The water that day was clear and blue, as swimming pool water should be. My mother was on the concrete edge of the pool. I presume she was talking to her cousin, that would make sense. There were other legs in the water. Two, making a grand total of four. It’s possible they belonged to a relative I didn’t know very well at the time.

Not that I know my relatives very well now, but back then, I had youth as an excuse. I hate it when they talk about my childhood because I cannot remember their presence, meaning there are gaps, and I don’t like gaps. I was there, you know.

In the water with me was my mother’s cousin’s oldest son. Phillip. I always liked Phillip, but he was a little strange. I come from the normal side of our family, I see now, but at the time, I thought my cousin was just fine. I didn’t get that things weren’t normal then. I don’t know if this is a reflection of my judgment in general or lack of experience with real people at the time.

It’s possible that my sister was born by this time – that would make me like a year-and-a-half, but still within range. If she was alive, then I’d already tried to kill her, thanks to a perfectly legitimate misunderstanding on my part. I am not aware of any psychopathic tendencies. I suspect that even though there is no way that my sister could possibly remember what happened, the fact that my little mistake became the stuff of family legend surely contributed to The Break-Up. She is one for harboring a grudge.

We were living in Downey at the time. That’s where my sister was born. Or maybe it was Bell Gardens. It’s all the same, really.

So I remember clearly that it was sunny and the water was nice and it was a family thing. I have a recollection of a flowered swimsuit, the one-piece kind with the frilly tutu skirt thing, but maybe that’s because I’ve always secretly wanted to be one of those cute girls who wears that kind of stuff. My memory is fuzzy on color, I was underwater, and now I’m looking back at me being underwater, but I’m thinking navy blue with white flowers. That feels right. Red makes me nervous.

It was a good day, the day of my first memory. I don’t know why we were living in Downey or Bell Gardens, funny how I’ve never asked, but I guess it was because my father had a job in the area. He worked for IBM, at least he did for a while. We had a lot of punch cards in the garage to prove it. I never could come up with a good game involving punched punch cards.

My mother would have liked living down south. Her parents, such as they were (my family has never taken the linear approach to building a tree), lived in the middle of the state, on the coast. It was a nice place to raise a family, and eventually we settled back there, very close to her parents, three houses close. But then she was starting to be independent, it turns out that wouldn’t really happen until my sister, not the one I accidentally tried to kill but my youngest, moved out for college, and so being down south was surely a good thing for her.

Her cousin Joy, the one who may or may not be sitting next to her in this memory, lived near us when we in Downey or Bell Gardens. They were best friends in addition to being cousins, though I’ve never understood that either. Joy is earthy and coarse. She’s loud. She’s crude. My mother is more refined, though she can swear like nobody’s business when the mood takes her. My mother didn’t go to college, but most people would never guess that. She comes off as educated. Which she is. Sitting in a classroom and passing tests doesn’t really mean you know about art and the world. The priests made sure my mother could survive with what they gave her.

The swimming thing, I know, never happened, but it’s remained consistently my first memory since I became aware of it. Maybe it was a dream that I somehow have held onto all these years – that doesn’t make sense, very rarely do we remember dreams with such intensity, especially dreams that happened around age five or six – but it really does feel like a memory, even though I’ve now added the third person perspective, filling in colors and whatnot that a baby swimming underwater wouldn’t know about. I mean, how could I know what blue was at the age of one? How could I tell my mother’s legs from Joy’s? But I know I headed for my mother. I wanted her to notice.

That sort of detail does support the dream theory, but those details seem like after-facts. It’s the part where my eyes are wide open in the blue water and I can see my mother’s legs, white and feather-edged, dangling in the pool that I remember the most. It is a shame that it probably didn’t happen because I am having fun in my memory. I am aware that I’m in the pool having fun.

This is a good first memory. It was before my father crashed his car on the highway and there was another woman in the car and police and I didn’t even know what that meant but knew that things were not okay. It was before he forgot that eight-year old girls are not the same size as four-year old girls and before he forgot we existed and before we forgot he existed. He doesn’t exist at all now, not even in my first memory.

Making the list were some pretty bad things: I am a bitch (true), I am sarcastic (also true), and I use big words (sadly, also very much true). These are the kind of horrible traits that paralyze someone seeking a little self-analysis. Where do I start, I wondered?

It seems like I could cure the bitch thing with very little effort, but will that just cause other problems? You know how you play that game where you stack the pieces of wood and then start pulling them out. The person who knocks over the entire structure loses – and it all it takes is one wrong decision or wobbly hands. Is losing my bitchiness the right life choice for me at this time?

And if I’m not a bitch, what am I? I worry that suddenly being nice to everyone would be suspicious. I wouldn’t trust someone who is always sunshine and light. I’d think she’d found religion, and that’s clearly not the look-and-feel I’m going for.

The sarcasm? I’d say it’s a defense mechanism, and probably in a way it is, but mostly it’s just my sense of humor. I don’t take much in this world seriously and have no patience for stupidity (see also: Being a Bitch, Me). Look, I’m never going to be tall, thin, or beautiful. I do have brains. At least for now.

I realize my sarcasm can be cruel and sometimes I go over the line. We all go over the line. If I lose the bitchiness and sarcasm simultaneously (or at least within a noticeable period of time), what will be left? Will I even be me anymore? Will my friends still talk to me?

There would have to be a lot of changes in my life, great and small. I’d have to change my work; though largely based on sarcasm, it has a healthy dose of bitch in it. I’d have to change my friends; I may not the fastest or funniest in the crowd, but I do hold my own. I’d have to change my music, my reading, and even my television. Though it’s not always overt, they surely contribute to my dyspeptic worldview.

I did, I confess, take a token stab at correcting the big words problem. In a moment where I was clearly feeling distraught, I confessed the sordid details of the break-up to a friend. For a long time after, whenever I crossed the line, he’s shake his head and say, “There you go again, using those big words.”

It was then that I realized I have no control over my vocabulary. I cannot stop myself when a multi-syllabic word escapes. It sounds like I’m bragging, but I’m not. I simply don’t know what constitutes a big word. It seems so relativistic, and my sister is a black-and-white world person. See my problem?

Of course, there’s a bigger problem – what if I do all this changing and my sister doesn’t want me back? Not that I’m trying to win her back, but there’s a chance that her problems with me are really not my problem. I may be an innocent bystander. Well, mostly innocent. Somewhat innocent. Kind of innocent. When she said, “You know we’ve never really gotten along anyway”, was that all my doing? I cannot believe that’s true.

I don’t think I like the idea of bowing and scraping to her view of what I should be. I have spent a long time becoming who I am, and I don’t see her sitting down, doing a lot of self-reflection. I don’t see her saying, “You know, you’re right, I should take responsibility for my decisions rather than acting like it’s your fault that I made a mistake.” I don’t see her admitting that she’s unhappy and all the changing on my part isn’t going to heal her marriage or make her job better or help her achieve her lost goals. I could give up all words over three syllables, and that won’t make a bit of difference in her life.

Everyone is afraid of my sister, but not me. They don’t want to cross her, to make her mad, to get her worked up. I do. Of course, she’s still not speaking to me, so my opportunities are few and far between. But that allows me to rely upon one of my other lousy qualities: I am smarter than she is.

But no, I don’t need to wait, do I? Why not drop the ‘scrip off and have it filled while they do the blood tests. I have insurance — it won’t cost me any more or less if I go here or hit Von’s on my way home.

At first, I don’t recognize the problem as a problem. This may be due to my language barrier: I speak English quite fluently, but have some difficulty with insurance jargon. The last sentence that I managed to translate successfully was something like, “Sure, we can try to lower your rates, but you’ll have to go through the underwriting process again. Who knows what will happen?” I knew, actually, and figured a slightly higher rate was better than a significantly higher rate. That is another battle and another story. In this case, I am trying to breathe and sleep. Not necessarily in that order.

I am told, twice, that before my prescription can be filled, I need prior authorization. I look at the prescription in the clerk’s hand — it’s not her fault, I tell myself — and say, “Isn’t the prescription an authorization?” Her downcast eyes and head shake suggest that I am too naive for this world. I should give up now.

I finally understand that my insurance company must get involved. She tries to explain the sordid facts in slow sentences with short words, but I am baffled. I give up. I can take up breathing tomorrow. I’ve been fine so far without regular oxygen.

I go to Von’s. They are always very nice to me. Except this time. They cannot fill my prescription. They want to, no doubt about it, but it cannot be done. Communication with the insurance company is absolutely required. There will be faxes and phone calls and semaphores. The process must be followed exactly. No deviation.

My role, I am relieved to learn, is to pick up my pills in a day or two. Most likely two, but I’d better call first because sometimes this can take up to a week. I understand. I’ve been on hold with my insurance company. It can take a week there, too.

I’m not dying, after all.

I take to stopping by the pharmacy at odd moments over the next four weeks. I like to keep them guessing. I never approach from the same direction. Sometimes I carry orange juice, sometimes it’s toilet paper. They’re very polite, very sorry, and very much without authorization to give me my allergy medicine. They’ll contact my doctor again. He seems to be the roadblock, though his office assures me that’s not the case. It is an easy game of Elimination to find the culprit: not my pharmacy, not me, not my doctor. Hmmm.

I ask the obvious question, I am old enough that I am not embarrassed to be perceived as slightly dim. At retail, the drugs are not overly expensive. But my insurance premiums are overly expensive — if I pay to breathe, will they reimburse me for all my wasted time? — and for what? I want my premium dollars to be more than money I don’t have. I want my prescription and I want my insurance company to pay their fair share. They expect me to do my part; I expect them to do theirs.

I return to my doctor. “Very sorry,” the nice young man at the desk tells me, “but Blue Cross hasn’t gotten back to us. We’ll follow up.”

“Yes, I know, but I really need to sleep. I like to sleep, it’s sort of a hobby, and I’m starting to miss oblivion.”

I again think about paying full price for my drugs. I spend a few hours trying to understand formularies, for they are at the root of my problem. I try to explain to my husband, though I don’t fully understand myself, why my doctor cannot memorize each and every formulary in the world. I try to explain why a drug advertised in the finest women’s magazines isn’t on my particular plan’s formulary. Many people say to me, “Isn’t that available over-the-counter?” They mean Claritin. Claritin is for beginners. The non-allergic see all solutions as being equal.

I offer to call my insurance company. It’s a half-hearted gesture. I know it won’t help. My doctor forks over free samples. I hear the whispered conversation, “But this is all we have.” “She’ll keep coming back if we don’t do something.” “Get the rep on the phone. We need more samples.” I don’t care. I love, love, love free samples. I also love breathing. It is a match made in heaven.

Later that day, I get a call from my doctor. Naturally I assume they want the free samples (less the one I took) back. No, they want my pharmacy to call them. It’s good news, I can tell from the happy nurse’s voice. Sure, I can play go-between when it’s for a good cause.

This time when I go to my pharmacy, they look me right in the eye. Direct eye contact. It’s true, they say, we have filled your prescription.

Generic. The real thing is an unattainable dream.

Four weeks later, I receive a letter from Blue Cross telling me they’ve approved my pre-authorization. It has been noted on my permanent record. Premiums will be raised accordingly.

Even after my accident, it was raining that night, I now recall, I didn’t lose my nerve. Oh sure, for a while I slowed down a little bit. Who wouldn’t? I went back and double-checked. Had things been a little different, probably I would have gone over the edge. Never could figure out how far I would have dropped. That was when I decided it wasn’t my destiny to die in a car. Seems like dying early can be the easy way out for some. I don’t think I’ll ever have things easy.

I like to drive fast. I like being in my car. I don’t mind gridlock so much, though I prefer to speed because then I can also listen to the stereo really loud. I don’t so much like to listen to loud music when I’m sitting still. Sitting still is for NPR. I’m not actually a big fan of NPR, but they do help to keep me informed. That’s always useful.

I think the first to go was my grip. When you drive a lot, you have strong hands. And calluses. You don’t even know it — though I suppose some people do because they wear driving gloves — but your hands develop mechanisms to help cope with holding the steering wheel. You really need to make sure you’re in tune with your steering. Every car is different. Brakes, too. You need to know how your brakes respond. I need good brakes. I race up to each and every red light. It could turn green at any moment, and I like a fast takeoff. My mom thinks someday that’s going to be my downfall: cross traffic can be just as dangerous as drunk drivers.

My hands aren’t so steady on the wheel anymore. That’s not say I have some problem where I shake or need medication. It’s just that my palms have grown soft, my muscles weak. I can’t drive for hours like I used to. Now I do a lot of finger flexing and stretches that look like I’m practicing my jazz hands. It never struck me before that my grip would need to take frequent naps.

I know how to brake coming into curves, accelerate coming out. Smooth, it’s all about smooth. I thought I could be a race car driver, but that was before they let women in. Now if I were younger and I had my nerve, maybe I’d give it a try. Though I think the space they have for the actual person seems a bit small. Claustrophobic. Not me, I mean, I don’t think I’m claustrophobic. The space is small, especially when you think bulky suit and helmet. Like the driver is an afterthought. Must leave lots of room for the engine, you know.

Last night, we were in the car. I wasn’t driving — I’d been out in the rain all day, and I thought I’d like to ride for a little while. It wasn’t really that wet, you know, but the roads were slick. Not as slick as after the first couple of rains of the year — it’s a problem living in a place where it doesn’t rain that much. Oil builds up on the road, and when it’s wet, you slide all over the place. Always unexpectedly. Like you’re timing the brakes just right, coming to a smooth stop without a problem, and then out of nowhere, you start fishtailing. Usually happens in front of someone. Like a cop. I tend to get nervous when I see and black-and-white. For no good reason, except for the speeding thing.

Anyway, we were driving, and he made a left. This wasn’t a sharp turn or anything. A lazy left. But the road was blocked in places due to construction, and I didn’t feel safe. It was a good turn, I can see that now, but then I felt like were going in too fast, tires sliding instead of gripping the road — maybe I should check my treads, that might help. All my vital functions shut down for maybe two, three seconds. Is that how people die from shock? Do people die from shock?

Before that turn wouldn’t have bothered me. Like I said, it wasn’t a challenge even if the roads were wet. But now I don’t have any guts. The last time I slid after braking, I sat at that red light, shaking in a way I’ve never shook before. I was scared. I wanted to go home. I would have pulled over and tried to slow down my pulse rate, but it’s a dicey neighborhood. The first safe place to pull to the side is in front of a head shop. Even at ten in the morning, that seems like a precarious thing to do. There was a murder just down the block a month ago — the candles are still there. I wonder who cleans that sort of stuff up.

Driving home, I was going fast. Not too fast. That time of night, there are still lots of cars on the road. A reasonable fast. Keeping pace with the car in front of me, not annoying the car behind me. I like it when you’re in rhythm with the other drivers. It’s like we’re in an elaborate dance. Cars slide in and out of lanes, every movement choreographed, every vehicle positioned just so. There’s a sense of danger, but no chance of collision. We have practiced these moves until they’re automatic.

We, my fellow drivers and me, came to a big curve. It’s an old road, so things are not properly banked. Pretty much you hit the flat of the curve and the highway doesn’t do a thing to help you. You can see old and new bumpers stuck in the railings like modern sculpture. The shoulder is covered with the yellow glow of shattered reflectors. Some of the wood is split, jagged in places, you don’t want to hit that head-on. The metal supports dividing northbound and southbound are buckled from impact. If you look to the right, you see car-sized bubbles where the chain link fence caught somebody before they fell into what would be a river any place else.

So I braked. I braked. And jerked my wheel. And broke the rhythm. And my heart was hurting my chest. And I knew I should have just quit then. I lost my nerve.