I dream about boxes.  They’re stacked in the kitchen, and when I take one and slip my fingers under the flaps, every one is empty.  It’s a puzzling dream.  I find myself worrying about the meaning of it.  I don’t mention it to D, because it doesn’t occur to me to disclose something so ridiculous. 

I creep over regularly, but it feels different now.  When I arrive, I sit for a few minutes in his driveway, trying to put a label on the feeling I’m experiencing.  Fear and dread come to mind.  I sigh and glance over at Devil me, who sits in the passenger seat, looking prim and self righteous.  “It no longer makes me happy…”  She softens, but stays silent.  I don’t talk as much when I’m there.  I hold my tongue.  It keeps the peace, and I lie to myself saying, “You’re giving him a chance, and you’re giving yourself a chance to change your own ways.”  I find myself worrying more, relaxing less, stressing more.

Of course, my washing machine breaks down completely.  I look at the baskets of laundry and sigh.  I already have a dead flatscreen TV, a dying dishwasher, a sickly air conditioner and an ailing water softener.  I sort the clothes, searching for a bright spot.  My work week is horrendous and I have the kids until school lets out for the winter holidays.  I could use a load of laundry as an excuse to get out and see D.  I send him a text in the early morning on Friday, asking if I can wash a load of laundry at his house and hint that we can get cozy while it dries.  He responds vaguely, “I guess you could.  Call me later and let me know when.”  I text from the dressing room at work, letting him know that I will leave work at 7:30 pm, that I’ll call when I’m heading out of the parking lot, and that I appreciate him letting me do a load of laundry there.  I offered to pick up Sushi for dinner.  He answered back, hours later, “Fine.  call me when u r close and I meet u there”. 

The text was that clear.  The only thing I didn’t tell him was that the one load was my kids’ clothes.  I slipped out of the door as the overhead chimed and the operator warned, “Trauma Alert, one by ground.  Trauma Alert, one by ground.”  I hurried to the car, fishing my keys and cell phone out of my handbag.  I called the house first, but the phone rang and rang until the answering machine picked up.  When I tried his cell, he answered on the third ring.

He sounded flustered and irritated, as if he had snatched up the phone and trotted off for privacy.  He peppered me with questions, “Why don’t you feed the kids first?  You never come over straight after work.  Why is tonight different?  I didn’t expect you until 10 pm, how close are you?”  My stomach sank with the realization that he had better things to do than to cuddle up to me.  I felt about an inch tall.  I stammered that it sounded like it was going to be inconvenient for him, so why didn’t I just run the stuff to my folks’ old place and run it there.  It really wasn’t any bother.  He insisted that it wasn’t a bother, all but told me that I was foolish to suggest such a thing.  I told him that I could use the washer at my folks’ old place, that he didn’t have to come home.  He snarled into the phone that it wasn’t a bother…and then hung up on me.

I was at a crossroads.  If I didn’t go, I’d piss him off because he left his friends for my load of laundry.  If I did go, he’d certainly let me know how pissed off at me.  Angel me and Devil me were no where to be found.  I felt alone and miserable, like the biggest fuck up who ever drew breath. 

When I got to his house, I tentatively tapped on the front door.  No answer.  I went back and sat in the car.  I arm wrestled with my thoughts….LEAVE….NO STAY…..NO LEAVE.  Then I called his cell with trembling hands.  He snarled that I needed to wait because he would be there in 5 minutes and hung up on me before I could respond.  He whipped into the driveway and pulled in the garage.  He got out of his truck and went into the house without turning around once.

LEAVE.

I stared at the closed door for a few minutes.  It suddenly flew open, and he yelled at me as I got the basket out of the back seat.  I missed every word but the tone was unmistakable.  I had fucked up big time, and he was certainly going to take me to task over it. 

LEAVE.

I hauled the load over to the washer, and he pointedly slammed the door behind him.  I looked at it, miserable, and timidly opened it and stepped inside.  He was pacing, changing his clothes to a bleach stained t-shirt and boxers, all the while ranting and raving and listing my faults.  He jabs me about not getting my washer fixed on the day he and I went to lunch (the day I had to call in at 9am to check in and then had to take call at 3pm); it was stupid of me not to get someone out to fix it.  How could I be such an idiot?  Among them were a few new ones:   Apparently I ALWAYS ruined his plans by requiring his presence when he was out with friends.  I also couldn’t be expected to be on time and expected EVERYONE to drop EVERYTHING to accommodate me.  I played games to MAKE him want me.  He accused me of staging the calls from work on the day we went out to lunch and I got called in.  Oh, and he asked me snidely if I was going to call the police to have him arrested and accused me of verbally attacking his ex wife.

It was like fighting with someone who was armed with a chain gun.  I couldn’t get a word in.  I pulled out my phone with shaking hands and pulled up the information of the calls received from work.  He bellowed that he wasn’t going to look because I was a liar. 

Because there was no way to defend myself, I picked up my basket and walked through the garage.  A bird, trapped since darkness fell, fluttered along the door.  I exclaimed in surprise, and he bellowed, “Don’t HURT my bird!  Don’t kill it!!”  Ridiculous, but hurtful and humiliating, like a child trying to get another in trouble by hollering false accusations for the grown ups to hear.  I hollered back, “Fuck you.  I work on babies, you silly asshole!”  Equally ridiculous, but comforting to prove to the eavesdropping neighbors that I wasn’t killing birds.

When I drove away I said aloud, “I’ll never return there again.” 

“Good,” came the voice from the backseat.  I glanced in the rear view mirror.  Devil me sat next to the basket.  I didn’t ask where she’d been.  She couldn’t have helped me anyway.  “I WAS trying to help you.  I was the one who kept telling you to LEAVE!” she snorted, disgusted.

I should have.  I fish out a packet of tissues and begin to cry.  I’ll carry a small pile of damp tissues inside when I get home.  I lie to the kids and tell them that the stress of the day has finally gotten to me.  I’m not myself anymore.  The kids and I meet family at a diner.  I can barely eat, and spend my visit playing with my niece’s little ones.  It’s the only part of the day that I will relax.  I have to work a 3pm – 11pm shift that day, and when I get in it’s slow.  I’m entertaining going upstairs to PICU and NICU to check on the heart patients, when the perfusionist walks into the lounge.  He updates me.  The baby we worked on Wednesday passed away Friday night.  The baby we spent 20 hours working on was being transferred to a facility that could do a transplant.  He looked at me sadly and shrugged.  There was nothing to say, just sadness.  He continued, “The mothers of those babies, young and completely clueless.  Neither of them realized how sick their babies were.”  I nodded.

A familiar chime, “Pediatric Trauma Alert, one by air.  Pediatric Trauma Alert, one by air.  Pediatric Trauma Alert, one by air.” 

It’s bad.  The child has head and chest injuries.  He’s got a broken wrist and odd patterns of bruising.  He’s a little over a year old.  It’s an abuse case.  We do our best to save him even though we know that it’s likely that he’ll die.  His tiny fingers are blue and cold.  I gather the dark curls we shaved from his head before we prepped the skin.  They go with him to PICU, and later to the morgue.  He leaves us barely alive.

There are more emergencies, and a gun shot victim.  We learn of that when the chime is followed by, “Trauma Alert, ER STAT!  Trauma Alert, ER STAT!”  He was dropped off by a friend, bleeding and in shock.  They didn’t wait for an ambulance.  I leave, tired and sad, in the chilly night.  As always, I check my tires to make certain that none are flat.  When I drive away I check my gauges – a habit that proves to be my salvation tonight.  The temperature creeps upward…too quickly.  My engine is overheating.  I turn into the only 24 hour gas station on the road.

My worst nightmare:  breaking down at night in the unsafe neighborhood that I work in.  The rapidly dropping temperature is an exquisite touch.  The cracked out homeless guy pounding on the glass door of the gas station mini mart is unnerving.  I pull my thin sweater around me and dial up the auto club.  They’ll send a wrecker to tow me home.  He should be there by 1:30am.  I sit in my car and people watch.  The Indian man working in the gas station peeks out of the door to check on me every half hour.  When the wrecker comes, he opens the door and steps out.  I tell him that I work down the road at the hospital.  He gestures west, “At C Hospital?”  I shake my head, and he says, “Oh, that IS the better hospital!  My sister was there and they saved her.  I should have known that you worked there.”  A curious thing to say, seeing as he’s only just met me.  The driver takes me home and drops my car in the driveway.  I thank him and hand him a tip, and wish him happy holidays.  It’s 2:30am. 

I still toss and turn in my sleep.

Somehow I get my dad out here to dump some antifreeze in my radiator.  He tells me the hoses look bad.  I can’t argue that I need a mechanic.  My ex is pissed to have to pick up the kids.  He’s a little grouchy that I know about his new girlfriend, but the kids tell me that she’s nice to them.  That’s all I need to know.  She has kids of her own, is a heavy smoker, and looks older than me (although that may be a bias on the kids’ part).  Her kids are the same age as mine.  They’re boys.  I like her already.  H has her stay overnight when the boys are visiting.  They don’t appreciate that but I point out that since their dad doesn’t drink much around her, he isn’t so prone to argue with them.  I like her for that.  I entertain a fantasy that he’ll change his ways for her and be a better dad. 

“Do you think he’d change for her?” Angel me asks.  I shrug and wipe a tear, “Just because he couldn’t change for me doesn’t mean that he wouldn’t for someone else.”  She pulls me close, “You were important, too.  You were the mother of his kids.”  I shrug again, silent. 

It all weighs on me and comes home when I have a quiet moment.  I finally give in to it…to lay out the cards.  It’s a brutal task, but my eyes stay curiously dry.  I dissect the argument with D.  Devil me takes notes.  Angel me looks pained, “Must you torture us so close to the holiday?”  I remind her that she can check out and go see Christmas lights.

I sit back and close my eyes.  It’s painful to recount the incident, to tally the sins, but it’s necessary.  Because, I’m certain that it all needs to end.  My voice becomes soft and monotone.  I outline those things he accused me of being.  He doesn’t believe anything I say.  He believes that I’m playing games with him to string him along, to make him want me.  It all smacks of dishonesty.  He accuses me of trying to pull him away from activities he wants to do.  He accuses me of being tardy always.  He doesn’t believe that I get called in to work.  He’s accused me of having excuses:  deaths, trauma, kids needing me. 

He’s never going to believe me.  There’s no need to argue that.  It doesn’t matter that I’m not lying.  He’s never going to believe me.  Never.

He tossed my past in my face.  I called the cops on my ex during a pounding when I couldn’t take the beatings and the broken bones any more.  He snidely asked if I was going to call the cops on him.  Why?  Because he didn’t believe that my ex was that bad, because he thought I deserved it, because it was a way to hurt me deeply.  It worked.  I looked at Devil me, “I’m tired of being penalized for asking for help.  I’ll never tell anyone about my past.  No one should have that kind of ammunition.”  She smiled ruefully, “Normal people don’t use your past as a weapon against you.”

To summarize, I must have pulled him away from people who meant a great deal to him for him to go off on me.  I resolve to walk away for good this time.  I had said before that I wouldn’t be competing with time with his friends, so it’s time to walk away.  He values his friends more than he does me.  That’s neither good or bad, it just is.  As for my past, I can’t change it, can’t take it back.  Obviously it’s always going to be a problem.  There’s no talking about it.  He believes that I’m dishonest, and that will never change.  He will never trust me ever.  He will always find fault, and that’s too familiar.  When he fights with me it’s a no-holds-barred event that leaves me empty and in tears…and feeling worthless.

I can’t live like that.

I script it and rehearse, because he steamrolls me when we talk.  After that crazy outburst I’m convinced that we’re completely done.  His hatred was unmistakable.  I have no trouble staying away from him.  No apology will ever come of this.  I give thanks for busy days.  I shy away from the social networking site except to check in quickly with family.  I don’t check to see if he’s removed me from his contacts.  I was convinced that he had.  I’m also convinced that I’ll never see him again.  I wonder why I need a script.

The message comes hidden in a glut of early holiday greetings from well-meaning friends.  He’s VERY sorry and feels VERY BADLY about upsetting me.  He didn’t want to break up with me.  He offers to help me with the broken appliances.  He closes with a statement that pledges that we communicate better.  I stare at the screen, amazed.   I resist the urge to reply, “Upset me?  No, you devastated me.  I’ll hire out help for the appliances.  I communicate just fine, asshole.  Please, never contact me again.”

I let it rest for a full day before responding neutrally, “Happy Holidays.  I hope you enjoy the gift I got you.”

The response comes when he returns from work, “Merry Christmas, _____!  I’ll open the card and the gift when you are here.”

Fuck.

Why can’t he just open the fucking thing and say thank you?  Then I can say that I’m glad he likes it and by the way, I don’t want to date someone who treats me the way he does.

No.  Now I get to say that to him after he opens his gift.  Face to face. 

 

 

 

 

 

The surgery on Monday lasted 20 hours.  I stayed for 17, but finally caved and called back another member of the heart team.  My eyes burned from fatigue, and the roads were dotted with crazy folks – darting out between the cars traveling towards home.  My heart pounded against my chest, powered by the adrenaline rush from slamming on my brakes.  So much for my day off. 

Tuesday saw me work a 10 hour shift.  I have to get to work early again, and it’s all I can do to drag my weary self out of bed.  I called PICU twice to check on the baby I nicknamed “Peanut”, whispering into the phone during a case.  The intensivist mumbled into the phone, “She’s still on ECMO, but she’s stable.”  She remarks that I’m the only one who calls.  When S sees me in the hallway, she smiles broadly, “Did you work on Baby _____?  They said that someone called to check on her, so I thought it might be you.”  I’m so fatigued when I get home that I can’t eat, and sleep will be fitful and filled with worry.

Wednesday brings a frantic call, “Come in early, please!  There is a heart!”  I’m sent to NICU.  The baby is smaller and much sicker.  When I arrive, they take her off ECMO, and the Respiratory Therapist squeezes oxygen into her tiny lungs with a tiny ambu bag.  A tech runs a transducer over her, looking concerned and sad.  Then we wait.  The radiologist is going to confirm that she’s suffered a major hemorrhage in her brain – a fatal stroke.  My eyes prick with tears, and I step close to gently touch the tiny feet and toes.  They’re blue and a little cold, but that is to be expected.  We are waiting to hear that she’s gone so we can shut off the machines and say goodbye.  She weighs 2400 grams (a little over 5 lbs).  The call comes, “No stroke.  Proceed with surgery as planned.” We bustle about, opening supplies, prepping and draping.

She was operated on the day she was born, moments after the helicopter brought her young and ignorant mother to the trauma center.  Her bowel formed outside of her body, so the pediatric surgeon wrapped it in sterile gauze and drapes, forming a “silo”.  We prep and drape around it.  Her tiny head turned to the side, large catheters carry blood to the machine that oxygenates her blood and pumps it back.  It takes pressure off her lungs.  We work for 5 hours, repositioning the ECMO catheters, and then cracking her tiny chest to cut a “window” in the membrane that encloses the heart.  She’s bleeding into it.  The pressure could stop her heart and kill her.

The pediatric cardiologist leans over and whispers, “All this effort, but the ‘head’s gone’.”  He’s referring to her mental capacity.  I shrug.  How can we say “no”?  The mother stops by to visit, but isn’t allowed in to see her baby.  The nurse waves me over to tell me that the unit is “closed”, and shudders, “She asked if she’ll be able to feed the baby soon.”  I shake my head and look at Angel me, who stands near the surgeon, intent and serious.  She looks up, then points to a plaque on the wall, a prayer from a long ago Pope.  I nod.  She knows my beliefs.  She also knows that I’m more spiritual than many of my Catholic colleagues, who are wrapped up in the rote and rules.  She tells me later, “You were like a guardian, a sentinel.  I was comforted to see you there.”  She wasn’t the only one.

As we left with our carts and equipment, alarms sounded on an isolette.  The nurse exclaimed, “You behaved for the last 5 hours!  I thought you were getting ready to transfer out, Missy!”  Angel me gives me a look.  I ignore her.

I manage to get a little time off today.  I head over to D’s after I drop my oldest off at the bus stop.  He’s happy to see me, but dallies over the restaurant choices for lunch.  We end up at a funky diner with heavily tattooed waitresses.  The food is excellent.  Unfortunately, I get called in after we order.  D’s eyes widen, “I didn’t think you’d actually have to GO to work!”  I had suggested that I bring my own vehicle, but he talked me out of it, “I want to be able to talk to you.  I want to be with you.”  I shrug, but I know I’m doomed.  We rush away with boxed lunches, D apologizing all the way home. 

I share a little about what I’m doing at work.  My friends are a little overwhlemed at what I see as an interesting twist on a day’s work.  I’ve got other projects to finish.  I’m serving on a committee to improve surgical start times.  The committee is lead by a team of consultants who have an incredible reputation.  They’ve been hired by the corporation that owns our hospital.  When we prepare to present our findings to administration I’m asked to be a presenter.  I’m called to meetings when I’m tied up in a case.  Before our consultants leave for holiday I’m given the task of creating a poster that can be posted department-wide.  It will be submitted to the graphics department of the consulting firm.  That lets me breathe a sigh of relief.  I’m sure that they’ll completely revamp my humble offering.  I still think my effort is pretty good for someone who is just fiddling around with Power Point. 

Then I think about D.  He was happy for whatever time he had.  I look at Devil me, “He found the gift.  I didn’t hide it that well.  He’s wondering about it, but he seemed a bit upset that I wouldn’t be around on Christmas.  I thought that was odd.”

She smiled, “I don’t.”  She giggled, clear as bells, “He doesn’t say it yet, but he loves you.  He’s taking it slower now.” 

I snort in disbelief.

 

 

 

Between the quiet times, D kept constant contact on my page.  Watching.  He couldn’t text.  He couldn’t call.  He wasn’t certain if I was playing a game, trying to get him to cave and proclaim his love for me.

Gag.

Terse emails appeared in my inbox.  I answered them calmly but without emotion, “No.  I’m not playing games.  I want to be someone’s girlfriend all the time.  I don’t want to be someone’s girlfriend for a few days a month.  My period hangs around longer than you do.  I know that you want a girlfriend only sometimes.  I know that you’ve said that I’m not “the one”.  Maybe I’m “the one” for someone else.”  Angel me sighed as I sent the note, which he immediately opened.

“Are you sure you are doing the right thing?” she sounded tired.  I turned and looked at her, surprised, “You think I’m playing games?  I’m telling him that I want something that he’s not interested in being.  It’s called breaking it off for good.  I’m not giving him an ultimatum.  I’m giving him the facts, reminding him that I know that he wants a more casual relationship.”  She shook her head and pointed at the chat box that lit up on the screen.  He growled that I was making him out to be a bad guy.  He began listing my faults and shortcomings.  Angel me looked over my shoulder, making small noises of disapproval.  I read them aloud to her – my chronic tardiness, my jealousy, my shortcomings as a mother and wife to my ex husband, his suspicion that I was “stringing other guys along.”  She rubbed her eyes, “He’s panicking.  He’s afraid he’ll lose you.  So pathetic….”  I key in my response, calm as a koi pond, gently unraveling the sins, and reminding him gently that his words underscore the reason why I’m right to end it.  Angel me hisses, “Games!”  I stop and tap the screen, “If he feels that I have a poor character then I am completely right to break it off.  He shouldn’t be with someone he finds so damaged.”  My eyes fill with tears.  Angel me studies my face for a moment then turns away, “End it then.”

But D isn’t ready for it to be over.  He asks if we can talk.  I tell him that we can, to fix the problems or to shake hands and part ways.  I’m willing to do either.  The text arrives within minutes, “I miss you.  I want to see you.  Please come over.”

Devil me regards me suspiciously, “Congratulations.  You’ve just made him cave.  Was that your intention?”

I slap a hand against my forehead, “I told him what I want.  He isn’t going to want to work on problems.  He just wants to talk or have sex.  He doesn’t love me.”

Oddly though, when I do turn up on his doorstep, cautious, he pulls me inside and holds me close for long minutes.  He kisses my neck, my forehead…tells me that he missed me.  I remind myself that none of this means that he loves me.  He’s on his best behavior.  Attentive.  Considerate.

He apologizes for being an asshole.  He’ll proclaim love for parts of me.  He tries harder, but he knows that I’m wary. 

As he gets more comfortable he begins to sing the old tunes, vacations together, outings.  I’ve heard these songs before.  They’re nothing but smoke and mirrors.  I become silent.  He doesn’t notice.  I come over for a visit during the week.  He cooks steaks.  I make vegetables.  While we eat he teases me to draw me out – he’s been talking about trips and B&Bs, places I know in my heart we’ll never visit, so I’ve become silent.  He asks when we started seeing each other.  I can’t meet his gaze so I stare at my plate and mumble the month and year, waving it away with a hand, “…as if it matters…”  He sits back and marvels at it, repeating it and converting it into months and years until my world has shrunken to the size of a dinner plate and I wish I could hide under it.

“That’s like what?  Three and a half million years?” he laughs.

The card had read, “Ten thousand years” – scrawled in L’s handwriting. 

Too much and too close to home.  I snatched up my plate too quickly, hesitated and gently took his as well.  Tears pricked my eyes as I scraped them into the garbage.  My voice uneven, sliding because I wanted to cry, I asked him why it mattered, how he could even keep track when we hadn’t been together all that time.  I turned my face from him, but my voice betrayed me.  No matter.  He was trying to take it somewhere, but it was crumbling. 

“You’re not truly giving him a chance,” Devil me cornered me in the bathroom, “He’s trying to establish that in his eyes you have been a couple all along.  You, on the other hand, have never seen him as your other half.  Granted, he didn’t foster that in the beginning, but now he’s trying.”

Angel me continued, “Allow me to play Devil’s advocate.  What if he was dating ONLY you over that time period?  What if he wasn’t dating L?  What if the card you found was old?” 

I shook my head, “What if I admit that I’ve made a huge mistake and make some time to shake hands and part ways?  I’m getting really busy at work now…”

“Quit hiding in your work,” Devil me growled, “Do you love him or not?”

That’s easy.  I’ve always loved him, but I’ve never been certain that he loved me the same way.  I’m unsure how much time I want to give him to see if this will work out.  I’m not confident that it WILL work.  Should I push to be together on New Years?  Should I nudge him for a card on Valentine’s day?  I shake my head because it sounds so ridiculous.  Besides, he’ll not come through with either, and I should hardly care anyway. 

I hide his Christmas card and gift in an impersonal place.  Then I get nervous and hide them again.  I will hide them a third time before I stop worrying.  I’ve spent a lot of money on his gift.  “A nice send off,” I tell Angel me.  She shakes her head.  He’s not considered exchanging gifts, but quickly adds that he’s got something in mind for me.  I don’t tell him that I hope he’ll get me nothing.  He’s working on Christmas.  He’s off on New Years.  I say that I’m off until New Years night, but lapse into silence.  I’ll be alone.  I roll on my side, away from him, and he talks about being off.  I close my eyes as he launches into his grumblings about how much he hates Christmas.  I deeply regret the card and gift, but can hardly back out now.
He probes a little to see what I got him.  It’s all gift certificates, but I ignore him.  He can regift if he hates it.  I wonder if he’ll hate it.  He may hate the card too. 

I sigh, and he catches that, “I have to get home.  Early day.”  While I pad across the floor and get my clothes he quips, “Come over when you can’t stay so long..”  Meant to be funny, but like the crack about the length of time we’d been together, it falls flat.  I walk out of the bedroom slipping my dress over my head and slipping on my shoes.  I don’t even pause to comb my hair, snatch up my keys, and holler back, “Thank you for dinner, honey.”  He hurries after me to give me a hug.  He looks a little bewildered, but he doesn’t ask if I’m okay.  He kisses me, thanks me, hugs me close, and walks me out.  I drive away wondering why I even bother.

He talks to me on the phone.  That’s another new thing.  He always claimed that he didn’t like to talk on the phone.  I never pushed it.  Suddenly, he’ll call.  I talk to him frequently.

He bemoans the fact that he is working and there is a holiday themed event coming up this weekend.  I look it up online.  It’s a pub crawl.  No different than the stuff he goes to with his friends.  To him it sounds like great fun.  I shake my head.  I shoot him a note and point out that it would be expensive, the roads would be filled with checkpoints, and ask if it would be worth it to have a stranger piss on his pants leg.  I closed with a shrug and a comment, “To each his own; not feeling it.”

He backpedals, “Duh, that’s why I’d rather spend it with you.”

Bullshit.  Devil me giggles even though I’ve said nothing.  I respond that it’s certainly along the lines of the things he enjoys, that there’s nothing wrong with it.  I just don’t like that sort of thing.  Drunks are obnoxious, and his friends always smell sour and dirty.  I tell him to go if he wants.  He will anyway.  “Besides,” I regard Devil me with tired eyes, “By then we won’t be together.”  He needs that silly, sophomoric shit show.  I don’t like that kind of entertainment.  I don’t use that tone in my note.  I resort to sarcasm and carefully turn the jokes on me.  It ends up sounding like a series of funny, not so nice things happening to me.  It ends up getting a little heavy when I explain myself and my behavior, but I’m careful to keep it neutral and professional.

It occurs to me that I keep a great deal from D.  Angel me looks at me quizzically, “Why?”  I sigh, “He tends to toss my past in my face, but he twists it, and makes it sound worse.  He acts like I’m not a good person.  Or at least he has.  I don’t think I need to trust him with things I like, or important things like desires and dreams.  I don’t even like to bring up work because I’m afraid he’ll make me out to be bad at my job.”  Even though I know I’m an expert at what I do, I don’t need the hassle.  My eyes burn with tears, so Angel me can only pat my shoulder and stay silent.  I’ve been bitten enough.  I add that to the heavy part of the note.  He’ll be aware that I keep things to myself, a lot of things.  It’s true, and I don’t care if he knows.  I temper that with a statement about everyone having skeletons and baggage, and that most people are quick to point out faults.  I tell him that I’m tired of defending shortcomings and faults. 

It sounds so much more politically correct than saying “F*** you!”

I close by stating that for all the mistakes I make, there is more that I do right and well. 

I was supposed to see him tonight after my Dad’s birthday dinner with his wife and the priest and assorted friends.  I didn’t make it out of the house.  The dog managed to cut her paw and bled everywhere.  I caught her, cleaned and dressed the wound.  A few moments later she removed her dressings and was bleeding everywhere.  I held pressure on her paw, applied nu skin, made her comfortable and cleaned more blood.  Then I called and begged off.

I changed out of my clothes.

I turned on the computer so that I could review the video of the surgery we’re doing on Monday:  A complicated open heart surgery on a baby who weighs a little more than 6 lbs.    I have to be there at 6 am, so I’ll get out early.  D was happy about that.

I wasn’t sure why.  I’m still not sure.  I look at Devil me, “I guess I don’t believe him.  That means it’s likely over…”

She snorts in disgust, “Hardly.”