Sunday, May 29, 2016

This Time

I awoke early this Sunday to the sound of rustling spring leaves, flapping together like children clapping their hands for attention, letting me know it was 40 degrees cooler than the day before. The sudden warmth on Saturday had quickly retreated overnight in the face of the stubborn east wind coming off the ocean, reminding me, and the impatient foliage, that it wasn’t summer just yet.

Breathing in through my swollen and bloodied nose, the cool salty air tickled my newly formed nostrils and the taste of iron and lilac drip down my throat. I rub my dry eyes and the feel of the tape on across the bridge of my nose and the sudden pain remind me that I’m still recovering from the surgery I had a few just a few days ago.

I roll on my side wanting to sleep a little while longer, ignoring the fact that I’ve been in bed for days, and relish that it’s Sunday of Memorial Day weekend and I have no plans to speak of, but my bladder doesn’t care one bit.  I stumble to the bathroom, pull down my panties and sit on the toilet in one motion, then look out the window at the newly ensconced trees and pee a little river. After wiping, I look into the bowl; it’s dark yellow. I’m dehydrated again. Maybe that’s why I have a headache, and not the surgery. Too much coffee, vodka, and wine, and not enough water, I know.

I glance into the mirror over the sink stained with chalky white toothpaste, blue-green spit from my antibiotic mouth rinse, and bits of dried blood. I’m still puffy and the soiled tape on my nose has begun to pull away from my face, but I think I look a little better I convince myself. My black eye, which had turned yellow yesterday, was now hardly noticeable. I turn away from the mirror and step on my scale wedged between the vanity and the tub. You have step on it to get it to activate, step off, then on again. I usually step off again to bend down and read the number, as I’m usually not wearing my glasses. But with my head in pain, I squat instead. The first try I miss, and the blue numbers disappear before I can read them. I try again. 132!  No, that’s not right, really? I think to myself, getting excited.  Then do it again. 134.6. That’s probably right, and even though its not a big difference, I’m disappointed nonetheless.

Earth spins around the sun at an angle of 23.5 degrees, which is why we have different seasons. Most modern day calendars divide the year into quarters: spring, summer, fall, and winter. The dates of when these seasons begin and end vary depending on whom you ask. Most of us use the dates of equinoxes and solstices to mark the beginning and end of seasons, but to be consistent and to make weather forecasting easier, meteorologists divide the year into 4 meteorological seasons of 3 months in length. Spring, for example, runs from March 1st to May 31st.

No matter when you think spring begins or ends, it seems to be always a season full of contrasts, and this year is certainly no different. For me, it’s been filled of many distinct moments full of emotion. I’ve watched my parents’ age right before my very eyes, witnessing both of them feel pain like I’ve never seen before. My dad crying-out after part of his left leg was amputated and a phantom pain wakes him out of a post surgical morphine haze.  And my mom, can’t catch a break either, having to spend Mother's Day in the ER for hours, shaken by a mysterious pain that some of the best doctors in Boston, who had just repaired her leaking aneurysm, can’t figure out and shake their heads bewildered.

And in all of this, I found love. Out of nowhere, there’s someone special in my life and all I want to do is spend time with her, hold her, kiss her, have sex, hold hands in public, wake up next to her, by groceries together, watch ET with her boys, and complain when she doesn’t pay enough attention to me.

So I guess the joy I feel is connected to the emotions I feel for my parents. And as their bodies become more fragile, I imagine each of them, 57 years ago, falling in love and want to believe they once felt how I feel now, sparkling with life. I look at this time as magical and precious, but the more I try to hold on to it, it seems to slip through my fingers, like the   sand we used to play in as children. Spring won’t last forever.