Shadows of the Heart

Captured by cupids arrow she fell once again into the arms of a man.

The stars were aligned. The soundtrack was perfect.

Hours spent talking through the night. Discovering shared experiences. Comparing similar battle scars.

Days passed. Love went from an abstract thought to a viable possibility.

Her heart long frozen began to thaw. Her soul once again found itself in sync with another.

In each other's arms they rediscovered the lost songs of creation. Passion. Fear. Love. Heartache. Creation. Destruction. Infinity discovered in a finite moment.

Alone once again she questioned. Am I ready to love? Am I prepared to share my heart with another? Without expectations? Without preconceptions? Without promises?

She accepted that the past was the past. Mistakes made were only mistakes if she had failed to learn the provided lesson. That was the question. If she was incorrect, would she in the final analysis have the strength to walk away? Even if that meant leaving a possible soul mate behind.

In the experience would lie the proof.

Days and nights passed as one. Her heart alone for so long became intertwined with his. Their love reflected a future that she had dreamed impossible. She was beginning to believe in the impossible and in a journey shared with this wonderful man.

Disappointment and heartache however are like earthquakes unpredictable and damaging.

Outside the window the blue moon shown brightly upon the sleeping city.

On the couch she was swimming in his vision, lost in his scent. Alive impossibly alive.

Distraction came in the ringing of the phone. He excused himself and came back in a few minutes.

"Sorry about the interruption. Now where were we?"

Doubt begins to creep in.

"Who was it?"

"My ex. She wanted to ask me something. It was no big deal."

So he thinks. Doubt grows bigger.
"Are you sure?"

"What is this? Of course, I am sure. We broke up a while ago. We were close though and I was close to her family. We have tried to remain friends."

Doubt has been replaced by certainty.

"Have you been with her since you broke up?"

"A few times. Not since I met you though."

Back to doubt.

Lips meet and he scoops her small frame from the couch and carries her to the bedroom. Windows open. Moonlight streaming in. Their soundtrack the sounds of the night. Crickets and owls calling to each other. She is lost once again in his arms.

The phone brings her crashing back to reality.

This time he talks for fifteen or twenty minutes.

Doubt is back in a big way.

"Boy that was bad timing wasn't it?"

"Let me guess. It was your ex again."

She can tell by the look in his eye that it was.

Certainty settles in.

"I better go."

"Why? Just because she called a few times does not mean anything."

She pulls him to her chest and holds on for dear life.

"I'm sorry", she says. "I have played this role so many times that I know not only my lines but your lines by heart. I know the stage directions. I know the cues. I know when the audience will applaud and I know when they will cry."

He doesn't speak but she can feel his warm teardrops and she can hear his quiet sobs.

"Many great women have played this role. Some better than others. However the role of healing lover is a thankless one. Those of us who have made this part our own rarely receive a reward. No Oscar. No Emmy. No Tony. We pick up the pieces of the heart she broke. We become nurse, caretaker, lover, and best friend. It is our arms comforting you as the sorrow pours from your veins. It is our love that nurtures you until you are strong enough to face the world again. What is our reward? Our thanks? Nine times out of ten when you are well enough you either return to the bosom of the one who did this to you. Or you tell us you need some time alone before falling in love again. Next time we see you though, you have your arm wrapped around a beautiful blonde and you are clearly over any reservations where love is concerned."

His tears have stopped but he is unable to look her in the eye.

"Not this time. You gave my heart new life. You taught my soul a new dance. In my visions of the future I can see us growing old together. However, you have a shadow. The shadow of your most recent love. You may be over her. You may still love her. Not that it matters because you are not over her. If you were you would have still been lying with me in bed. You would have let the phone ring. Or let the machine pick it up. You chose to answer it which tells me you are still conflicted"

She was fighting back her own tears. Knowing the lessons was easy. Putting them to practical use was the hard part.

She stood up and gathered her things.

"Now walk me downstairs and kiss me goodbye. Time is on our side. However, now is not our time. Maybe someday when her shadow has been erased and the scars she created have healed we can try again. Not today. Not now. I have worked to hard to heal myself. To grow. To evolve. It would be the worst of sins to throw all I have learned away. This time I will be the one to walk. Does it hurt of course. Now do not take this wrong, but it actually feels good to be doing the right thing for me."

Her bus pulled up. She gave him a last warm lingering kiss and climbed aboard. Her tears did not begin until his shadow had faded into the distance. They did not stop until the bus driver tapped her on the shoulder and informed her that she must have missed her stop because they were at the end of the line.

Midnight Blues

They used to spend hours in the car. Driving through the foothills and canyons near their home. Windows down moon roof open and classic jazz on the stereo.

Some nights they drove until dawn. Discussing life. Discussing love. Following the paths opened by their hearts. Comfortable in what they had in common. Embracing the diversity of their differences.

Sometimes tears would mix with the sound of laughter. Sometimes their souls soared, entwined moving to the ancient music of the stars. Sometimes silence embraced them with the warmth of an old comforter.

The stars were their compass and love was their guide.

In the days leading up to the birth of their child there drives became shorter, closer to home.

Driving to Lamaze class one evening they happened upon a small field with a pregnant mare. They pulled over for a closer look. As they approached the fence the mare watched them with wary eyes, until finally she turned her back and continued grazing.

Returning to the car he placed his hand on the life growing inside her. Still amazed at the miracle that was developing before their eyes.

The mare became somewhat of a touchstone for them. They visited daily and she eventually became comfortable enough to walk up to the fence and nuzzle their hands. Sometimes they would bring sugar cubes or a carrot for her to nibble.

On the night she went into labor they drove by the field and saw that their mare had given birth herself since their last visit. A young colt was following his mother around the field. Soon they would be holding their own miracle in their arms.

A few days after the birth of the baby they brought him to see the mare and her colt. The two mothers admired each other's handiwork, proud parents through and through.

The drives continued but not as often with the reasonability of a new life they tended to stay home more. At least once a week though they would go visit the horses.

One Saturday morning they pulled their car over near the fence and were distraught to find their horses were gone. A realty sign announced the sale of the property and apparently the horses had left with the previous owners.

The empty field seemed to foretell future events. The honeymoon was over and reality began to sink in. What they once shared slowly became foreign to them. He began going to bed later. She began going to be at sunset.

Dreams and hopes were no longer shared. For reasons that neither one understand they were drifting apart. What they once held in common now seemed to drive a wedge between them.

He loved the outdoors. She wanted to go clubbing.

He still loved moonlit drives. She wanted to watch her soaps.

He wanted a home cooked meal. She began eating out of the microwave.

Even their beautiful boy who should have been the glue to make their bond permanent became a tool. He has too many toys. He doesn't have enough toys. He is to dirty. He's a boy he should be dirty. On and on it went.

Nobodies fault really. As it often happens when hormones are far ahead of maturity. The foundation of a relationship cannot always handle the strains of growth.

Eventually they had drifted so far apart that they agreed to disagree and they went their separate ways.

After the divorce their relationship actually improved. Without the weight of marriage they became friends again and partners in the raising of their son.

The world continued to turn and before long they each found love with another. Neither let their new marriage destroy the friendship that had grown from the seeds of their lost love.

One evening he was driving her and their son home from a Karate tournament they happened to pass by the field where their horse had lived. Pulling over they shared with him the story of her pregnancy, his birth and how they used to visit the horse.

To their dismay the farm was abandoned and the stable was choked with weeds. The beauty that had once occupied this piece of land had been lost and no one had come along to restore the lot to what it once was.

As they drove away he took her hand in his as if to say that unlike the owners of the stable we may have abandoned our marriage but we saved our friendship and we are building a future for our son.  

Lungs in Crisis II

Day 52 – June 11, 2003: I visited the pulmonologist with a bit of hope and a lot of trepidation. I was hoping for an easy answer or a quick solution. I feared something worse, possibly emphysema, which killed my grandfather or lung cancer, which killed both my father and stepfather.

Of course a visit to a new doctor brings with it a slew of duplicate forms that must be filled out in triplicate before you are allowed past security into the holy grail of medicine: the waiting room beyond the waiting room. You know the one that you are led to after your name is called and you are thinking to yourself the wait wasn't so bad. Then the nurse has you take a seat. She asks you a few questions, takes your vitals and then informs you that the doctor will see you soon. She than quickly leaves the room shutting the door behind her.

At this point the butterflies were fighting to escape my belly. My breathing, which of course was already bad seemed to be more labored than usual. My eyes roamed the small room taking in my surroundings. I always bring a book to these appointments but I was unable to find the concentration needed to get past the first page.

Finally after what seemed like hours the pulmonologist came in and introduced himself. We then began the usual round of twenty questions.

Why are you here?

What seems to be the problem?

What are your symptoms?

Do you have any allergies?

On and on the questions went which I answered to the best of my ability. He examined my ears, nose and throat. Asked me a few more questions and than came to a conclusion. He felt that my problem must be allergy related and he wanted me to take a series of allergy medicines and steroids.

I had already explained to him the difficulty I have with steroids due to ongoing battle with panic disorder. However, in his opinion the dose of steroids he was recommending would not be enough to cause a panic attack. I was not convinced but I did agree to give it a try.

He had his secretary schedule an appointment for July 9th and he sent me on my way prescriptions in hand.

Day 55 – June 14, 2003: When it comes to illness and medicine one should always listen to ones inner voice. I made the mistake of listening to my pulmonologist rather than my instinct when it came to the ingestion of steroids.

The evening of the 14th found me waiting in the emergency room of the local hospital fighting a losing battle with a severe panic attack. My blood pressure was through the roof. My entire body was shaking. My chest was constricted and I was sure this was the big one. On the other hand the small little logical part of my mind knew it was nothing more than a panic attack but logic is thrown out the window when primal instinct strikes.

When I finally saw the doctor she confirmed that I was having a panic attack and nothing more. She gave me a double dose of Xanex, recommended that I stay away from steroids and advised me to see my primary care doctor on Monday.

Once the Xanex kicked in and she saw that I was calming down she sent me on my merry way.

Day 58 – June 17, 2003: With cough in hand I returned to the hallowed halls of my primary care physician. I had not seen her since my visit with the pulmonologist so I shared the tale and explained about the steroids and my visit to the emergency room. She seconded the ER doctor's opinion and suggested that my body become a no steroid zone. However, she was concerned about the increased frequency of my panic attacks even without the influence of steroids. I was already taking Paxil but the dosage did not seem to be working as well. She thought it might be time to see a psychologist but being my usual stubborn self I resisted the recommendation.

Day 80 – July 9, 2003: I returned to the pulmonologist with no progress to show for the four weeks of treatment. I explained to him about the steroids but he just did not seem to understand. I had the feeling that he had never dealt with a patient who suffered from panic disorder. With my pet cough still following around and the wheezing of my lungs still obvious he recommended treatment plan B. A non-steroidal inhaler, a different brand of allergy medicine and a follow up visit in three weeks.

Day 101 – July 30, 2003: the 30th found me oh so happy to once again be sitting in the waiting room of my pulmonologist watching three tropical fish swim around an oversized tank. They were probably wondering what I was in for. Three more weeks had shown no change in my condition. Cough check. Wheezing check. Panic check. Sick and tired of being sick check. Another patient doctor conference and Mr. Lung Expert is still stuck on his allergy kick. His recommendation was one new non-steroidal inhaler, new allergy medicine and three weeks until I visit again.

At this point I am ready to call in reinforcements but everyone swears that he is the best in the area. So I take me prescriptions to the pharmacy and I begin to seriously consider searching out a witch doctor. Hell he couldn't do any worse than the pulmonologist has so far.

Thus ends Lungs In Crisis II

Nights

Nights were the worst.

With his room enveloped by darkness his imagination took over. Each sound became amplified. Each shadow became a creature from Stephen King's fertile imagination. Sleep came slowly if it ever came at all.

Death haunted his subconscious. Debates raged inside his head.

God exists.

There is no God.

The soul survives the body.

When you are dead, you become worm food nothing else.

These flashing thoughts would cause his stomach to form knots that Houdini himself could not escape. His breath would catch in his throat while his chest felt like he was attempting to breath on Jupiter.

Panic would ensue.

Off the bed he would pace the house. Upstairs, downstairs and back again, roaming the hallways of his existence searching for peace finding only empty space.

The television beckons and he sits on the floor legs crossed like he was seven years old again watching cartoons on Saturday morning. The channels dance across his vision random samples of the midnight world. Filled with exercise videos, music collections and the latest greatest slicing and dicing tools for the kitchen. Nothing catches his eye. Nothing offers comfort to his tortured soul.

He looks at the phone but there is no one to call. No one who understands his late night fears.

TV off he roams the halls once again. Not unlike Scrooge waiting for his next ghostly visitor. He stops before a shelf of old novels. His fingers trace along the titles but tonight even the written word fails to offer comfort.

Back upstairs he sits in his rocker staring out into the night. Watching the wind create new and wonderful patterns as leaves are blown around the yard.

Chaos.

Maybe.

He opens his closet and pulls a dusty box down from the top shelf. Removing the lid his eyes roam across the contents.

Photos of his parents.

Letters from old girlfriends.

His high school ring.

Bookmarks and diaries.

Dusty memories all.

Buried beneath the memorabilia an old friend. Pickles the last remnant of his innocent child hood. A calico cat given to him by his great-grandmother, stained, faded and missing an eye Pickles was for him comfort.

Gently he removes Pickles from his decades old bed and cradles him in his arms. The scents of childhood still inhabit the fur barely.

He shuffles back to his rocking chair and curls up with a sigh. With Pickles back he soon drifts off into a sleep uninterrupted by visions of darkness.

 

Pardon the Interruption

After a week spent in the balmy weather found in Bullhead City,
Arizona, the average daytime tempature was 120 degrees in the shade, I am happy to report that I have returned to a computer that I can actually use.
 
Beginning tomorrow I will be returning my blog to its regularly scheduled program.

Coming Soon To This Site: Lungs In Crisis II

A quick update for anyone who might have read part 1. I will not have access to my computer until Sunday. All my notes to continue on to part 2 are unavailable at this time. I will most likely post part 2 on Monday.

Yesterday's Shadow

Either my memory has packed up and set off on an around the world cruise without me or I have simply unremembered moments in my life that should stand out.

For the second time in recent months I was dumbfounded to find that a family incedent that I believed to have remembered clearly has actually developed its own version of Londons' famous fog.

In mid 1980 a friend of my father's called my grandmothers house to pass on some disturbing news.

At this point we had not heard from or about my father for at least ten years.

He told my grandmother that my father had developed inoperable cancer in his bones, lungs and brain. He was terminal and he did not have long to live.

Now is when my memory took a wrong turn from the memories of the rest of my family.

For the past twenty-four years I have carried a black spot of resentment toward my mother. I had until this past weekend never told her but in my soul I blamed her for me not being able to see my father before he passed.

For reasons unbeknownst to me I believed that I had been planning to drive to Northern California to see my father before he passed. I even remember having an agruement with my mother about why she would not let me go. In my heart I remembered being depressed and rebelious for weeks because of her actions.

Fast forward to the present day. I am riding with my mom on the way to her house out in the Arizona desert for a week of R&R. Somehow we came upon the subject of my father's death. Before I knew it my heart was in my throat and my stomach had been left behind somewhere near Ludlow on Interstate 40.

According to my mother (and later confirmed my brother and sister) my dad's friend did call and explain the gravity of my fathers situation. He suggested to my grandmother that if we wanted to have a chance to say goodby we better come quick.

At this point my grandmother brought it to my mothers attention. She said she would be willing to take the Greyhound with my brother and I to go and see him. My mom was reluctent at first but finally agreed to buy the bus tickets so we could go.

My sister was not interested in going. To this day she does not call our father dad when she speaks of him. She calls him by his name. She felt he had deserted her and that their was no reason for her to go traipsing across the state to see him.

It all however became a moot point. The friend of my father called back and explained that he had spoken to my father and that he did not want his childrens last memory of him to be what he had become. A human pin cushion with needles and tubes running through out his body.

So in the end we never made the trip. The bitterness I harbored towards my mothe was wasted. She was not at fault.

As we drove down I40 with the setting sun warming our backs I confessed the grudge I had held against her all of these years and apologized for somehow placing the blame on the parent who has stood by my side for my entire forty-four years.