To Have Loved and Lost

"Love given or love taken is never lost. Once you've loved someone, the love is always there, even after they're gone."
~Dean Koontz

Sometimes love isn't enough to sustain a relationship. The relationship ends but the love doesn't. It's still there in your heart but the joy it brought you before now only fills you with pain, as that person is no longer there to complete that bond.

How do we rechannel that intense emotion into something more productive? How do we survive when love doesn't let us forget?

Isn't It a Pity?

"Isn't it a pity/Isn't it a shame/How we breaks each other's hearts/And cause each other pain."
~George Harrison


I confess: I'm a packrat. I've saved most all of the emails from guys I've dated, the ones I forged relationships with via the net. Sometimes, when I'm bored at work, I scroll through them to relive the excitement I felt at getting to know a new love interest.




Tonight has been such a night. I'm not sure why but I was drawn to look through old emails from the love-wounded chef I dated briefly. In reading his emails, I realized that I still miss him, despite his guarded and cynical manner.




I suppose I met him at a bad time. He was still nursing his wounds from his seven year common- law marriage. She cheated on him with a much older professor. Suddenly, everything that he'd worked so hard for meant nothing and he simply walked away.


Some people hurt each other shamelessly while others do it unknowingly. What is it all for? What purpose does pain have? The only thing that makes any sense to me is that it is a huge learning experience. Pain is a great teacher, harsh though it is. We grow from it. We think that our hearts will never love again when they've been broken but love is a resilient force. It's always there. It's the one thing that we take with us when we leave this Earth.






The love-wounded chef's pain and his methods of dealing with it indirectly hurt me. I got only a small part of him and even that part was guarded. Pain, it seems, has a ripple effect.






When it hits us full on, however, it attacks us like an illness, spreading through our bodies slowly and ruthlessly. Our brains register its presence first, in a sort of stunned confusion, desperately trying to rationalize it. When it reaches our hearts, the pain is unbearable, an inconsolable ache that quickly travels to the lungs and makes our breathing shallow.






Our tear ducts, in an effort to ease the pain, release seemingly unending tears. The brain (our thoughts) feeds the heart, which causes even more tears. Waves of pain. That's exactly what it feels like. Waves of pain rolling through the body.






I know I've hurt others, just as I've been hurt. I wish I could take it all back but I know this isn't necessarily the best thing to wish for. The pain that I've experienced in my life has shaped me into the person I am today. Wisdom always follows pain if we allow it in.


Now if only I can convince my heart of that.

Rite of Passage

I awoke this morning thinking about my experience in the gas chamber. No, not that one. I'm far too young to be a holocaust survivor.



It was a rite of passage in the military. We all had to walk into the gas chamber in order to get through basic training. The gas was chlorobenzylidene malonitrile, a non-lethal gas used in military training, as well as for riot control by law enforcement.



We filed into the chamber in groups of five or so, with our gas masks on. We stood in front of the drill sergeant, who also wore a gas mask. The drill sergeant, however, got to keep his mask on. It was probably best to go first in this situation, as you didn't know what to expect and didn't have to stand there and watch someone else freak out when the mask came off.



I stood there with my heart pounding in my chest, awaiting that moment when my mask would come off. I dreaded it but knew that it was something I had to get through. We were instructed before we entered on what to expect. The drill sergeant would tell you to remove your mask and then ask your name and social security number. In those days, we didn't worry about identity theft. Besides, who would remember your information under such duress?



I watched with dread as soldier after soldier took off their mask and went into hysterics. One girl immediately ran outside before reciting her information and was told that she would have to walk through again.



When my turn came, I removed my mask and my senses were immediately assaulted by the most noxious fumes imaginable. I felt like I was dying. Any area of my body that held moisture burned as if I'd jumped into a lake of acid. I proceeded to recite my name and social security number, which came out as something akin to tormented gibberish. Thankfully the drill sergeant let me leave, satisfied that I'd done my duty. I ran out of that building faster than I'd ever run in my life and began my agonizing walk around the track to clear my mucous membranes.



Everyone walking the track was in various stages of coughing and crying, both of these processes being involuntary. The only thought in my mind at the time involved the sheer misery I was in.



As my sinuses began to clear, I became aware of new thoughts of how thankful I was to be breathing fresh air. The air that I'd always taken for granted was ridding my body of this noxious gas, restoring my sense of well-being. Dignity wasn't a concern; survival was the only thing that mattered. The track was full of female soldiers spitting the vile taste from our mouths, tears streaming down our faces, snot running from our noses. There is no glamour in becoming a soldier.



The lessons that I took from this experience were numerous and valuable. I learned that a sense of duty can pull you through the worse kind of hell and that the comaraderie you feel for those who travel through hell with you is invaluable. I learned to appreciate the many comforts that we take for granted as a nation and I came away with a deeper sense of empathy for those who lost their lives in a most undignified manner during the holocaust.

I realize that I was nowhere near death that day in the gas chamber. Still, I came away from the experience with a renewed appreciation for life. For a nineteen year old girl, a soldier's rite of passage also became one of womanhood. I carry those strengths to this day and they have made me the person I am.

Not a Handywoman

While being single has its ups and downs, I enjoy it most of the time. Having been married for nearly seven years, I can honestly say that I've had my fill of married life. I get to hold the remote control when I'm watching television. If I don't feel like cooking, I eat cereal for dinner. I don't have to tell anyone where I'm going or when I'll be back. Okay, that's not true. My mother has to know when I'll be away for long periods of time, as she's generally the one who feeds my pets and she worries that I've met some horrible end if she doesn't know where I am most of the time. Generally speaking, however, I am a free woman.

There are times when this independence is a little overrated, to say the least. As I write this, I have a toilet in one bathroom and a sink in the other that are out of commission. I also have a connection kit that needs to go from my water line to my new fridge, which will be delivered next Friday. The Lowe's salesman was adamant that I call a local handyman before anyone else to do this "simple task." What he doesn't understand is that I live in a small town where the local handymen are either untrustworthy or downright creepy.

So I had the bright idea that perhaps my ex-husband would want a side job, to earn some extra money in this crappy economy. He was always a good handyman in our marriage and I most certainly miss that.

He tells me that he will stop by on his way home from work. I start tidying up the house a bit, while I wait for him. When 4:30 rolls around, I decide to call him. I had told him I'd mess with the faucet handles a bit more and perhaps I misunderstood and was supposed to call and let him know that I'd failed miserably.

I grab my cell phone and see that there are two voicemails on there. Both are from him. In the first one, he tells me to call him. In the second one, he goes into a little more detail and I read between the lines. His wife has put her foot down. The word "inappropriate" comes up. Now ordinarily I'd agree that it might be a bit inappropriate to ask your ex to be your handyman when he is remarried but I just had dinner with both of them on Saturday. It was a birthday dinner for my sister-in-law, who is married to my brother and happens to be my ex-husband's sister. It also included my ex-in-laws and there was no awkwardness whatsoever, save the initial greetings when I hugged everyone but the new wife. Maybe if I had hugged her, I'd at least have my sink fixed now.

I had picked up a "Universal Fit Decorative Tank Lever" while in Lowe's and had every intention of putting that on myself, as I've done it before. I get everything ready for the job and get the tank off the back of the toilet. I open the package, take out the tank lever, and proceed to break the metal arm while trying to unscrew the locknut. It snaps off at the handle like a mere twig. While I pride myself on being fairly strong, I know I'm not that strong, for heaven's sake. I look on the back of the package and see "Made in Taiwan." Why hadn't I checked that before? I'm out $15 and still can't use my toilet.

Now I'm off to attempt to install a new smoke detector. Should I chance it? Well I see no other way. Did I mention that I'm extremely stubborn?

It will probably comfort those reading this to know that I have put a call in to the local plumber to at least handle the sink and fridge water line. I'm going to try the toilet lever again. This time, however, I'll check to see where it's made and be a little more gentle with unassembling it. Wish me luck....

Don't Be "Ugly"

"Language is the source of misunderstandings."
~The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery

I've long been fascinated with the different dialects and colloquialisms in this country. It's interesting trying to nail down which country or countries had an influence on the dialect of different regions of the United States. I know that Irish and Scottish people settled into the southern parts of the country, so when people make fun of my accent, I just smile and think proudly of my Irish and Scot-Irish heritage. There is even an old Scottish recipe (Bannock Bread) still making its way through the family. My great aunt used to cook it for us and it is her recipe that we pass along. The famous southern biscuit was most certainly derived from Scones, which are a British staple.

But I digress. I was talking about dialect. Because I was in the Army, I've been exposed to people from all over the U.S. and have heard quite a few interesting accents. A Louisiana boy I befriended while stationed in Texas used to ask me "Gotta gum?" when he wanted a piece of chewing gum. I loved hearing the richness of his Cajun accent.

In the South, we put things "up," even if we're stashing them at waist level or lower, something that really annoys my New York friend to no end.
"Where are you putting it...up your ass? You put it away," she reminds me each time she hears me say it. She can put things away but I will always put them up, whether they are going up high or not. It's just something I've always said.

I've always loved saying "y'all." I love the way it rolls off the tongue. I even had my Australian friend saying it at one time. Imagine an Australian saying "Y'all want a cuppa?" I think it has a lot of warmth in it and embodies the welcoming nature of southerners.

New Yorkers, as I learned from her, stand "on" line when waiting in a line. The first time I heard my friend say this, I pictured her standing with a computer in hand, standing while "online". She also "opens" and "shuts" the light when turning it on or off.

I don't bother to correct her colloquialisms, as they are a part of her background, just as mine are for me. Too bad she can't see it this way. She still thinks I'm guilty of bad grammar at times.

Sometimes we laugh at each other's accents and strange sayings. This morning, we experienced one of the funniest misunderstandings of regional talk that I've ever had the pleasure of laughing over.

Brevard girl, as I'll call her, came out with a southern description for someone being mean that was totally taken in the wrong context. We were checking patients during morning rounds and Brevard girl told New Yorker "We need to go check on Henry because he's ugly."

Now I am a true southerner but even I didn't get what she was saying initially, possibly because I was laughing so hard at the literal sound of it. New Yorker was laughing and snorting and trying to talk all at once. "What are you talking about?" she finally managed to say, before letting out a couple more snorts. We all had tears rolling down our faces.

The southern lightbulb came on in my head, so I began translating for Brevard girl. "She's trying to say that he's mean," I told New Yorker. In the South, when someone's "being ugly," they're not being very nice. I had to explain to New Yorker that it had absolutely nothing to do with his looks. She finally got it, though she thought it rather strange and we continued laughing about the misunderstanding. I've laughed about it a few times tonight and don't imagine I'll ever forget it.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to put my laptop "up" and go to bed.

Human Relations

In a hurry. Pumping gas before heading to work. I glance up and see a local eccentric sitting in the gas station. He is reading a paper, while his wife sits with her back to the window, staring around the store. They are sitting at one of the booths usually occupied by old men talking and laughing together. She turns to him and I watch to see if they are talking or laughing. Her lips don't move and his eyes don't leave his paper.

So this is what he does when the coffeeshop is closed. I see him there most mornings, sitting outside at a small table, sipping his coffee and watching traffic go by. He is young, maybe mid-forties. He doesn't work. Someone told me he gets a stipend from a family member or a friend. Some days he strums his guitar but mostly he sits, stoic, watching traffic. He often sits outside of the coffee shop until late in the afternoon.

I've only met him once, at a local inn having a public jam session for amateur musicians. I was there with my musician friend and was introduced to him, though I can't recall his name. I determined from the moment I met him that he was an eccentric. Some would say that's a fancy word for weirdo. I like to call those who are far outside the fringes of society "eccentrics." They add spice to an otherwise dull town.

I remember that he didn't laugh, even when everyone around him did. He only seemed alive when he played his guitar. I saw him smile only once in relation to something he sang about.

I am at the gas pump for just a few minutes but I watch them until I'm done. I marvel at the idea that some people have to be out in public for most of their free time. Why not take the paper home and read it in a favorite chair? Why not brew your own coffee and chat with your spouse?

I can't help but wonder what goes on in their bedroom. I sense a distance between them in only that short time. They have been married less than a year. What unbearable loneliness drives a newlywed couple outside of their warm home and into a gas station?

I drive away from the station with the image of the lonely girl watching her husband read his newspaper in a gas station. The thought that presses on me is that loneliness experienced with someone else is far more profound.