Autopsy of a divorce

“What do you want for dinner?”

“A one-pound hamburger — two half-pound patties medium rare with cheddar cheese on a toasted Kaiser roll.”

“No, you don’t. You want a pasta salad.”

Honest regrets

“Your biopsy came back positive…

As my doctor started rambling off the next course of treatment, radiation, chemo, blah, blah, local, systemic, blah, blah I started to think about all those affairs I could have had that I was accused of, each one that flew into my head was more youthful than the last.

I could have had them all easily and passionately, but didn’t. They sought me out for whatever reason I did not understand. In hindsight, I should have bedded each as I’d been punished as if I had. When a man is accused of an affair, there is no defense. All men are dogs.

I regret not acting on passion. I crave moments; it’s the living with anticipation before and regret after that’s hard.

I wonder if each man hears that same voice reminding him of all the women he could have bedded — but didn’t because he made a promise — when he is told he may die?

On being young

I was never really young, though flashes of my youth enter my brain unannounced from time to time. Stopped at a stoplight across from St Kate’s on an early Sunday morning coming home from Kim’s; at the University wearing old faded jeans that hung casually from my lean hips topped by my loose cotton sweater, squatting with my books across from the vending machines waiting for class to start.

As quickly as day turns to night, I got old. I had kids, a mortgage, a day job, bills that never seemed to end. I was always tired and the feeling never stopped. It settled into my bones and weighed down my eyes.

I am no longer attractive to anyone and I have no passion for anything.

Old lions

I wonder if an old lion in the wild is aware of his impending death or does he just feel too tired to fight for dominance? Does he just drift off to sleep for the last time or does he feel any pangs of sadness and regret? Does he feel the futility of becoming useless?

Does he feel the pangs of hunger and fight to quell them or does he ignore them with quiet resignation as a symptom of his age? Does he feel sadness at knowing he was once king of the jungle and is now useless and cast aside, a burden for the pride to keep alive?

Deserve to eat

He who does not work, does not eat my dad used to quote from the Bible often. I think it is a paraphrase and not sure which book it is from or even if it is in the Bible. Arguing it growing up would have been pointless as he applied it literally and often.

I went without supper many times in my early years for failing to do chores.

Since I was last able to contribute in any meaningful way, I have eaten over eight hundred meals I did not earn.

Good veins

What am I doing this for, I think as the nurse searches my arm unsuccessfully for a vein to start an IV. She eventually gives up and asks if she can start one in my left hand.

“Good veins there,” she says.

I relent.

How many more treatments am I allowed before I am too expensive to maintain, I ask myself as I feel a tear form in my right eye. I look away from the IV.

“Yes, I’m ok,” I lied. “Just stick me and get it over with.”

Indefinite

The most terrifying thing about depression is you never know how long it will last. It may last for the rest of my life.

I have things that need doing but the thought of doing them locks up my whole body with fear.

The imperfect wall

That wall stud that had twisted slightly inside the wall, creating a bump in the otherwise smooth wall, had always irritated me. It reeked of decay and imperfection. Twenty-three years later, it has become a comfortable anchor.

Every night before I drift off to sleep, I stare at that bump in the wall that stretches from the base to the cove. If you weren’t looking for it, you may not ever notice it. But when the lamp on the mantle is on at night, it creates a shadow that makes it invisible in the daylight.

The Baking Pan

I returned the baking pan filled with freshly-baked brownies. She had given me a tuna casserole in the same pan the night before, the day of the funeral.

I first met her twenty-two years when she raced across the street to help me up after I fell over picking up dog poop. She lived across the street from us, a young mother of two.

“Are you ok?” she asked. It turns out I wasn’t. The fall resulted in a hairline hip fracture. When I got home from the hospital, she brought over some lasagna in that pan. I returned the pan a week later with a funfetti cake for her two daughters.

That was the first time we exchanged the pan.

It was an ordinary pan; nothing special with the exception of the miles it travelled across the street. With each tragedy in my life, she would bring over a casserole or pasta dish in the pan. I would return it with a baked good.

We stayed out of each other’s business —barely spoke in two decades of being neighbors — with the exception of concern and gratitude marked by the pan.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been a better neighbor,” she said through her tear-soaked face as she accepted the brownies. But I disagreed; she had always been just the right amount of neighbor.