Its Been One Year
On The Celebration Of The Resurrection
“Ugh,” I grumble as I lean closer to the mirror. “I have got to do something about these eyebrows.”
I inherited all the Lebanese traits from my father’s side of the family. The good ones – like a thick, dark head of hair – and the not so good ones – like thick, dark eyebrows.
It’s as if an invisible hand slaps me straight across the cheekbones. I have eyebrows. Eyebrows so thick, dark, and unruly that they need to be maintained yet again.
“What is the standard of review applicable to a motion for summary judgment?”
I am afraid to try to answer because I am certain that I will throw up if I open my mouth. I didn’t review this. What were the odds they would ask this – rather than something related to the applicable facts or the pertinent cases?
“You have been through an initiation, a burning down,” she tells me again from her perch in the corner of the sacred space we are gathered in. My body feels full, for lack of a better word. Plump. Not in an uncomfortable way, but in the way I imagine a water balloon that has been given just the right amount of water must feel. And I nod. Because this is quite possibly the perfect word for this last year.
On The Nature Of Waves & The Value Of Sisterhood
“I don’t think you needed any chemotherapy at all, to be honest.”
He tells me this as we are camped out in my neighborhood’s newest restaurant, sharing spanakopita that does not fall within any part of my restricted diet but which is so incredibly delicious that he insists I try it. It is worth every risk that comes with putting it into my mouth.
“You don’t think I needed any at all?” I question as I tuck my feet up beneath me and reach for my lemon water. “Any?”
I had reached the point where I could no longer cry. Less than two weeks out from my surgery, I tried unsuccessfully to make myself comfortable on the same couch where only a handful of weeks before I had sat as we discussed my release from her care. Now it felt like I was back in therapy 101.
Why 2016 Is Like Organic Chemistry (Or Why I Don't Hate This Year)
Please listen to me and try to understand. As difficult as that may be. Please try to understand that what is happening is not the end. It is only just the beginning.
Yes, I am talking to you. You who just received the terrifying diagnosis. You who has finally surrendered power over your addiction. You whose child is ill, whose parent is dying, whose best friend suddenly passed away. You who are divorcing the partner you can’t imagine life without. You who can no longer hide your sexuality, your true gender identity, your heritage. You who is sunk in a deep depression and can’t quite see the way out.
I know it seems dark right now.
Retirement Of The Superlatives
“Do you remember last year?” I asked him as we sat on yet another bench.
I was thinking back to December 26, 2015. I had done one of the most difficult, most right, things I had ever done the evening before. Less than 24 hours later I had found myself sitting barefoot beside him on a bench – my eyes dry and red from too many tears and my emotional state utterly depleted from the events of the day before.
A Note To The Supporting Actors
I like superlatives. I like them a lot.
Along with creating a completely skewed sense of reality, this love makes for some pretty dualistic thinking. I probably did not have the absolute worst cup of coffee in my life this morning (but I mean, seriously, what is a vegan supposed to do when it comes to half-and-half?). This is probably not the tiredest I have ever felt in my life.
"Can you tell me what to do?" he asked me over tea. The sun was hanging low and a hot flash was creating a fireball in the pit of my chest. "I keep having this come up and I just don't know what people need."
This has been a recurring theme lately - folks who want help knowing what to do in the wake of another's diagnosis. Believe me, I wish I could give you all a miracle crib sheet that would make something like this less awkward for all of us. But that would be impossible.