He coaxed me back, promising a trip south.  He booked a room in a luxury inn, insisted on paying it all, urged me to board the dog and cat until Monday so we could come home at a leisurely pace.  We took the bikes so that we could travel the island by pedal power.  The trip down was wonderful, relaxing.  It had been over 20 years since I’d visited the area, and so much had changed that I didn’t recognize it.  The inn was beautiful, surrounded by lush gardens.  Our suite was amazing, and I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.  We went out to dinner – I picked up the tab, and as we walked back, my right flank began to burn with pain. 

Kidney stone. 

I played it off, saying nothing.  I needed to start slamming water, but D wanted to window shop.  For an hour or so, we wandered from store to store – looking at touristy crap and overpriced sex toys.  Finally, he noticed that I was holding my side, “Are you okay?  What’s wrong with your back?”  I told him that I needed some water, and instead of heading to the bar he was jonesin’ to drink at (surely they’d have water – I’d just drink 2 or 3 glasses of water to every alcoholic drink – and I’d flush that stone out).  Nope.  We went back to the hotel, on foot.  His mood was slipping.

His trip was ruined then.  He wanted to give me beer, but I can’t drink regular beer because I have Celiac Disease.  He growled that I should drink it anyway.

I drank water.  The pain became worse, excruciating to the point that I began vomiting.  He wanted to call an ambulance.  I was afraid to go to the hospital.  The bills would be horrible even with the insurance.  They’d not do anything more than medicate me; I was certain that they didn’t have a weekend operating room team.  I moaned in pain.  At 2:00 am I crawled into a tub of hot water and soaked for 4 hours until the stone dropped into the bladder.  I got no rest.   He scooted out of bed as I slipped between the sheets, dressed and left.  He returned 45 minutes later, “I moved the truck closer and put the bikes in the back.  We need to go.  I can’t believe no one called the cops.  You sounded like you were dying.”

As if it weren’t bad enough, he told me that he would have left me at the hospital if I had chosen to go, “I wouldn’t have stayed for you.  I decided that you could find your own way home.”  We were 5 hours away, the closest car rental was 3 hours away.  The gravity of his words made the room spin before my eyes.  He would have left me completely stranded and with no other option to get back other than hitch-hiking, because I had a kidney stone.

I burst into tears.

I begged to stay, even pleading for another chance (while Devil me looked on in amazement and horror).  I was an emotional wreck, overtired.  He agreed to stay, and I knew it would be a choice that I’d regret.  He had seen a breakfast cart in the garden.  There was yogurt, coffee, juice, fruit and baked goods.  I took a banana and a small cup of yogurt, the only offerings that I could eat.  He ate well, polishing off a few yogurt cups, an apple, a bagel and a croissant, “Well, I’m good till lunch.”  He didn’t ask me if I was okay.  He just got up and walked away, leaving me with the paper cups and napkins.  I dumped them in the trash, and followed him.  He closed the door in my face.  I sighed, looking miserable, and tapped on the door.  He opened it, “You don’t have your key?  I got you one when I settled the bill.”  I didn’t ask why, just murmured thanks and slipped it in my pocket.

He smiled little, spoke less, and generally made me feel shitty for the rest of the day.  We stumbled onto a street bazaar, and he urged me to buy some trinkets for myself.  I found a sandal shop, tried on shoes while he sat on the bench.  I wondered if he’d leave me, but he surprised me by trying on a pair of sandals and purchasing them.  I wondered that all day.  I picked up the tab for lunch, drank a gluten-free beer and a couple glasses of water.  He picked up the receipt and scrutinized it before handing it to me.  When we got back to the inn with the purchases (I carried them clumsily in a tote while trying to navigate the streets on my bike), he stood in front of the window looking at the pool.  I shrugged, changed into my bathing suit and grabbed a towel.  He decided to join me.  I wasn’t sure if he would since he’s sensitive about his weight (he admitted that he’d gained close to 30 lbs since he started seeing me – intoning that somehow it was my fault).  He ignored me, swam away to the opposite end of the pool.  We stared at each other, palm blossoms raining down to speckle the water and our heads.  I sighed, and a tear slid down my cheek.  No one saw it.  He swam back, got out and toweled off, “The key is here, when you’re done…”  In front of all the others, a snub.  I sighed and wished everyone a good afternoon, then I got out and headed back to the room.

I wished we had gone back in the morning.  How the hell was I supposed to predict a kidney stone?  Hell would be more pleasant than this.  Devil me turned the faucet on the shower, “I thought he’d soften a bit with sex, but it’s not really helping.  You should have left this morning.”  I peeled off my suit, nodding while tears ran down like rain.  “Don’t do this to yourself again.  It’s abusive.”  I nodded again.

I picked up the tab for dinner, and he finally smiled and spoke, thanking me, going on about how it wasn’t expected.  I looked away, murmuring that it was no trouble at all, trying to make up for the sleepless night.  I looked down at my plate and felt a wave of sadness that was so overwhelming that I jumped up and fairly ran to the bathroom.  I cried a little, digging at my eyes.  One more night.  He wanted to go back to the inn.  There would be no music or bar-hopping. 

Odd, but I chalked it up to fatigue.  It wasn’t, of course.  Weeks later he would accuse me of controlling his behavior.  Besides, he was afraid I’d get arrested, or get in a bar fight.  What the f***? 

We went back to the room.  The next morning we packed and went out to breakfast at a bar.  There are no alcohol ordinances like we have so it was really strange to sit at the bar with drunken people giggling into their drinks while we ate omelets.  He picked up the tab, mentioned that the Bloody Marys we sipped made it expensive.  I immediately offered to pay (although I was getting pretty disgusted at that point), “No, no.  I’ve got it.” 

We left.  He slid into a nasty mood on the road.  Five hours of his brand of punishing me with a verbal barrage of digs at my lack of intelligence and how his weekend was ruined.  I finally said that I’d pay for the second night at the inn – $240.  No, that wasn’t necessary.  I didn’t point out that him screaming at me wasn’t necessary either.

I sent the check later that week, and pledged to stay away. 

I sleep better now, but the dreams I have are strange and sad.

He shoots me a text when he’s sitting at the traffic light.  He can’t wait to see me.  I stare at the screen, then glance up at the clock.  It’s 1:45pm.  I look at Angel me and dryly say, “Gee, L must have cleared out early.”  She glares at me then stomps out of the room, “He’ll have time to shower before you stop by.”

I’m tired from spending a day cleaning and doing laundry.  H has been particularly nasty, telephoning to check on me, suddenly afraid that I might be out with someone.

We divorced almost 2 years ago.

I’m worn out.  D texts again, urging me to come over, “I miss you.”  I frown at the phone, look up at Angel me, “It’s someone to have dinner with…”  She looks pissed.  I shower and dress.  I apply expensive perfume.  I never wear his favorite if I know that I’ll see him.  That was L’s favorite.  He doesn’t know that I still wear it on occasion, and that’s fine.  I made it clear when I walked away before – it was his favorite, not mine.

My favorite is Chanel Mademoiselle.  I bought it for myself for Christmas, when it began to look like I had better get something for myself because no one else was going to….

D ended up getting me an iPod.  We had broken up, and I told him that I expected nothing.  He mailed it to me because I had said that I didn’t want to see him.  In fact, I encouraged him to give the iPod to someone else.  In my mind’s eye I could see L being delighted with it.  I just wanted to fade away and be gone from his memory.

He kept in touch.  I was polite but not warm, uncomfortable with such an expensive gift.  I’m still not comfortable with it. 

For three months he tried to warm me up, I retreated to the shadows, staying out of arm’s reach, annoyed that he couldn’t leave me alone.  I wasn’t “the one”.  He was happier with his friends.  He loved L.  I patiently spelled it all out, painfully, and sadly retreated.  I told him that I knew he didn’t love me, and that I needed to find someone who would.  I didn’t want to be alone anymore, and I always felt alone with him, because everything and everyone else came first.

Something unusual happened.  D coaxed me back. 

….Now it’s all strange and bizarre….

I text D.  He replies, buoyant and happy.  He’s thrilled to have me back in his life.  He acts as if I never really left.  Bustling about, he tries to make up for the months I’ve been absent.  He doesn’t see that I’m more reserved than ever.  I don’t talk much, allowing him to fill the room with anecdotes and stories, and responding with a nod.  I feel like a stranger.  I tell myself that I can’t love this time, that it’s only a physical thing now.

I’m lonely.  D is better than nothing.

It shows in my face, because I can’t hide pain well.  When he asks me about it I wave it away, “Just preoccupied with stuff at work…or at home.”  I leave the room often because I’m truly at a loss.  There is no peace when I’m with D.  He feels like a burden now, and I’m not comfortable visiting him.  I sit in the driveway for long minutes debating with myself, “Should I go in, or leave?” 

He has no idea that I feel this way.  As I back off, he rallies, taking a few weeks off work – devoted to spending time with me.  He wants to take a trip.  I have no call or work on the weekends.  I toss out weak excuses.  He tells me that this weekend he can’t see me.  Ahhhhh.  That old familiar refrain…is it the fair weathers, or a weekend trip with L?  I shake my head, send out feelers.  He hasn’t been obvious so I vote for weekend with L.  I feel pretty shitty about the whole thing, but he offers to take me out for sushi on Sunday night.  I lie to him, “I won’t know until Sunday if I can come over.  I tentatively push for an earlier time, but he’s firm.

Because his plans are always more important than time with me.

I need to get the electronics straightened out.  I’ll stick around long enough for that to happen.  Once that’s done, I believe I’ll slip away for good.

Because I don’t love him, and I know he doesn’t love me.

I track our times together.  I plan on doing that for the next month or two.  It’s ammunition, of course.  Damning.  

I can’t figure out why I need tangible proof that he sees me infrequently. 

“You’re an idiot,” she reminds me, “I can’t believe you fell for his lies again…AGAN!”  Angle me paces and snarls.  I sit on the couch, forlorn and sore from sex.

D lured me back.  I tell myself that it’s just for sex, that it’s for nothing more than a booty call. 

He tells me that he’s got a confession to make, that he’s told his coworkers about his girlfriend….I nod knowingly and interrupt, “You’re back with L…I know…”  He looks horrified, “NO!  I told them I was dating YOU, a surgery nurse from _____hospital!”  Oops.  Good thing I didn’t mention the 8 pounds of L’s hair in the bathroom sink. 

I blow him off, waving his confession away like so much bullshit.  Why the hell would he tell people he was dating me when I was barely speaking to him for the last three months?   He’s an odd bird, but I don’t believe a word he says.  He’ll get busy with the fair weathers, with his real girlfriend.  I slip away, an empty kiss serves as goodbye.  I drive away, pretending not to see him wave from his front door.

Angel me seethes from the passenger seat, “Is it worth it?  You’ll get hurt again!  You know he doesn’t care a bit about you!”  My jaw clenches, but I can’t reply.  I feel empty and sad.  Even if it’s only for sex alone, this will do nothing but leave me feeling bad about myself.  I lamely state, “It’s not my finest moment…”  She snorts in disgust and turns away.

Devil me takes me to task for my sins and shortcomings, “I can’t wait to see what he tries next to get you to stay.”  I assure her that he doesn’t really give a shit if I stick around or not, but she’s not buying it either.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m wrong, and I get my answer soon enough.  D pesters me to come over and stay overnight.  He wants to wake up next to me, “Bring the dog so you don’t have to leave early.”  I chide him one too gently for lying about his Saturday.  He insists that he’s spending it with his sister and brother in law, but I know he’s RSVP’d to a party with the fair weathers.  He tells me that his brother in law’s father has passed away.  It’s too much.  I call him out, and tell him not to tell fables about a death in the family just to go out with friends.  He’s indignant, calls off our plans. 

I toss a viper in his lap, “Suit yourself.  I was going to f*** you senseless for your birthday.  Looks like you’ll be senseless without the f***ing.  No need to get pissy because I call you out for telling a whopper to hang out with your friends.  I could give the tiniest shit who you pass the time of day with, just don’t feed me some line about me being your ‘girlfriend’ and then never spend any time with me.  I can easily make other plans.  Good night.”

Devil me giggles, but it’s my turn to be disgusted, “They have ‘events’ 9 days a week and he can’t possibly miss one to spend some time with me.  I told you he didn’t give a shit.”  I log off the computer with a sigh.

The next afternoon when I log on again I see that he’s replied.  I respond to other emails first because I can’t handle his crap yet.  His tone is different, “I don’t know what to do here,” he explains that his sister and brother in law have fallen ill and decided not to visit.  The convenience of it is too much for me to handle so I laugh until I’m mopping tears.  He continues to panic, and that makes me laugh harder.  He sounds like Chicken Little running around declaring that the sky is falling.  He proclaims that he wants me to come over, but he fears that I don’t believe him.

I don’t.

I look at the time he sent the email.  It’s been nearly 24 hours.  I tell him that I’ll meet him. 

I end up taking him out to dinner for his birthday.  He tells me about working outside up the coast, that’s why he’s sunburned.  I dryly point out his sunburned legs, and say that I know he was with the fair weathers at their party.  Then I make it a point to turn away and shake my head when he tries to bullshit further.  I raise a hand to wave it away, “You don’t wear shorts to work.  How stupid do you think I am?”

I stay overnight, and that proves to be the wrong decision.  He proclaims his love for me, burns more music, calls me his girlfriend, proposes that we go on trips together….He delays my leaving by hours.  He wants me to bring my laptop and iPod to the house next weekend.  I let my guard down, tell him Saturday is busy…plans with the kids all day.  Sunday will work.

I send a tentative text today.  Happy Monday.  Thank you for a lovely weekend.  What time can I come over on Sunday?  Oh, not before afternoon.  Definitely after lunch.  Angel me pokes me in the ribs, mouthing the same question that occurs to me:  Is L staying overnight this weekend?  I tell myself that he could have other plans, but it all sounds hollow – because I don’t believe him….I’ll never believe him, even though his sister posts an apology on his social network page, “So sorry that we weren’t able to come down this time but we were so sick that the only choice was to head home”.  I don’t feel a need to acknowledge that he wasn’t lying about that, and when Devil me cocks an eyebrow I shrug and say, “He was lying about the rest of it.  Let him stew.”

I don’t realize how unhappy I look until a colleague stops me in the hallway, “Are you okay?  You look so sad!”  I nod, “I’m okay, just tired.” 

I think I’ll let him help me with the computer and the iPod, so that I won’t have to ask for help.  Then I think I need to slip away for good this time.  It’s never easy but it’s never going to be good, so I can’t stay.

It already hurts.  The real thing wouldn’t hurt like this.

We pushed the heavy bed through the hallways to the big elevator.  W bagged the patient through his fresh tracheostomy while I tugged at the foot of the bed, “Is his oxygen saturation any better?”  W nods, “It’s 97%.  I’m not sure why it was low in the room.”  Visitors pause to gawk so I pull the bed a little faster.  Soon we’re inside the big elevator, quiet except for the sound of the patient breathing against W’s efforts.  He’s probably just about ready to come off the ventilator upstairs.  His eyes open on occasion, but they focus on nothing, the pupils pinpoint from the narcotics he received during surgery. 

When we arrive in ICU we noisily proceed to his room, all monitors, IV pumps, ventilator and glass walled.  There is a tiny bathroom but the patients never use them.  We give report, help connect the patient to monitors and the ventilator, and gather our things to leave.

The visitor in the next room looks at me sadly.  I recognize him and his wife.  She’s been in hospitals for the last 3 years.  My students took care of her.  Both of them were demanding, but she’s become so frail and he’s come to the realization that she’ll not be coming home.  She’s on contact precautions for a bacterial infections.  I stand at the doorway, “I saw you in the cafeteria a few weeks back, so I knew that she didn’t go home.”  He looked at me, resigned, “It’s not for us to know when.”  She was close to death; he knew it.  Somehow, she was hanging on.  “I’ve been praying for you….for comfort,” I told him sincerely.  Words fail me then, because the deepest sorrow isn’t soothed by words.  Despair is something that simply has to settle in the middle of the room, huge and terrible.  When it decides to move along it meanders out, stopping to inspect the corners of the room, waiting to see if it will be invited back. 

I left  with an empty heart.  Prayers do little to fill the void when someone is not long on this Earth.  Comfort is empty.  It’s a chapter that’s winding down to it’s end. 

I ride the elevator alone.  It’s not for us to know when. 

G talks me into meeting him at a sports bar for lunch and drinks.  I pad into the closet in search of something green to wear.  The day is St Patrick’s Day so I want to be festive.  G is of Irish descent so I wonder if he’s going to take the whole St Patrick’s Day thing too seriously.  Angel me snorts in amusement while I slip on a pair of jeans, “Are you sure about this?  He’s pretty damned casual about all this.  I think he’d be happier if you were 20 years younger, bustier, and sporting auburn locks.”  That stings, but I shrug and start applying eye makeup.  Before I can answer, my cell phone rumbles with a text.  It’s G.  He’s running late, would it be easier to meet at my house?  My jaw hits the floor.  Devil me is disgusted, “Asshole!  He just wants to have sex, and isn’t even interested in a date.  Tell him to fuck off.”  I refuse.  Anyone could drop by on a Sunday.  Besides, I’m not auditioning for a booty call.  He suggests a sports bar near my home, but we end up meeting at his favorite watering hole.

I’m apprehensive on the toll road.  Something isn’t right.  I remind myself that it’s just a lunch date, and that I can always use picking up my kids as an excuse to get out of there.  I’m not even hungry.  I shoot G a text once I’m parked, telling him that I’ve arrived and what I’m wearing.  I scan the bar as I walk in – couples mostly – three youngish Latino men who turn from the game on the screen to watch me walk by – and one white haired gentleman who raises a hand to wave.

He looks 70 years old.

Part of me wants to dissolve into laughter, because he’s older than he let on – but he looks very uncomfortable too.  I smile and wave and sit down on the bar stool next to him.  We exchange pleasantries and he admits, “You’re much younger than I thought you’d be.”  I cock an eyebrow, “I don’t lie about my age.  I think I was clear about that.”  He looked embarrassed, “But everyone lies…I thought your photos on the social page were old photos of the girl you used to be.  I was expecting someone who was in their late 50s.” 

G’s photos were from the days when he was working as a paramedic.  Obviously, they were decades old, but he was careful to crop them tightly so it was impossible to tell that they were old.  I didn’t call him out, but I was disappointed.  The barmaid giggled behind her hand.  I wondered when it would be as funny to me.  We settled into talking “shop”, sipping wine and eating quite possibly the worst food ever.  A friend of G’s stopped to chat and asked if I was his daughter.  I replied gently, “No.  Just a friend.  We used to work together.”  He’s told them all that he had a date, and was hoping to show a lovely older lady off to his friends.  I feel like a bad joke, but I’m determined to handle it all with grace.  When my phone rumbles again it’s my son, wondering when I’ll be there to pick him and his brother up.  Salvation.  We’re running out of gross shit to talk about anyway.  The date is over.  More pleasantries and thanks for lunch and mediocre chardonnay.  He walks me to my car and gives me a half hug, lies that we should do it again.  Soon I’m back on the toll road. 

Devil me rides shotgun, studying my face as I pass through the electronic toll booth, “Next time you need to listen to your gut.  Don’t let loneliness get the better of you.  That was pathetic to watch.”  I nod, “But someday it will make a hysterical story.  I’ll tell it and laugh.”  She shook her head, “I think you’d be surprised.  It’s not going to be funny to the people who love you.”

She turns out to be right.  When I relay the farce to friends and colleagues, I laugh hollowly and alone.  They are as disappointed as I am.  It occurs to me that they want to see me with someone too. 

The next days are busy.  There are emergency open heart surgeries.  I’m sent upstairs twice to assist with surgery on a baby too unstable to bring to the operating room.  One afternoon I take a tech upstairs to Neonatal ICU so we can work on repairing a fairly common defect.  The baby weighs 700 g, so tiny that it doesn’t look real.  His little head is the size of a lemon.  He’ll never be normal; he’s had bleeding on the brain.  It’s impossible to know how damaged his brain is at this time.  When I return to the main OR, a trauma alert is called, and I’m sent at a run to the trauma room to open supplies and instruments.  I log plenty of call time and overtime, and I’m tired beyond measure.  I’m relieved when one of the open heart surgeries is scheduled, and I’m not told to come in early.  Instead I am assigned to a room where we prepare to operate on a homeless crack addict.  He’s got multiple open wounds that ooze thick, yellow pus.  He smells of filth and decay.  The surgeon gags when he removes a filthy dressing and reveals a wound that is deeply infected and riddled with dying tissue.  I leave the room and return with iodoform gauze which I cut into chunks and tuck into the sterile teams’ masks.  When we’ve finished I remove the plastic gown, protective boot covers, face shield, gloves.  I scrub my hands and don a fresh scrub jacket before ducking into the heart room.  The pediatric cardiologist is absent, which is strange.  The circulator is trying to count instruments, sponges and sharps with the instrument nurse.  The air is tense.  The case hasn’t gone well.  One of the perfusionists pulls me aside, “Can you check this unit of platelets with Dr S?”  I nod, and take the bag from him.  Dr S checks it with me, we sign off the paperwork.  He looks at me intently, “You were MISSED.  Why weren’t you assigned to this room?”  I whisper, “They don’t like it when I come in early because it fouls up the evening shift – they don’t want to have anyone making overtime.  We’ve been over budget every month since October….”  He looks pissed and whispers back, “Bullshit!  They need to make allowances for certain critical staff nurses.  They needed you HERE.”  I stick around to send the circulating nurses on lunch breaks, and finish the case.  The phone rings as we’re closing the chest wound; it’s the pediatric cardiologist, “Are the dressings on?”  I tell him that we’re closing.  He realizes who he’s talking to, “Why weren’t you in the room today?  You should be there.”  I explain again, but feel very lame.  He snorts, disgusted, “They needed to have the ‘real’ team there.  This was a critical case.”    I feel bad about that.  I help out as much as I can.  Once the baby is in route to Pediatric ICU I corner the instrument nurse, “What happened?”  She sighs, “It was bad.  The repair failed.  We had to go back on bypass.  Then we came up with a missing instrument and two missing needles.  There were grumblings about who was assigned to the room – the surgeon assisting asked why you weren’t here.  The circulators weren’t happy either, especially J.  She really didn’t want to work with C today,” she shrugged, “I understand why.  C no longer knows where anything is.  She doesn’t want to head up the program.  Neither of them could take any kind of a break.”  I sighed, “I can’t insist on being here.”  She shrugged again, “They have to do something.  If the doctors want you there, then you should be there.  The doctors wanted you here.”

In the midst of the ramped up workload another suitor casts his net.  He’s a handyman of sorts, a few years older than me.  He’s a father of four, divorced, but somehow has managed to keep his motorcycle and boat.  He works hard to get in my good graces.  The bait is his son, who apparently needs a mother figure.  I don’t recognize the flirting, suggest that he get his son involved in Scouting.  He tips his hand.  I’m mildly amused, but not intrigued in the least.  What I have forgotten is that he has my phone number.  Months ago I had given it to him because I wanted to hire him to do some work on my house; he had been highly recommended by my former classmates.  His phone was sitting in his locker at work, forgotten.  The messages and texts that follow threaten to bury me.  I’m not available due to a heavy work schedule, and he doesn’t understand that.  In his eyes, we’re a couple – even if we’ve never had a date or even seen each other.  It turns out that his children range in age from 30 to 5 years old.  All have different mothers.  One lives with him because his mother is “a junkie”.  Angel me looks horrified.  I disengage myself from the conversation and try to introduce him to the concept of Reality.  It’s not easy, and he ends the chat with a hope that someday we can get together.  I have no desire to raise his child he and “a junkie” made.  He will cast his net elsewhere.

I can’t help but wonder what the hell I’m going to do with myself.  Perhaps a dating website isn’t such a bad idea after all.  Devil me makes a face at me to make me laugh, but I’m feeling too shitty to smile, “Don’t be so disgusted.  It could be worse.  Just be alone for awhile.”

D emails frequently with computer advice.  I answer questions with single sentences or even a single word.  He waits, measuring a response to a reply that doesn’t invite a response.  He works near the hospital.  When he’s climbing around the stacks he’s seen the air ambulance fly over in route with trauma patients.  He mentions it after he reads a post on my page regarding one of my days working on accident victims who drove recklessly and were ejected from their vehicle because they weren’t wearing seat belts.  He tries flattery.  He’s offered to send more music.  I didn’t ask, but when it doesn’t arrive in the post I realize that he’s expecting me to ask about it.  I sigh, and give in.  He hasn’t had time to burn the discs.  He’s been working – overtime.  He’s painting the house.  He offers to work on my computer.  He knows money is tight. 

He also realizes that it’s been 3 months since he and I broke up.  He’s well aware that I’ve not been dating, that I’ve been too busy at work.  He knows that I’m melancholy and lonely.  I chat with a physician friend who lives in another state.  She understands my plight.  She gently reminds me that sometimes we have to settle for someone who may be unexciting and average if we want someone who will be ethical and loyal.  We talk about baggage and skeletons.  D sends me a note then, when I’m weak and sad.  I stare at the box that’s appeared next to the chat box that I’m pouring feelings into, “Shit.  He just hailed me in a chat box.”  My physician friend and I suddenly morph into teenagers, “What are you going to do?  What can you say to him?”  I need her to talk me out of seeing him.  Instead, she reminds me that as long as I realize that it’s not going to work out I may as well use him.

Damn it all anyway.

He’s probing, looking for a weak spot.  He finds it easily, and triumphantly claims that he’s missed me, “You know that you’re my favorite.  I miss you.  I want to see you.”  All of the lies and desires are poured into the shell that protected me.  He wants to have dinner together, but I’ve made plans with the kids.  Unfortunately, when we get to the restaurant they’ve chosen, there is nothing on the menu that I can eat.  I sip a diet coke while they eat and answer D’s texts.  He’s going to order Chinese and will wait for me.  I sigh.  Why do I do this to myself?  After I shower, I nearly reach for the bottle of his favorite cologne, but Devil me covers my hand with her own.  She guides my hand to one of the perfumes that I gave myself for Christmas…It’s more expensive, and lingers. Of course.

I drive over, tired and hungry.  He pulls me inside the door and holds me.  I scan the house with laser eyes, silent, looking for signs of L.  Two wineglasses soak, but that’s not unusual because he’s bad about doing dishes sometimes.  He’s nervously lined up packets of soy sauce on the counter.  It occurs to me that he wasn’t at all certain that I’d show up.  We make small talk over dinner.  The lies resume as soon as we’ve finished eating.  He remembers when he and I last saw each other and he confesses that he hasn’t been with anyone since.  He cautions me not to use his bathroom because he’s not certain that it’s clean.  I make a mental note to wander in there post coitus.  I know he’s been with L.  I suspect that there are others, but it is intoxicating to be held and kissed.

He slips and says that he loves me.

He doesn’t, of course.  It’s another lie.  I close my eyes, and he buries his face in my neck.  What the hell am I doing?  Later he holds me close in bed, “I wish you could spend the night.”  At 1:30am I slip out of bed, grab my clothes and head into the bathroom.  He’s laid out a shower faucet that he’s planning on installing.  The sinks could use cleaning but it’s not bad otherwise.  He pads out after me.  He busies himself with putting away the leftovers, and tells me, “I’m out in the open now,” I look confused so he explains, “About having a girlfriend…”  I look at him, nonplussed, “So you’re telling me that you’re seeing L?  I’m not surprised, but I can’t understand why you’d invite me….”  He looked horrified, “No!  I told the guys at work that my girlfriend works at _____ Hospital; that she’s a nurse in surgery.  I told them that your name wasn’t really Cathy.”  I’m looking at him with a bemused expression on my face and hold my tongue.  Why would anyone tell coworkers about a ‘girlfriend’ who he hasn’t seen in months?  More bullshit.  He kisses me at the door, walks me to the car, happy.

He wouldn’t be so happy if I’d pointed out that he should have remembered to wipe L’s brown curly hairs out of the sink in the bathroom.  I don’t have to be much of a detective to figure out that she’s been there, that she’s his real favorite.  I do wonder why he worked so hard to get me back.  Perhaps the sex isn’t so great with L. 

When I get home I scrub my face and slip on a nightgown.  I sleep like the dead.  I don’t want to be his mistress.  I don’t know if I will go back to see him.  I don’t think I need to get hurt again…..and that’s how this kind of shit always ends.  Angel me just shakes her head.

Dr B is the one who mentions it first, “Have you had any more fainting spells?  I worry about you.”  He’s referring to a syncopal episode I had when we were transferring a tiny patient from the operating room bed to the crib.  The room shifted violently, and I swayed, grabbing the operating room bed and hanging on for dear life.  I wave it away, “It’s probably just ‘thyroid’.  I’ll get a checkup soon.”

I need more than thyroid studies.  I have palpitations that herald arrythmia.  My grandmother died at 45 from a lethal arrythmia.  It carried her off in her sleep.  My aunt never forgave her.  She never told anyone about the flutters she felt in her chest, the discomfort that left her fearful.  I can’t deny my own symptoms.  I don’t have the luxury of ignorance. 

“But can they save you?” Angel me asks, “Or are you destined to be one of ‘us’?” 

The fatigue makes it worse.  I’m called out to mediate a minor spat between coworkers.  I’m pulled from a room, “Open Room 9.  STAT!  They have to bring the baby from cardiac cath!”  I don’t have an experienced scrub, and he whines and complains, which makes me want to slap sense into him.  There is no one to help me, and even though I feel like I’m running around like a chicken with my head cut off, there aren’t so many “bumps” in the road.  Still I growl to the charge nurse that other team members who are off need to be summoned.  One of the nurses who is an experienced scrub shows up 40 minutes after she’s called.  I holler her into the room when I sprint out to send an order for units of blood.  My second circulator takes nearly 2 hours to saunter in.  I chew her a new ass in the substerile room, “Where the FUCK have you been?  When they call you in on your day off then you fly in here!  This baby is sick as hell!”  She tries to turn it back on the operating room.  I cry bullshit.

Dr S tells another anesthesiologist that I was the only salvation.  That gets back to me.  

We take the baby to PICU following the surgery.  His recovery is measured in the tiniest victories.  I’m sent upstairs to do other surgeries on him.  When I bring up other patients, I drop by to see my babies.  The nurses understand it, and give me report.  As I leave I hear one of the nurses tell the respiratory therapist, “She’s good.  She never forgets that she’s taking care of someone’s child.  I love that about her.”

I chat with G.  He sends out feelers, hints around about going out on a date.  I slip into flirtatious conversations with him, but I don’t lose the wariness.  That turns out to be a good thing.  G sends out tiny red flags along with the feelers.

His friends are fair weathers, too.  He admits how empty they leave him.  Angel me leans in to whisper, “D never admitted to that.  He always felt that the fair weathers made him complete.”  I mumble, “This could be nothing more than a hook to draw me in.” 

What to do. 

Sit on it.  There’s no hurry to meet him.

Besides, I’m busy as hell with work and with the kids.  I’ve spent tens of thousands on home improvement and for repairs on my car.  My dad backed off.  I’m feeling strong – even if I’m lonely.  I debate the pros and cons of hooking up with G.  I don’t kid myself.  He’s very damaged.  Any relationship we have will be strictly physical and short lived. 

Just another item on the list…finish taxes, get cat litter, laundry, groceries, liquor store, get laid.

Do I need the heartache?  I remind myself that G LOVES redheads with big boobs.  I’m a slender brunette.  I remind myself that I’m definitely not his dream girl. 

Devil me touches my hair, “Why bother with him then?  Why set yourself up to feel less than beautiful?”

She’s got a point.  I look at the gorgeous redhead that he just posted on his page.  She’s his ideal.  I don’t measure up.  It’s just a big mess waiting to break my heart.  He wouldn’t want to be with me anyway.  I look nothing like her.  I wouldn’t look that amazing even if I spent a few tens of thousands on cosmetic surgery and hair color.  I resolve to avoid G.  He never contacts me except on the social networking site anyway.  He’s had my phone number for weeks and never called.  I suppose he would have if I was 25 years old and was sporting D-cups and looked like a model. 

Fuck.  That.  Noise.  I pick up my phone and delete his number.  I’ll delete him from my contacts tomorrow.  There were too many red flags anyway.

D sends the odd text.  Checking in.  He sent an iPod and music discs to me after…AFTER….we broke up.  I had spent a couple hundred dollars on his Christmas, which he insisted on opening in my presence.  He was delighted but had not spent so much on my gift – an iPod Nano.  He insisted on upgrading it.

I caught him in a spectacular lie, an unnecessary lie.  He had told an elaborate tale about spending New Years with the neighbors, but had spent it with the fair weathers.  I wouldn’t have cared who he spent it with, but the lie spooked me.  I found the wherewithal to break it off for good.  Devil me applauded.  D grumbled and made accusations, tossing projections of his own sins on me.  A wiser and wide awake me took command of my heart and my head, countering his accusations.  He wanted me back, but I was unwilling to return.  I told him gently, firmly that it was not necessary for him to buy me a gift.  I didn’t expect one.  But he insisted.

I hauled the package to work, nervous and afraid.  Dr K stood by my side when I opened it, “It’s the ‘real deal’, and it’s new,” he looked concerned, “Are you sure you want to break it off with this guy?  That’s a nice present.”  I looked at him with sad eyes, “He lies….always.  I can’t trust him.  Besides, I told him not to feel obligated to give me such a nice gift.”  Dr K sighed and shook his head, “I think that someone would have to love you a lot to spend so much….”  I touch his arm, “No…he doesn’t.”

He doesn’t. 

I talk weeks to set it up.

D emails like clockwork.  Asking if I had it set up….asking if I wanted more music.  My responses are short, polite and subdued.  He probes deeper.  I log off.

Devil me hugs me from behind, “It bothers you to talk to him, doesn’t it?”  I nod, “I think about the night that he made all those outlandish accusations.  Then I realize that he was projecting his sins on me.  That makes it easy to stay away.  He’s one sick mother fucker.  I don’t need that shit.  I don’t even want to be his friend.”

Angel me is shocked, “Does he know that?”  I shake my head, “I’m working on closing my page and opening a new one.  Or new ones…. He won’t be on my contact list.”

I shrug.  When I walk away, I walk away for good. 

It doesn’t help that I justify spending the weekend I have sans kids – working on the house.  I don’t go out.  I’m a little afraid to go out to be honest.  I organize and sort and tackle items on the “honey do” list.  It ends up proving to be my undoing.

I take the time to RSVP to the wedding of friends.  I’m not worried that D will attend, even though he’s friends with the happy couple.  He often badmouthed them…with much eye rolling…”She’s been married 3 times.  I think he’s been married four times.  As if this is the match made in heaven!”  I’d admonish him.  He’d ignore me. 

He also always, always berated me for accepting a friend request from L, because she was “crazy as hell!”  He told tales about her in high school.  I hadn’t been around because I was hanging out with a different crowd.  He declared that he would have nothing to do with her.  I shrugged, although I thought it was a bit ridiculous.

There was a bike show a few counties north of us.  L went with S (apparently they are a couple now, which tickles me) and the other couple (the pair that are planning to marry) went too.  D went, of course.  He allowed himself to be “tagged” so that we all knew that he was social.  Then he accepted the friend request from L, because he had changed his mind about her.  My heart sank a bit, although I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why. 

Angel me leaned in, “You’re out of sorts because you’re reeling from his unexpected behavior.  You believed that he’d be discrete, and that he’d honor your wishes and stay away.  Since when has he done a damned thing you’ve asked?  I don’t understand why you are sooooo surprised.”  

It wasn’t that.  It was the fact that I knew he’d said less than complimentary things about me to mutual friends.  Those things weren’t accurate.  Always, he would ….Devil me interrupts, “He told lies about you.  We all get it.  You don’t need to revisit this.”

She’s right and she’s wrong.

Alone.