In high school, I had a Composition teacher who presented himself as tough and rough. However, he had depth like the poetry he taught. His favorite topic was love and he often attempted his hand at match making. He was also the Freshman basketball coach and approached romance in a game strategy sort of way.
One of his phrases I have in mind is one he used in reference to his relationship with his wife. She was a waitress at a diner and they had a couple of toe-headed small children together. I believe they have since divorced, but over a dozen years ago, they were still in love. My teacher spoke of meeting her, liking her, and eventually, "doing the dog." As you can imagine, my hormone raging classmates woke from their stupors at this point and looked with eyes wide at a teacher who would dare talk about the only one subject everyone wanted to talk about all the time. "Doing the dog" was how he referred to falling in love and making yourself vulnerable to someone else. He explained that when two dogs meet, they will sniff each other and determine who is the alpha. The other dog will lay on its back and bare its throat, showing submission, offering its life to the more dominate. My classmates all sunk back to their barely awake states about midway through the teacher's metaphor. But somewhere inside, his animalistic and fairly unhealthy view of love struck a chord with me.
Possibly it was my understanding of my Catholic christian faith and the paschal mystery, or maybe it was that I had already come to experience vulnerability and pain in love. However it was that I came to that place, I knew there was truth in his teaching and I have often pondered the irony through this metaphor since. The love I know is as strong and rich and deep as it is vulnerable and fragile.
A few weeks ago, my then one month old son was hospitalized. He was having apnea episodes. That is a nice, cold, scientific way of saying he was holding his breath during sleep and turning blue. While he did not need to be resuscitated, my stomach plummeted like a roller coaster rider's each time he did it. Somewhere inside I knew a medication I had recently begun taking was causing his apnea, but it took me a few days to suggest it to the doctors. How could I admit to myself, let alone others, that I had done something, no matter how well intentioned, that put my baby in such peril? It isn't logical to feel guilty about it, but every time a staff member came in his room to poke or prod him, I wished it was me they were hurting instead. I avoided being present when they attempted, three times, to do a spinal tap. I went for a walk and left that one to my husband. I don't know how he did it. I had watched a phlebotomist attempt a draw a few times the day before. I had never know such anguish as watching my baby scream in pain as they pierced his skin over and over. I tried to sing to him and comfort him, but the lump in my throat blocked sound from coming out. So, all I did was weep. I stroked the side of his face as tears poured out of my eyes.
Friends of mine have faced greater challenges, and I have watched as they met them with strength and perserverience. What pulled them through? Why didn't they die from the pain in their hearts? From the pain I felt that day in the hospital, I am certain it is possible. I can only guess it is the ties of love they have them held them here. We are bound to those we love and these friends are incredible lovers.
And so, with a life filled with love such as this one I am living, I am writing tales of love. Love is what makes it worth getting up in the morning and the legeacy we leave when we go. This blog is one of love stories.
