So when I check my email on my phone in the dark and see that Sari Epstein has invited me for a special meditation-weekend—okay, when I receive her mass email advertising “only a few spots left” in her retreat, The Noble Journey: Creativity Unbound! at her Vermont farm this coming weekend—designed to “unlock your blocked artistic impulses and guide you toward free expression”—I decide to sign up. I know it’s last minute and impulsive and financially irresponsible, but I also know that solving our problems, marital and otherwise, starts with me finding my way back to the person I was when I created Bird: if Gary and I are ever going to be able to split up it will be because I’ve finally been able to make some real money again, or at least get back on track for doing what I was meant to do. Doing “just enough” at Well/er will never be enough to save us. But Sari Epstein might.

It takes just seconds between telling myself I can’t afford the seminar to justifying and rationalizing the expenditure beyond all measure—the $895 fee for the retreat itself (room and board for two nights at a plush nearby inn sold separately, and there is a link to a list of friendlier-priced Airbnbs and local hotels, too) isn’t exorbitant, it’s actually a bargain. What price could you possibly put on reconnecting with your creativity? I fill out the online registration form on my phone, find the one Visa card that hasn’t expired yet and that I’ve been saving for an emergency like this. Well, not quite like this—more like a dental emergency or, god forbid, a medical emergency—most likely some kind of mental health emergency outside the bounds of normal coverage—but why not a creative emergency? I pull the card out from the back of my nightstand drawer, where I keep it hidden, and fill in the payment information. Then, in the “additional information box,” I identify myself with my published-author credentials so that Sari Epstein will treat me with published-author respect when I get there. When I hit “send,” I think: Yes, this is why we’re broke, but what the fuck.

With the online purchase completed, I take a screenshot of the receipt and text it to Glenn:

Come with me on my Noble Journey. I’ll drive.

The idea of it as a spontaneous and fun girls’ weekend appears in my head like a fizzy bubble—but the fantasy of it pops and disappears when she declines with a single word:

Can’t.

I know she doesn’t have the energy to stay in a room and sleep while I’m out trying to cure my writer’s block. Part of me wants to stop right there—if Glenn’s too sick to go, then I don’t want to go, either—but I know that’s not an option. I have to start preparing myself for what’s coming, even though I also know that’s impossible. You can’t ever prepare yourself for that.

In the morning, after drop-off, I tell Gary about the workshop—and how the timing of it actually provides the perfect opportunity for us to take a short break from each other. “Given last night’s awkward revelation,” I spell out, “it’ll be good for both of us to have some time to think.”