You took my breath away. I can remember my face feeling flush and my hands shaky. As you always do, you came through the door, a burst of energy. Your heart wasn’t just on your sleeve; it was your entire being. You cried; we both finally opened up, 5 hours later. You offered me a path to vulnerability when I had just entered a space where the dangers of displaying my vulnerabilities had become a reality: 22. Here I thought could hide with you forever. I thought I could lie in your arms and allow you to marvel at me as I marveled at you. I was slow to warm up and always in my head. I told myself “What If…,” and just let go.
22 years later, I’ve learned taking constant chances can wear you out. In every single way. What is endearing is often unsteady and I guess, back then, that lit all the flames for me. The endearment of it all. The excitement around every corner. My head on your bare chest, feeling its rhythm, my own heart beat in stride. My hand in your giant hand. Nothing planned, everything impromptu and by the seat of our pants. We loved on the fly and none of it made sense.
What it did make was joy.
Everything everyone else planned out seemed to work, but we couldn’t plan. You were back and forth, we were long-distance, online, on the phone, and very rarely in person. We were fantasy. I fell all the way in love through blinders and lies. I saw everything I wanted, even what wasn’t there. All that I needed from you was a suggestion. You learned later that I believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny for a bit too long. I guess that should’ve been a red flag. Maybe that appealed to you, too.
Everything was passionate and joyful; with reckless abandon we became expectant. Where I embraced the idea of what was to come, you changed. You began to embody fear and that fear birthed anger. All the rosy light of our love darkened. You expressed these new feelings in a way where I discovered that they weren’t new. Suddenly we weren’t as united as I thought we were. I was “we” on my own and you were you, you were 1 whereas I was 2.
We took a trip together but stayed in different hotels; that was both a clue and a mistake. You gave me the extra key to your room, another mistake. I had meetings so you made plans and when I couldn’t get in touch with you at the agreed-upon time, I was worried.
In a strange State in a new state, I hopped in a cab to find you. I ran to your floor, pushed the key in the door, and found your room empty but full of clues. A bag I didn’t recognize, an ID that wasn’t yours. I held my breath; my heart skipped beats as tears flooded streams into my ears. My phone rang and I became new. “Who is She and where are you, “I growled in a voice I’d never used before.
You came through the door, defensively on her behalf. I cussed and I swore; I suddenly spoke the language of hurt as if it was my mother tongue and I’d never known another. What a baby, what a fool.
I hadn’t known all parts of you until I was carrying what was partly you and now, I could see you were made of lies. You made my heart ache. You were Santa Claus in disguise. You were my Easter Bunny.
What a baby. We returned home at the end of our first trimester, pregnant with dejection and false hope.
6 months later, we became something new. We stayed together, clinging like wet napkins, knowing a separation would be a sacrifice. This new life left us intertwined in ways we had not decided yet we wanted to be. You gave your heart away and I did, too, but not to each other. Yes, life is better when you can plan, but how exciting is it to be able to make the best of life beyond door number 3? We found a love that was greater than us and that became us.
Now, that love is mostly grown, and you and I are something other than how we started. Your energy has changed, your light is not as bright, and our passion fizzles where it used to pop. Your heart has taken a different rhythm. You trudge through the door now instead of bolting. A couple of Christmases ago, they had an inkling of what it could be. Your heart was broken. Your pressure was regularly at heights that dared challenge the ambitions of any tight line walker or aspiring skydiver. You were airborne; you kissed the sky far more than you did me.
This Valentine’s Day we held our breath as we waited to hear if what was damaged was irreparable. I held your big hands, this time, as we made plans to go inside and fix my love. They put you under and opened you up and stopped the rhythm of life we knew. An hour went by, then more. Time had paused for you. While you lay, being pieced back together, in a purposeful slumber, I was left to reflect: Had I lost my heart? What would it mean if they couldn’t fix you? Where would my joy and hope go? What would I tell her? Was this the end or beginning of our future?
The surgery ran longer as they discovered there was more work to do. Eventually, I was on the end of a call that I prayed for but couldn’t plan on. I flew to you, scared of what would be new. If groggy was the expectation, it was exceeded as I saw you awaken, disturbed, and confused. You ripped an IV out of a vein and passed back out. When you came to again, you recognized me, and tears came to your eyes. You wanted me to hold you. There was a mosaic of tubes, running in and out of you. I was afraid to touch you, but I couldn’t just watch you needing to feel loved and not love you. I caught my breath and stroked an untubed part of you. I kissed your face as best I could. You cried and then you apologized. I didn’t understand why.
With tears streaming down your face, you said “For everything.”