40 - i'll go on

He divines that the great secret will never be apprehended but incorporated in his very substance. He has to make himself a part of the mystery, live IN it as well as with it. Acceptance is the solution: it is an art, not an egotistical performance on the part of the intellect. Through art then, one finally establishes contact with reality: that is the great discovery.

      —Henry Miller, Sexus

~~~

Sitting at the top of the stairs on the third floor, going over it in my mind, trying to assemble the words, practicing for a proper apology.

Where to begin… for all the bravado and wise counsel, the talk of fearlessness and courage, I always step back, riddled with doubt and insecurity. My first instinct in any situation has always been to step away, let go, move on. I lack confidence even when I’m leaning in and insouciant, even when there’s evidence to the contrary, when love, praise and expressions of appreciation abound. Yes, always and forever, doubting and disbelieving.

So here’s the deal… I have to decide if this is the way I want to go. Stay with Camille and live out and write our story to the end, or give it up and let MKB take over, make this blog something different. He’s adamant, thinks I’m off the reservation, “off the deep edge,” that I’ve become a tad obsessed and possessive about this little corner of the online universe. And why shouldn’t I be? I’m happy and juiced up, even when I’m nonplussed and shaken, even when folks don’t get me, when all and sundry misunderstand and misconstrue.

Godammit~! I’m not giving up.

~~~

Where to begin… It all started at Blanca on the day she took the MCAT. June 16th. Two administrations, one at eight in the morning and one at two in the afternoon. She’s a weird one, she chose the 2 p.m. show, said she’s calmer, more lucid in the afternoons. We both took the day off, told her I’d drive her over to the Prometric Test Center and pick her up when she’s done; then to Blanca to celebrate.

Close to the test center there’s this weird café in a strip mall, Wired Café Le Bistro, and I hunkered down, sipping the decaf iced Americano and finally finishing off Beckett’s The Unnamable. Am despairing, thinking of the future, and unable to wrap my mind around his optimism:

“Doubt no more. Seek no more. Take advantage of the brand-new soul and substantiality to abandon, with the only possible abandon, deep down within…. Something has changed...”

~~~

Like most who take these flipping exams, ACT, SAT, GRE, GMAT, LSAT, MCAT you study your ass off, you’re tired, and worried, no one ever honestly believing they’ve done well, and you take the damn thing, and then it’s over. When I picked her up she looked exhausted, something I rarely see. She’s so on, so up for it, always, ramped up and ready, and I expect the late nights studying after long days at the Cancer Center took their toll, and of course the realization, that this was the entry exam to her dream, a dream that had burgeoned and evolved over time, from imagined writer/poet, to nurse, to the healing and comforting M.D. The word “stress” doesn’t capture it.

We sit down in “our” booth, opposite the bar, we’re becoming regulars, and Bernard is working, and he comes over, “Hey you two,” the pleasantries, the chit-chat, he’s a surfer like Camille, there’s a bond, a connection, and he turns to me, “The usual?” and Camille answers, “No, two Shirley Temples please.” Though surprised, he didn’t miss a beat, smiled and said “Two classic Shirleys, coming up.”

Was relieved and surprised. So loving and thoughtful, so damned supportive and kind, and empathetic, a moment to celebrate for her, to sip martinis and order up a bottle of wine, and she knows what I’m up against, decaffeinated and off the sauce, and, well, full-on I was going to order up the Junipero martinis, thought it was an allowable moment as Doc Triple M had said, that it was okay to drink now and again, special occasions.

I liked that she took control, stepped right in, a clarifying glimpse at the physician-to-be: unrelenting, assertive and caring.

~~~

Looking at the menu I asked, “What are you hungry for? This is on me?”

“I don’t know, you want to explore?”

“I’m game.”

Bernard arrives with our drinks, and she asks him to bring us two appetizers, the grilled asparagus and the “beets and marrow.” She asks him about the beets. “They’re absolutely amazing.”

After the appetizers they delivered two orders of the Tagliatelle: clams, chorizo, artichoke and idiazabal (Basque cheese, OMG, seriously), and a quiet dinner commenced sans martinis and wine,… another secular and sacred moment, so lovely she is, yet clearly tired, relieved, and I still have Beckett in my mind, ruminating, wondering about, “… perhaps it’s a dream, all a dream, that would surprise me, I’ll wake in the silence… where I am, I don’t know, I’ll never know, in the silence you don’t know, you must go on, I can’t go on, I’ll go on.” Clueless I am.

In the parking lot, as we were about to leave, I open the car door for her and she turns and asks, “You seem sad. What’s going on?” I say I’m okay and try to divert and deny, ask her more about the exam. She’s astute, diversion and denial don’t work with her. On the drive home she asks again, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

And I can’t resist her want of the truth, and slowly admit that I’m seeing the end, I know, I know, the absurdity of it, but still, I am anchored in that sea or slough of despond, in imagination, I can’t help thinking of the moment when she sees the contrast clearly, when she feels keenly her youth and vibrancy, that I’m so much older, aging, in a way barely hanging on, and maybe the only reason I’m hanging on has to do with her presence in my life, and that’s just so fucked up, spiraling, spiraling, descending into despair, and so tired she is, and she looks at me, incredulous, those damned soul-piercing eyes, I expect her to rip me, but nothing, only silence, and she just let’s me ramble on, the absolute worst, what one can conjure out of doubt and fear, the art of “catastrophizing” even when things are going well, no longer in the moment but in some future moment of pain and suffering and severance, and I try to put a positive spin on it, that she’ll get to medical school seasoned and savvy, alluring and sensual, and she’ll meet a fellow physician, and her life will change, and an unexpected love will emerge and evolve, and…

When we got home, she got out of the car and said she was going for a walk. She headed for the beach.

“Let me come with you.”

She hollers back, “I want to be alone.”

So here I am waiting for her, wanting to rewind the last hour and a half, how to take back the words, to apologize?

~~~

She comes in and I just yelled it out. “I’M SORRY. REALLY. I get this way, travel places I can’t…” and she yells up, “Stop”… and she appears on the landing just below, and she seems as lucid and calm as she’s ever been. She looks at me steely-eyed and passionate, “I get it. I really do. But you have to trust me. And you know this, what the hell, you know this, there are no guarantees. I love you and right now I can’t imagine not being with you. I like that you’re different. I believe in you,… you’re going to get published. Can we…?, god, why else would I be with you? I feel connected. I want us to continue. I can’t give you more than that.”

She was glaring at me, angry and plaintive, “I’m tired, I’ve got a twelve-hour shift tomorrow, now can we go to bed?”

I’m still sitting down, and as she goes by I caress her leg. She slaps my head, “You coming?”

And that was that, queue up the music: I've Got You Under My Skin