Infested

"I had always worked with the temperamental conviction that at bottom there are no insoluble problems, and experience justified me in so far as I have often seen patients simply outgrow a problem that had destroyed others. This 'outgrowing,' as I formerly called it, proved on further investigation to be a new level of consciousness. Some higher or wider interest appeared on the patient's horizon." - Carl Jung

My friend Shiraz and I go for a quick coffee after work today. I love being downtown, people watching, chatting with my brilliant BFF. On the way home, I get a call - my daughter, Duckie, has a lice infestation. Don't you know that last night is the night my darling girl decides to crawl into my bed? Blech.

So, I've been washing hair, combing out nits, washing again, bleaching sheets, itching all over. It's so disgusting.

But it dawned on me that every time life starts to get a little nutty, something happens that pulls me back - and makes me clean my house. It's as if the solution for me is always: clean your outside world and it will clean your inside world. I probably sound pretty OCD right now. I can be a bit at times, but really it's an almost symbolic purge, a ritual.

Random updates:

* I deferred admission to the program for six months. I'm not sure anything will be different in 6 months, but at least it's a reprieve. Buy some time to work out a game plan. Clear the cobwebs. Look for alternate solutions. Part of me hates that this leaves that tiny little window of opportunity open - I should probably just close that door and move on - but I'm not ready to admit defeat. Moreover, I've never been very good at letting go - probably to my detriment.

*I have been running again! Yay. Triathlon training will start soon for the 2009 season. That will be a healthy distraction. Even sent an email to my ultra-competitive, ultra-fit girlfriend. I like the way she pushes me.

*Dallas is "coincidentally" going to be in Austin on Tuesday. He flies in in the afternoon and has to leave that night. I agreed to have dinner with him. Maybe he'll be a little different without a posse to impress.

*Excited to go downtown for the freakshow Friday night, after trick-or-treating with the kids, and after the party at Po's.

Back to the bleach.

Covenant

"The man who promises everything is sure to fulfill nothing, and everyone who promises too much is in danger of using evil means in order to carry out his promises, and is already on the road to perdition." - Carl Jung

Saturday night, my best friend Shiraz and I head downtown. It had been a while since we'd been out and about, and with everything that has been going on, I was looking forward to drinking a little too much and flirting with anyone and everyone. It's been a rough run, and frankly, I just needed some attention.

Shortly after we arrive at the first bar, we begin talking to three men. One is from Dallas, the others from New York. They invite us to go to a dance club with them and we do. It's fun talking to them, they are very different than the Austin crowd - we're actually having conversations and laughing and what not. At the end of the night, Dallas asks for my number and I give it to him. It seems like the easiest way to get away and I don't think much of it, I know I won't hear from him again.

He calls Sunday night, but I don't answer. I'm exhausted from the weekend and just not in the mood. Yesterday, he sends me a text message. The beauty of text messaging is that you have a record - you don't have to try to remember what someone said. This can also be a drawback if you lose your phone. ;-) I'm not proud of myself, I come across as a real snot in places.

D: Hey beautiful...you need to tell me your last name.

A: Y'right...so you can google me? You won't find anything interesting.

D: No silly, so I can buy you a plane ticket to come see me this weekend.

A: Y'right.

D: Seriously. Halloween weekend, we'll have a blast.

A: I can't. I have plans, but thanks.

D: When can I fly you up here? I want to see you again.

A: That's sweet, but we don't know a thing about each other. I'll pass.

D: I know I could dance all night with you again. ;)

A: Haha. How old are you?

D: 32

A: Married?

D: No!!! I want to get to know you.

A: You sure about that? Here's my story: I'm almost 36, I'm divorced and I have two young kids.

D: I love kids. How old?

A: My boy is 7 and my girl almost 4.

D: I could take care of you, and them, you know.

A: Huh?

D: I've made a lot of money in my 32 years.

A: I noticed. Your watch is worth more than many homes.

D: I took care of you Saturday night, didn't I?

A: You didn't walk me to my car!

D: OMG. You didn't really just say that to me. I tried. You said, "This is Austin, not Dallas." I even tried to put you in a cab and take you there. You were such a pain in the ass, but I thought the independence was cute.

A: Yeah, that was a mistake.

D: Why?

A: Nothing. I survived, mostly unscathed. So what do you do for a living?

D: I'm a venture capitalist.

A: What the fuck does that mean?

D: It means I developed a web company and sold it to AT&T. Now I don't really work, I just invest in other people's good ideas.

D: You know, there's nothing wrong with wanting to be taken care of.

A: Please don't pretend you know what I need. It's a huge pet peeve of mine.

D: It's easy. You decide to be with someone and then you make it work. They have what you need, you have what they need - you just make the decision and you make it happen.

A: Now I feel much older than you. Life isn't that black and white. People have dilemmas, situations to deal with. (Does anyone else find it amusing that this came out of MY mouth?)

D: I've never met a situation I couldn't buy my way out of.

A: Tell you what - next time you're in town, call me and we'll go have a drink.

D: Tell YOU what. We'll get to know each other a bit over the next few weeks, then you'll come to Dallas.

The following Monday, I tell Shiraz bits of the story. She says, "See, I told you he was really in to you. When you went to the bathroom I tried to dance with him and he wouldn't let me."

So, that's kind of cute. And really, he's very much my type, at least "on paper". He's tall, he's fit, dark hair, amazing blue eyes, dressed nicely, and he rolls like a rockstar. But, he's actually TOO pretty for me. He's a showy sort of fellow. The kind of guy that needs to be a high-roller - he needs to be in the limelight, the center of attention. Now, I have my moments of enjoying that, but for the most part, plant me on a beach where I can swim and snorkle and drink fruity drinks with umbrellas before throwing on a sundress for dinner and I'm a very happy girl.

While physically attractive, his face lacks character. While being successful, his career baffles me. Venture capitalist? That means nothing to me, literally - I have no clue what that means. While he seemed sweet and attentive, he's too airy - I simply can't see him possessing an earthy sexuality - he's not grounded at all. He even looks wispy and willowly despite his size. Hard to explain. He's the kind of guy that would be looking in the mirror while you had sex - at himself.

Po would have loved him - but only because it would have been the first time a ridiculous bar tab didn't land in HIS lap. Po would have hated him for me. Recently, after a long night of drinking with Po he said, "So what IS your type?"

The man that is right for me is solid and earthy. Grounded. Meticulous and methodical blended with a healthy dose of philosopher and dreamer. He likes nice things, but he's not reckless in acquiring them. He plays hard, but not at the expense of reality. He's strong and competent, the proverbial Alpha Male - but remains accessible and tender. He's a little bit of an imp, happy to challenge the status quo when the situation demands it. He's an optimist. He's the man that my father and children would adore. He has managed to find the perfect balance, the harmony between sexual and sensual, healthy and hearty, achievement and leisure. He's the man I can respect, he's the man that has what I need.

Dallas called again yesterday, but I didn't answer. My kids were having a meltdown, I had 8 million things to do and I was apparently very invested in becoming my mother because I sounded just like her.

I thought..."Wait a minute. Maybe he's right. Maybe he can buy me the solutions to all of life's challenges..." But no, that's not reality. He can think it works that way, and he may damnwell be right. But for a second I think, "Maybe he is good enough."

Then I remember that I settled for "good enough" once already and I learned a valuable lesson. This is MY promise: Good enough is not good enough.

Contradiction

"The confusion is not my invention. We cannot listen to a conversation for five minutes without being aware of the confusion. It is all around us and our only chance now is to let it in. The only chance of renovation is to open our eyes and see the mess. It is not a mess you can make sense of." - Samuel Beckett

I realize that much of what I've written lately seems contradictory. As I read back, I seem to be saying one thing in one spot and quite another in another spot. I don't think one thing is necessarily true while another necessarily untrue. And I don't think it's surprising to feel one way one moment and a bit differently another moment. It's not a contradiction, it's a fluidity of feelings, thoughts and opinions.

I'm thankful for it - it may be uniquely human - to profess one thing with certainty at one moment, then adapt to changing circumstance or information and believe another thing at another moment.

I'm growing. Most of the time, I feel like the first green sprigs of a flower pushing up out of the Earth after a cold, dark winter. Friends that have been with me since the start of that spring tell me constantly how much I've grown.

I had started to forget how cold that long winter was, looking at a future of boundless opportunity.

To explain - I was given a career opportunity that I have longed for since I entered the medical field. Most of you that know me well know that I've long wanted to go to anesthesia school. (To my coworkers that read this, please, please don't ask me about it - and please, please keep this information to yourself. I cannot talk about it because it truly, genuinely breaks my heart and I cannot answer any questions).

On a whim, I applied - to the best program in the country. Without the "required" experience, I knew my chances were limited, but it was a chance and I never listen when people tell me that I can't do something. I wanted to try. I wrote a long letter explaining my interest and I had a letter from an anesthesiologist that helped a great deal. Reading his words about me blew my mind - I couldn't believe the things he said. As I thanked him for making me look so much better on paper than I am in reality, he said, "I meant every single word of it."


I didn't tell a soul except the author of the letter, trusting that he'd harbor my secret. I never mentioned it because I knew I'd never be accepted and I just didn't want to answer the question, "Have you heard back?"

I heard back. I was accepted. I was ecstatic. I knew I'd have a hard time convincing my ex-husband to move, but the move would only be for two years. I was pregnant for two years, it's a minor time frame.

I invited him over to talk. I made him a drink, then brought up an unrelated subject that I knew he'd love to talk about. I made him another drink. He continued to ramble on and on and on about the subject that he most loved discussing - his impending musical stardom. Halfway into his third beverage, I pointed out to him that his musical career could really flourish in another city....say, perhaps...Chicago. Then I tell him why I want to move to Chicago. I offer him anything and everything I can think of, short of a reunion.

He mulls it over for some time then looks me straight in the eye and says, "No." Simply no. I beg. Literally, I beg him for this. I'm sobbing.

"You never thought about how your career change would impact my life in the first place. Then, you're hanging around with all these doctors and I'm not good enough for you anymore. So you just up and leave me. You've got everything in the world you ever wanted now. You've got your job, you've got your friends, you've got your free time and you've got your boyfriends. Now you have to live with your choices. If you want to go pursue your latest and greatest dream, you're going to have to do it without your children. Their family is here." He's smiling the whole time he's talking. He finally gets to play the trump card he's held onto for two years.

His perception of the divorce is so far from the reality of it that it would be amusing if it weren't so pathetic. His perception of my current reality is so far from the truth it would be amusing if it weren't so pathetic. But above all, I know he won't listen if I try to correct the misconceptions. He's got his reality and he needs it to accept the situation. Sadly, he knows one thing about me - that I will not leave my children behind.

I spend two weeks trying to swallow the white-hot, blinding rage I feel towards him. I tell myself that there is a reason this is happening, but I'm unable to discern that reason at the moment.

Then, something really surprising happens. I find myself considering the move. I actually consider leaving my children for two years. I tell myself that it would be OK because I'd come back to them stronger and in a completely different financial situation. I'd be able to give them every opportunity the world would allow. I could visit every weekend. The end would justify the means.

But then I realize that I am mistaken. They would feel abandoned, neglected and unwanted. The thought makes me sick, disgusted with myself, wondering what sort of mother I am to even allow my mind to explore the opportunity. Then something else happens that is so much worse. I find myself wishing that I didn't have them.

Holy shit. Can you imagine what that felt like for me? The guilt was overwhelming. I want to be known well for doing everything that I undertake well. But ultimately, the only thing that matters in the world is my children - and make no mistake, they are MY children. It's my DNA that makes their little hearts beat - you only have to look at them to see it.

The anger I feel turns to something else - a genuine dislike for myself. I distract myself with lofty thoughts of other things, but ultimately, you can't ignore a truth about yourself and that's why I needed a little breather.

So I set about cleaning my physical environment and in doing so, I find the diary that I kept as my marriage was falling apart and I curl up in my bed and read it all. I may share some parts here, I may not. But reading it was such a welcome relief.

It reminded me that the thing he always hated most about me was my unwillingness to just hum along in a humdrum existence. It reminded me that I do have hopes and dreams and aspirations and that is not only acceptable, it's the only option. So, it's OK that for a brief moment I considered leaving my children. It's OK that for an even more fleeting moment I wished I didn't have that responsibility in my life. I didn't leave them and I will not, but I'm not evil for considering it because I never want to be the person that doesn't consider possibility.

We make choices in life and some are tough pills to swallow. Sometimes letting an opportunity pass is painful, but sometimes the reasons are sound - even if they haven't been revealed to you yet.

But I still can't make myself write the declination letter.

Distance

"As long as anyone believes that his ideal and purpose is outside him, that it is above the clouds, in the past or in the future, he will go outside himself and seek fulfillment where it cannot be found. He will look for solutions and answers at every point except where they can be found - in himself." - Erich Fromm

Some of you have been asking why I'm different lately - I look different, you've said. I seem farther away. Please don't be concerned, it's just my way. Sometimes, I live in my head a bit too much for others liking. It used to make my ex-husband insane, and that's when he'd start the probing and interrogating that so threatened my psyche.

I just need to retreat into my head for a bit. I woke feeling quite ill this morning, but it's not viral. I haven't gone on a run in two weeks. My house is a disaster. I haven't been spending time with my friends. No, I don't need to talk about it and yes, everything will be fine.

I have a couple of really big decisions facing me, weighing me down. The easier of the two decisions is completely contingent on the first, so until I find the clarity there, I won't be able to move. Inertia is such a bad place for me.

However, it's a bit of a welcome retreat - I've been flying along at Mach speed for quite some time now and I'm fine with a little rest. Sometimes, life decisions force you to examine who you really are and what you really value - and I'm more than a little shocked at one of the answers. In fact, I'm stunned to discover that there was ever even a question...but there was, and now I must think about who I really am and what the ramifications of that are for some wee people that rely quite heavily on me.

I'm sure that this will be good for my writing...and I plan to examine some aspects of myself here, publicly, as I sort through these weighty choices. Right now, I'm going to crank up some disco tunes and clean my house from top to bottom, box up some of the clutter and listen to myself think.

I'll be back, and I doubt it will be a long trip...I'll send a postcard or two...

Betrayal

"Faithfulness is to the emotional life what consistency is to the life of the intellect - simply a confession of failures." - Oscar Wilde

Before I begin this little missive, I would like to make it very clear that I am not having an affair. I repeat, I am not having an affair. The topic seems to be very...well, topical...lately. It's coming up all over the place in conversation. I've given the matter much thought. As you read, please keep in mind these basic premises:

1. I'm referring to a relationship, not a random night of drunken sex. So, when I use the term "affair" I invite you to imagine that as something that includes more than physicality.
2. I'm speaking of people that are clinically sane and reasonably intelligent.
3. Happily married people do not cheat. Period. One or both parties may think everything is perfect in their relationship, but if that's the case, they are in denial. People in fulfilling relationships do not look outside of that for pleasure, because the stakes are simply too high. (Unless they do not fit neatly into one of the categories assumed in the above item).
4. As it's a given that the original relationship is broken in some capacity or another, it's kind of hard for me, being the logical beast that I am, to get too bent out of shape with empathetic misery for the person being cheated on. Yeah, yeah...I know. My moral compass is a little rusty.
5. Nothing happens in isolation. It's not like some sex-pot man or woman comes flying out of the woodwork and sweeps another off their feet. I'd wager that every person on the planet has had a terribly attractive and compelling person in their lives whose sexual advances they HAVE been able to resist.

Phew, now that that is out of the way, I repeat: I am not having an affair. Phew, now that that's out of the way...

It strikes me as somewhat amusing, somewhat surprising that an affair, a relationship built almost entirely on lies, can quickly become one of the most honest and open relationships a person could possibly have.

Affairs progress rapidly - often, they burn themselves out with their own plentitude, but just as often, they begin as something rather innocent and morph into something larger than life. Why? Because from the very start, you are forced to face nothing but each other, warts and all.

From the first moment, you know the very worst thing possible about the other person - that they are simply not trustworthy. You accept this as a matter of fact, and you don't give it much thought, because you're not trustworthy either. What does this mean? It means that from the very first kiss you share, you've accepted one huge, major character flaw. In reality, we're all merely simple humans, with flaws and failures. We can all be trustworthy, but as a rule, we're only as reliable as our own needs allow us to be. Ponder that one for a few. Please.

So, there you are - flawed you and your flawed object of desire- testing the waters, seeing if something exists between you. Clearly there's a physical attraction, a physical attraction that's bigger than simply finding the other person attractive. There's a physical attraction that is so intense you're willing to gamble for it. No, you're not simply willing to gamble - you're willing to go "all in" just to experience that feeling - once. That's some pretty impressive desire - I want to feel that way about someone.

Passion overwhelms you and you two sneak off somewhere to experience each other - tensions are mounting, pressure is building...and finally, the release is either anticlimatic or Earth-shattering. If it's a let-down, no harm, no foul. You simply march on your merry (marry?) way and try to forget your mistake. You'll be the world's best spouse for a couple of months simply from the guilt - and I can almost guarantee your spouse will be the clueless recipient of a home-cooked dinner and a back massage that night.

If it's Earth-shattering, flawed you and flawed lover have an issue. Of course, you're not thinking clearly, you're simply thinking about the next time you'll be able to feel the tremor. So you plot, and you plan and you connive. You're thinking about the person obsessively, dreaming up ways to pleasure them with even more intensity that the previous encounter. They are too. They loved what you experienced, heightened by the taboo nature. Perhaps one of you makes an effort to contact the other - a sexy little email, a thinly-veiled hint regarding your soon-to-be whereabouts, a forbidden phone call. It escalates to a fever-pitch, largely the result of your own mental creation.

In isolation, you've both made remarkable efforts to satisfy the other's longings - her toe nails are perfect, her bikini line freshly waxed. He's dressed to please and wearing the good cologne. Above all - the anticipation you feel is sending an electric charge through every fiber of your being, and everyone you see can feel that heat radiating from you. It's no surprise that your next encounter is even more mind-boggling than the first. You're a junkie now, and you'll do anything for your fix.

Together, you establish some guidelines and figure out how to keep lighting that pipe. With each encounter, you share each other physically with raw passion and complete abandon. You've got nothing to lose - at least not with each other. You've done it - you crossed the line. You know you're going to have sex again, because you can't imagine not having sex again.

Neither of you has to play coy - there's no point in trying to hide your basal nature - you've both accepted each other as flawed already. That's some pretty heady stuff, there. Think about it - that's really getting down to basics. You're both animals with needs and wants. Not only do you accept it - you embrace it.

Your initial attraction to the person was MORE than just physical. It had to have been because no sane or reasonably intelligent person would really it all for "just sex". Maybe they made you laugh. Maybe they had a mind that impressed you. Maybe they were outgoing just like you, or athletic just like you, or...it doesn't matter - there was something. So as the two of you lay next to each other, satisfied and refreshed, you begin to talk to each other. With no need to sugar-coat things, or to try to put on airs, you begin to really, really talk to each other. Now things get really sticky.

You feel as if you can speak very freely to the other person. They don't judge you or try to use your words against you because you're wrapped in each others arms, genuinely liking this person, genuinely intersted in this person. You feel like they *know* you and understand your wants and needs in a way that the other lover in your life simply cannot. You feel, more than you ever have, safe. You are completely safe to be your real, flawed self in the arms of your real, flawed lover. I know...it's ironic. But it's also true.

Now you're not just sexual partners, you're intimate with one another, but you've got one huge advantage over all the other lovers in the world. It isn't a "real" relationship and as such, you don't have to deal with "real life" issues. It doesn't matter if his sister is an overbearing bitch, or if your father will never accept him. It doesn't matter if she promised to pick up your dry-cleaning and it's her turn to do the dishes but you're elbow-deep in suds with nothing to wear to work the next day. That crap simply isn't a factor.

You've drilled it down to the basics - to what every loving relationship really should be about - the two of you - enjoying and appreciating each other in body, mind and spirit.

You lay there, sticky with each others sweat, nude and entwined in each others arms, talking about everything and nothing. Getting to know each other. Listening to each other. Truly and wholly enjoying each other for who you are, appreciating each other. It's easy because the situation has forced you to filter out all the bullshit of daily life, the reality that bogs you down and distracts you from sharing ALL of yourself with the one you love.

It's just the two of you - raw and real, vulnerable and flawed, perfectly imperfect and enjoying the hell out of each other. It doesn't get more open and honest than that.

f/stop

"Unfortunately, there can be no doubt that man is, on the whole, less good than he imagines himself or wants to be. Everyone carries a shadow, and the less it is embodied in the individual's conscious life, the blacker and darker it is. If an inferiority is conscious, one always has a chance to correct it… But if it is repressed and isolated from consciousness, it never gets corrected… No one can become conscious of the shadow without considerable moral effort. To become conscious of it involves recognizing the dark aspects of the personality as present and real. This act is the essential condition for any kind of self-knowledge." - Carl Jung

We all fancy ourselves to be a little better than we really are. We see ourselves through a soft-focus lens, that nicely blends our imperfections into a beautiful picture of who we aspire to be, more than who we are, in actuality. It's not exactly self-deception, but it's not exactly honest, either.

For example, I would like to believe that I'm a far more intellectual and creative thinker than I actually am. I would like to think that the subtleties in life do not often escape my notice. But as I grow older, I am beginning to realize that I’m not the intellect that I think I am.

It pains me to admit that my mind is a fairly black and white place. A+B=C. Almost without exception. It pains me to admit this, because the places that revel in the shades of grey are often where true beauty, mystery and discovery can occur. It's also a place I often cannot dwell.

So ultimately, I'm a pretty simple thinker. In many ways, this ability to simplify my world serves me well - it's beneficial in my career, it can be liberating and it's really useful in decision-making. In other ways, it's not as wise. I've been known to miss nuance, trap myself into less-than-perfect situations and make knee-jerk decisions that impact myself and others.

Another example of my misconceptions of self is this: I like to think that I’m blissfully independent and self-assured. That's not entirely true either. I can manage on my own, just as I always have. But I'm not all that independent. I'm happiest when I'm nurturing others and being needed makes me feel good, valuable and worthwhile. I profess the opposite quite often, but the truth is that I long to love another, be a part of "we" and to have a man in my life that I know I can wholly rely on, and to be that port in his storm as well. You have no idea how much admitting that just made my stomach churn.

For my final soul-bearing of the evening, I will tell you that I also have this misconception about the way I approach others in my life. I want to believe that I’m wholly and totally capable of giving myself to another freely and without reserve. I’m painfully frightened to do so - reluctant to give my heart, unwilling to find it shattered yet again, particularly by the monsters of my own imagination.

Admitting these things to you, and to myself, hurts me. But it's part of the process of growth I began so long ago and continue to explore. I'm not the version of myself that I want to be, but I'm examining myself, and as long as I continue to be honest with myself, I will get there.

Snapshot

"Maybe this is all pure gibberish - a product of the demented imagination of a drunken hillbilly with a heart full of hate who has found a way to live out there where the real winds blow - to sleep late, have fun, get wild, drink whiskey and drive fast on empty streets with nothing in mind except falling love and not getting arrested." - Hunter S. Thompson

Fuck my head hurts and the coffee is burning this morning. Never a good sign. A very close girlfriend of mine recently returned to Austin after being gone for a while. I've missed her a great deal. Last night, I met her and two other women at her cool new pad, the plan was to go out after a drink at her place. We never left the house.

The four of us sat around and talked about everything under the sun. Food, parents, grandparents, our careers, old people...as the wine flowed, the conversation became rowdier and the topics switched to love, death, psychics, politics and the state of the economy...and as more wine flowed, the conversation became much more intimate and we discussed sex and relationships. It was a blast and I respect all of these intelligent women so very much.

Of course, we discussed all the details of my personal life (it was a short conversation). We discussed the ones that had been all wrong and why, we discussed the one that could be right but must not be, and we discussed the ones that I've summarily dismissed without real opportunity. Eventually, one of the women asked me if I knew what I wanted. If I genuinely, distinctly and honestly knew what I wanted.

Of course I do. And there are many men in my life that personify some of those characteristics.

I want the intelligence and sarcasm of my favorite general surgeon. I also admire his integrity. I want a man that loves big toys, water, and wine and food the way Dad does, with the work ethic my father has that made all those expensive toys possible. I want the guy that rolls the way Marky Mark does - he greases palms so slickly you never see it happen, while he makes anything and everything happen. As for Po, well - I want the guy that accepts me the way he does. I want the guy that trusts me the way he does. And I want the guy that's always up for absolutely anything the way he is. Then there's the tidbits: Soccer Boy's sweetness, Mimzy's humor, the wisdom and openness of a certain CRNA that I don't have a suitable nickname for, and the combined kindness and fortitude of my Uncle. As if that weren't enough, I want it all wrapped up in a pretty package, perfectly embodied by a certain anesthesiologist (and no, it's probably not the one your thinking of). To my mind, he's the most perfect physical specimen that has ever walked the face of the Earth - a face that looks like a Hellenic sculpture, a body that brings me to my knees every time I see him at the gym, blue/gray sparkling eyes, and a perfect bow of a mouth...ahhh...even his hair graying around the temples and thinning so noticeably on top charms me...no, he's not perfect, but I look at him and see nothing but (I'm sure his wife appreciates his beauty as much. No really.).

Of course, you've likely noticed that something major is missing from this little list, and it's something I've been thinking about a great deal lately. The subject of the story "Control" embodies the rest of it so nicely. I've never told the reasons he was wrong for me, only the reasons I was wrong for him and I intend to keep it that way. We were doomed from day one, but there's so very much that I miss about him.

I miss his honesty and sweet nature. I miss the way he'd come to pick me up and kiss me before exchanging a single word. After a perfect kiss (he'll always be the one that others are compared to in that regard, I'm certain of it) he'd look me in the eyes and say, "Hi". So cute. I loved how attentive he was to my needs, and how when I was triathlon training and burning an extra 1200 calories a day he'd bring me food, knowing I'd forget to eat. I loved how, when I had the thorn in my paw, he'd come over and ice my foot, feed me, then carry me to bed. I loved how, when my ex was being an idiot, he didn't get bent out of shape, he simply shook his hand and introduced himself. I loved how, when I'd be all fired-up about something, ranting and raving with my hands flying as I told him the story, he'd listen until I was finished then say, "You're so cute." But most of all, I loved how he had discovered the balance, the perfect balance between being present and giving me space, between being sweet and aggressive as all hell, between sexual and sensual.

I've met men that have come close. But I can't hold onto fantasy. I have to let it go. I'll keep this snapshot of perfection in my mind, and I won't settle for someone that doesn't give me goosebumps again, but the fantasy...I release it.  Nah, that's a lie.  I'll never let it go.

Polarity

"It would be futile to attempt to fit women into a masculine pattern of attitudes, skills and abilities and disastrous to force them to suppress their specifically female characteristics and abilities by keeping up the pretense that there are no differences between the sexes."
- Arianna Stassinopoulos

My son comes home with a love note from his little girlfriend yesterday. It's a full page long, painstakingly handwritten, and it's adorable. Since my dyslexic boy can't read the note, he asks me to read it to him.

I'm watching his face as I read, we are laying together on the living room floor. He's smiling. He's listening. He's happy. He really likes this little girl, she's definitely his "first love". I finish reading this letter, that ends with, "I really love you" and turn to him. I'm smiling, I'm on the verge of happy tears, and he smiles back at me.

"Wow, babe. Your first love note. What do you think?" I ask, waiting to hear some tremendous outpouring of emotion that matches what she just gave to him.

Instead, he shrugs his shoulders, picks up his little matchbox car and says, "Mom, do you think this is the coolest car I have?"

WHAT?

Men and women are tremendously different, and nowhere is this more obvious than in intimate relationships. It's been a topic that seems to have taken on a great deal of importance to me and to some of the people I'm close to so it's something I've given a great deal of thought to as well. Here are some things I've noticed (yes, they are generalizations, and yes there are exceptions to the rule).

Women view every man they date through glasses that are specifically colored to screen the man for his "forever potential". It's not our fault, it's biology. Since the dawn of man, women have done this for reasons very necessary to survival. Women needed a strong man to protect and provide for her while she nursed the offspring and kept the cave clean. She needed that security and stability.

I would like to believe that my criteria is quite a bit different than my Cave Sister's was - I don't "need" a man to provide for me. I'm not out actively searching for the best hunter to fill my belly with the most meat and wrap the warmest hides around me while simultaneously protecting me from the neighboring tribe. I don't need the biggest, strongest most virile man in the village to repeatedly impregnate me to carry on the legacy.

However, when I honestly think about the criteria that I do seek, my requirements are not all that different. The intellect and humor I seek are survival mechanisms in our modern world, and I wouldn't mind being protected from the aggressive tribesman next door. I don't seek the biggest and strongest guy in the village, per se...but you all know how those big boys just melt me and make me forget my own fucking name...and while being impregnated is not real high on the to-do list, I do want the man that makes me want to have Caveman Sex - all the time. I can't help it, it's part of my very fiber, embedded in my DNA from thousands of years ago.

Surprise, surprise...I digressed. The bottom line of all this is that women seek the stability that's implied in "forever". Women seek to build a home, to nurture and to provide a safe haven for their family. We know pretty quick if they have that forever potential (I can tell you the answer to that question in regards to ANY man in about 5 hours), and if they do, we throw our all into it. We give them our hearts and our soul almost immediately. Then we don't understand why the feelings are not reciprocated just as effortlessly and with the same totality.

Men are hardwired differently, it all goes back to biology. Just as we aren't to blame for falling hard and fast, men aren't to blame for being more aloof in love. Men are meant to carry on the species, and to do so, they are obligated to share their seed with any and every willing receptacle that comes along. No, no - that's not right. That sounds bitter and it's not meant to at all. To clarify, men are drawn to the women (plural) that will help carry on the legacy in a good way - so men are drawn to the woman that appears as if she will be a suitable partner, primarily for sex and primarily to carry out his legacy. Of course, today men don't seek to sire children with every woman, but the things they notice first are the physical characteristics. Once that has been well-established, I think they begin to look at other aspects, like which woman will keep the cave the nicest, which woman will build the best fires and which woman will make the most enticing stew out of the meat they brought her - but initially, it's really about sex.

When they aren't ensuring the longevity of the tribe, they are out chasing mastodons with the cool new spear they fashioned out of rock, a couple of twigs and three drops of sap from some tree. Its imprinted on their DNA just like our relationship pathologies are imprinted on ours.

But all of this is only half the battle, my friends. If you really think about it, it's more than remarkable that any two people meet and fall in love. Not only do you have to be attracted to a man enough to be interested, you have to have that interest extend into "forever potential" - he has to fit your picture.

As if that weren't enough, you have to fit his picture, too. The reasons you may not fit his picture are as wide and as varied as the reasons he might not fit yours. You might have everything in the world going for you, and then discover that your perfume reminds him of his least favorite aunt. He might have everything in the world going for him, but the way he waves his hands when he talks reminds you of your distant, but strange, cousin.

Ultimately, none of it matters. I don't want to be with someone if I don't fit his picture. Conversely, the times I've tried to date someone that didn't fit my picture have ended fairly disastrously. Many people have told me that I need to relax the criteria that appear in my picture - that it's too rigid, too unyielding and too lofty. I disagree. My picture is important to me and it's what I want. I won't settle for less and neither should anyone else.

The explosion that occurs when you realize you genuinely love someone, that you couldn't possibly live without them? I have no idea, honestly I've never felt it. But I'm optimistic that someday I will. Until then, I'm going to watch you boys toss your McGuyver'ed spears around and think about how hot you look slaying wild beasts.

There's a storm coming, I can feel the change in the air and I've read the weather reports. It's going to be a big one - the Perfect Storm. I'm at the edge of a high pressure system, but it's not quite time yet. I'm going to prepare myself right now, while things are calm so that when it hits, I'll be able to recognize it and embrace it. Then, I'm going to sit back and happily watch it roll in with the intensity and wild beauty that I expect; content in the knowledge that I'm ready for all that it brings.

Visionary

"Knowledge of the self is the mother of all knowledge. So it is encumbent on me to know my self, to know it completely, to know its minutiae, its characteristics, its subtleties, and its very atoms." - Kahlil Gibran

Stopped into Book People tonight to pick up a collection of short stories. I want to read how other people write, in the short story form. I'm still such a young writer, such a novice, that I thought it might be helpful to see how others compose sentences, use their words and also, to see what sorts of stories other people write.

I noticed a man sitting off to the side with a small, handwritten sign that said, "Psychic Readings". I walked past him, then returned to him. On the table in front of him were a deck of Tarot cards. This is what he told me:

You are questioning your instincts. You need to rely on them, because your intuitions are solid, you are always correct. What you think you know, you do know. You can trust it as fact. You have been bound and blindfolded by captors that are no longer present. You have a great deal of love and empathy to give and you gave so much of yourself to someone or someones who did not appreciate it. They took it for granted and didn't treat you with the respect you deserve, they did not value the love you gave. That situation is over, but you still feel bound by it, even though the captor is gone. The guilt you feel lies within yourself, you can let it go. That is a debt that has been paid, multiple times. You are struggling with whether and how to move forward. You fear going forward, but you must. You use your work as an excuse to stay where you are, but you can move forward. In fact, you must. Let go of the fear and embark on your own journey. Experience your life, live with intention and experience all the joy the world has to offer. For far too long you've neglected your own joy and it's time you move ahead. You have a relationship in mind, but it's puzzling to me - it's not a real relationship, but you have an idea of a relationship in mind. There is someone in your life that represents the sort of relationship you aspire to, but there isn't a connection there, you do not feel connected there. In fact, you don't feel connected to anyone or anything. You're trying to learn how to be the loving, empathetic person that you are without giving too much of yourself because of the way you've been hurt in the past. You have a great deal of work to do and now is the time to do it. I see this in a metaphorical sense - the work you must do on yourself to acquire the life you want, but also in the literal sense - your career can help be the escape you need right now. This is the time to learn yourself, to be introspective and to rely on your intuition and get to know who you are, without all the background noise, without people telling you who you are. The Universe is constantly sending you signs - you look at the clock at the same time every day, you see things that slap you in the face. You only notice about half of them. But they are trying to get you to pay attention, trying to get you to rely on what you already know.

He then turned over the final card, which was The High Priestess: Wisdom. You'll achieve the resolution you seek in this matter, but now is the time to focus on learning all you can, about who you are and who you wish to become. I see this as a fortuitous omen.

I left this little man feeling incredibly drained. And you know, it's funny - I don't remember giving him this website. ;-) He didn't predict my future, but he certainly read me right now.

Elephants

"Your memory is a monster; you forget - it doesn't. It simply files things away. It keeps things for you, or hides things from you - and summon them to your recall with a will of its own. You think you have a memory; but it has you!" -John Irving

It's always been well-known, among anyone that knows me well, that I have a very selective sort of memory. There are things I do not forget - largely useless little tidbits that someone mentions casually - and things I simply cannot hang on to.

Usually, the things that are lost to time for me are much larger, much more significant than the pieces that never leave. There are people - in fact, entire groups of people that were a part of my life for a part of time that I simply cannot recall.

Suddenly, I find myself confronted by thousands and thousands of memories. They are flooding back to me at an incredible rate and it's all sorts of things - books from my childhood, scents, words spoken, emotions, situations and even some of those forgotten people.

It's as if a kindly librarian is opening the filing cabinets that lie in the dark room way in the back of the musty old building. She's tossing manuscripts at me at a breakneck speed saying, "Dear, try this one." and then a moment later, "Oh no, you'll LOVE this one."

I'm trying desperately to read them all, but it's hard at the pace with which files are being given to me. I wan to assimilate them into my consciousness of present and then to organize them neatly before I hand them back to her. I can't keep them all nor do I wish to. But I am interested in reviewing them briefly before filing them back where they belong.

I even have some more recent documents that I'm going to hand off to her, just for safekeeping.

Speak

"Think twice before you speak and you'll find everyone talking about something else."
- Rodman

I have a confession to make. You, my dear readers, are driving me insane. I know you're reading because you call me, you email me and yes, you even text me. But you aren't commenting. I've told you all that you can do so completely anonymously. And you can say anything you'd like. Just please, comment here. I promise that if you do, others will follow suit and we can have really interesting discussions that might just provoke more writing. Sounds good, right?

I've been thinking a great deal about the power of words, for several reasons. As you are well aware, I've been trying to learn how to use my voice. Growing up the way I did, raised largely by a grandmother that always spoke for me, I was never required to speak as a child. My mother moved me away from her as soon as she was financially able, and that's when we landed in Athens, Greece. There, I found a voice (largely encouraged by being a teenager with ready access to alcohol, no doubt) and I exercised it constantly. Is it coincidental that some of my fondest memories are of my time in Athens? I came back for college, where I found a father and stepmother that were all too happy to dictate my life, then in an effort to escape, married a man that not only spoke for me but spoke so much that I wouldn't have had the opportunity had I chosen to use it.

Yes, words do have weight. And yes, there's a healthy balance between saying what you need to say and saying what you want to say. Words must be chosen with intent but the intent must be true to who you are. And it's like someone else's grandmother probably said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." Or, as my grandmother used to say, "If you can't say anything nice, say something nasty - with a smile."

So, these are the thoughts floating in and out of my brain today when my poor, Pox-y boy says to me, "Mom, can we please take another drive. I'm bored." We pile in the car and head west. I'm thinking that we'll just drive out to Spicewood and find a place to look at the lake and chat a bit, but along the way, I get hungry. I find this horrid looking little shack of a barbecue joint and decide that we'll just go in and have lunch together. That's one thing we rarely get to do anymore, I figure it will be empty enough that no one will care about his infectious disease and I also figure that if they do, at least we're not in Austin.

The place is desolate, bar the table of three very well dressed men. We are seated right next to them, my son and I have been home alone together for the last 4 days - all day. Turns out we're pretty much talked out. I even tell him a story about my father's misspent youth. With practically nothing left to discuss under the sun, I begin to eavesdrop on the conversation the men seated next to me are having.

Once again, I'm floored that the Universe conspires and forces me to face something I hadn't expected to encounter.

Truth be told, it's hard to call it eavesdropping - they were speaking quite loudly. I won't recant the entire story, I listened to them for the better part of an hour, but two of the men (who were not wearing wedding rings) were trying to convince the one man (who was) not to leave his wife.

Their arguments were predictable, and I found it terribly amusing that they were telling this man how "God wants him to stay in his marriage." 

Had my son not been with me, I would have offered a slightly different perspective. Since he was with me, I offer you a slightly different perspective:

It is completely unacceptable to remain in a marriage that is unfulfilling.  It's a crime against yourself, and no God wants that.  Children will survive the turmoil, as long as you are honest with them and continue to nurture them.  You cannot remain in a situation that is "good enough" at best.  Good enough is not good enough.  Period.

Crave

***Warning!!! The following blog entry contains graphic sexuality. Ha! I think I just ensured that this one will be read. And in case you're wondering, this IS the censored version.***


“I want the dead lovers of the world to hear our laughter and grow sad. I want a breath of our passion to stir their dust into consciousness, to wake their ashes into pain." - Oscar Wilde

I reached the hotel several hours before you. I was pleased to have the time alone, anxious to ensure that everything was perfect for your arrival. My goal was to have all the items we might possibly desire close at hand. As our time was limited, I had little interest in interruptions from the outside world.

I fell in love with the room you had selected, and wondered if you had slept in this bed previously. The stark, modern interior pleased me. I was certain that nothing in the room would distract my attentions from you, and the neutral colors soothed my jittery nerves.

I called the desk to ask where I might acquire a few of the treats I knew you loved and was given directions to a store a few blocks away. The weather was cooler than I was accustomed to, the jacket I had brought along inadequate. It lent an urgency to my mission, and I returned to the hotel a very short time after I had left.

After putting away the items I had selected, I drew a hot bath. I reclined into the soothing, warm water and allowed my mind to drift to thoughts of you. It had been such a very long since I had seen you, and I longed to feel your touch again.

I closed my eyes and sank lower into the bath as I remembered our last encounter. My hand slid into the tub and under the bubbles. Almost timidly, I began to touch myself, imagining that it was your strong hand caressing my thigh, sliding between my legs and softly diving into me. I was almost able to feel your breath on my cheek as you whispered into my ear, ‘Yes, baby. Just like that.’ Instantly, my legs began to quiver as I felt a gentle orgasm roll through me.

I toweled myself off and glanced at my watch. It would be another two hours before you arrived, I had plenty of time. I piled my wet hair in a loose bun on top of my head and sat on the foot of the soft bed. I turned on the television and began absent-mindedly flicking through the channels, completely oblivious to each.

The room air cooled my wet skin quickly. I stood, dropping the towel and wrapped myself tightly in a chenille blanket. The downy material felt wonderful against me, and I curled up into a tight ball on the expansive bed. Involuntarily, I fell asleep.

I did not hear you enter the room. Much later, when I would reflect back on the night, I would wonder how it was that you entered so silently. Only in retrospect would it occur to me that you must have expected to find me sleeping.

I did not hear you undress, nor did I feel you lay down next to me. I noticed your presence first only when you began to unwrap me from the confines of my blanket, rolling me gently onto my back. My first concrete memories are of being woken from a deep, dreamless slumber by the sensation of your warm body between my legs.

I opened my eyes only long enough to see your head buried in my chest, your hands kneading each breast in turn, feeding my nipples to your hungry mouth. Your soft hair tickled my skin slightly as you alternated between left and right and I smiled at you, a smile you were too lost to notice, too intent to expect.

I closed my eyes and pretended that I was still asleep - this was your moment and I had no interest in interrupting you. But as the rate and depth of your breathing increased, hot on my nude body, you must have known that I was awake and merely pretending to sleep. Either way, it didn’t matter to either of us.

You pushed yourself off of me and up onto your hands. I could feel you staring at my face and I fought the natural urge to pull you back down on top of me. My body shifted noticeably, and even with my eyes closed, I could see your knowing smile. Yes, I was awake. But I would continue to play this game that I loved, knowing that you loved it too.

Your body moved higher against mine, and I could feel you poised, ready to enter - the place you longed for, the place you belonged. I fought the urge to smile, trying unnaturally hard to keep my face natural. Your face lowered to mine and I felt your lips brush mine fleetingly, at precisely the moment you plunged into my waiting cocoon.

I gasped from the sensation, your penetration occurring without even the faintest warning. My hands wrapped around your neck firmly as your body collapsed onto mine. I kissed your shoulder gently, before opening my mouth and letting my teeth sink into your flesh.

I moaned into your mouth as you kissed me sloppily, seconds before rolling off of my body and stretching out next to me on the bed. I turned my back to you and pressed against your body as you wrapped me in your arms. I felt warm for the first time since arriving in this city, the one that neither of us called home but that we both loved visiting.

I draped my right leg casually over both of yours, knowing that you’d continue to explore me. You pushed yourself up onto your left elbow and turned me slightly on my back as your hand slid between my legs.

You smiled, and began to speak. I placed a finger over your lips to silence you. I wondered at the beauty of this encounter and thought that somehow the mere act of talking would have cheapened the experience, dulled the sensation.

I reached towards you and gently stroked your cheek, watching your face as your fingers continued their exploration. The intensity with which you set about your task amused me and I smiled at you before kissing you aggressively once, then tenderly again.

An urgent need for release began to overwhelm me. You sensed this in the way that you seemed to know everything about what my body wanted and needed, but withdrew your fingers from my center. My bottom lip thrust forward in a pout. You stroked my pouty lip and shook your head at me, laughing softly in mock disapproval. Staring deeply into your eyes, I sucked your finger into my mouth and swirled my tongue around it. I could taste the essence of our sexuality on your hands and was desperate to have you again.

Your lips met mine softly, only seconds before I felt your tongue slide into my mouth. My tongue matched your movements, searching your mouth with just the soft intensity you had come to expect.

“Kiss me.” I breathed to you. Your lips found mine again and you kissed me gently, fully aware that the kiss I desired was not that one. “Lower”, I whispered.

You lowered your head to my breasts and sucked a nipple into your mouth, your teeth sinking softly into the tender skin. My back arched off the bed towards you and you looked up at me, concerned that the bite may have been a bit too forceful.

I shook my head ‘no” and squirmed a bit, trying to force your head lower while a small smirk danced across my lips. You were toying with me, enjoying seeing me getting so worked up. You sucked my other breast into your mouth and again bit down on my nipple, testing my limits. I flinched before I arched again, pushing more of my body into your warm mouth.

My hand found the top of your head and pushed gently, urging you lower at a much faster pace than the one you were enjoying. Swiftly, you grabbed my wrist and pinned my hand to the bed. I laughed, realizing that you weren’t going to let me dictate the course of events - at least not at that moment. Perhaps later.

I waited impatiently for your lead, thinking that I'd follow you off the roof of the Empire State Building. With a rare conviction, I felt certain that there was nothing or no one that could interest me more than you did at that moment. I made a silent vow to hold nothing back with you, and as I glanced up at your face, I realized that you somehow heard my thoughts - your smile now broad and beaming.

I could feel the heat from your body. Already I craved you - the weight of your body on top of mine, the saltiness of your skin, your strong hands that were capable of such gentle touch - and relaxed into the bed, eager to feel the ecstasy that only you could evoke. I felt you shift closer to me.

Moments later, I would find myself rolling onto my side, facing you, resting my head on your inner thigh while your head found the pillow created by mine. We slept contentedly for some time, waking each other briefly with hands that continued to explore, even in sleep.

Early in the evening I woke, and crossed the room to stare out of the expansive windows at the city twinkling below us. I glanced over my shoulder at your sleeping form and marveled at the perfection of your body. As I watched your chest rise and fall, my hands ached to touch you. I didn’t want to disturb your sleep, we had the rest of the night.

Our relationship was new, and yet I knew every inch of you intimately, the way only old lovers know each other. A familiarity had solidly formed between our bodies. Returning my attentions to the city below, I smiled. I had known other lovers before you, but none quite like you.

I heard you stir behind me, but did not turn around. I felt your arms wrap around me and I raised my hands to greet your touch, kissing your arm. I loved how small I felt wrapped in you, overwhelmed by a contradictory sense of security and vulnerability. My eyes closed and I leaned against you. You might have thought the gesture was one of acceptance, but it was defeat.


I was powerless in your presence. I turned to face you, standing on my toes to kiss your soft lips. Your hands slid to my waist. You stared into my eyes, asking for the permission that you already knew you had. My head collapsed against your chest and I kissed you there. Your arms wrapped around me as you lifted me onto you, pressing my back against the glass. The cool air that penetrated the glass from the outside world soothed the fire that burned fiercely inside of me.

I nodded wordlessly at you, stroking your lips and resting my head on your shoulder. I wrapped my legs tightly around your body as you pulled me down hard onto you. I surrendered myself to the moment, utterly lost in you. Our bodies moved together in a rhythmic dance, creating a symphony that no one else could hear.

Pox!

"If you are too smart to pay the doctor, you had better be too smart to get ill."
-African Proverb

My 7 year old son has the Chicken Pox. Yes, that's right. I'm a nurse and my son has the Pox. Fear not, my friends, I'm not one of those anti-vaccine nurses that annoy the fuck out of me. He had the vaccine (both of my children are completely up to date on all of their vaccines and if you'd like to start a debate with me about the link between the MMR vaccine and autism, I'll be happy to tell you exactly why I think you're misinformed) and now he has the Pox.

It's not as bad as it might have been otherwise, I suspect. He feels pretty fine, he's just itchy and he looks awful. We've been sentenced to house arrest since Wednesday - because you can't take a kid with Pox anywhere. Not even to the grocery store.

Today, he looked at me and said, "Mom, can we please just take a drive. I've gotta get out of the house." So, we drove aimlessly for two hours. I do think it did us both good to get out of the house for a bit. We're definitely climbing the walls, and I'd give anything to have a conversation with an adult.

I called his school to see if they had any reported cases, and to ask them to call his little girlfriend's parents to inform them - since he confessed that he kissed her - ON THE MOUTH - when they were on the playground. Now, don't think he was being a noble gent by confessing his lip-lock due to his illness, he confessed out of fear. It was a pretty funny chat.

"Mom, how do you get asthma?" He asked.

"You're born with asthma, usually, babe. Sometimes, people that have lots of allergies have asthma." I told him.

"Can you catch asthma from someone else?" He asked.

"No, you can't."

"Even if you kiss someone, on the mouth?"

"No, you still can't catch asthma."

"I'm so glad, Mom. 'Cause I have a girlfriend now and we kiss all the time - ON THE MOUTH - and she has asthma."

Oh-my-God...so cute. So, I asked all kinds of questions about her. He's totally smitten. Much later, he pulls a wadded up piece of paper out of his pocket and informs me that he has her digits. He spends the next 4 hours asking if he can call her (she's in school, so the answer is "Not until later").

He finally calls her and I hear an unbearably cute, one-sided conversation. I remember my first phone call from a boy, and it was about the same time - 2nd grade. She just called tonight to see how he was feeling. :-) It's just so stinking cute.

His school calls me today to ask if I've taken him to the doctor to confirm the diagnosis. No, I haven't. Do you intend to? No, I do not.

Here's that transcript, with the school's medical assistant:

"Are you saying you have no intention of seeking medical care for your child?"

"My child does not appear acutely ill. Further, I don't feel it necessary to have a doctor confirm what is obviously Chicken Pox ."

"May I ask what your reluctance is in regards to seeking approrpriate medical care for your child?" I felt like she was reading a script.

"Sure. My reluctance is that I'm a registered nurse. As I previously mentioned, my son does not appear to be acutely ill. I do not feel the need to spend $100.00 and 3 hours with a sick child in a doctor's office only to be told that he has the Chicken Pox which is a viral, self-limiting illness. I feel quite well equipped to administer Tylenol, Benadryl AND Calamine Lotion."

"Ma'am, I'm sure you understand the importance of medical care."

"Of course I do. Did you miss the part where I told you what I do for a living? I'm not particularly enthusiastic about taking a child with open wounds on his body into a Petri-Dish of a Pediatrician's office. However, you can rest assured that should his condition change, or should I feel that I am no longer capable of managing his illness, I'll take him to a physician immediately."
"Well, he can't come back to school tomorrow without a doctor's note."

"I have no intention of bringing my child back to school tomorrow, he has Chicken Pox. He's still febrile. That means he's running a fever." I know, I know...I just can't help myself sometimes.

"Well, he can't come back to school period, until you provide a doctor's note."

I didn't call her a bitch until after I hung up the phone. So, I called in a favor. I have a doctor's note now. The note says, "The boy got the vaccine. The boy still got the pox. The boy can go back to school on Monday. - The doctor." Maybe the doctor phrased things a little better, but that's the gist of it. Of course, he will not be going back to school on Monday unless he is healthy enough to do so...but bee-yotch, don't play your power-trippy game with me. :-) YAY!!! I win.

In other news, the time off work has been alternately miserable (boring) and incredibly good for me (creative). I've been writing non-stop the last few days. The story "Tenacity" is roughly 50% fiction and 50% reality. The fictional parts are that my grandmother hasn't actually had a stroke...yet and that I never lived in that small, coal-mining town in the story. I know lots of it seems pretty heavy, but I hope you'll find some humor in it, there are parts that make me laugh out loud. Maybe it's just because I remember some of it so vividly.

I'm working on some other stuff, and for the sake of argument, you can just call it fiction. It should be published here soon enough.

Tenacity

"That was what, ultimately, war did to you. It was not the physical dangers - the mines at sea, the bombs from the air, the crisp ping of a rifle bullet as you drove over a desert track. No, it was the spiritual danger of learning how much easier life was if you ceased to think."
- Agatha Christie


I woke confused in a small, hard bed. I turned slowly, trying to find my bearings, trying to remember where I was. I glanced out the window at the unfamiliar landscape, dark and gray with snow covering the gently rolling hills. Memory was beginning to return to my weary brain. A two-cup Mr. Coffee pot in the corner caught my eye, offering the only hope of salvation.

I rolled out of the tiny bed and fumbled in the dark room for a light-switch. The overhead light hummed audibly. I slipped on a robe that was hanging from hook on a door and inhaled deeply. It had been several years since I had seen my grandmother, but her scent permeated her robe and instantly brought back memories of my childhood.

I was certain that for many people, the familiarity of Grandmother would be a comforting sense. For me, the memories were a slingshot propelling me back to the timid child who suffered her harsh words and devestating fists.

As I made coffee, I marveled at the situation I currently found myself in. Late the previous night I had arrived in the impoverished, coal-mining town I had unceremoniously fled so many years before. With no guidance except an eerily reliable navigation system in the rental car, I found my way to The Manor, my grandmother’s retirement home.

It struck me as humorous that places such as these were always given regal names - an odd slap-in-the-face to the lack of nobility each invariably contained within its crusty walls. I had been in many such places over the years, and regardless of the cost, they were all the same - residents decorated their doors with pathetic floral arrangements, newcomers were eyed suspiciously until the barrage of questions had been satisfactorily answered, requests were made to hold any baby that passed through the doors, and most disturbingly, the unmistakable stench of death mixed with old-lady perfume permeated every inch of the interior.

Yes, I was at The Manor. In a city I hated, without anyone to comfort me - I had been elected by default. My Grandmother had suffered a stroke. My mother phoned me from her vacation home in the South of France.

“Dear, I know you don’t want to hear this, but Gran has had a stroke. She hasn’t much time to live, I’m afraid. The doctors say that it’s only a matter of days. Even if I leave today, which I cannot, I won’t make it on time. Your uncle refuses to visit, he was there two months ago and said his good-bye. He can’t go back. And, well, since she always loved you more than anyone else anyway, will you please do this for Mommy?” I hated when she referred to herself as “Mommy” and I felt the stirrings of a massive headache.

“No, Mother. I will not. I cannot.” I replied. I didn’t need to contemplate the matter.

“Dear, I know how wretched she was to you. But you are a nurse. I know you will not allow her to pass through this world all alone.” My mother’s tone was saccharine. Her words were not exactly a manipulation, but I felt manipulated. She knew me well enough to know that I could not allow a family member, regardless of how horrible I had been treated by that family member, to die alone. She was also keenly aware that I felt burdened by the request.

“You’re paying for the trip.” I said, hating that I sounded like a spoiled, snotty teen. I thought I heard an exhale on her end, undoubtedly relief at being let off the hook, and easily at that.

“Yes, of course. I’ll confirm a rental car. You can stay in her sweet little room. She’s been moved to the infirmary. And check your email, I’ve sent the itinerary. You leave tomorrow afternoon.” She sent kisses, promised to make it up to me and quickly made excuses to say goodnight.

I was incensed when I realized that I had never had a choice, she had reserved my flight long before her phone call to me. I was even more irate that I’d be expected to sleep in a retirement home, my mother knew how much I hated them.

As I paced the tiny confines of the room, I muttered a string of profanities. I looked around the room absentmindedly surveying the few treasures that she had brought with her to The Manor. I cringed at her doll collection, laughed that she still had the candle snuffers from years past and carelessly juggled her Lladro figurines. Finally, I reviewed the contents of her medicine cabinet. Yes, I hated these places. Hospitals were charming comparatively.

In hospitals, the unpleasantries of human life could be bleached away, lopped off or otherwise contained. I decided to shower, to wash off the smell of Gran, then to head to the infirmary. It wasn’t so much that I was interested in a visit, but I knew the familiarity of white hospital walls and bed rails would comfort me.

As I left her room, a feeble woman approached me. “Dorothy, you’re going to be late for breakfast again.” Her cold hand gripped my forearm tightly and I smiled at her.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not Dorothy. I’m Agnes’ granddaughter.” I said. She looked at me condescendingly and shook her head, limping away on her three-footed cane. Part of me looked forward to being that forgetful. There was a certain luxury to be found in not knowing who you, or anyone else, actually were.

I found my way to the infirmary easily, and once inside, asked a blue-haired receptionist which room Agnes Griffin was in. She didn’t hear me, so I had to speak louder. Again, my voice wasn’t loud enough to permeate her auricles, so I found myself screaming at the adorable ancient behind the desk, “Agnes Griffin. What room is she in?”

People nearby turned to stare at my screaming and I felt myself shrinking from the spectacle I was causing. A woman close to my age approached me, smiling. “You must be a relative. Right this way.”

“Actually, I’m her granddaughter, Anna. Are you taking care of her?” I asked.

“I’m her nurse until 7 PM. I’m Chase.” She extended a hand to me and I accepted it gratefully. It was a relief to speak to someone at a volume that didn’t cause the walls to reverberate.

“Nice to meet you, Chase. How is she doing?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s hanging in there. How much do you know?” She inquired.

“Well, all I was told was that she had a stroke. I looked through her medicine cabinet and saw Lasix and Atenolol, so she’s obviously hypertensive. There was also some Ativan, Seroquel, and Aricept. I guess that means the Alzheimer’s hasn’t gone into remission.” I winked at her.

“We aren’t really sure how impaired her memory was before the stroke, so it’s making it tricky to assess her. But I‘ll tell you this much, she sure remembers me every morning.” Chase said, her voice already fatigued even though her shift had just begun.

“I’m afraid I won’t be much help. I haven’t seen her in three years.” I said, feeling a pang of regret for the first time since my arrival. “Has her internist made rounds yet?” I asked.

“Nope. You’ll be able to catch him shortly, though. Let me take you to her room.” I followed Chase down the utterly familiar corridor. If there was one institution around the world which never changed, it was a hospital. The familiarity did bring me the comfort that I had expected and hoped for. The infirmary was far preferable to the residential wing of The Manor.

Chase did not enter the room with me. I entered silently and pulled a chair closer to the bed. My grandmother slept peacefully, I had no intention of interrupting her. I looked over her sleeping body, marveling at how, at such an advanced age with Alzheimer’s Disease, she could still be so fat. Most people simply forgot to eat. Of course, Agnes Griffin was never happier than when there was food to be had.

My only fond memories of my grandmother involved cooking. In the kitchen, she miraculously transformed herself into an alchemist - mixing sparse ingredients into veritable works of art, sharing her knowledge with me patiently and with a rare enthusiasm. We’d prepare beautiful plates of carefully prepared dishes to serve the family and laugh robustly as we ate.

After dinner, Mother and I would scurry the plates off the table and hustle into the kitchen where we’d insist on cleaning up. If we could remain isolated in the kitchen until Grandmother fell asleep on the sofa, everything was wonderful.

If anyone failed to show enough gratitude for her culinary gift, or dallied for just a moment too long before offering to wash the dishes, the wrath would be unleashed and you’d spend the next twenty minutes sweeping up shards of Corelle.

I noticed how thin her white hair had become and involuntarily reached a hand out to stroke it. She flinched a bit at the disturbance and I quickly recoiled. I needed time to prepare to speak to her, I wanted to speak to her physician, to understand the gravity of her condition, before we engaged.

The girth she still carried suited her quite well, and I was stunned at how beautiful her skin remained, even on her deathbed. The plump of her cheeks was exactly as I had always remembered it, the rosy apples making me wonder briefly whether she was septic from some unknown source. No, of course not. She had always had rosy cheeks and perfect skin. She had been quite a beauty long into her senior years.

I leaned my face close into hers and listened to her breathing, even and unlabored. I thought to myself, ‘This isn’t going to kill this old bag. She’s just too mean to die.‘ and felt like I had discovered the secret elixir to longevity - badness.

A quiet knock on the door startled me and I sat bolt upright in the chair. The door pushed open and her physician entered.

“Hi there. I’m Goran Levy. Chase told me that you are Anna, her Granddaughter. And she thinks you must be a nurse, since you snooped through her medicine cabinet.” He extended a hand to me and I rose to greet him.

“Yes. It seems you know all there is to know about me.” I smiled. “How is she?”

“That’s not an entirely easy question to answer. I’ve been following Agnes for several years. She’s hypertensive and we thought we had that fairly well controlled with medication. Her stroke was a thrombotic event of the right anterior cerebral artery. We’ve had some difficulty assessing the extent of the damage due to her Alzheimer’s Disease, which is quite advanced.” He crossed the room and sat on a small dresser. “Ironically, the stroke seemed to help her memory. A week ago she kept calling me ‘John’, but yesterday, she knew exactly who I was.”

I laughed out loud. John was my father, and there was a resemblance between the doctor and my father. At least, Dr. Levy resembled what my father must have looked like the last time she saw him. I began to explain the confusion, then Chase popped in the room and tossed a small stack of magazines on the sink. “In case you get bored.” She said, before closing the door behind her.

“Is she verbal?” I asked, the brief interruption erasing every sensible question I had.

“Oh yeah. You’ll find that out soon enough.” He snorted a chuckle. I wasn’t terribly puzzled by his reaction, I suspected he’d been the recipient of her vicious tongue on more than one occasion. “She has some left-sided paralysis, but we haven’t really given her the opportunity to test her limits yet. She’s been pretty combative. If you’re wondering why she’s sleeping so soundly, it’s because I ordered some Haldol for her today. The nurses requested it.” He smiled broadly at me.

“Oh, I see. My mother said that the situation was quite grave. But, Dr. Levy, as I look at her, she looks pretty good, all things considered.” I said.

“Yes, you are right. I told your mother that I thought she’d probably just pull through this. I doubt she’ll ever regain full mobility, but the Old Battle Axe will probably make a full recovery.” He said. “And don’t worry. I call her that all the time.” He winked.

“That’s much nicer than some of the things I’ve called her.” I admitted, shrugging my shoulders.
I wanted to scream and strangle my Mother. Not only was I forced into being here, I was brought under false pretenses. It seemed terribly unfair but I had to find a way to resign myself to my fate. I was here, and I could use this opportunity to say good-bye, like my uncle had two months prior. My mother had exceeded her favor quota, and when the time came for my grandmother to actually depart this Earth, she’d find her only daughter by her side, and only her daughter by her side.

Dr. Levy removed a stethoscope from his coat pocket and approached my grandmother. Gingerly, he listened to her heart and lungs. I could tell he had no interest in disturbing her sleep, either. I stared intently at her face as he approached her, wondering if she’d notice. I saw her right eye open briefly to look at him, then quickly snap shut as he neared.

He held the stethoscope towards me and said, “Care to listen? Clear as a bell. She’s had a benign systolic murmur for as long as I’ve known her, but otherwise...” His voice trailed off and I shook my head ’no’ at the offer to assess her. “I’m going to finish rounding. I'll be here all day, so have them page me if you need anything, Anna. I’ll check back later.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” I said, crossing the room to select a magazine, then plopping into the chair next to Grandmother. ‘He’s nice enough.’ I muttered to myself.

“He’s a useless Bohunk Jew just like your father.” The words weren’t spoken, but hissed in a barely audible tone. I turned abruptly to stare at my grandmother, my heart pounding. She laid peacefully with her eyes closed. For a moment, I thought my mind was playing tricks on me, that the pain of being near her was causing my psyche to imagine things. But as I stared at her, I saw the right corner of her mouth curl into what I thought was a smirk.

I turned away from her with tears stinging my eyes. I swallowed hard, a vain attempt to digest the lump in my throat. As I looked back at her, I noticed the effect her stroke had on her - while the right side of her mouth now clearly smiled, the left was immobile. I hadn’t imagined it at all. Her pathetic state softened me momentarily, and a single tear rolled down my cheek.

I reached down and squeezed her left hand, much harder than necessary. She didn’t return the gesture, which proved only that she was unable, but certainly not that she was unaware.

“Hi Gran. How the hell are you?” I asked, my voice louder than necessary, trying to sound unphased by the insult. Her eye flashed open and strived to look at me. I saw the clear blue that was so familiar, an unmistakable light flickering within. Venom.

It was the blue of a cloudless summer sky. The blue of my mother’s eyes, but not the blue of my own - a fact that she had reminded me of countless times over my lifetime. “You’d have our eyes if your mother hadn’t gotten knocked up by that dirty Jew. Our eyes are cornflower, the color of purity. Yours have been muddied up, Anna. Such a shame.”

I’d run and stare into the mirror after her vitriolic assaults and pray - ‘Please God, please. Let me have their eyes. I’ll do anything to not be dirty anymore.’ In my youth, I never understood her insults, I only knew that for some reason, I would never be fully accepted as the person I was.

“I must be dying if you’re here.” She said, her one eye alternately narrowing and opening in an attempt to focus on me.

“No, you’re going to be fine. Just like you always are. You’ll outlive me.” I said, leaning in towards her, trying to make it easier for her to see me. I was surprised that she recognized me. It seemed as if her Alzheimer’s Disease was, in fact, in remission.

“Anna, do you remember how much fun we’d have cooking together?” She asked.

“Of course I do.” I forced a smile.

I bit my bottom lip hard, fighting the urge to shout, ’I also remember when you called me a dirty whore in front of my school friends and I had no idea what your words meant. I remember the way your spittle felt as it hit my face as you called me name after vile name as you dragged me into the house, your fingernails digging into my arm. I remember the throbbing pain as you punched me repeatedly in the face and chest. I remember how much of a relief the physical pain was then because it allowed me to completely disassociate myself from the moment.’

Yes, a huge part of me wanted to have this conversation with her. To prove to her that I was no longer afraid, to prove that she had lost the control she had held over me for so many years. A smaller part of me wanted to punch her face, just once.

But I was not her. I was not this bitter woman in front of me. My life had been dedicated to helping the sick and elderly. I was unable to separate my profession from my personal feelings. I forced a smile in her general direction and flipped the pages of the magazine, trying to lose myself in idle gossip.

“My birthday is Friday. Did you remember that?” Her words were full of anger again.

“Yes, Gran. Of course I do.” In actuality, I had not remembered, but I suddenly realized why my mother had tricked me into this visit now. I reached out to pat her leg. “ I‘m not here because you‘re dying. I‘m here to celebrate your birthday.” I was proud of my lie.

“Honey, I’ll be dead then.” She snorted.

“Gran, you’re going to be fine. I spoke to your doctor and he thinks you look great. I’m looking at you and I think you look great.” I said, trying to reassure her, now firmly playing the role of nurse.

“No, I want to die on my birthday just like my mother did. It seems like the right thing to do. Ninety-six years is long enough to fight.” She said, her voice soft for the first time since I had heard it.

Maybe she would. The old bat had controlled everything in her life so precisely for the previous ninety-five years, it seemed completely plausible that her death would be no different. She shifted away from me and closed her eyes. I watched her settle for a few moments, then heard her breathing find a sleeping rhythm.

I thought of how many times I had seen it in my own practice - when someone chooses to die, they die. When a person decides to live, the survive. Our minds were miraculous tools that could allow us our destiny; all too often we failed to realize how powerful the tool at our disposal truly was.

I found it odd that she had said she was tired of fighting. Every day of her life had been a battle of her own initiation - propagated by anger, hate and a defeatist world view. I wondered if the battle hadn’t become so much a part of her very being that she even remembered what she was fighting for.

As I sat passing judgment on her, I realized that I had spent a lifetime fighting my own sorts of battles. I fought for my freedom from her clutches as a child, I fought to get out of this awful town, I fought for my education, I fought for friendships that ultimately didn’t matter and I even fought to maintain a marriage that meant little.

Granted, my battles were fought far more silently than hers, my gentler nature preferring to control things from behind the scenes while hers was an all-out assault on anyone and everyone. I was certain that while her method hurt those around her more greatly, mine fed the cycle of pain she had begun inside of me so many years prior. I shook my head. It didn’t matter how you chose to fight, a fight was a fight.

I realized that history doesn’t have to repeat itself. You can observe history, learn from it and ultimately, rewrite history. At least, you could rewrite your own history. I couldn’t change the old woman that lay in front of me, but I could certainly change what sort of old woman I would become.

I promised myself that I would no longer fight make-believe battles. I vowed to become a more passive participant in my life - celebrating the joys while acknowledging the grief, and accepting each outcome as it came. But I would never again allow things to become as hard as I often made them. It was an exercise in futility, one that ultimately only caused me to harden a bit, to fail to celebrate the miracle. I would watch the miracle unfold in front of me, especially for me.

I sat at my grandmother’s bedside for hours, listening to the sounds of a hospital functioning - lunch trays delivered, medications administered, visits from specialists, family members arriving, people being taken elsewhere for testing, visitors leaving. My grandmother did not stir again.

I rose to leave, and leaned over and kissed her chubby cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow, Gran.”

I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to her musty room, so I wrapped the inadequate coat I had brought along tightly around me and left The Manor. I needed to walk, to see people actively living. I searched for a semblance of familiarity in the town I had grown up in.

It seemed as if time had ceased in the 1980’s - nothing had changed - and yet everything seemed foreign. Eventually, I came across Flannigan’s, an Irish Pub that my mother had frequented when I was far too young to enter the sacred walls. I realized that I was hungry, and as the pub was the only open establishment I could find, I entered.

Irish Pubs were the only type of place I could think of that were as identical around the world as hospitals. Guinness signs lined the walls and dark wood paneling was de rigeur. Old men lined the bar, while lovely young women slung pint after pint towards their greedy mouths deftly evading the slurred come-ons of their father’s friends. I found an empty stool, requested a menu and ordered a pint.

The smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke was preferable to the smell inside The Manor, and after I ate, I stayed much longer than necessary. I was genuinely enjoying chatting with the old men about the town, asking if some of the people I remembered from my youth were still around and telling them the sorts of lies they wanted to hear.

I drank enough that returning to The Manor was not as creepy as I had feared. My intoxication made crawling into my grandmother’s bed virtually painless and sleep quickly found my weary head.

I woke late on Thursday morning, my head pounding from the consumption of the previous evening. I didn’t have the energy to muck around with the small coffee pot, so I dressed quickly and walked out of the retirement home, looking for a coffee shop.

The crisp morning air was refreshing, clearing my head a bit. Much to my surprise and delight, I found a Starbucks. ‘Wow, this place isn’t a complete shit-hole.’ I thought to myself. I ordered a coffee for me and one for my grandmother, along with a slice of lemon pound cake. I wasn’t sure if she’d be able to eat, but if anything would entice her, sweets would. It was only a short walk back to The Manor.

Once inside the infirmary, I ran into Dr. Levy. “She’s been asking for you this morning.” He said. I forced a half-smile.

“Anna, her condition has changed. I’m not sure exactly what’s going on. She might have thrown another clot, or it might just be from the medication. I’ve ordered a CT and we’re going to back off some of the meds until we can pinpoint a reason.” His tone was firm and informational. I smiled at the effort, thinking of how many times he must have delivered such a speech to concerned family members. He had little idea how little I actually cared.

“Do whatever you feel is necessary. But I can tell you with certainty that she hasn’t thrown a clot and it’s not from the medication. She has decided to die.” I handed him the extra coffee I held. I was certain that my grandmother wouldn’t be up for a morning snack after hearing his report.

“Hmmm. I think you’ll find that her situation has definitely taken a turn for the worse when you see her.” He said. His look was suspicious, slightly mocking.

“Dr. Levy, I have no doubt. But I can assure you that it is a decision she has made. It’s a choice. Her birthday is tomorrow and she wants to die on her birthday. She told me this yesterday after you left.” I studied his face carefully for a reaction.

There was a huge difference between medicine and nursing and I knew enough to expect a certain amount of skepticism on his part.

“People don’t just decide to die, Anna.” His statement surprised me, and now it was my turn to return his mocking glance.

“Really? You’ve spent a lifetime healing the body. Surely you don’t only pay attention to lab values, vital signs and imaging studies.” It was more of a question than a statement. I was annoyed with myself for being so confrontational with this kindly man. I was taking out the aggression I felt towards my family on him, egged on by the hangover that had receded only slightly.

“Of course not. But the facts are the facts. She has taken a turn for the worse and it’s my job to figure out why.”

“I’ve already given you the “why”, Dr. Levy. She has decided. Surely you’ve seen it before?” I asked him.

“No, I’ve never seen anyone choose to die.” He said flatly.

“Then, you haven’t been paying attention.” I grimaced, wanting to walk away from this conversation, yet still wanting to make sure he heard my point. “There’s one thing that nursing has over medicine - it’s more holistic. You treat the hypertension by the numbers. We treat the hypertension by trying to ease the pain that’s causing it, or by soothing the tension that feeds it. You look at my grandmother dying and wonder, ‘What is the etiology of this?’. I look at my grandmother dying and think, ‘Wow, she’s finally going to let go.’ It’s mysterious, certainly. But it’s also beautiful.” I said. I saw him glance at his watch.

“I postpone death. I don’t find beauty in it.” He said.

“No, no. You misunderstand me. It’s not the act of dying that’s beautiful, although there is something serene about a peaceful passage. It’s the power of the mind that holds so much beauty. Do you understand that?” I asked him.

I began to walk into my grandmother’s room, and I noticed that the doctor was following me in. Once inside, he walked briskly past me and over to my grandmother. Placing his hand on her shoulder and patting gently he said, “Agnes, Anna is here now. The nut sure doesn’t fall far from the tree.” He smiled at me and left, closing the door behind him. His words made my stomach churn. I was nothing like her.

“Good morning, Gran.” I said, gently shaking her shoulder. “How are you feeling today?”

“Oh, pretty good, I guess. For an old broad.” She chuckled, her words slurred from the stroke, but with an unmistakable clarity.

“I’m glad to hear that. Still planning to kick the bucket tomorrow?” I asked. An onlooker might have found my cavalier attitude off-putting, but it was the way she liked to be spoken to, the sort of language she understood.

“Yes. I’m ready. Don’t you think it’s nice to die on the day you were born?” She asked me.

“Not particularly, Gran. But whatever floats your boat.” I responded, pulling my chair closer to her, smiling at her genuinely.

“Remind me, honey. Are you still married?” She asked.

“No, Gran. I’m not.” I said.

“You have children, right?” She asked me.

“Yes.” I replied simply.

“It’s very hard to be a single mother. I was, you know.” She said.

“No, Gran. You were married to Gramps until the day he died.” I spoke gently, not wanting to upset a fantasy she was holding on to, if there was a fantasy to be had in such a thought.

“Yes, I know that.” She hissed, “But I did it all alone. If he wasn’t in the mines, he was at the bar. If he wasn’t at the bar, he was in bed with some nasty whore of a woman. If he wasn't in bed with some floozy, he was passed out on the couch. He might have been my husband, but he was never there.”

I saw her in a different light - a world-weary, hardened woman. For only the second time since my arrival, I felt a touch of remorse - guilt, regret, pity - for my grandmother. Maybe she was a gem - flawed, like any other thing of great beauty, but precious and rare all the same.

“I didn't know. I just remember him saying the sweetest things to you.” I said.

“Anna, the sweet nothings of a drunk aren’t sweet.” Her tone became lower, I could tell our conversation was beginning to exhaust her. “If you learn nothing from this dying old woman, learn one thing. People can say whatever they want to say. Never trust words. Never delight in the sweet musings. Only watch actions. The actions of a person are the only thing that mean anything.”

She turned her face to the ceiling and closed her eye. I patted her arm. “Get some rest, Gran. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

She slept fitfully, her little fists clenching into balls, tossing and turning as much as her crippled body would allow her. I suspected that she was becoming hypoxic, but it didn’t much matter. I knew that by this time tomorrow, she’d be dead.

An hour, maybe two, passed before she woke. Her eye scanned the room for me for a few moments before I noticed that she was awake. I leaned over her and told her that I was still there.

“You know, you’re the smartest one of us all. Your mother has always been a stupid woman.” She was slinging barbs again. I wanted to change the subject. “A handsome man only has to look in her direction and she’s in love.”

“Is that really any different than it is for any of us?” I asked her.

“You were always different. You wouldn’t give the fools the time of day. You didn’t marry any of these small town boys. You left.” She said. “You were smart enough to get the hell out of his place before it ate you alive. Every one of those little sluts you went to school with was pregnant before they finished high school, and they’re all still here, living their miserable lives.” I could hear the effort in her voice.

“Well, Mother left too.” I pointed out.

“She left when it was too late for her. You’re younger now than she was when she left and you’ve been gone, what 10 years already?”

“Actually, it’s been 18. But I married the first man that asked. I’m not so much different.”

“No, you little bitch. Quit talking and listen to me.” Her words shocked me into silence.
I leaned away from her and contemplated leaving.

“You’ve always been a fighter. You’ve always known what you wanted and you made it happen. Your mother wouldn’t know opportunity if it slapped her across her stupid face. She just sits back and waits for shit to magically happen. You, well, you’ve got a brain and you use it.” She was smug and I watched her mouth tighten into a familiar scowl.

“Maybe. But you’ve got a mouth and you’ve always used it. I’m not sure that’s better, necessarily.” As soon as the words were spoken I regretted the comment.

“Don’t think you’re any different than me. You just smile prettier. We’re the same person and we always have been. The only difference between you and me is that you just pretend you’re not as mean. You’re still a little afraid to say what you want to say.” Her voice slowed. It was taking her longer and longer to get the words out, but I could tell she had not finished.

“It took me forty years to realize that I could say anything I wanted to say and that it didn’t change a thing. Some people will hurt you, some people will love you. Some people will leave and others will stay. You can say anything you want to say to anyone and it won't change a thing. Start now. Don't wait until you're old, or until someone hurts you badly enough. Say whatever you want to say, whenever you want to say it. If nothing else, it's fun to watch people's reactions.” I thought I heard her voice quiver.

I was tempted by her offer - tempted to tell her what a vile woman she had always been, tempted to tell her how much pain she caused me. Instead, I said, “Earlier today you said that words don’t matter, that people can say anything and it means nothing. Now you’re telling me I should say whatever I want.”

“Yes, Anna. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. It's the same thing. It doesn't mean one single thing. Actions matter, words do not.” She nodded her head. “I’m right, you’ll find that out.”

Sleep quickly overtook her, ending the torment. Her breathing had changed, I could hear the first crackles of fluid building in her lungs.

I said to her sleeping form, "No, Gran. You are wrong. Words do have weight. You might want to think you've been slinging dull arrows for fifty years, but not all of them have been. The pointed ones hurt, and each one steals something from someone that can never be repaid. Not by your own atonement, and not by anyone else's reassurance."

It was quite late into the evening, and I decided to head back to Flannigan’s. I wasn’t sure how long she’d hang on the following day, but I knew the day would be challenging for me. A cold pint and a good sleep seemed the only possible preparation for the day of my grandmother’s birth, the day of my grandmother’s death.

I wasn’t anticipating feeling the anxiety that I felt, but Friday morning I woke long before the sun. I laid in my grandmother’s tiny bed and tossed and turned until my back ached from the near constant motion on the hard surface. I showered and dressed slowly, trying to draw out the moment. I knew she’d wait for me, regardless of how long I took.

I walked to Starbucks and got coffee for myself and Dr. Levy. For Gran, I selected a cupcake. The Barista acquired one single candle for me. Dr. Levy was waiting outside of her door when I arrived, just as I suspected he would be. I smiled at him and handed him the cup of coffee.

“Subcutaneous emphysema.” He said.

“Yeah, I heard it starting last night when I left.”

“I thought about what you said last night.” He said.

“Oh?” I asked.

“I think you’re probably right, and I think I have seen it in the past. I just didn’t realize it at the time.” His eyes were downcast.

“We’re just trained differently. Trust me, if I could manage my patients with drugs and cold, hard facts, I would in a heartbeat. But I’ve had to learn to rely on the tools that are actually at my disposal, which oftentimes is just my voice and my presence. It's forced me to learn how to read the subtleties, to understand healing and the mind a little differently.” I reached out and patted his arm. I found him to be a very sweet man and suspected it took a great deal for him to have this conversation with me.

“I’m not all about facts and lab values.” He said.

“Oh?” I asked again. I wasn’t going to give him an inch. I wanted to make him work a little.

“No. I mean, at work, that's what I know. But I love things that are a little more ephemeral too. I love mythology.” His voice became quiet, almost timid. It was unlike what I had come to expect from him. “I’m sure you know the mythology of the Griffin.”

“No, actually, I don’t. In fact, I haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about.” I said, genuinely.

“In Greek mythology, the Griffin was a beast with the head and wings of an eagle and the body of a lion. It guarded treasure.” He was still unable to look at me. He shifted his body weight from foot to foot, nervously. He paused a moment before uttering softly, "I think you might be the treasure she’s protecting.”

“I’ve never even heard of it. I’m glad you didn’t say it was a beast that burst into flames at the moment of its death. That could be messy here.” I laughed at my joke, he did not. I walked past him into my grandmother’s hospital room.

“Hey, old woman. I’m back. I brought you a birthday cake.” I said loudly, hoping to wake her and holding out the cupcake with its lone candle to her good eye. I didn’t have a way to light the candle, but I supposed it didn’t matter. “Blow out your candle.” I said to her.

She attempted to pucker, the left side unable to comply. As she exhaled in the general direction of the candle, an outrageous coughing fit began. I rolled her to her side and patted her back. After a few moments, she caught her breath. The rattle was much louder than it had been the previous evening and I could feel fluid crackle under my touch.

“Hey, Doc, how about some morphine?” I asked.

“Sure, I’ll be right back.” He left the room.

As the door shut, my grandmother reached out for me. “Happy Birthday to me.” She said.

“Yes, Gran. Happy Birthday to you. Please don’t make me sing.” I smiled at her.

“No, of course not. You’ve always been a lousy singer.” She said.

“Yes, I have.” I acknowledged.

Dr. Levy walked back into the room with a vial of Morphine. I smiled at him as he drew up the drug and pulled my chair back to my normal spot. He injected the drug into her IV. It was only a few moments before her respirations slowed slightly.

I smiled. “You don’t have to fight, Gran.” I said. “It’s never been a battle.”

She shook her head ‘no” and settled into her bed.

“I always loved you best, you know.” She stated.

“You sure had a funny way of showing it.” I said.

The doctor turned to leave but I motioned for him to stay. I didn’t want to watch my grandmother die alone. I watched his hands cross over his chest, tucking his hands into his armpit. For all of us, the act of doing nothing at the moment of death was always the hardest part. In one regard, our training was similar, we were trained to intervene.

“Why were you always so horrible to me?” I asked her.

“I wanted to make you strong enough, dear. I wanted to make sure you’d have the fortitude.”

I reached out and patted her head. She returned her gaze to the ceiling.

“William.” I heard her mutter.

“Your grandfather?” Dr. Levy asked me.

I nodded. “I’m sure you’ve seen that before, right?”

He nodded. It was one of the greatest mysteries of death. Often, as the darkness neared, people would begin conversations with those that had passed before them. I longed to know if it was hypoxia, wishful thinking or a true reunion.

My grandmother reached a hand out for me and I took her limp hand in mine. I kissed her chubby cheek one last time and said, “Good bye, Gran.” I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but I could not.

One final, hoarse whisper escaped her lips. “Anna, I’ve always been jealous of your beautiful eyes.”

I stared at her in amazement as I watched the light, the life, drift out of her cornflower blue eye.