Awaiting Step 8: The forgiving has not come.

In the beginning we were giggly. I was fresh from college, living downtown, landed a full time job in the curatorial department of a museum. Life was dreamy. He was older, wore fitted pants, few kites, and called me cute names.

In the middle we were still mostly giggly. We took road trips, ate ice-cream with sprinkles, chased butterfly migrations, and watched old movies. Every now and then he would disappear for a night, or show up a few hours late, but it never amounted to much, and it certainly wasn’t often. We were together every day, he called every lunch time, and he emailed cute e-cards from Blue Mountain daily at 3pm.

In the end it turned out he was addicted to crack. Somehow he fit a double life in-between the life I saw, and the life he lived. Somewhere, in the fissures, between the moments, there was time for crack. I was embarrassed not to know. I dropped him at rehab and over the next few weeks the so very many lies started to ooze from floor boards and trickle in through phone calls and loose ends. There were just so many lies.

I never picked him up from rehab. After two years together it ended at a brick wall, me tossing him a duffel bag and telling him to call his sister for a ride when he was ready to go. I needed to preserve myself.

Twelve years later, eleven years after he married one of the women, who worked at the rehab, I am still waiting for him to complete step 8. I don’t care if it is technically NA and not AA, but I want my apology. For years afterward I wondered when it would come, how it would be delivered, and nothing happened. I dreamed of the punch I’d plant in his face, the door I’d slam, the anger that would finally go away, and the doorbell never rang. I figure I’d probably end up being friendly and happy to have it over with, this step 8, which promises: he will have made a list of all persons he had harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all. Heck, maybe he’d just hand me a check, $700 would be nice, and I’d feel much better.

Well now the fucker has cancer, and the still hurt part of me hopes he dies. That will make amends, finally.

Deep are the scars I carry from this battle that was not technically even mine.

 

The Introvert, Part Two

 “Take me past the magnet school the kids will be switching to,” my sister says as we head back to the soccer field to deliver the box of hot chocolate to the girls.

 “So this is the poor side of town? I think it is great that you are doing this, it is so, you.” She says, as I drive through a neighborhood of 1930’s detached single family houses with green lawns.

“I don’t think there is a poor part of this town, this neighborhood is nice.” Why am I such a bitch, why can’t I just give her a break?  I can’t stop myself from picking at her.

“My friend teaches at a school for gifted children, and she says it is so difficult that the kids have all sorts of emotional problems, are on medications, need therapy, she says it is awful.”

“Maybe the problem is in the kids chosen to be at the school. A gifted population may come with built in problems, it probably isn't just the school to blame.” I take a deep breath, can we stop now? I’ve got to figure out how I am going to deliver this hot chocolate to the team without having a nervous breakdown.  

We grab my chair, egg sandwich, and the box of hot chocolate from the car and head to the crowded soccer field. It is a clinic today, so there are ten teams mixed together. I am highly aware of the giant Dunkin Donuts logo I am toting through the crowd of suburban joggers. My sister gained a lot of weight after having cancer, and I need to lose some myself. Great, we are the fat people eating sandwiches, and the only people with a chair, nevermind the damn giant box of hot chocolate with a second donut box for the lids and cups.

“Let’s just sit here.” I feel disgusting. I give her the chair and I sit grounded to the grass.

“Look at that man taking; organizing soccer practice, he is an extrovert, he must get so much done.” I look up at the athletic, confident man. “Our husbands are introverts; I have been reading about introverts, it is fascinating, have you read anything about them?”

 “No.” I thought my direct statement might end the conversation, but instead it churns. “Actually, I did read half of a book before I realized it was written for extroverts who have introverted kids and are worried about them. I never finished it.” I am such a bitch. I need to get rid of this box of hot chocolate. I finally see another mom from the team.  “Let’s move over near some of the other parents and unload this box.” We pack up our chair, stuff our garbage into the chair bag, and migrate.

When the clinic ends I hand out nine cups of hot chocolate to nine smiling girls. Anna arrives with a huge smile telling me about the friend she met. One cup left.

"Mom, we have to give her a hot chocolate, I am going to get her," and off she ran. I quickly grab for my old coffee cup, dump out the last splash, pour two half cups of the remaining hot chocolate. I give both the quiet smiling girls a cup. "What are those black things floating in it?" Anna looks up at me.

"Oh, just marshmallows," I smile as a plunk a few in.

The Introvert, Part One

My sister is in town and offers to join me to bring my seven year old daughter to her first soccer clinic of the spring season. We arrive at the park and I pan the fields for any familiar faces. Her coach somehow manages to grab the pink uniforms, and the team is elated. Anna pulls on her number 11 over her sweatshirt, and kicks grass on the outskirts of the team cluster. I pat her head knowingly and reassuringly.

“When does this go until, can we go get coffee?” my sister asks. She got up late and rushed to be with us this morning, so I knew coffee would be in the mix. “Do you want a hot chocolate?” she proceeds to ask my sweet-toothed Anna, whose head frantically bobs a “yes”. Then my sister looks to the coach. “We are going to get coffee; can we buy the girls a box of hot chocolate while we are there?” The coach smiles and agrees, and she pivots toward the car as I pull away from my daughter, still kicking grass on the outskirts of the team circle.

“We’ll be back soon, stay with the team,” I whisper in Anna's ear. “It sounds like we are bringing hot chocolate.” As I drive away I peer through the side mirror, she is still too far outside the group, kicking grass. I am glad she has the uniform on.

Dunkin Donuts is busy and we wait. “Do you get health insurance through work?” my sister asks. An issue that has contributed so much thought and drained my family for years. I could swear she knows that already.

“No, we buy on the private market.”

“Oh, it must be cheaper that way.” I swear we’ve had this conversation before, please make it go away.

“If $1,200 a month with $45 co-pays and a $5,000 hospital deductible are cheaper than what you pay, then maybe.” Could she hear my irritation with the subject? I know so much about insurance, I could write a book, but I know she has a motive for bringing this up, I wait for it.

“I have never gotten a bill for anything, and this month I got a bill for $2,000 for my MRI.” It takes me moment to feel out if it is a statement, a complaint, or an ordinary proclamation. Should I blame Obama? I wait, but I do not get a follow up prompt.

“Well, is that all you will have to pay for the year now that you have met your deductible?”

“Yes, I called human resources to complain, because I have never had a bill in the years I have worked there, and now there it is. She said now that we have a PPO we have to pay $2,000 a year for a deductible.”

I stand frozen, thinking "boo fucking hoo." Is this why people don’t like me? Can they read my mind? I reach the counter and order an egg sandwich and box of hot chocolate. I pull out a $20 bill, grateful for the tag sale I had yesterday. This $20 won’t break us, but we don’t spend on extras and I am very aware of spending it. The woman hands me the box of hot chocolate, and another box with cups and lids. I feel the panic set in already. How will I distribute it? Will she do it for me? I hate this shit.



Update: Yeah Write Lurker's review! Thank you!

God save us from small talk. The Introvert is an admittedly unconventional post for yeah write. Doina’s daughter becomes the physical manifestation of Doina’s anxiety and introvert tendencies. Doina’s sister is the manifestation of every person who feels their opinions are so valuable, you’re just dying to hear them. Doina’s inner voice gives the reader insight into her true feelings. We’re left panicking with her about what to do with the soccer team’s hot chocolate. Impracticable distractions begin to over take her mind, but Doina, like you, me and most of our friends, is playing the go-with girl and suffering in silence for it. The delivery gripped me, not only because Doina is echoing my own inner voice, but it’s honest in that these sorts of mundane human dramas have no ending when you’re an introvert. The most you can hope for is a nap when you get home.

Relay for Life

When my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer at age thirty three, I was twenty seven years old, single, and in a new relationship. I knew my life would be forever changed by mammograms, pink ribbons, and running events. The doors to the cancer club were forever opened to me, as the sister of a survivor. I’ve been to the big blue chemo chairs at Dana Farber Hospital, I’ve shaved the head of a thirty three year old on the same year she’d later be married. It is a passageway that often leads to inspiration to do more, yet, as with most things in my life, I never felt much like celebrating.

Seeing my sister’s life change overnight also changed me overnight. My husband and I mutually fast tracked our plans to be married. I was plagued by dreams of being diagnosed and facing the reality of not being able to have my own children. We were fortunate to have two children in the first two years of our marriage. When my son was seven months old, I flew to Guatemala with my sister to pick up her son. He was one week older than my own son, and I went out of gratitude. I went out of gratitude that she was alive, was adopting a beautiful son, but mostly out of gratitude that it had not happened to me. We left Guatemala City with my nephew and I returned home to embrace my own children. My son’s first tooth poked through that week, but returning from the grim situation in Guatemala City, on the cusp of adoptions being closed, I returned with renewed gratitude for every detail in my daily life.

I remember one day at preschool when I was picking up my daughter from room five, and my son from room seven.

“How close are they?” A woman asked as we waited for the classroom doors to open.

“Fifteen months.” I state as I pat my son on the top of his head, and smile quietly on the inside.

“Uggg, you must have totally freaked out when that happened.” I didn’t get any words to come out of my mouth before she hopped along down the hall chasing her daughter, but her words ripped me open. Another woman noticed I was upset and approached as I explained the comment and how it stung.

“We just needed them here, as soon as possible, we didn’t even think of waiting. What would we be waiting for? Cancer, Infertility? There are a lot of things that freak me out, but having my kids when I had them isn’t one of them.” It felt good to say it. I imagine it feels good to race, to fundraise, to wear ribbons, to be part of the group, but for me, it feels good to get clean mammograms, to play with cousins, and to enjoy all that I have every moment that I have it.

I Care

Today, April 8, 2013, the President of the United States is speaking in my hometown about gun control. I found out he would be here while sitting at my desk at work last Thursday.

"This gives me a couple days to come up with something great," I think, as I flip through images in my head, calculating, refining. By the end of lunch break I have a vision. With 4,000 five to nine year olds in town, we will gather them and have them link hands around the campus. We'll form a skin the President's car will pass through before he enters the campus. Surely we will make a visual statement - he will see that I care.

I spend nine hours of Saturday at my cousin's bridal shower. At 7am, two hours before my departure, I sit in an empty parking lot at the walk-in clinic with my sick son. I return home and plop him, feverish, on the couch.

"I am sorry, it doesn't open until 9:00," I tell my husband as I write on an index card all the important information.

Sore throat, swollen glands, highest recorded fever 101, onset Friday evening, Motrin 200mg every four hours, Allbuterol as needed, Flovent two puffs daily, History - Scarlett Fever in 2011, asthma since birth, chronic hives, no known allergies

"Just hand them this when you take him," I say as jot the pharmacy name and telephone number at the end of the note. "Anna's got two birthday parties; the gifts are on the table. The first party is fancy and the second is an art party, so bring a change of clothes for the car." He nods as he pours his first cup of coffee and I see my mother's car pull up. "Anna is still in the tub, I got most of her knots out, but you're going to have to brush it again. I won't be home for dinner, I love you!"

His day went badly. Not the call my cell every minute badly, but the, my cell never rang badly. I finally texted.

"My mom was here for a few hours after he puked everywhere, multiple times, at the pharmacy - right after the doctor warned me to not be in contact with his saliva. He seems much better now."

"Just started gifts, 65 people, leaving in an hour, give him a kiss."

Sunday, I think about the President some more. Tomorrow will come and go and I will not have done anything. I did nothing, I am a mute. I write this, while my son naps and my husband and daughter work in the garden.

Today, April 8, 2013, the President of the United States is speaking in my hometown about gun control. I found out he would be here while sitting at my desk at work last Thursday. The news says I should modify my commuting time tonight.

I want to show you that I care.

And Many More

Year after year we half-ass my son’s mid December birthday. Finally, on his fifth birthday he looked up after dinner, smiling broadly, giddy with excitement, “When is everyone getting here?” he asked. I vowed to try harder, next time.

This past December I nailed down a plan, ahead of time. I arranged to pick up three of his same aged cousins for a sleepover party, complete with a theme. I ordered the deluxe party kit for ten kids, and hid it in my closet for weeks. I even arranged to take the day off of work to go read in my son’s class on the big day. I was feeling proud, and confident he would love it.

It was a cold Friday morning when I arrived at his small Connecticut elementary school, tucked safely in a wooded neighborhood just couple blocks away from our house. I buzzed in the front door and got my visitor sticker at the office. At 9:30 I settled into my son’s first grade classroom, greeted by twenty three smiling faces. I choose two books to read, “Andrew Henry’s Meadow”, followed by, “Awesome Man.” The class thought I was pretty much awesome by the time I left. They sang “Happy Birthday” in English, Spanish, and Polish, before I patted some heads, kissed my son, and headed out.

I was home by 10:15 and immediately set up the decorations. Streamers hanging from the lights, party favor boxes, table set with more Legends of Zelda knickknacks than I ever imagined existed. I was so proud; I took so many pictures of the setup, and carefully instructed my husband to get the picture of Charlie’s face as soon as he walked in from school. I’d unfortunately miss it while I was secretly picking up the cousins from Massachusetts.

By 11am the facts were still vague. I had an urgent message from a friend in London, England, who heard of a Hartford, Connecticut school shooting. I rationalized that I was just at the school, so I knew my kids were safe, as I dug further for any details. By the time Newtown was identified as the town, I was in a heap, gasping for air in my suddenly vulnerable day. It was a town we looked at when we decided to move, the town next door to my husband’s parents, the school nearly identical to the one we finally chose for our kids. The classroom layouts are the same, the town demographics nearly identical. My son is the second door to the right. December 14th, 2012, was his sixth birthday; he is in first grade, my daughter in second.

The birthday decorations continued to glisten in the midday sun.  I reminded myself of how lucky I was that he would come home today. I imagined if we had not been so fortunate. We celebrated that night, tears choked down just under the surface, as far as we could hold them.  “Happy sixth birthday, baby, and many more.”

 

 

 

We're the Closest We'll Ever Get

The bell rings and I grab my backpack noticing that my heart is suddenly not beating regularly. Something I cannot calculate is off, distressed, so I skip my plan of walking to town and decide to go straight home. I rush to the bus, relieved to find it still waiting, and sling my backpack onto the seat. As I walk up the street to my house, I notice the garage door is open. Mom is home from work, and sitting at the table with my sister, Caroline.

“Why did you come in that way?” mom asks.

“The garage door is open,” I respond.

“Oh. We have some news, Doina,” mom says. “Gram died today, her aid was by her side, and she went peacefully.” 

            “Oh, that is why the garage was open,” I nod to my mom and excuse myself to the bathroom.

The last moment she gasps, looking up at her aid, a woman who dedicates her days to sitting by her side, combing her hair, and assisting her in the bathroom. Gram smiles as freedom is near, an end to the numb apathy of her new life at our house, an end to her body now constantly in motion, an end to the burden that her failing body places on her seven grandchildren. The aid calls Mrs. Mary at work; the men arrive with a hearse, back into the garage, and load the frail frame of her body onto the stretcher. Her skin hangs loosely below where her bones once shaped her figure. Her breasts sag under her armpits, as her teeth chatter unknowingly to the bubbles in the cup by her sink.

 

I slide the bolt to the bathroom door across the door frame, and let the tears glide freely down my face. I run cold water from the tap and scoop it over my face, gaining composure before I reopen the door to find my mom and sister lingering in the hallway outside.

“Are you okay?” mom asks.

“Me, yeah, I am fine,” I reply. “What do you need me to do?”

 Mom and dad plan the wake and funeral so that we will only miss one day of school with the holiday weekend. I walk through the next day of school in a daze wondering if Gram is following me around. Mr. Sheehan must be an avid obituary reader because he is the only one to corner me.

 “Doina, come over here,” he calls me up to his desk. “Is that your grandmother I read about in the paper?” I know he must have picked up on her Irish maiden name; it is like a disease people have trying to connect with others of the same heritage, especially the Irish.

“Yes.” I reply, offering no elaboration.

“Were you close?” he responds, staring downward oddly as if trying to scoop my chin from the floor with his eyes.

“She lived with me” I reply. His eyes finally release me, and I slink back into my chair. “Were we close, Gram?” I wait patiently for a response, “Gram?”