The Ballad of the Long Distance Lover

You would think I would be good at this by now.

And in some ways, I am good at this. I know the secret corners to plug in my laptop. I know where to get Chinese food at O’Hare when I’m craving even the most greasy of vegetables and how long of a stopover I need to be able to walk there. I know which airports have the kinder customs officials, the ones who don’t balk or excessively when I explain that my fiancé does live in another country and, yes, I am still returning to Canada in two days time. I know which airports have free wireless and which travel websites have the best deals. And I’ve stopped caring who notices me crying as my rolling suitcase echoes behind me.

So after seven times, you’d think I’d have figured out how to say goodbye.

I always tell myself I’m going to be more graceful, more contained. I’ll maybe let a well-intentioned tear or two trickle out, but I will not let out body shaking sobs and have mascara collecting in all the creases in my face. I will be able to walk through the revolving doors, only looking over my shoulder to wave, rather than always needing to turn around, dash back, and bury my face in his neck one more time. I will not loathe the couples sitting near me, contently holding each other’s hands, who don’t understand how effortless their relationship seems to me. I won’t always wake up the morning before he or I leave feeling as though I have been kicked in the stomach. I won’t keep on doing mental arithmetic, counting how many hours, minutes we have left until another goodbye.

But I always do.

I think the mind can’t handle this level of aching every day, this dullness behind the eyes. It covers it up quickly in details like what time to set the alarm, what to make for dinner, what shoes are best for the weather outside, when this report is due. The details, though tedious, are soothing, in that they take you away from the rawness of your own mind. It is as though the only way you can handle being away from the person you love is for you to forget how hard it is when they aren’t there. It is only when you see them again that you realize how barren these days full of details actually are.

It's the night you can roll over and touch him that you realize how empty your bed has been.

Her foot

Things change in instant, we know, we know. It's a platitude by now. Live every day like it was your last, because you never know what the next moment will bring. Seize the moment. Etcetera, etcetera.

Sure, every once in a while, in a particularly somber mood, after a particularly depressing song, perhaps a little too much wine, or maybe after reading one too many headlines, we set ourselves to really considering this notion.

Or maybe after one of those rushing moments. When the dish on the stove catches on fire, and you don't notice right away. When the brakes grab just in time. When you catch yourself just before falling. In those hazy moments just after the overwhelming sensations start fading, you can't help but thing how everything could have changed right there. But it didn't.

Yet sometimes it does.

Valentine's Day this year was perhaps not very romantic, but was what one would call a very good day, nonetheless. It was one of those days where you walk out of the house planning to return by lunch time, but instead end up following a series of random strings, and return home at midnight to that pile of laundry you really meant to do.

And, as such, our day went like: Pre-planned serious event! Lunch with Julie! Bilodeau wins gold medal! Drinks! Patriotism! More drinks! More sports! Anisa calls! Gallavanting through the countless celebrators in the streets! Drinks and dinner with Anisa and crew! More sports! Sophie calls! Go see Sophie's brother's band! More drinks! Oh shit, it's midnight and we have to work tomorrow! Go home.

Except the next day, we get an email. Anisa, who at the last minute decided not to come see Sophie's brother's band, has been hit by a car.

Not a car, actually, but rather a Hummer. A Hummer driven by a guy who'd had too much to drink and decided to fly through a crosswalk at high speeds without checking to see who might be walking across said crosswalk.

Seemingly, she was lucky. Sure she'd spent 13 hours in the ER in crippling pain, undergone massive reconstructive surgery on a heel that was nearly shattered to bits, a week in the hospital, still can't work, needs a walker to negotiate her apartment and a wheelchair to go more than a block. That's not too bad when one goes flying through the air after being hit head on by a Hummer, right?

This Sunday night, we went out to watch the hockey game. Anisa, as always, was rolling with the punches, joking about how her walker would help her pick up men. We began talking about her next doctor's appointment, as the last had given her very little idea about likely prognosis. She spoke of trying to go in with as little expectations as possible, as there was still a chance that despite following all the right steps, the bones in her foot may die. Someone asked about worst case scenario. She said the doctors refuse to tell her, stating that they will "deal with that if the time comes".

I assume worst case means that she will never walk without crutches again.

Later, when she goes out for a cigarette, the Duke murmurs to me "You know what worst case scenario is, right?"

I shake my head.

He had spoken to a friend of his with a PhD in nursing. "If the bone death is really bad, they may have to amputate her foot. I don't think she has any idea it's even a possibility."

So there's what a moment can do. It can seize a 26 year old woman away from an entirely average day, toss her into the air, and leave her in danger of losing her foot.

The one in which Facebook status updates give me nightmares

I sometimes feel as though Facebook gives me way too much information about people's lives. Because of my live feed, I know about casual acquaintances' rampant back-and-forth relationship statuses.... Ann is now single, Ann is now in a relationship with Ryan, Ann changed her relationship status to It's Complicated. I found out that my high school music teacher left his wife via Facebook. Even though I knew my sister and her live-in boyfriend were on the verge of splitting, Facebook provided me with the official notice before the phone rang. Pregnancies and births are old hat at this point via my home page. Hell, I found out an old friend was getting breast implants from her status updates.

Since we've covered relationship statuses and medical procedures, apparently tragedy is the next big ground for Facebook to seize onto. One woman I know detailed her mom's heartbreaking sudden diagnosis with terminal cancer, starting with "Carrie can't think of any way to tell Facebook her mom is dying" to "Carrie's mom died today." Psychgrad previously wrote about someone whose mourning led them to post pictures of their dead mother.

Last night, I was scrolling through status updates, when an old high school friend's caught my eye. "Rebecca is shocked. RIP Anton." My mind immediately goes to Anton, a mutual friend, whose mother used to make us chocolate chip pancakes, who had a catapult in his backyard, who played a mournful song on the saxophone in the school courtyard when Marissa died, who was tall, quiet, and unaware of all the girls pining after him, who is now studying art. I shoot her off a quick message, asking her if it was indeed that Anton.

I start clicking through other friends pages rapidly. He is not on Facebook, but his sister is, and her profile picture is of her and him in the outdoors. There is nothing out of the ordinary there. I know that if the update was "RIP John", I might give it some passing thought, but Anton was too rare of a name for me to just discard it. I hate myself for wishing this misfortune on another Anton, not my Anton.

We curl up on the couch. I watch TV. I try not to ruminate, as I know this is my pattern, and there is no use grieving until I know the truth. I also know that, in all probability, it is someone else. At the same time, I feel a little guilty laughing.

No reply by midnight. I crawl under the covers. I dream that I log into Facebook and have many, many messages, all from Anton and I's friends. They tell me he had a recessive genetic condition that let to him collapsing after having a few drinks. They share memories of him. In this dream, I am checking my laptop in bed, so when I wake up in that same bed, it takes me a moment to shake the feelings off.

Still no message from Rebecca when I awoke. I start to vaguely resent her for putting up these words, for not knowing how many people would see them and worry about our Anton. At the same time, I know this is not fair to hold someone in mourning to my standards of logic.

Finally, at 9:08am, one line. "No another Anton."

She changes her status to clarify this, and I see she has joined a group in memorial of this Anton. He looks young and happy. 

And I lament for the people who are going to find of his passing by an invitation to join a Facebook group.