All I did
I turned the channel to the Super Bowl.
I sat down and began to inhale football.
The most beautiful woman in the world, bald and weak and in
pain and slow from breast cancer surgery was wrapped adorably in a Red Sox
blanket in the kitchen heating puffy pastries and preparing plates of tortilla
chips and dip and crackers and cheese. Her pain medication was wearing off, but
she expressed nothing but laughter, smiles, and a level of alertness I struggle
to maintain in my own non-medicated world.
We began to watch the game in a daze draped over us by an
accumulation of shared recent experience. Her suffering from the surgery was evident,
as violent as a nightmare realized. I cannot even imagine her ordeal.
Together, ours was a doubly felt trial of many months,
concentrated in the collected physical and mental pain of impending, occurring,
and finally, past trauma. She had survived brilliantly. I was in wonder of her
endurance, patience, and her ever-present ability to smile.
The months before her surgery were difficult.
The days after her surgery were difficult.
The days and weeks to come might still be difficult.
For the next few hours, while men beat the hell out of one
another on television and commercials vied for our vulnerabilities, we shared
love ideally.
We had been building to this comfort for days. I found
myself volunteering to do favors for her out of compassion, not guilt. And it
felt right. Addictive, in a wonderful way. It warmed me to discover I had a
limitless well of love to give. The more time I spent with her, the greater was
my peace. She affected me, and continues to affect me, on a level no other has
ever neared.
She is beautiful, where others are plain.
She is funny, where others are brash.
She is insightful, where others are dismissive.
She is brilliant, where others are dull.
The game continued
and we shared knowing looks, silence, commentary, and puffy pastries. I
acquiesced when she insisted on performing the small burdens of kitchen work. The
more active she is, after all, the sooner her recovery. Within reason, of
course.
I wanted to intervene, but soon realized she was gaining
pleasure by offering comfort. She was warm, soft, charming, and beautiful. She
was the perfect hostess. She masterfully turned me into a guest in my own
apartment.
We had a subtle, ongoing debate about the merits of Tim
Tebow. I tried to explain to her that he could not throw a football with the strength
and skill of the Super Bowl quarterbacks. She maintained some kind of nonsense
that his lack of skill was not much of a flaw. I admired her unwavering stance.
We agreed that he was a nice guy and that my beloved Jets wasted a year of his
life.
And life is precious. Every day, let alone every season,
counts. And all I did to come to this obvious conclusion was to stay close to her
through this ordeal. By staying close, we have become closer.
All it seems I did was turn on the Super Bowl.
All I really did was open my eyes.
