Incapacitating back pain and foot swelling notwithstanding, the high lasted well into the next day, that indescribable high that can only come from losing by just a little. It is not lost on me that some folks might find the whole concept a bit odd. It occurs to me that I have indeed never seen a feel-good movie or read a feel-good book about losing by only a little. Which only tells me that it hasn't all been done before, that there is at least something new under the sun. My screenplay has begun to write itself. Chariots of Smolder. Sort of Breaking Away. The Lukewarm News Bears. Miracle, Practically.
The other day I visited with my ex husband who was visiting his companion of almost four years at a hospice care facility, and no, unfortunately, it is not because she works there. I use the word "companion" because I believe that, at fifty-two, she is too old to be referred to as a "girlfriend." Too old to be a girlfriend, but far too young to be dying. At first I was offended by the other folks in the family waiting room, by their laughter, by the excruciatingly loud noise of the coffee machine. Shut up! I wanted to shout. My ex husband's girlfriend who is too old to be called his girlfriend but far too young to be dying, the woman who made him happy after I made him miserable, is out there causing him way more misery than I ever could have caused him -- or he ever could have caused me -- even on our most vicious days. How could anyone be laughing, or drinking coffee? Somehow, minutes later, we were both laughing and drinking coffee. Strange.
I asked him if he ever wonders whether there is some great meaning in all of this. He said "no." Fair enough; it's certainly not surprising that we disagree on something. I just cannot help but think there has to be some meaning, that all things -- good or bad -- happen for a reason. I raised the same issue less than twenty-four hours later at a job interview that had presented itself at what seemed to me to be a perfect time. "I believe in serendipity." We both said it at exactly the same time, this woman I barely knew and I. I might not get the job but, for at least a moment, we were on the same page. Not a total loss. An "almost win." Maybe things would have worked out better if I had been married to her.
That night, I met an old friend for dinner at an Asian restaurant. He had come armed with essays ripped from newspapers. "You could have written these," he told me. "Don't give up." I stuffed them in my purse, making a mental note to myself to read them later, although I suppose that really wasn't the point. I promised my friend I would continue to send my stuff out, even though I know there's not a chance in hell any of my emails get opened, much less read. We moved on to other, less frustrating topics. Like wondering which of our children would take care of us when we become old and dotty.
I grabbed a fortune cookie, leaving the check for him, proving the old adage that he who hesitates gets stuck paying. I cracked open the cookie and was startled by the partial accuracy of the prediction. You will soon travel a great distance to do business. I leave for Japan in two weeks. And I am hoping to be gainfully employed soon, though I was counting on doing business a bit closer to home. Another "almost win." I could sense the onset of another indescribable high.
I decided to go for broke and open a second cookie (there were four cookies and only one check, so I don't think I was being greedy). You have a charming way with words and should write a book. Again, not a clean win -- nobody has ever described me or any aspect of me as charming -- but not a total loss either. A random cookie encouraging me to write a book? Talk about serendipity.
The hospice facility was as chock full of zen as any place I've ever been. Signs pointed toward a healing garden, which seemed incongruous in a place that exists for those who cannot be healed. My voice echoed loudly against the whispering air in the lobby, and I felt strangely out of place as I waited for the elevator door to glide silently open. Upstairs there was a soundless bustle of nurses criss-crossing the halls as they slipped in and out of rooms to work their magic. And then, the relief of the family waiting room. The laughter. The coffee.
Maybe the healing garden is for the visitors, or maybe it's for the people who work there. Maybe it reminds everyone that all is not lost. Even in the face of unspeakable tragedy, a walk in the healing garden is as good as a hit, or at least, for the moment, as good as it gets.
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| Seriously. I am not making this up! |
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