But I Don’t Know Where To Start

Photo Credit: Pexals, Ricardo Esquivel

“A real love letter is made of insight, understanding, and compassion. Otherwise it’s not a love letter. A true love letter can produce a transformation in the other person, and therefore in the world. But before it produces a transformation in the other person, it has to produce a transformation within us. Some letters may take the whole of our lifetime to write.”
― Thich Nhat Hanh

Dear One,

I have the house all to myself.

Honey, did you hear me? I have the house all to myself!

Yes, I’m talking to you. What? You think I’m crazy. Well, you wouldn’t be totally wrong.”

I realize this is my post-traumatic pandemic self talking, but honestly, I haven’t been alone in my house for years, and that’s simply tragic.

Now, I won’t bore you with how much I love being home alone, but it’s like going to the gas station and filling my tank, or even better, plugging into one of those lightning chargers, and suddenly I’m resurrected! 

When all those kids Larry sired started school, and he worked for a living, I had an empty house to myself for a wee bit almost every day (except during the summer, which was a total snafu). I came to realize that an empty house is the only thing that is able to fill me. I would putz around, tidy things up, dust trinkets, listen to MY music, or more often than not, I sat there as if a Bohemian monk enjoying the silence. I would spend time with my own thoughts, try them on like sandals, walk around, see if they squeezed my toes.

It was marvelous, essential, a good fit, if you will.

As the years flew by, I snagged a job at Notre Dame, Larry still went to the office or traveled (with the itinerary left under a magnet on the refrigerator), and Shaggy had the place to himself. 

That’s where the adage “you lucky dog” came from. 

But I only worked on campus three days a week, which left two whole days for me to putz, write, ponder, and annoy my sister.

Anyhoo, since the pandemic hit, Larry and I both retired, and bye, bye precious hours of beloved solitude. 

Here’s the news flash. 

Larry needs to run up to the lake to check on the house after a recent storm. The lake house loves to leak. We patch, she leaks, it’s as if she’s incontinent. 

The plan is for him to drive up to the lake this morning, repair any damage, if there is any, rake a few leaves, watch the game, and return in the morning. 

Now, if you’ve connected the dots, this leaves me alone in the house for twenty-four hours. Practically an entire lifetime, and I’m claiming it as my Christmas miracle. I admit I’m giddy with excitement, visualizing pots of warm coffee, a computer on my lap, and not a distraction in sight. Not to brag, but I’m on excellent terms with my solitude. 

And I’ll still have tomorrow to wrap, decorate, and prep for my upcoming dinner party! It’s perfect, and I admit, my downfall may have been mentioning my plans to God. You know how she likes to stir the pot, especially when we’re nicely simmering.

In the blink of an eye, my short-lived fantasy morphed into a mini-ephialte, and of course, I’m compelled to share the tale in annoying detail. 

It all started with an early morning dentist appointment. Not my favorite thing in the world, but like church, it’s considered a sin if you don’t go every six months. And I’m a rule follower. As I’m leaving the house, I notice Larry’s bags are lined up by the front door. I kiss him goodbye and remind him to call me when he gets to the lake.

I don’t want to gloat, but I have no cavities. 

In fact, I’ve only had one cavity in my entire life. It was when I was pregnant with one of the kids. The problem is that if you are low on a vitamin or two and you’re harboring a child in the womb, they’ll just take it from another source. They’ll tap into your iron supply or suck the enamel right off your teeth while you’re sleeping. Little parasites.

So after my teeth were spit-shined, the doctor came in to admire my chops. I’m sort of famous in the dental community for my resistance to decay. Get it? Okay, moving along. While the doctor is tugging mercilessly on my tongue for a better look at my pearly whites, he is also browsing the X-rays which they claim are necessary every two years. 

The doc stops talking when he flips to the third image mid-sentence, and the room is plunged into an awkward silence. Even the technician, who talks nonstop while she is cleaning my teeth, is at a loss for words.

I say with as much clarity as possible, considering the doctor still has a hold of my tongue, “Isth slumpthig wog?”

Doc responds, but it’s as if he’s talking to himself, “oh no, no, I’m just…” Then he says to the technician, “show me the images from the last six years.”

Silence. He releases my tongue and moves in for a closer inspection of the X-rays. Continued silence.

Me, “this does not seem good.”

So he elevates my chair, which had my feet resting higher than my heart, looks me in the eye, and says, “I want you to see a specialist. Today.

“What? Do I have a cavity?”

He looks confused for a second and says, “No, no, it’s…”

“Thank God, because that would have been front-page news.”

He smiles like an indulgent father and says, “you have a spot on your jaw, it could be nothing, but I want to have it checked out. I’m going to call my oral surgeon and send him the X-rays right now. I’ll have him fit you in…” and he takes off down the hall to make some calls.

I’m a little stunned. It’s Christmas. I was going to be home alone, trying on new thoughts, and now I’ll be returning to an empty house with a spot on my jaw, and Larry is halfway to the lake. 

I start peppering the technician with questions, but she’s gone mute, and she hands me a little bag with a toothbrush, floss, and toothpaste as she’s slipping out of the room,

I stumble to the lobby. My dentist shoves a business card in my hand and says, “call this number. They’ll fit you in today.” Then he adds, “it could be nothing. We just want to be thorough.”

“Merry Christmas.”

I drive home with a mild surge of fear coursing through my veins, gently exploring my jaw with my fingertips. I feel nothing unusual. I mentally remind myself to pluck that stray chin hair I’ve been ignoring for weeks. Aging issues. 

The first thing I notice when I roll up our street is Larry’s truck is still in the driveway, and admittedly, for once, I’m thrilled not to be alone.

Stepping over the bags still lined up by the front door, I can see he’s in the office, doing God knows what.

I tell him about the appointment, highlighting the no cavities, while lowlighting the spot on my jaw.

He says, “I’m going with you.”

“What about the incontinent lake house?” He gives me the look, “she can wait. What time is the appointment?”

“This afternoon.” Can I just say waiting is unpleasant?

The clock moves deliberately slow when you watch it but shockingly fast when you’re not paying attention. I believe that’s what Einstein was trying to solve with math when clearly, it was an observational issue. My two cents.

I drag the overwrought husband with me to my meeting with the oral surgeon at the appointed time. Larry has convinced himself that this is it. I’m kicking the proverbial bucket, taking my final bow.  And while they’re dealing with me, he’s outside pacing in the courtyard as if a schizophrenic who is having trouble making sense of the situation. I’m not sure, but he might need shock therapy.

So they wrap me in a heavy apron and stick me in a machine that whirls around my head like a drone while it takes images of my jaw in 3D. I return to the chair in my assigned room, and the doctor enters right after me. A little too quickly for my liking.

He says right off the bat, “your jaw is fine. You have some bone loss from the braces you once had, and the bones have shifted as you age. It’s normal. And that’s what created the shadow that Dr. Fong saw. But what I’m really concerned about is your sinuses! They look horrible.”

“I just got over a nasty cold.”

“My advice, take an antihistamine when you get home.”

“So I get to keep my chin.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m not going to die.”

“Not today.”

“Well, my husband will be pleased.”

When I find Larry wearing out the tread on his shoes, I give him the good news, he’s a little emotional, and right there on the spot, he decides we need to celebrate with a dinner out. 

I should have a near-death experience more often! 

So we share a plate of mama’s meatloaf at the Greek restaurant up the street. I realize meatloaf is an odd choice at a Greek establishment, but it is the owner’s private recipe, and it’s my kind of comfort food. 

He left this morning at the break of dawn for the lake.

Honey, did you hear me? I have the house ALL TO MYSELF.

I spent the morning cleaning the kitchen, wrapping gifts, decorating the tree, and prepping for the dinner party I’m hosting tomorrow. And I still had time to participate in my granddaughter’s Christmas party at Bagby Elementary, the same school my kids attended. 

When I got home, I lit a fire, played some Kenney G in the background, and wrote you a love letter that I didn’t know how to start.

If you think about it, a writer writes alone, the reader reads alone, and this means we’re together, enmeshed in the same words wherever we might be. I don’t know why, but that makes me smile with a fully functional chin.

Larry found no leaks at the house. He drove all the way back home on the same day. I heard him walking through the door as I was finishing these final thoughts.

Wishing you all who celebrate Christ a very Merry Christmas, and to those who celebrate the light a most sacred Hanukkah and a Heartwarming Day to those who simply celebrate life and having the house all to themselves. As the days grow shorter and it seems as if the bottom has fallen out of our world, may we bring comfort and joy to each other, because if I’ve learned anything this week, it’s that the presence of love has a magic all its own.

Hugs and love, C

I’m Living in the Gap, dealing with life, chin up!