Crash

*Obligatory graphic content warning*

"Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield upon which your reason and judgement wage war against your passion." -Khalil Gibran

The instant you begin to slide the car off the side of the highway I'm aware of your intent. I feel myself smile at you a bit sheepishly, against my will. As you gaze steadily into my eyes, revealing nothing, I feel my eyes close as my teeth begin to nervously nibble my lower lip.

The road stretches out in front of us, long and straight, peppered with towering trees. A cool summer breeze rustles the leaves that dangle overhead your now parked car. I glance again in your direction and you nod as you release your seatbelt.

I am paralyzed in the moment, curious as to whether you will proceed and allow your passion to uncharacteristically overwhelm your logic. I'm conflicted - this is a side of you I haven't seen and my own logic threatens to impede your plan. Instinctively, however, I'm delighted by your spontaneity, aroused by your neediness.

I glance behind us at the road as dark and as straight as the path that lay ahead of us. You remove the key from the ignition, the radio quiets, the engine hum desists. The silence is magnificient. I can hear the leaves rustle above me like familiar windchimes, a small animal darts through the foliage. I smell the dampness of the grass, wondering if you can sense my own dampness as acutely.

The sound of your door closing as you exit is deafening in the silence, immediately shaking me out of my nature-trance. I watch your body as you slowly walk in front of the car, your hand touching the hood for balance as you glance towards me. I realize at that moment that I know every centimeter of your body better than I know my own.

The mole on the side of your right ear reminds me of the sun because of it's satellite freckles. The front tooth that lays ever so slightly over its neighbor entrances me every time I see you smile. The way your biceps dip so noticeably in at your elbow, the thick and jagged scar from a childhood sports injury and the deep indentation just above your buttocks are all parts of you that I've appropriated for my own use - to define our familiarity, to make your body a possession.

As you approach the passenger side, I stare deeply into your eyes and wait for the twinkle to appear. As your hand reaches for the handle I glimpse it, but only for a second. You swing the door open and reach towards me, palms outstretched, waiting for my touch.

I place my hands in yours and feel their strength as they wrap around mine, effortlessly lifting me out of the car. I lift my face towards yours and feel your lips brush mine softly, teasing me - exactly the way I knew you'd kiss me, exactly the way you know I love to be kissed.

My car door closes, seemingly of its own volition, as your arms snake around my waist, mine around your neck. I stroke you there, allowing my fingernails to gently scratch the tender skin. You lower your face to mine again and kiss me deeply. I stare into your face as you do. With your eyes closed, I feel you fade into me. I press my body hard against yours to bring you back to the moment, to keep you from drifting into that deep, amber-colored place we both long for.
Without warning, you spin me around and press my body against the hood of the car. I feel the weight of your chest against my back as you stretch my arms against the cool metal, holding my hands in place. You bury your face into my neck and sigh deeply, inhaling my scent, the moment perplexingly finite and infinite.

"Your hair is so soft." I say. Instantly regretting that those words were the ones that broke the perfect silence, feeling like a silly teenager.

"I'm not." You whisper into my ear, removing my hand from the car, leaning more firmly against my back and placing my hand over you. I squeeze gently, then turn my head to kiss you.
Your tongue fills my mouth and I accept it gratefully, happy to listen once again to the silence, happy to be silenced by you. I suck your tongue deeply into my mouth, forcing you to recall the previous evening.

I feel your hand begin to ascend my thigh, it's largeness covering most of my leg, pressed firmly against my skin. As you lift my dress, the sudden exposure to the cool night air startles me - a strong contrast to the heat emanating from within.

I lean my head back against your chest and feel you wrap your arms around me. As your hand begins to snake down my stomach I shiver and lean harder against you, partially for balance and partially for the comfort that your body provides. Your breath is hot in my ear as you whisper the words that I love to hear, the little phrase that brings me to my knees each time the words escape your lips.

I close my eyes and feel the moment in its entirety - the cool air, the sound of the bushes blowing gently, the chirp of crickets, the dew from the grass creeping up our legs, the solidity of your form, the scent of your skin. It's marvelous and beautiful. As your fingers slide easily into me, every sensation is combined and condensed and I feel nothing except your touch, hear nothing except your breathing.

I don't hear you release yourself from the confines of your clothing, nor do I feel you release me from mine. Almost as if by some magical force, I feel you slide effortlessly into my pool. I lean back and rock slowly onto you as you fill me - the long-lost key to a hidden treasure.
It isn't long before you feel the ravenous force of my passion for you - a torrential outpouring from deep within my soul boils over as my body falls against you.

As my storm begins to subside, you gently lift me onto the hood of the car. Your body presses firmly against mine, firmly inside mine. I wrap my legs tightly around your body, pulling you in as closely as possible, wishing to consume you.

I feel your energy fill my body, first as you kiss me ravenously then again moments later as your warmth, your soul is transferred to mine. Your weight falls heavily against me as your arms wrap snugly around me.

A feather falls from the sky as a bird twitches in a tree above us. A tear stings my eye before suddenly tracing its way down my face. Your hand wraps around my cheek, your thumb drying the escaping drop. The bird sings sharply - it's swan song perfectly devestating, a harbinger of our own.

Manifest

"Destiny is not a matter of chance, but a matter of choice. It is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved." - William Jennings Bryan

I did not dream last night. That may be untrue, I most likely did dream, but if I did, I have no recollection of those dreams.

That simple fact led me to consider whether there is reality in something that doesn't exist in your mind. Since I have no recollection of it, for all intents and purposes, it never happened.

If that's true, then surely the converse is true as well: If it's in my mind, then it is reality.

I've long known that the power of the mind is the most powerful organ in the body. I've literally seen cases where people have cured themselves of incurable disease, simply by believing that they were going to be well. I've seen the flip side of that as well - I once had a healthy patient come in for a very routine procedure. From a surgical perspective, he was fine but we were unable to extubate him post-operatively, the direct result of his anxiety. His mind almost killed him.

We also have all heard ad nauseum how we only use 5% of our brains. Remarkable, really. What's the rest of it doing there? Acting as a huge storage system for the large volumes of largely useless information we are all innundated with on a routine basis?

Then I started thinking about how much of a hand "fate" has in everything. You start with the premise that nothing matters because it's all pre-ordained or somehow fated and it is an absolution. You free yourself from taking responsibility for your life. That line of thinking certainly appeals to me on one level, but on another more fundamental level, it's anathema. I've never been warm to the notion that I can just sit on my hands and wait for the world to happen to me. In fact, many of the blog postings here deal with me trying to accept that reality. Not surprisingly, no matter how I think of it, or frame it, it doesn't become more compelling.

This started a strange, philosophical riddle in my mind that lasted for excruciating hours and left me exhausted. However, the working solution I discovered really works - for me. What I'm about to share with you is not new or unique, it's been the fundamental principal of most great spiritual traditions.

Negativity breeds more negativity. Bad things happen to good people who expect bad things to happen. Then it begins a downward spiral and the negative energy begins to spiral out of control drawing more negativity and badness. But forget that crap, I'm finally, genuinely emerging from my cocoon, I'm shedding any negativity that has lingered and persisted.

Positive thinking brings positive results. Expecting the good paves the way for boundless good to enter. With your mind, this powerful tool, you can draw the things in your life to you. People do this everyday in different ways - for some people, it's prayer to a specific deity, others call it meditation, creative visualization or a host of other New-Age-y things I'm not familiar enough with to expound upon.

I tested the theory today, and I have to say that I was absolutely shocked - I did this two ways. As I left to go to the grocery store, I said to myself, "I'm going to get the front row parking spot as soon as I pull in." and I did. Sure, that could be coincidence. As I was leaving the grocery store I said, "I'm going to see a white Mini Cooper on my way home." I was only a block from my house and beginning to think it wasn't going to happen, when, in the last possible spot, a white Cooper comes flying off a side street and almost careens straight into me. I was beyond shocked and just smiled.

You can, in fact, manifest your own reality simply by thinking it into existence.

Chrysalis

"Not that it was beautiful, but that, in the end, there was a certain sense of order there; Something worth learning in that narrow diary of my mind." - Anne Sexton

I rarely remember my dreams. But on occasion, something will happen that will trigger a series of days in which I remember my dreams vividly. It's always when I'm standing on the edge of a chasm of some sort another. I love it.

Saturday night, I had a dream about getting a tattoo and meeting a man named James Durden. It was strange because in the dream I even asked him to spell the name because it was unusual. I googled the name this morning just for shits and giggles and the first thing that came up was a Fed-Ex pilot in Denver. The second thing that came up was an artist that died in 1964. He painted these pastoral, fluffy portraits of women that I dislike tremendously. At any rate, I don't know who this character is, but I'll figure it out. Or I'll forget about it. Either way, I'm good.

The whole purpose of even writing about this, however, is to tell you about last night's dream and the clarity with which I awoke this morning.

I dreamed that I was a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis. I had these huge, gossamer wings tinged with teal blue. I looked behind me and saw a gray, cottony pile beneath me. I looked up and saw my frail little antennae above me and smiled, knowing that I could rely on them. I was on a tree branch, staring at the world below me, with that chasm underneath. I fluttered my wings once and felt the wind begin to lift me. I fluttered them harder and faster and suddenly, I was airborne. I glanced back towards the safety of the tree branch then flapped harder as I flew ahead, over the chasm.

I don't know what happened to me last night as I slept, but this morning, even through the gray mist that threatens thunderstorms, I know that I've left the cocoon behind.

Punishment

"We are punished for our refusals. Every impulse that we strive to strangle broods in the mind, and poisons us. The body sins once, and has done with its sin, for action is a mode of purification. Resist it, and your soul grows sick with longing for the things it has forbidden to itself, with desire for what its monstrous laws have made monstrous and unlawful. It has been said that the great events of the world take place in the brain. It is in the brain, and the brain only, that the great sins of the world take place also." - Oscar Wilde

I'll never forget driving home from San Antonio with my husband one night. We hadn't been married long, six months or so. I was a child, I had just turned 25. I had been given the task of presenting a speech to a large group of conventioneers for my job at the time. Being an ineffective and nervous public speaker, I had asked my husband to come along for moral support.

After presenting my speech, I mingled with the crowd. I was networking and working. I spent a little more time than my husband was comfortable with chatting with one man in particular. This man was an integral prospect for my business, I needed him on my team. I wasn't overly flirtatious or solicitous, but make no mistake, I was flirting. It was business and I've always believed in using whatever tools you have at your disposal to facilitate getting what you need. I could feel my husband's disapproving stares.

Just as I've got this man against the ropes with his pen poised to sign my contract, my husband tells me that we are leaving. His hand is on my elbow, gripping tightly. I smile at him and tell him that I need a few more moments. He sulks off, but the moment is ruined. The prospect feels the chill and shuffles off uncomfortably. I plaster the smile on my face, say my good-byes and strut off to the car.

Once inside the car, I turn to him and tell him how inappropriate his behavior was and try to explain just how important that man was to my business. I was stunned that he was even remotely concerned about the flirting given that the man was a rotund, balding chap easily 30 years my senior.

I'm livid, my voice shaking and cracking as I spoke which is what always happens when I'm that angry. Tears follow shortly thereafter, something I've always hated about myself. It's hard to convey anger when you're voice is quivering and you are crying, but it's my way. Fortunately, I'm rarely that angry. I lambasted him in my weak way for 30 minutes, my voice getting louder and louder with tears literally shooting straight out of my eyes, landing in my lap.

He pulls the car over on the interstate, gets out, come to the passenger side, opens the door and drags me out of the car. It's an unusually cold night and he holds me against the car and grabs the sides of my face. I can still feel his fingers in my cheeks, I can still hear his voice through clenched teeth as he shouted, "You have no idea how to let anyone love you. By falling in love with you, I've already accepted the fact that one day, you're just going to up and leave because deep down inside, you just don't believe that love can be eternal."

I stood there shivering against the cold, against my coldness, unable to speak. He pushed me back in the car and drove home. We didn't speak again the rest of the night. I wanted to tell him that he was mistaken, but I could not utter a word in my own defense, largely because I believed him. I spent the next decade believing those words while simultaneously fighting to deny his prophecy.

I always knew that I never loved him the way he loved me. And should I have attempted to forget that fact for a moment, he was happy to remind me. But the way he loved me was almost parental - possessive and controlling. He was always available to me, but I had to weigh every word I uttered with caution. He was free to say what he wanted to, to be who he wanted to, while I had to watch my own actions as if in a mirror.

His words of that night have haunted me for many years. I'm so afraid sometimes that he was right then and that he's right now.

I'm sure Freud would blame my father. Ultimately, it's just me. Deep down, I fear that I'm not ready to welcome someone into my life, even though I so sincerely want to. I tell myself that when it's the right one, the worthy one, I'll love him with the plentitude that I am capable of. Ironically, the men that are emotionally available to me are dismissed with about as much fanfare as Sarah Palin, while those that remain emotionally unavailable are welcomed, embraced and fought for.

Take Dallas for example. He flew in Tuesday evening and we went out for dinner. We had a lovely evening and he was quite different one-on-one. I do think I underestimated him. He's smart, quick-witted, fun to be around and incredibly open. He's very attractive, I watched the waitress the other night fawn all over him within 2 minutes of our arrival. I've woken up every morning since to an amazing email telling me all sorts of wonderful things about me. He's actually given me a paper ticket (didn't even know you could get those anymore) to come visit him "whenever I'm ready" and he's called regularly to ask when he can come back to visit.

Meanwhile, I have less than zero interest in him.

I have many theories as to the "why".  Ultimately, the truth lies in my own twisted sense of goodness. I've caused pain and the guilt is hard to manage. I need the aloofness as a shield.

Beat me to the heartbreak and I can't break yours.

Bravery

"People are afraid of themselves, nowadays. They have forgotten the highest of all duties, the duty that one owes to one’s self. Of course they are charitable. They feed the hungry, and clothe the beggar. But their own souls starve, and are naked. Courage has gone out of our race." -Oscar Wilde

It takes courage, tremendous amounts of raw courage, to make yourself - your heart, your soul - available to another.

I've never been brave.

My heart is aching, I'm in pain. I haven't felt this sincerely terrible in a very long time. The pounding headache and nausea aren't helping matters. Of course, those two maladies are entirely self-inflicted.

I went out last night and got obscenely drunk. I knew it was coming. I had a work function to attend and had a couple of drinks there. While I'm there, I get a message that I really shouldn't have read while I was out. I left to go meet Po at another bar. On the way, I ran into some friends at another bar and had a drink with them. I find Po and Roo and begin drinking in earnest. I tell Po why it's coming.

We're looking for suitable distractions at a point in my drinking where the only smart option would have been bed. Leave it to me to find the only man in the bar that does not live in Austin, right? This time, I find a Russian podiatrist from Atlanta. Smoking hot. I don't really remember the night. I certainly don't remember his name. Luckily Po drove me home and tucked me in before my foggy memories were of something more than a drunken bar make-out session. Yes, I would have. I was hurting that badly. Dr. Foot was about 10 minutes away from becoming the unknowing recipient of a world-class grudge fuck.

There are aspects of myself that I dislike tremendously. I hate that I will chatter on and on about things, laughing and joking, while I'm crumbling inside. I hate that the only things I will share openly with people are the minutiae or the things that mean nothing to me. I hate that I will fight for things long after the fat lady has sung.

I finally have to admit what I've suspected all along - my relationship with the pilot was nothing more than a fantastic fallacy. I created it, but I didn't do it in isolation. I had some help along the way. Our relationship ended exactly the way it began - with him in control.

The worst part of it is that he's not even going to give me a chance to speak - to say what I need to say. Sure, I could send him an email and say the things I would like to say but he's made his choice and I don't really know why. Ultimately, it doesn't matter - because for whatever reason he isn't willing to even give it a chance. It's not even a big chance or a big risk. I'm not asking for much - not a trial marriage, not a promise of forever - just a weekend, to see.

So for whatever reason, it's just not compelling enough for him. I'm sad, angry and frustrated. For all my faults, weaknesses and fears, I was curious enough and willing enough to at least see. It isn't heroic, but it does require a modicum of courage.

Critical

"Modern science has been a voyage into the unknown, with a lesson in humility waiting at every stop." - Carl Sagan

It's 5:30 AM. I just got home from work. I worked most of the evening. I love being on call, because those surgeries are often the most necessary. No one wants to remove the tonsils of a 17-year old at 8PM on a Sunday night. But when the infection is threatening the child so much that he can't speak and his airway is compromised, well...you just don't have much choice. I get home, waste some time, then go to bed. At 3AM, I get a phone call: Aortic Dissection. Hurry.

I've only done one previous Aortic Dissection in my career. Why? They happen often enough, but patients rarely survive to make it to the hospital (estimates indicate 10,000 per year in the US and roughly 17% make it to the hospital). Once in the hospital, a rapid and accurate diagnosis is essential. This is not always as easy as it sounds - generally these patients have a significant medical history and comorbidities that must be sorted through, while their symptoms are presenting as something else. They rarely make it to the operating room table. IF they make it to the operating room table they are the lucky ones, Sort of. That survival rate is, at best, about 30%. Assuming we get them off the table, we have to hope that blood flow to their brain was not compromised, that their lungs will tolerate the assault, that the graft will work, that they don't develop cardiac tamponade or some other hemodynamic crisis and ultimately, that they don't acquire some awful infection while hospitalized.

The one that I did previously was one of the most amazing moments in my career - it was truly a Hollywood-styled surgical moment. Sadly, despite the best efforts of my colleagues (who impressed me that day beyond recognition), the patient did not survive. He made it off the table, but his brain had been depleted of blood for far too long - the family chose to terminate life-support three days after surgery.

I arrived in the ER to see the patient tonight. The surgeon and the anesthesiologist were in the room examining him. While I waited for them to decide the course of events, I started an IV on the patient. It's very hard to stand around doing nothing, and I figured he'd need better access than what he had regardless of whether we took him to the OR or not. Ultimately, the doctors decided that he was not a surgical candidate and I came home. I'm pretty good at separating my emotions from the situation, but I will tell you that it's difficult when a patient looks you straight in the eyes and says, "I'm ready to get this fixed." and all you can do is smile pathetically while you pat their hand, the same hand you just jammed an 18 gauge angiocatheter into.

There's the backdrop...

I mentioned that I had an interesting chat with a man on Halloween about my career. It started as most things do at a party, "So...what do you do?" and I answered the way I always do, "I'm a nurse." With most people at that point, they ask routine questions, Where? Do you like it? Do you know so-and-so? But this man had a very big surgery in the recent past, and he was very curious, asking all sorts of interesting questions about what happens in an OR after the patient is asleep. I answered his questions as best I could and he said, "Wow. That's so cool. Thank you for doing what you do."

I was touched. The thing is, 99% of my job is so routine I could do it with my eyes closed. And to be perfectly honest, I *have* done surgeries with my eyes closed. I joke about "Saving the world, one gallbladder at a time." But when it's not routine, when it is critical, it's rewarding beyond recognition. It's awe-inspiring and tremendously humbling.

We get these strange and rare glimpses into the most personal aspect of life - death. It's fascinating to see how people react to adversity. As a general rule, people are remarkable. Given a bad prognosis, I find that most people are courageous and brave, accepting and so utterly trusting that you take your duty to them very seriously.

I recently met a new anesthesiologist. This guy is young. Young. I met him several days before I had the opportunity to work with him and thought he was a little standoffish, a little too cool. Then, I spent a day with him in the OR. I was wowed by his demeanor with the patients - he was kind and calm, authoritative but approachable. After our first case together, I told him how much I liked his countenance. He appreciated the compliment, OR people are not known for being the best with their patients - hell, that's why we're there - we love the science of healing, but the art is a bit foreign to most of us.

Our second case was a big one. It was "just" a gallbladder, but the worst one I've ever seen. The patient was septic and bordering on death - another couple hours and we probably wouldn't have been able to get him back, he would have fallen into multi-system organ failure - he was well on his way. Intraoperatively, his condition improves as the evil gallbladder is extricated in 5 pieces from his body. His heart rate falls from 140 to a nice, normal 85, his temperature begins to drop and he begins making urine meaning that his kidneys are functioning. After the case, we transport him to the ICU intubated and ventilated. Once there, the anesthesiologist pulls his breathing tube and miraculously - the guy is breathing well - far better than he was preoperatively.

This new doctor and I are in the elevator on the way back to the OR - our day isn't even close to over - and he puts his arm around me, rests his head against mine and sighs.

"How do you feel?" He asks me.

"Oh, I'm good." I answer.

"No, I mean really - how do you feel?"

I look at him, sort of puzzled. I don't know this man at all and I'm trying to determine what he's angling at.

"You just saved another life. I hope you feel good about yourself." He says, smiling at me. I smiled back at him, broadly. It rarely feels like a save, it usually just feels like another day, another surgery.

So it was wonderful to hear and I'm so thankful that all of this is happening right now, at a time when I really thought my career might change. Regardless of what my professional future holds, I'm so thankful that I have the job I do. Most days, it matters.

Islands

"The person you consider ignorant and insignificant is the one who came from God, that he might learn bliss from grief and knowledge from gloom." - Khalil Gibran

Halloween is all about pretense, and in many ways, it's a welcome release for all of us: pretend you are someone completely different than who you are. I have always hated Halloween, largely for that reason. But this year, I had a great costume idea, Po executed part of it fabulously, the rest came together for $10 at Goodwill 15 minutes before I had to get ready to leave for the events of the evening.

The party that I attended was just exactly what I needed - a fun, smart and interesting group of people. We all drank far too much, then headed down to 6th Street to see the mayhem. As long as I've lived in Austin, I've never done the Halloween on 6th thing and I'm glad I did - although I can say with certainty that I won't do it again. I get nervous and edgy in crowds like that, especially these days.

At the party, I had a very interesting conversation with a man about my career. That chat will be a separate post, maybe tomorrow. It changed a lot of my perspective about what I really do. No, that's not right. It didn't change anything; it put a finer point on it.

My costume was the character Lee from the movie Secretary with James Spader and Maggie Gyllenhall. I wore a fluffy white blouse, a long pencil skirt and Po made me the little bondage contraption that rounded out the movie. I've always loved the movie, and when people would say, "But it's so twisted!", I'd say, "Yes, but it's a love story." I found it to be funny, incredibly sexual and ultimately, the story of two people finding what they need in another.

I was excited to be in the costume, excited to see the reaction of others, certain that while I'd be vulnerable with my hands bound and a collar around my neck that I would be safe with my friends and that Roo, my James Spader for the night, would protect me. But in reality, being bound, being that vulnerable even around people that I have a great deal of trust in, was very unnatural for me. In fact, the costume lasted long enough for a photo session for posterity, then came off. I did not enjoy being that physically vulnerable at all. Submission is not my way.

I didn't get home until the very wee hours of the morning and after soccer and retrieving my vehicle, I came back home and fell asleep - all day long. I had strange dreams. I was interrupted often by my phone. I was a bit introspective from the curious reaction I had to my costume.

We all have an image of ourselves that we identify with, and as previously posted, I think we all like to think we're a little bit better than we are. In some ways. In other ways, I think we all tend to sell ourselves a little bit short. It's the self-deprecating humor. It's the way we internally berate ourselves when we do something bone-headed. It's the way we kick our toes in the sand when someone genuinely compliments us and shrug our shoulders as if to say, "Awww....shucks."

It's just another one of those contradictions in life: We can tell someone all of our good qualities, and ignore the bad as we "sell" ourselves and yet when someone genuinely recognizes a good quality in us that we have either accepted as a given or have yet to accept at all, we tend to downplay it.

The way we identify ourselves is dependent on our own sense of worth, vigor and esteem, but it's also larger than that. Our opinion of self is forged largely by the influence of others and the way they respond to us.

It begins with our parents, spreads to other relatives, shifts at some point to our grade school friends and ultimately to our colleagues and employers, lovers and partners, friends and foe. Moreover, it's rooted in our societal and personal cultures and the opportunities that the world either provides us or denies us. The way we see ourselves is not something that we create in isolation.

I recently wrote to my pilot that I've always felt like an island, waiting for some great tidal wave to wash over me and nourish my soul. It's true - I've always felt like such a solitary creature. I certainly have my moments of needing and desiring solitude, but I'm not a lone wolf at all, I'm a pack animal.

Nothing happens in isolation. You can think it does, and you can think that you control your life and your destiny, but you do not. At best, you can only control half of it. Each and every person that you come into contact with has an impact on you in some way. You can control your actions, and your mind as much as you'd like - but it won't change much at all because each and every influential person that you meet is forging their own path.

The lives and actions and feelings of others do impact us to a remarkable extent, and you can't control them. No, I cannot be submissive - it's a terrifying place for me, I learned last night. But, I am going to have to make myself more vulnerable to others so that I can accept their influence on my life. We are all on a fabulous journey and many of the travelers I'll encounter are wonderful people that can enhance my life in ways I can't even imagine or possibly know - yet. I'll embrace their presence in my life because I need them - for reasons both mundane and personal. I'm not an island.