Holiday in the sun

It's hot in Florida. Christmas was nearly 90 degrees Fahrenheit and 90% humidity. At night Corinne and I walk through the neighborhoods, stretching our legs in the relative cool. In the evenings, she and I awaken. We are night creatures, slow and stunned during the early daylight hours, and exultant when the world becomes quiet and still. Its only during these nighttime conversations that Corinne really talks. We talk about our family, our friends, our past decisions and our future ideas.

Last night, I asked her about Kimball, about how they met and fell in love. Kimball is about seventeen years her senior and they have two little girls together. I know the story, of course, the broad brush-strokes. But not from her perspective.
"It wasn't like you and Sjors, if that's what you mean," she said, initially defensive. "We didn't fall in love the first time we saw each other."
"Most love stories aren't," I agreed. "And I have no room to judge other types of love. It isn't as though my story has turned out particularly well."
I tried again.
"He was your TA for Physical Chemistry," I said. "Did you know you liked him?"
"I liked him, but not like that," she said. "He was a really good instructor, and funny. I liked his class. When it was over, I gave him a card. It was a Christmas card, and had some joke about agriculture or something. A couple of weeks later we saw each other in the Chemistry building. He asked me to go to an art exhibit with him."
She was going out with someone else at the time, a guy named Tim. Tim was her age and, like her, a martial artist. The two black-belt athletes would spar.
"Of course things were really bad then," she said. I know. We don't need to discuss this part. It was a terrible time for our family. I still don't know how we made it out. We're broken and stitched together and perpetually in pain, but we're out.
"One day, when we were sparring, there was something about the physical contact that made me respond emotionally. I'm not an emotional person so it was really weird. I just started crying. Tim was really sweet to me."
She dropped this description, returned to discussing Kimball.
"I needed support. I needed to feel normal. Kimball didn't seem to notice the awful things happening in our family. He just kept coming around," she said. "You know how he is. He was just...Kimball. We would go hiking or biking. He helped me get away."
When did she fall in love with Kimball?
"He said he loved me first," she says. "Two or three months after we started dating, he said he loved me."
"What did you think?" I said. "Did you love him?"
"Not yet," she replied thoughtfully. "I was the robot queen. I couldn't feel anything."
"What did you say to him when he told you?"
"I said thank you."
When did she know she loved him?
"I'd been accepted into graduate school at ASU," she said. "Mom and I drove down there, moved me into an apartment. I talked her into staying another day while I took the entrance exams. There were two sets of exams - one in the morning and one in the afternoon. I took the morning exams but it felt so wrong. I couldn't stop crying. It had never happened to me before. My body just wouldn't stop crying. I missed Kimball. It felt wrong to leave him. So I talked to mom."
"What did she say?"
"You know mom. She's pretty good at giving support once you've made a decision, but you know she's not very helpful when you're trying to make a decision. She said, 'if he was going to marry you, he would have done it already.'"
"Yeah, really helpful. But you came back."
"I came back. I packed up my things and drove back home. I didn't tell the University where I was going. I just didn't show up for the afternoon exams. They filed a missing-person report on me."
I watched her as she talked. She was tired. There is a perpetual tired-to-the-bone look about her these days. She even refers to her mothering style as "Zombie mother".  Is this fatigue, I wonder? Or something deeper? Is our old companion, depression, lurking in her mind?

The moon hovered high above the horizon during our walks. I watched it wane in the days before I left. I wish I could help. I wish there was something I could do.

A moment ago I felt a brief surge of something bright. I'm not sure what it was, a ray of sunlight in the soul, an exhalation of some spirit muse. I've been so heavy and mentally lethargic, its difficult to see my way to any sort of purpose. I've been trying to read Feynman's lectures on physics to get me caught up before my next job. I've been trying to read Quantum Mechanics, the news. Anything to get my brain stimulated. But there seem to have been dead patches for so long its difficult to understand why.

Christmas

Up late last night assembling a toy kitchen for the nieces. Corinne and I finished around 0100 and went for a long walk in the moonlight through the Florida dark. It's warm here. Mist rose up and cloaked the world. The moon was bright.

Girls lost their shit when they saw the toy. Spent the day "cooking".

 Love the doodlers. It's good to spend time with them.

Merry Christmas, my love. Of course you were in my heart today.

Solstice

Leuprolide Acetate. Its commercial name is "Lupron".  From the Latin lupinus. Of the wolf. Rapacious. Ravenous. I inject myself twice each day. Morning and night. The name is fitting since the liquid bites. I hold ice to my stomach for nearly an hour afterwards and the burning never quite leaves. It is also fitting because hunger drives me to do this: a gnawing pain that has not left for years and which roars into life when I see in my periphery any reminder of what I once hoped for.

Tonight I see a full moon from my bedroom window. The lemon tree in Corinne's yard is heavy with fruit.

It was winter solstice when my cycle began. A propitious beginning. Ahead of schedule. I thought I had another week. I did not. So we sprang into action again. This time, I'm thousands of miles away from the clinic, so we made other arrangements. Yesterday I drove to Winter Park and paid up-front for the blood-work and tests. The tenderness from the last surgery hasn't yet left, and the shots will make me swell like a balloon but I'm ready for this. Ready to urge my body to produce its own fruit. I only know how deeply this affects me when I'm on the phone with my doctor's office, begging her to authorize my insurance company to pay a small fraction of the cost I've already put down. I've taken on debt, cashed out my retirement account for this small hope.

Saw the launch and careful descent of the Space X rocket with Corinne and the Doodlers. Such heat and energy! Excited about physics in a way I'd nearly forgotten. I want to ride one of those.

Transit

In the past week I've traveled quite a lot. So much time spent in airports, taxis, airplanes. It's a strange experience being in-between. I'm not one thing or another: not where I was, not where I need to be.  This has been the past several months for me. Maybe its been the past several years. I feel like a quantum particle: in between states. A superposition of possibilities. I can't be what I was meant to be, so what will I become instead?

I e-mailed Edward on Sinter Klaas. Gave him everything I've worked on for the past two years; every secret hope. Is it any surprise that his silence has become a burden? An additional sorrow?

The doctors have offered to try again - and not charge me a second time. It's an unusual and generous offer. One I couldn't have predicted or hoped for. I find a way to afford the medication and they'll include everything else. So, of course I'm going to try. Do I feel more trepidation this time? Yes. And I understand also the price I will pay physically, and this makes me anxious. But I'm grateful for the chance.

I'm able to see Corinne again. She picked me up at the airport last night. Today I spent time with her and the girls and Kimball, her husband. I have difficulty connecting with the girls right now. I won't read anything into this. It's just a matter of time, I'm sure.

Lisboa

 There was little flexibility on the timing of the interview. No flexibility, actually. When I asked them to move to the right a little to accommodate my surgery, they said, "No. Move your surgery." To be fair - I didn't tell them it was surgery. I called it a "medical procedure". But still - not particularly friendly or accomodating. This meant I was traveling before the anesthesia was completely out of my system and my body was still swollen with hormones and inflammation. I hardly recognized myself and my clothes didn't fit properly.

 

I fasted during most of the flight. Drank only water. I wanted to clear as much trouble from my system as possible, so I shut down my digestion. Let the body's own housekeeping service take care of business.

 

I arrived in Lisbon on Sunday night. Taxi to the hotel. It was raining. No problem - I'd brought my rain jacket. I skipped dinner and went for a long walk instead. Three miles to the city center and then back in the rain. It felt good to be back in Europe. The cobbled streets and the gently decaying buildings reminded me of Naples. I felt suddenly warm with homesickness. Glad to walk away from the years of trying to make the business run. Ate a yogurt I'd gotten from the Paris airport to stop the gnawing feeling before I went to bed.

At 4:45 I was awake again and anxiously waiting for the breakfast bar to open.  Felt glad to take down the complete spectrum of indulgences after the long break from food. Donned my running gear and made my first mistake of the trip: I went for a 3 mile jog.

I didn't think it would be a bad idea to get the body moving. But I was in pain during my shower and dressing. Flat-ironed my hair and, uncharacteristically nervous about the day, made it to the lobby well before the 0915 pickup.  

 There were four other candidates for the position. Waiting in the lobby. All men. All older. Canadian, Frenchman, and two Brits. I lack any desire to unsettle other people or play psychological games so I was friendly. Maybe the skirt and heeled shoes were enough to unsettle without any additional effort on my part. Everyone seemed as nervous as I felt. I wonder how badly these men wanted the position. We drove together in a van to the base. Checked documents. Assigned badges.

The test was three hours. Logic games. Numerical and statistical problem-solving using spreadsheets. Qualitative data summaries. Presentation preparations. I hated every second of the damned thing. I don’t like people looking at me and there’s no surer way to be looked at than to take a test. In the end, I think I did fairly well. Maybe better than the other candidates because I know my way around statistics.

 

I’d hoped to meet John during this trip but an e-mail coordination revealed that he was back in the Netherlands. Pity. I like the man. It would have been nice to catch up. I would have liked to meet his wife and children.

Without John to keep me company, I spent time with the other candidates – we went to lunch in a square close to the oceanfront. Bowl of mussels in tomato sauce with bread. Spent the rest of the day wandering around the city with one of the British candidates. Bookstores, souvenir shops, churches, bars, and Christmas markets where we bought gifts for our families. Not a lot of art in the form of paintings, but plenty of ceramic tile: depictions of sardines and swallows. Dinner at a local restaurant where they found my favorite Naples fish (Orata in Italian, Dorado in Portuguese, and Sea Bream in English). Charcoal grilled it to a lovely heat, drenched in olive oil, salt and lemon, and I was in gastronomical heaven.

But my other pain had only increased with the activity. By bedtime, I was hurting. Awakened at 4AM wondering if I’d screwed something up and should go to the hospital. Decided against it. Who knew what the health care system looked like here? How long would it take to be seen? Would it distract me from my interview? Meditated. Tried to sleep in. My interview wasn’t till 2 PM.

Took a taxi to the base. I was early out of fear of lateness. Spent an hour at the officers’ club: not quite on par with those I’ve seen in Africa. But there was a lovely climbing tree growing up the back side. The air was still cool, but warm enough to sit outside with a sweater. I drank water, chamomile tea, and meditated, feeling the breeze brush across my skin and the distracting pain in my abdomen. Then it was time and I walked to the building.

Five men in a large room. All but one in uniform. I relaxed. I know this audience. I am comfortable here. They had questions. Rehearsed questions – for each candidate. I was the last of the day. I decided to make them look at my ideas, not my person. I talked about Freeman Dyson, Iraq, Operation Resolute Support in Afghanistan, about the Boyd Cycle, functions of combat, and the Capability Geodesic. They had set aside 45 minutes for the interview. They were tired, wanted to go home, but they stayed in the room and I entertained them with my ideas for an additional 30 minutes. Who knows what will happen next? I think they will offer me the job.

Back to town to finish some shopping. Hotel, pack bags, called my doctor, and then took a taxi to the emergency room of the local hospital: Hospital di Santa Maria. Tour of the Portuguese health care system. It was difficult, chaotic, the building wasn’t new. But people were kind to me and competent and, tests performed, only asked for 135 Euros.  

I was bleeding, said the English-speaking doctor. Nothing was twisted inside, but the surgery and my subsequent activity had caused internal bruising. That was the pain. Nothing to worry about. I could fly.

It was 2AM by the time I returned to the hotel. Slept for 2 hours before I had to leave for the airport and return home. 

Statistics

I have two. On the left side. 1.6 and 1.8 cm respectively. I knew what this meant when I saw it on the screen. The statistics aren't good. Ten would be good. But nothing has moved or changed in days and they don't know why. For all the good statistics on the right, none of them will work.

Left is derided in many cultures in the world. Sinistre in Italian. Gauche in French. Counter-clockwise. Widdershins. Associated with the devil in Christian history; associated with the female in Ancient myth. Closest to the heart.

I have two. Statistics aren't good but I only need one to work. And with two, there's an intimacy. I never liked crowds anyway. I name them Mycroft and Sherlock.

Small progressions

Phone call this morning woke me up. After another late night writing I'd planned to sleep in a bit. But things have started moving more quickly and I have to answer questions on the other side of the world and track responses, and talk with the doctors.
Staggered into the kitchen for some coffee and my four-year-old nephew, Dean, spotted me. That boy is liquid sunshine for me in the mornings. Today he snuggled on my lap and opened the toy I left for him under the tree.
Worked for a few more hours then my sister-in-law gave me my shots at noon.Then off to lunch with San. It's one more week until the anniversary of Michael's death and she's feeling a bit rough.
Don agreed to meet me at the laboratory. We haven't spoken in years so I wasn't sure if he'd agree to my project. But we talked for two hours and he came around. There's the prospect of getting his pulse program and data synthesis programs up and running again. And I need them. He's one of the smarter scientists I've met.
Dinner with the boys and their parents.
Only a small bit of exercise at the gym this evening. I should have run this morning - or gone for a long walk. But damned if the cold doesn't turn me into a wimp. I don't even think about bicycling in it.
Of all the coincidences, December 8 next week is the feast of the immaculate conception.