way. You said you were 'the doctor', and we didn't push, figuring between you and Callie you would wade through the hardships. Clearly, this is bigger than both of you," her father rationally explains. Daniel is annoyed with himself for not trusting his gut regarding his daughter's recovery.
Still crying, Arizona responds to his unexpected comments: "I don't understand."
"You need help; professional help, counseling," the Colonel replies.
"No!" is the emphatic reaction upon hearing the tabooed word.
"Arizona, this is your life, and your choice to live it the way you want but is this the life you are choosing? Remember what Einstein said about insanity," he questions.
Arizona groans. Tim always teased her for her doggedness which often served her well but at times prevented her from knowing when to quit. "I remember: 'doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.' But I'm not crazy, Dad."
"No you're not, but it doesn't mean that you don't need help, Arizona. It takes a lot of courage to admit when something is bigger than you. You faced incredible trauma, like what our vets go through after returning home from war. It's okay to ask for help. I tell my soldiers that. It wasn't always the army way but it is now. And…..and I agree with it," her father answers.
Arizona is angry with her father's suggestion. "Dad, you always said to suck it up, man-up, move on and don't dwell. You wouldn't even allow two minutes of silence for Tim at my wedding for God's sake! Now, you think I need to ask for help?"
Daniel remains mute on the phone. The guilt he feels for his 'plow-through-bury feelings-take control-hit hard and fast-never ask for help' parenting technique is apparent by his silence. Barbara interjects; "Arizona, this isn't the playground anymore, this is life. I never supported that philosophy anyway; plus you tried that and it didn't work."
"She's right, your mother is right," Daniel adds firmly.
Her father, the ultimate soldier in her eyes, just helped to remove the stigma which had plagued and prevented her from any meaningful healing. "Okay, I'll think about it," she answers, knowing she was falling and perilously close to scraping the bottom of her resource well.
Monday morning, hidden in her office while considering her parents' words, Arizona perused the Seattle medical directory debating what to do. She knew the list was short; the directory told her that. Only one counselor appeared to meet her needs, the most important of which is someone not affiliated with Grey-Sloan Memorial Hospital. Locking her office door, she makes one of the hardest decisions and phone calls of her life.
Summoning what little courage she has, Arizona says: "Hello. I would like to make an appointment with Dr. Ben Alexander."
"Well, let's see. We are scheduling a few weeks out….," the voice replies.
Panicky, Arizona responds: "No, that won't work. Look this is…important. I need an appointment as soon as possible."
"I'm sorry. Dr. Alexander's schedule is full to new emergency patients at the moment," the secretary answers.
With her voice clearly cracking, Arizona pleads, "Look, I need to see someone now. Can you recommend another trauma counselor in the area who is taking new patients immediately?"
"Could I call you back with names? I will need to check with Dr. Alexander," the secretary inquires.
"Fine." Frustrated, Arizona ends the call after leaving her name and number.
While eating lunch in the solitude of her office, Arizona's cell rings. A blocked number message flashes on the screen, not unusual for those in the medical profession: "Dr. Robbins," she answers.
"Is this Arizona Robbins?" the male voice asks.
"Yes, may I help you?" she replies.
"I'm Ben Alexander; you called my office this morning looking for an appointment. My secretary said you seemed…..anxious. She said you wanted names of other counselors in the area to see on a more immediate basis. I'm calling you personally to make sure I recommend someone who best suits your needs. I'm assuming because you didn't leave your name as Dr. Arizona Robbins this appointment is for you and not your patient?"
After a long silence, Arizona finally, emotionlessly responds: "Yes."
"Well, you specifically asked for a trauma counselor and indicated to my secretary there was some urgency to this request. If it's okay, would you mind sharing some information about your concerns over the phone? It would help me better advise you," Dr. Alexander continues.
Closing her eyes, Arizona steels her nerves and impassively explains. "About a year ago I was in a plane crash with some colleagues. I survived, but my wife authorized the amputation of my leg after promising she wouldn't. She just left me, taking our daughter and I have no idea where they are living. She said I need to get help before she will let me parent alone." There it was: the cliff note version of her pitiable life, though she omitted the crux of the matter, which precipitated this personal crisis.
After a momentary pause, Dr. Alexander responds. "Dr. Robbins, can you come by my office late this afternoon, say 5?" The dearth of emotion in Arizona's voice when describing her situation raises a red flag for the psychologist.
"Yes, I can be there," she answers mechanically.
Arizona arrives promptly at 5 pm. to Dr. Alexander's office and is immediately ushered in.
"Hi, Ben Alexander, glad you could make it," he introduces himself, waving Arizona to a seat in front of his desk.
Struggling to make eye contact, "Arizona Robbins," she replies as she sits down.
Dr. Alexander begins: "Shall we forgo the formality and stick with first names? I find it less cumbersome. To me, when I address clients formally, it sets an unnecessary boundary. We need to be partners here. Dispensing with titles levels the playing field. Are you okay with that?"
Arizona nods in agreement.
"I heard about the plane crash. I often wondered how you all fared. That's serious trauma to have endured, particularly considering hospital personnel were subjected to that shooting rampage not long ago. Were you there for that as well?" Ben asks.
He notices Arizona stiffen at the mention of the shooting and her lack of response to his direct question. First impressions are significant, and his first impression is this client is hoarding a lot of baggage.
Noticing her reluctance to engage him and her downcast demeanor, Ben continues: "Let's get the paperwork started tonight, shall we? I need you to complete this history for me. You can bring it with you to your next visit, which brings me to scheduling appointments. I know you are a doctor, so timing is going to be a challenge. What did you have in mind?"
"I'm willing to see you as often as I can but later in the day would be better for me," Arizona honestly answers. "I've lost everything at this point," anguish evident in her tone.
"Okay," he responds, her desperation projecting loud and clear. "What if we start with 5 o'clock on Monday, Wednesday and Friday? After a couple of weeks we can reevaluate."
The look of relief on Arizona's face isn't a smile but it's as close as Ben is going to get. Arizona rises to leave, "See you Wednesday. Thank you." Before exiting, Arizona turns asking, "Why are you seeing me? Your schedule is full at the moment."
"Well, you're a doctor, and I like to help peers. Let's just say, my gut says we are a good fit," Ben answers and continues with concern. "Arizona, it's obvious that you're not sleeping well and you seem fragile. I know we've just met briefly, but is there anything I can do for you right now? Do you need immediate help? I have to ask, have you thought of harming yourself?" Truthfully, he sees a woman on the verge of crisis, his instincts telling him this is a case he needs to take.
Arizona bristles at his words but keeps her voice neutral in response: "No. No, I won't harm myself..." she laughs ironically at the words mumbling "my wife already did that". More clearly, she says: "I'll be okay until our next session, I promise," as she quickly exits.
Arizona arrives on Wednesday for her second session with Ben, with completed paperwork in hand. After briefly reviewing it, Ben asks Arizona how she is feeling, if she heard from Callie, and if there are any new issues. She perfunctorily replies: "Fine. No. Nothing," to the three questions.
Closing his binder, Ben stands, saying: "I think we're done for today."
"What? It's only been fifteen minutes; there's 45 minutes left. That's not how this works," Arizona crossly responds.
Ben, earnestly looking at her, replies: "So what? If we stop now or in an hour, the result is going to be the same."
Incredulous, Arizona retorts: "You're supposed to fix me! How does that happen if I leave?"
Ben, still standing, thoughtfully answers: "Arizona, you're a pediatric surgeon. Children unable to advocate for themselves are brought to you by parents and caregivers to fix them. They often don't have the ability to choose or to think for themselves. So, as adults, we do it for them, and generally they do as they're told. But you come to me, ask that I accommodate your schedule, which I do by making appointments late in the day, three times per week keeping me here away from my family, so you can get your family back. Then, you give me monosyllabic answers to my questions, like you're completing a multiple-choice quiz. You're not a child. You're an adult, able to speak for yourself and make choices, to be an active participant in your recovery."
Not clear on his message, she says, "I don't understand."
Hoping to rattle her cage and shake the pediatric surgeon from her numb state, Ben boldly challenges her: "Is this what you did with your wife? Did you assume she would fix what was broken? Is this how you've managed the months since the crash and your amputation? With you sitting passively observing your life like an armchair quarterback, expecting she would understand what you were feeling and thinking?"
Irate at her psychologist, the person she is paying to fix her, she barks: "You know; you're unprofessional. Obviously, you're not the right doctor for me," Arizona yells, standing. Gathering her things she walks to the door.
Ben confidently replies; "Arizona, there will never be a right doctor for you." Arizona stops dead in her tracks, her back to the psychologist.
"Do you understand how this is supposed to work? How counseling works?" Ben asks sincerely.
Arizona noticeably tenses at the word 'counseling'. He continues: "Do you see coming here as a black mark in your file or some kind of weakness on your part? Does it lessen your ability to be in control to ask for help? Does admitting that things are falling apart make you feel less? Do you think that you are so perfect that you don't need help? How has that denial worked for you?"
Arizona drops her head, aware that her life is in shambles.
Ben's oration continues: "Arizona, you're not some superhero, impervious to life's trauma: shit happened to you. What happened was brutal beyond imagining. You are human; both strong and weak in varying measure. You've already overcome insurmountable odds. It takes extraordinary courage to admit you can't do this alone and you took a big first step to healing by walking through my door. But healing takes diagnosis, re-examining the injury before determining appropriate treatment, and recovery before discharge. It's going to get harder before it gets easier; no pain, no gain as is often said."
Arizona remains frozen.
Ben adds; "You need to expose your wounds, and put yourself out there. Be vulnerable. Recovery is only possible if you share your deepest, darkest, emotions, memories and thoughts with me a complete, but qualified, stranger. This is a safe place; there's no judgment here. My role is to guide you on your journey of recovery. We're co-surgeons, if you will. You will need to trust me with your symptoms like you would a consulting physician."
Arizona's body language softens, indicating that he is making some headway, so he pushes further: "You must have had patients' parents fearful of what could happen to their child on your operating table who struggle to trust you. They overcame their fear because it was in the best interest of their child. This isn't that different. Really, I'm not going to fix you. You're going to fix yourself. Your reflection within these walls will pull out those feelings, emotions, and thoughts that are blocking you, allowing you to see them for what they are. Until you are willing to do that, it's pointless to waste our time. Ben Franklin said, 'Never confuse motion with action.' You are just going through the motions."
Arizona removes her hand from the doorknob. With tears streaming down her face, 'damn her authority issues,' she feels like a teenager on the receiving end of one of her father's "I'm disappointed in you" speeches. She is just going through the motions.
She says meekly: "I'm not sure I know how to do this."
Ben smiles. "Vulnerability is tough: it's like standing naked, alone, in front of a mirror; it's being honest with yourself, and stripping away the denial and avoidance."
Arizona nods her head.
Ben interjects into the long pause: "There is no quick fix. I'm willing to help you, but you need to be honest, and there's no game playing or posturing here. At the end of the day this is just my job but for you, it's your life, your future."
Taking a big breath Arizona turns around and makes her way back to her seat.
Ben gives Arizona an admiring glance: "So, shall we try again? How are you feeling?"
"Crappy, everyone is pissing me off. I can't sleep and I can't hold anything down. My apartment feels like a dungeon. Callie isn't in touch, but that's how we left it when we met Saturday. She said to fix myself and then let her know," Arizona says despondently.
"Ah, smart woman. 'Physician heal thyself'," Ben replies.
"Whose side are you on?" Arizona indignantly reacts.
Noting the anger laced voice, Ben questions: "So, you've decided this is a battle, where one person will vanquish the other?"
With her warped perspective placed before her, Arizona backs down. "No…I don't know why I said that."
Ben adds: "You've brought up an important issue that we'll explore later. Let's save that for another time. Tonight, let's talk about why you think she wants you to 'fix yourself'?"
"Callie said I needed help before I could be with Sofia on my own. She doesn't trust me. I've said things and done things . …I slept with someone else." Arizona divulges painfully.
Arizona proceeds to share the sordid details of her infidelity that were intentionally excluded from their initial consult as well as the cruel comments exchanged in the aftermath. She cringes, feeling exposed, as she recounts what transpired prior to the loss of her family but reluctantly accepts there is some relief to sharing her burden.
With their session winding down, Ben adds: "I gather from Monday and our conversation tonight that you seem to be, umm, flying solo so to speak?"
Arizona's eyes widen with his words.
"Sorry, bad analogy," he says apologetically. "What I want to know is do you have a support system in place either at work or outside of work?"
Arizona shrugs, shaking her head. Feeling like an embarrassed middle school outcast, she forces herself to acknowledge: "No one. I had Callie and by extension her friends. What relationships I did have fell by the wayside this past year. Except, maybe, my fellow, Alex."
"Okay," Ben answers sensing Arizona's feelings of inferiority. "Did you know that people battling PTSD often isolate themselves in an effort to avoid establishing emotional connections with others?"
She looks at him confused.
Ben explains, "Arizona, you were hurting so much already that you couldn't invest any emotional energy into any relationships. You seem to be someone who keeps feelings guarded. You moved a lot as a child, which must have been very hard. You probably needed to be your own best friend at times; you're not used to sharing freely because you might have to leave. Trust seems hard for you. Now add trauma to your experience, and not just a single event. I can see how you would find withdrawing initially easier."
Perusing her completed history, Ben adds, "Looking at your history, there seems to be a multitude of life events, one of which would crumble even the strongest person: your profession as a Pediatric surgeon that witnesses children dying despite the best medicine has to offer, your brother's death, the hospital shooting, almost losing Callie and your daughter in a car crash, finding out your childhood friend Nick was dying from cancer, losing your daughter's father after the crash, the amputation and all that followed. All these things built upon each other and weren't processed properly. While I don't condone infidelity, your actions are not a unique reaction to PTSD," Ben explains.
"PTSD? I don't think so. I met with a trauma counselor after the shooting. Callie was the one who had the gun pointed at her, not me. I don't have nightmares anymore; a little phantom leg pain maybe. I don't fly, but you can't fault me for that," Arizona attempts to deflect the memories her psychologist stirred.
"We can talk about PTSD more on Friday; our time is up for today. I have some homework for you. I want you to do something non-work related with someone else. It could be as simple as having lunch with a colleague, perhaps this Alex you mentioned. Can you do that by Friday?"
Arizona groans: "I'll try."
As Arizona prepares to walk through the door, Ben adds: "Do or do not. There is no try."
A small grin creeps across Arizona's face, "Yoda, really?"
"Hey, are you underestimating the significance of my fictional friends?" Ben jovially responds, relieved to see the gleam in Arizona's modest smile, knowing that, at least temporarily, he has shored up the pediatric surgeon's fragile walls.