Can such a systemic problem find a solution? I’m just a teacher and a mom, but one who has watched the power of education and love conquer learned cycles of hatred. Some say those learned behaviors will never go away; all I can say is that I feel sorry for those who believe that. If that is your default setting, it is time to reset it. If that is your default, you are part of the problem.
A person is pure potential. There’s the potential for anaphylactic shock, hemorrhoids, snot, scabs, cancer and death, but also ideas, beauty, art, action, and most of all, love.
It’s a complicated history of chance that brings together generations of DNA. It’s a complicated history of luck every single minute that keeps us here.
Growing up, I don’t recall being terribly unhappy because I was an only child with divorced parents. But I did feel like part of my identity may very well be missing. I was sure I should have a sibling, and convinced myself that if only I had a sister, every change I kept going through – parents’ divorces and remarriages, stepfamilies, moves, school changes – I could sail through much more smoothly.
Love, I had discovered, was shape-shifting, as mutable as any virus. Sometimes, it infects us without our even being aware; months go by before you realize you are forever compromised. Other times, it seizes you violently, hemorrhagically. Either way, there will be fever.
On the way home, we all cried off and on. “A little piece of me feels like we betrayed him,” I lied—more than a little. Fortunately, the stupid hippo reasons with me. Watson loved squeaky toys, but he always had the squeaker chewed out in a few minutes. He frolicked with the hippo, but didn’t hold it between his paws and rip away. Playtime was over.
Pulmonary hypertension. Is that why I can’t breathe? Congestive heart failure. Thyroiditis. One day, a stroke, painful spasms of my blood vessels, loss of feeling in my arms, a seizure that doesn’t stop. Ovarian failure. A life fallen apart. Fragile and vulnerable. The shell of my body broken in pieces. Can it be put back together? “I’ve never seen someone so near death walk through my door.”
I can’t keep silently pining for women the way I did for Ellie while I watched her classroom window in St. Leonard’s from up high in the pine trees when I knew we weren’t supposed to play together anymore.
The parts of me that alcohol helps unveil to the world are what I’ve always considered to be the socially acceptable and desirable parts, and so in my mind, I always felt that drinking made me more valuable.
“Art is pain,” Mrs. Skaller said, echoing my mother, who, when I flinched as she combed and braided my hair, would say, “To be beautiful you have to suffer.”
There is one paragraph that I add and remove almost a dozen times, because I fear it will likely embarrass us both. I leave it out.
Eventually I feel like I have the right words in the right order. I’m nervous, like I’m sixteen again and submitting an essay for marking, but I take a deep breath and hit send.
“It has been a pleasure working with you,” Dr. Leslie says as he hands me a cab vouch to North Station, “we’re here if you need us.” The taxi drives down McLean hill and I gently loosen my hospital bracelet. “This is it,” I think to myself, “this is learning to walk again.” I breathe deeply and stare into the sun.
