Death ii

And so we come one step closer

And I am unsure

I stepped away for a day and said I'll see you

He said I hope so

My fingers gentle on his hand

A grip firm even as his breath leaches out

The oxygen machine thrums and whooshes

Thumps at regulat intervals

My thumb softly moving on his fingers

A few hairs the skin pale and dry

Comforting or being comforted I could not tell

I'll see you I said

I stepped downstairs my mouth twisted in a curl

The sudden onslaught of tears in the car

And I didn't have a tissue at hand 

The little things

Yet I was confident of my return

In time for one more goodbye

One more look

Which I hope he understands to mean that I will be there

I will be there for them after he is gone

I will be there 

I will not forget his life touching mine

Too briefly

His soul his smile his joy

I will be a constant

I will be here

But now I am on my way

And there may not be another goodbye

That may be all it was

So assuredly I said I'll see you

And now I am unsure

Death

Death is the solace of the brave

And the haven of the kind

The ones it forsakes

Are the ones left behind

I don't believe in the one.

I don't.

And yet, here I am, 2 1/2 years into a relationship, wondering where I, he, we are going. If I lived in a vacuum, I probably wouldn't be this anxious.

But I don't.

It's wedding season on Facebook. Smiling faces that I only partly recognize, some not at all anymore, accost me with every log in. White finery, bundles of flowers, oh look, their signature cocktail was in a mason jar. Am I some sort of curmudgeon, scowling at the computer screen? 

I don't think so.

Quite the opposite, actually. I'm just a romantic with a bad sense of visioning. Because, deep down, I want it all - the white finery, bundles of flowers, quirky accent-piece. And I'm squee-elated, ecstatic, enthusiastic, when dear ones, like our M and D, decide to commit to each other. I know just how much they care for each other, how much they look forward to seeing each other at the end of the day, how they challenge each other and share inside jokes. I'm blessed to know them and even more honored that they asked me to share their day with them. But when it comes to me, my life, and my choices -

I don't know how to decide.

Cloudy with a chance of tears

Inertia is paralyzing. I've been jobless for 9 months now, and at this point every time I open the browser I wonder if it's even worth looking for something. Every time I open Word to start a cover letter my fingers hover over the keys, unable to move, my heart constricting at the sight of the blank white page in front of me. I pore over wedding boards and click through endless photos of smiling brides and the latest cutest wedding favors. I bake a new batch of cookies. The apartment has never been cleaner. I joke about becoming a housewife, but my own smiles aren't real. I cancel drinks and lunches and phone dates with friends because I don't have an answer to the ever present "what's new." Impossible to keep a smile in my voice, even more so to actually tell the truth. I agonize for hours over a single "networking" email. I hesitate five hundred times before clicking send. And along comes an opportunity. And slips away. And here I am baking another batch of cookies. I wonder if I should even eat them - full of frustration and lack of motivation and cringing despair - would it be akin to poisoning myself? 

Starting up again...

Grad school, with all of the dense readings, the lectures on little known subjects, the lunches with friends sharing unbelievable stories, has been an enlightening experience. Yet, all the above mentioned factors aside, the most enlightening aspect has been the interaction with my male peers.

My undergrad experience was far from the see a cute guy in the halls, smile, know you will probably run into him later at whatever solo cup rager was going on that weekend, look as cute as possible on that night, and then who knows what. In my case, if I saw a cute guy in the halls, chances were I would probably never see him again. Now, here I am in a full on campus environment, where, after one semester, I know everyone's face if not their name. It's both comforting and disquieting.

Our Dean said in his welcome speech that some of us, undoubtedly, will get married to each other. How could that possibly be the case? It already feels incestuous to view each other romantically - and oh how people would talk. And yet that doesn't stop people, attached or otherwise, from making eyes and overtures...

Everything is possible

Do you know what is impossible?

It is impossible to hug someone across an ocean.

Do you know what is impossible?

It is impossible to stop another's tears when your own won't cease.

Do you know what is impossible?

It is impossible to say the right thing when you already know your words are helpless.

Do you know what is impossible?

It is impossible to imagine someone else's grief when you are mired in your own.

Do you know what is impossible?

It is impossible to grieve for one without re-living the grieving you have done over others.

Do you know what is impossible?

It is impossible to hold someone's hand, to hold them close, to look them in the eye from across an ocean.

Do you know what is impossible?

It is impossible not to feel helpless, completely and utterly helpless, in the face of death.

Do you know what is impossible?

To understand that someone is irrevocably gone. That is impossible.

This is So Real

The second meeting of the family. The faces were familiar this time, the hugs even warmer, the kisses even closer.

Hey Blondie!
This is TC's... wife? Fiance? Just kidding. Girlfriend... for now.
That's why we all say, you're a keeper!
TC, bring her by before you go to the airport tomorrow, okay?
Lauren, my grandmother is looking for you.

And the kicker. We were at dinner. He got a text. His mother.
"I brought grandma's ring to give to you. You can have the diamonds re-set and give it to Lauren."

He showed it to me. "Look what my mom said." He shook his head, a little smile. I asked what he replied. "I told her to keep it until I'm ready." Very logical. As always. We didn't speak of it again.

I want to marry him. We talk realistically about it all the time. But that tiny ring, that little band of gold with some sparklers resting in it, made it so real. A tangible thing. Proof of a never ending commitment. It made my stomach tighten up and a silence settle over the table. It doesn't scare him... it scares me.

He drove me to the airport the next day, and I cried a little for the end of our blissful vacation and a little for how much I'd miss him while I was home and he was here.

A thoughtful silence filled the car, and then he asked, "What do I do with the diamonds? Have them re-set?" For one brief second I let myself picture it happening, a random Tuesday while I made tacos in sweatpants and an old tank top, and he danced around to Michael Jackson behind me. He'd say, "Hey, Lauren?" I'd turn around and he'd be there, on his knee, with the sparklers. And I'd be happy. I'd be so, so happy.

The ring. It means fear and happiness all in one. And it just got a little more real.

Meet and Greet

A year and some months later, I'm finally meeting his friends. His group of high school buddies that played JV soccer together with silly nicknames on their jerseys. What started as a small gathering over dinner, us plus three of them, has ballooned into an eight person affair with an acquaintance who wasn't originally invited (awkward) and another girlfriend (thank god).

If the three potential outfits packed in my bag don't already give it away, I'll come out and say it. I'm nervous. What do they know about me already? How will the conversation flow? Should I buy lots of drinks? And. The one that all the others stem from. Will they like me?

A seems to think so. I guess we will find out.

It's a Romantic Weather Report Part 2

Yesterday morning, 8:07am: "Pouring bring umbrella."
This morning, 8:13am: "I love you and I miss you. It looks warm out but it's very windy and cold. Please wear a coat."

These would never be lines from a love song. But it's what reminds me every day that he's the one.

Car trouble

"Okay ma'am, we'll send someone out there within an hour. If the car starts, you will have a 49.99 service charge, and if not, that charge will be removed. We'll have them call you when they get there so you don't have to stay outside."

I grab my lower lip between my teeth as I walk the five minutes back to my apartment from the parking garage. I look firmly at the floor as I trudge down the hallway. I collapse on the sofa and suddenly I'm a shuddering sobbing mess, wrapping my arms around myself, unable to stop the tears.

It's just a car that won't start. Who knows, things happen with rental cars. It's no big deal, sometimes the battery just runs low. It'll be okay. I know. I know. I know.

Except that for the past three days I've been having nightmares about car crashes that hugely amplify the actual crash. Except that this is a rental replacement because my car is in the body shop. Except that I have a police report and an insurance deductible that loom up as soon as I open my eyes from that nightmare. Except that it took me an hour to even screw myself up to the point where I could go out to the rental car at all.

And I have things to be thankful for: nobody was hurt, the damage is fixable, nobody was hurt. It was really not a huge thing after all. Accidents happen. I know I know I know I know I know.

But the rental car not starting today has just dipped this day in abysmal doom and I can't seem to pull myself together. The tears won't stop no matter how hard I hug myself. And all I want to do is to curl up in bed and hope the building collapses on top of me.

Falling Slowly

I picture him floating. High above me in an ocean. He is treading water and I am drowning in it. He can see clearly across the glassy surface of the water with nothing to obstruct his view, and deep, down below him I am blind. I can use the tips of my fingers, but nothing else. I can only take away what I imagine to be there. Far, far below him. Struggling against all these visions of my own devices. He is held down by nothing. He thinks I’m right next to him, softly treading, too. I’m not. I am far, far below him.

I can’t tell if this is real. Trust your gut. Listen to your heart. Don’t let your fears get in the way of taking a risk. Let go of the past. I can’t do it all at once. Am I trusting my gut, or am I letting my imagination run away with me?

“Who is she?!”

“A friend of Dave’s. There are bigger things in life to worry about, Lauren.”

“You don’t trust him. If you did you wouldn’t worry about this stuff.”

I don’t trust him. He could be doing anything. With anyone. And why wouldn’t he be? How would I know? I can accuse and accuse until I’m blue in the face. Or until I push him away.

I could choose to trust him. I could sink slowly down into the water, let go of the struggle, and allow the ocean to swallow me up. I could lose myself in this.

And that’s just it.

I could lose myself.

One is the loneliest number

I recently went through a breakup.

Not my own. But a breakup still.

Both parties are my friends and so I heard both sides. “I think M. would see me every day if she could!” he griped.

I’m smack in the middle of my first real adult relationship. We’re 9 months in. We’re happy as clams… most of the time. We spend a few weeknights and every minute of the weekends together, sometimes taking hours upon hours to lie in our own filth and do nothing and then tell each other that these are our favorite moments. There is no one I am happier with. No one I would rather spend my time with. Dave Matthews was right: it’s not where but who you’re with that really matters.

“Let’s play Wii tonight! We haven’t played in so long.”
“I’m gonna try and get some work done tonight.” Work tonight. Work tomorrow.
Crushed. Silence. “Are you mad?”
I wanted to text back that of course I was mad. I knew he wouldn’t end up doing work. I knew he’d come home from his day job, peruse Facebook for two hours, watch bad TV, eat takeout, and watch more bad TV until 4am. The following night he would come home from his day job, nap, go to his show, drink with his friends until 4am, and come home and crash. I’d see him Friday and our weekend cycle of filth and nothing would ensue.

So why was I mad? Why did it hurt? Everyone is allowed time on their own. I was even thinking myself earlier in the week, “I can’t wait to come home and read my magazines and have nothing to do and be alone.” But when he says it… rejection. TV and the internet are more desirable than me.

Is this a girl thing? Was M.’s ex-boyfriend right to break up with someone who wanted to spend every minute with him? I thought back on M.’s relationship, as I had been privy to almost every moment of it, and I knew the schedule she kept with her boyfriend: they’d see each other a few times a week, and more often than not he liked to be alone or with his friends. I even said to TC once, “I think M. wishes she had the kind of boyfriend that I have: one who wants to be together all the time.” If I ever complain about not seeing him enough, TC will come back with, “I’m going to spend my life with you! We’re going to live together. For the next 5 months until that happens, I think it’s alright if we spend a few nights a week apart.”

And it is fine. My rational brain says, “Are you a lunatic? Give the guy some space. He wants to do guy things.” My emotional brain will probably cry myself to sleep tonight because I’ll imagine how much fun he’s having without me.

I know this isn’t normal. I know this smacks of insecurity.

… right?

Meld

Even these Americans, they also do have some family commitment and all that, ah?

Yes you know some of them have very close family bonds! Look at this boy - such a close family he looks like he has. Very sweet looks like. How he was telling me about his mother and all you know - and he also calls his grandparents and all that, ah.

Ya - and how we seem to think, that only Indian people really have very close knit families - we don't even think that of these white people no? We only think divorce and all that.

And that way these people are quite loving and friendly, ah. And nowadays what, even Indian people are getting divorced all the time - things are not the same, these Americans are not the only ones getting divorced. How we used to think when we were their age - but nowadays see, our boys and girls are also finding their own American husbands and wives and how they are also doing okay. You know that one's children speak so sweetly - born and brought up there!

And so nicely they eat our food, they take interest in our customs, see now we have quite a few Americans in the family, and how nicely they also learn to become a part of us. Even our own children don't touch our feet anymore, but if you tell these Americans they will do it happily.

Oh touch our feet! No now no more of that. But even our children are not bad, ah, even though now it is all AmericaAmerica see, they still cook our food, still they call and they will light some lights for Diwali and all that.

Oh now no more touching feet to show respect, but now we get hugs - my granddaughters, always hugs, hugs and kisses.

He doesn't speak my languages, he didn't grow up celebrating Diwali with firecrackers and lanterns, visiting family at Ganesh Chaturthi, playing with colors at Holi. His skin isn't brown, and his eyes are blue-green. My grandparents don't know his, and unlike the rest of my family, my great-grandfather's cousin's mother-in-law's nephew's daughter-in-law didn't live on the same street as my family fifty years ago. He still sometimes eats his chappati with two hands instead of neatly tearing it into bite sized pieces with only one.

But he loves his parents and looks out for a gift for his sister. He speaks to his grandparents regularly and visits them on his own. He celebrates Thanksgiving and Christmas with much gusto. He loves Indian food and likes experimenting with spices. He cajoles my mother into making his favorite Indian snacks when he's around. He doesn't mind camping out on a mattress if the house is too full of guests. He speaks to my grandma's friends even though some of them don't speak English. He takes the sugar my grandma offers before we leave the house. He usually tears his chappati neatly with one hand.

Such a sweet boy no? See how he has picked up how we do it.

Yes, he is quite a good boy - and I hope she is also acting nicely with his family like he is being with us!

What would you do if I sang out of tune, would you stand up and walk out on me?

“I know you don’t realize it now, but background becomes very important in a relationship. It could really come between you.”
I shrugged off the advice. What did my mother know anyway? She’d lived in Rochester her whole life, married a man from Rochester, raised kids in Rochester. All in an era when it was expected for women to really make something of herself; create an equal partnership with someone from their class, their upbringing, their morals and values. I grew up knowing I’d marry someone just like she did. My husband’s parents and my parents would be great friends. Our moms would meet for coffee in our hometown. Our dads would go golfing.

And then I met TC. And he broke every expectation I had for a partner. Certain things became important that I never knew I needed. He turned into my best friend. The best advice giver. My protector. My clown. My head-over-heels love affair. He grew up in the antithesis of my household. His parents were both addicts in different ways. His mom would fall asleep on the couch in the afternoon when he was 3 and 4 years old, and leave him to make dinner for himself. His dad would drink too much and hit his mother. His mother disappeared for a few years, and then came back. All this was happening while I sat at a clean kitchen table in suburbia and was made to drink my milk before homework and an early bedtime.

Yesterday I met his mother. He loves her. Of course he does. But I can not help but listen to her talk and judge her based on the stories that I know. “When TC was little, he got scarlet fever. And when I took him to the emergency room, they said, ‘Why did you wait so long to bring him in?! Why didn’t you bring him in at the first signs?!’ As if I would wait to bring my sick son to the emergency room!” But I knew that she probably had. I hated her for it. I smiled at all of her stories, her non stop stories, and acted interested when she went on and on about horror movies. She pestered the waitress for Coors Lite. No Coors? Michelob Ultra. And make sure it’s VERY cold! Is this cold? Did you pull it from the bottom?

Suddenly I pictured myself years from now. At a small, dirty house in Colorado with this woman at Christmas time. Heavy drinking. Smiling along with her stories. “You seen the Exorcist? I own it.” My holidays. My holidays that are usually so bright and cheerful and involve omelets and stockings and my mother apologizing for always giving me something corny like a Yo Yo because, “I just can’t help it.” These things are important to me. How can I give this up?

I know you don’t realize it now, but background becomes very important in a relationship. I haven’t talked to him about it. I don’t know that I will. Somewhere along the line, background became important. I just can’t force myself to look at it yet.

Mix-CD

We drove around gazing at the brilliant otherworldly scenery, taking in the snow-capped mountains, the black lava land, the bleak, stark, complete, utter beauty of it all. We drove on for hours, following the map, flipping the guide book pages, laughing at inanities.

I made you a mixed CD, he said.

I giggled like a sixteen-year-old and squeezed him tight. Who makes mixed CDs anymore?!

The rented car didn't have an ipod connecter thingy, the radio stations were funny, and the CD was excellent. We bopped along and talked and laughed. And bopped along some more. And four hours later we'd bopped until we couldn't bop no more. I was shouting out the chorus for the fifth song, he was drumming the beats to the seventh. For the tenth we'd nod in unison. And by hour six, we were humming the next tune before it even began.

You're never going to want to listen to this ever again!

Not true! Except...yea sorry but never again!

I couldn't imagine playing it again for six months at the very least. And even then, maybe shuffled up with fifteen other albums. But I packed it away inside a book and tucked it into my suitcase.

Two long delayed flights and a cold and hungry layover later, I tossed off my boots and collapsed on the sofa. All I could think of was my bed - I bounded into the comfort of my blankets and pillows, squirmed around until I had my cocoon exactly right, and sighed.

And lay there, wide awake.

Two days was all it took to get used to having his arms around me again. Having his knees to tuck my toes under. Having his breath against my neck. Two days.

I ran shivering over the cold floor to the suitcase where I'd left it by the door. Tossing clothes and shoes on the floor, I scrounged around for that book. Slipping the CD out of it's case I shivered over to my computer then.

And let the music rock me to sleep. Because he wasn't there to do it himself. And I'd rather listen to that same CD for six more hours as I slept, than to lie awake missing the warmth around my heart.

This is love

"I had a terrible breakfast this morning."
"What did you have?"

"Pancakes from Bel Aire Diner."

"They were terrible? Usually they're so good."

"They used to be good. And then I had yours."

Swoon.

Remembering a moment

I know she knows it. We both know it, we both felt it, and neither of us will ever say.

We both know the exact moment that he died. Because our hearts stopped too, and the world spun around. We didn't realize it until later, of course - but when the phone call came and the tears started, somehow it all clicked. That moment was real. His heart stopped for eternity. Ours stopped for a moment. But they did, they all did.

But that doesn't happen, after all. Half-way around the world, with an ocean and innumerable breaths between us, how could we possibly feel it? Know it? This isn't really dinner table conversation is it? Perhaps accompanied by a scoffing smirk or a side roll of the eyes. Better yet, not mentioned at all. Because after all, there's only so much sincerity you can build into "I do believe people are connected in ways we don't know" and only so much doubt and disbelief you can politely set aside.

But today I am going to sit here and think about that moment and take a pause. And I know she is doing the same thing. Because both our hearts stopped. Half-way around the world, with an ocean and innumerable breaths between us.

The only difference is that his didn't start up again.

V-Day

Happy nonsense commercial day that unfortunately kind of sort of matters, loves.

(thank goodness it's only one day)

Can't Buy Me Love

“I don’t celebrate Valentine’s Day. It’s stupid, and the 14th is just always the worst day of February, even if it has nothing to do with me being single.”

Here’s the thing. It had everything to do with being single. In middle school, when the popular girls started carrying their roses and balloons and teddy bears through the hallways, I wore pink and pretended like the box of chocolates from my mom made me feel loved enough. In high school I received a few tokens but from a lanky, strange boy who sat alone in the cafeteria and solicited giggles when he approached me at my locker. In college I experienced my first Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend but it came right at the end of the relationship. “If you don’t want to come up for Valentine’s Day, you don’t have to.” “I want to. I think it’ll be good for us.” He showed up at my dorm with a grocery bag filled with candy and Pepperidge Farm cookies; a clear afterthought and a last ditch effort at a failed romance.

This is the year. My year. I’m in love. Seven blissfully happy months in comes the day when most couples hunker down in dimly lit restaurants to sip red wine and spoon feed each other chocolate cake, and the day that I’ve spent 24 times before dismally alone and trying to convince myself that relationships aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

“Valentine’s Day is so lame!” I griped to TC. “Restaurants charge you an arm and a leg for a pre-set menu, they totally screw you out of their real food, and everything is totally overhyped and stupid. Valentine’s Day is SO stupid. Let’s not do anything.” “I totally agree,” he said, of course. “I hate all that fancy, cheesy shit.”

He probably thought he hit the jackpot. A girlfriend who abhors the day as much as any man.

Can I tell you a secret?

I lied.

I want the sappy dinner. I want a card he went to Hallmark and picked out himself because inside it had poorly written lines about love and forever and mush and gush. I want a glass of red wine and a box of Jacques Torres chocolates. I want to be the girl in the office who has beautiful flowers to smile at in between sales reports.

But thus far in our relationship, I have prided myself on not being the girl who needs to be spoiled and doted on and gushed over with materialistic crap. His last girlfriend spent hundreds on her haircuts, thousands on vacations, and made him feel poor and inadequate in the process. “It was all about things,” he told me once. I try so hard not to be her. And I’m not. But part of me wants the things.

He tells me every day that he loves me. He isn’t shy about his feelings, and he never has been. He makes me feel pretty and special and taken care of every single day. He says things like, "At our wedding" and "When we have kids" openly in front of my friends.

So why does a stupid red flower have to show up to prove it? And why do I feel like such a jerk for wanting it?

almost love story