The pain of lost love remains a daggar long after the pain of losing a love.
This evening I comforted a friend who inquired about my own experiences with being forced to close the book on a love story, specifically the saga of me and Haley. About this time a year ago is when our pieces began to crumble. For another four months I attempted to spread putty on a crater-sized hole. We would take one step forward, one step back, one step forward, two steps back. Only when I took my own step back could I finally see the problems that no good intention, no determination, no sign of affection could rectify. Two months after saying goodbye, I became a stronger, happier person. After driving Haley back home from our first night together post-break-up, I knew my affections were no longer stuck on her. Looking back, I think I was over her one month before, after (but not while) briefly dating another girl.
So months have passed since I've been in love, months without even feeling a strong adoration for any girl, let alone Haley. Why, then, could I feel my voice quiver as I retold my story this evening? Why did my body shake in the same nervous fashion as when I loved this girl? Why could I not tell this story without reliving some of the pain?
"It's hard to give up the one you never thought you'd leave (Juliana Theory, "August in Bethany")." While I can attest to such difficulties, I also recognize that once you accept the end of a relationship, your emotions and perspective get healthier. You gradually refamaliarize yourself with a life independent of that other person, you understand why what you wanted and what was meant to be are not one in the same, and you release your grasp of feelings for that other person. It may to tough giving up someone you never pictured giving up, but once you do, your life can continue to blossom.
But standing beyond the sorrow of a broken relationship does not free you from the anguish of the struggles and failure you endured along the way. Long after you learn enough from a relationship that you are thankful for all that happened, the memory of your core feelings through the hardship can still affect you. People can move on from times of sorrow and still be affected by the memory of the pain. An elderly woman cries when retelling the time her son was part of a serious car accident. A thirty-year-old man heats up inside when retelling the day his mom explained that daddy was moving out of the house to live in a new place with a strange lady. A twenty-year-old boy shakes when retelling his first experience of losing someone he loved.
They all have put their grief behind them, yet the general feeling of sorrow can be rekindled...
but only for a fading moment, for life is too full of preciousness and joy to surround yourself with former woes.
Tuesday, March 25, 2003
Three Memorables from Canada, Vol. I: Skiing Incidents
1) Day one, my very first time skiing, and I'm like a domesticated lion thrown into the wild jungle: no clue what to do, in way over my head, only a violent death seems inevitable. The Kooter, my expert skier friend, leads me to the ski lift. Our little cabin brings us higher and higher up the mountain, and I know the only way back to civilization is down. Without any knowledge as to how I'm supposed to move with these two boards clamped onto my feet, I'm hoping for a relatively flat path and some careful instructions from The Kooter. Instead, I'm given a constant slope and this helpful tidbit: "It's just like ice skating."
I can hear the impending sounds of doom for two reasons. One, I've only been ice skating once, and I still have marks on my feet from the pain. Two, if my problem with ice skating is understanding how to stop, how am I going to halt myself going down a mountain? I quickly find the solution to that question... fall. I try to turn, I go fast, I lean back, I fall down. I get up, I try to turn, I go fast, I lean back, I fall down.
Don't lean back? Ok.
I find my skis, I reattach them, I try to turn, I go fast, I tell myself not to lean back, I lean back, I fall down.
Two and a half hours later, I reached the bottom of the mountain, out of breath, more snow on my head than feet, wondering how big the black and blue on my right butt cheek was growing, and on my way to pay a professional to teach me how to ski.
2) Day three, my most successful day as a skier. Ben and I begin the morning with some warm-up flat green paths on our way to some detouring blue slopes. My body had accepted what my brain had told it long before, to not lean back, and I was able slice through the wind, cut through the snow, leave ice shavings flying in my trail, and finish a run without snow on my head. Skiing is infinitely more exhilerating when you can actually do it.
I may have been flying through my best day of skiing, but before the morning ends I execute the fall of the trip. Ben convinces me to turn into a blue path, a piece of mountain slightly steeper and bumpier than my novice trails. I won't lose control (leaning back is not even an issue, anymore), I tell myself. It's easy to tell yourself that when you're strolling at a slow enough pace to hear every instruction from your head. My body is flowing through the steeper slopes at too fast a pace to rationalize through each turn. I must rely on athleticism and instinct. I cut, I turn, I tuck in. Then the series of sharp turns is on the horizon, and I must react quickly. Turn right! Turn left! Turn sharply right! Turn really sharply left!
And I did exactly that. I controlled myself through the turns and completed a sharp left... right into a mini hill that doubled as my ski ramp. My body somehow is four feet in the air, I'm almost performing a toe touch, and then my body hits the ground. Ski flies off and chills in the snow. My body contorts on its side and proceeds to slide down the mountain, but not before momentum causes me to tumble through semi-cartwheels. My face scrapes the snow enough to bring me to a stop. I can hear groups of Whoas and Are you okays behind me. One lady fifteen feet above has my ski. I thank her, snap it onto my boot, wipe the snow off my head, and thank God that no one had a camera.
3) Day four, the day they close the mountain. As my group steps off the lift, we know skiing is not on the immediate agenda. Centimeter after centimeter of uncompacted snow powder accumulates, 70 kph winds shooting stinging ice shavings toward our faces. Jocelyn recommends that we move for cover and relax at the nearby cafeteria. I follow her into the warm lodge, remove my gloves and mask, and sit at a long table with my group. Some of us eat, some of us complain. Me, I'm chatting to Jocelyn about music again. After twenty minutes an official approaches us with his news. They have closed the lifts, and skiing will not happend today. Well...
The official informs us of our options to get down the mountain. We can wait for the snowmobiles to transport groups of us down, or we can attempt to ski it. The girls immediately get situated to wait for an escort. Asvin, my only male counterpart, is conflicted. A conference in Orlando is causing him to leave Whistler a day early, and this is to be his final day of skiing. We can see through the window thick layers of snow and violently shaking flag poles, but Asvin wants one last ride down the slopes. It's too dangerous to go alone, he says. He'll only go if someone joins him.
All the girls shake their heads no and have worrysome looks on their faces. Jocelyn, our den mother of sorts, reemphasizes the averse conditions he'll face. No one will accompany him, except for a cocky American who wants another taste of the slopes after his recent successful adventure. Asvin and I strap on our gloves, say bye to the concerned girls--- who are anticipating our death report in the news--- and leave to face the blizzard ahead.
We decide to take the long, winding trails around the mountain, figuring we would have the most maneuvering ability on less-inclined paths. Asvin follows me down the mountain and toward the winding detour. Our skis are flowing through the thick snow smoothly, and we're anticipating and fun journey through Whistler Mountain. The savage beast that is Mother Nature thought differently, as the snow was accumulating more and more in powder form, not compacting with the ground. Suddenly, the ground escapes me, and I plunge waist deep in snow. I am brought to a screeching halt and tumble over, now practically entrenched in a cold white tomb. I force myself upright in enough time to watch Asvin experience the same fate, only when he gathers himself, he discovers one ski missing.
Asvin and I shovel like hound dogs through the snow in a desperate search for his ski. Somewhere in those centimeters of snow lay this ski, but he is too deeply cemented in the bitter white floor to be found. Asvin stands with one ski and four miles of skiing ahead of him. We admit defeat and decide for an attempted hike back to the cafeteria, which must be a half mile up the mountain. So Asvin and I stomp through the snow, which has piled almost to our rib cages. Each step up the mountain is harder than the last. The wind gains momentum, building a wall against our chests and slinging shards of ice flakes into our faces. My face loses all feeling except for that burning tingle of flesh being shaved off by the viscous, frigid air. My knees quiver into uncontrollable spasm every so often. Decades later, we arrive to flat land on our way to the cafeteria. Our group has since been escorted to the base of the mountain. Asvin and I embrace the insulation of our indoor shelter, thankful to regain feeling and rid of the brutal force outside.
`
What happened next will be found later in the series.
1) Day one, my very first time skiing, and I'm like a domesticated lion thrown into the wild jungle: no clue what to do, in way over my head, only a violent death seems inevitable. The Kooter, my expert skier friend, leads me to the ski lift. Our little cabin brings us higher and higher up the mountain, and I know the only way back to civilization is down. Without any knowledge as to how I'm supposed to move with these two boards clamped onto my feet, I'm hoping for a relatively flat path and some careful instructions from The Kooter. Instead, I'm given a constant slope and this helpful tidbit: "It's just like ice skating."
I can hear the impending sounds of doom for two reasons. One, I've only been ice skating once, and I still have marks on my feet from the pain. Two, if my problem with ice skating is understanding how to stop, how am I going to halt myself going down a mountain? I quickly find the solution to that question... fall. I try to turn, I go fast, I lean back, I fall down. I get up, I try to turn, I go fast, I lean back, I fall down.
Don't lean back? Ok.
I find my skis, I reattach them, I try to turn, I go fast, I tell myself not to lean back, I lean back, I fall down.
Two and a half hours later, I reached the bottom of the mountain, out of breath, more snow on my head than feet, wondering how big the black and blue on my right butt cheek was growing, and on my way to pay a professional to teach me how to ski.
2) Day three, my most successful day as a skier. Ben and I begin the morning with some warm-up flat green paths on our way to some detouring blue slopes. My body had accepted what my brain had told it long before, to not lean back, and I was able slice through the wind, cut through the snow, leave ice shavings flying in my trail, and finish a run without snow on my head. Skiing is infinitely more exhilerating when you can actually do it.
I may have been flying through my best day of skiing, but before the morning ends I execute the fall of the trip. Ben convinces me to turn into a blue path, a piece of mountain slightly steeper and bumpier than my novice trails. I won't lose control (leaning back is not even an issue, anymore), I tell myself. It's easy to tell yourself that when you're strolling at a slow enough pace to hear every instruction from your head. My body is flowing through the steeper slopes at too fast a pace to rationalize through each turn. I must rely on athleticism and instinct. I cut, I turn, I tuck in. Then the series of sharp turns is on the horizon, and I must react quickly. Turn right! Turn left! Turn sharply right! Turn really sharply left!
And I did exactly that. I controlled myself through the turns and completed a sharp left... right into a mini hill that doubled as my ski ramp. My body somehow is four feet in the air, I'm almost performing a toe touch, and then my body hits the ground. Ski flies off and chills in the snow. My body contorts on its side and proceeds to slide down the mountain, but not before momentum causes me to tumble through semi-cartwheels. My face scrapes the snow enough to bring me to a stop. I can hear groups of Whoas and Are you okays behind me. One lady fifteen feet above has my ski. I thank her, snap it onto my boot, wipe the snow off my head, and thank God that no one had a camera.
3) Day four, the day they close the mountain. As my group steps off the lift, we know skiing is not on the immediate agenda. Centimeter after centimeter of uncompacted snow powder accumulates, 70 kph winds shooting stinging ice shavings toward our faces. Jocelyn recommends that we move for cover and relax at the nearby cafeteria. I follow her into the warm lodge, remove my gloves and mask, and sit at a long table with my group. Some of us eat, some of us complain. Me, I'm chatting to Jocelyn about music again. After twenty minutes an official approaches us with his news. They have closed the lifts, and skiing will not happend today. Well...
The official informs us of our options to get down the mountain. We can wait for the snowmobiles to transport groups of us down, or we can attempt to ski it. The girls immediately get situated to wait for an escort. Asvin, my only male counterpart, is conflicted. A conference in Orlando is causing him to leave Whistler a day early, and this is to be his final day of skiing. We can see through the window thick layers of snow and violently shaking flag poles, but Asvin wants one last ride down the slopes. It's too dangerous to go alone, he says. He'll only go if someone joins him.
All the girls shake their heads no and have worrysome looks on their faces. Jocelyn, our den mother of sorts, reemphasizes the averse conditions he'll face. No one will accompany him, except for a cocky American who wants another taste of the slopes after his recent successful adventure. Asvin and I strap on our gloves, say bye to the concerned girls--- who are anticipating our death report in the news--- and leave to face the blizzard ahead.
We decide to take the long, winding trails around the mountain, figuring we would have the most maneuvering ability on less-inclined paths. Asvin follows me down the mountain and toward the winding detour. Our skis are flowing through the thick snow smoothly, and we're anticipating and fun journey through Whistler Mountain. The savage beast that is Mother Nature thought differently, as the snow was accumulating more and more in powder form, not compacting with the ground. Suddenly, the ground escapes me, and I plunge waist deep in snow. I am brought to a screeching halt and tumble over, now practically entrenched in a cold white tomb. I force myself upright in enough time to watch Asvin experience the same fate, only when he gathers himself, he discovers one ski missing.
Asvin and I shovel like hound dogs through the snow in a desperate search for his ski. Somewhere in those centimeters of snow lay this ski, but he is too deeply cemented in the bitter white floor to be found. Asvin stands with one ski and four miles of skiing ahead of him. We admit defeat and decide for an attempted hike back to the cafeteria, which must be a half mile up the mountain. So Asvin and I stomp through the snow, which has piled almost to our rib cages. Each step up the mountain is harder than the last. The wind gains momentum, building a wall against our chests and slinging shards of ice flakes into our faces. My face loses all feeling except for that burning tingle of flesh being shaved off by the viscous, frigid air. My knees quiver into uncontrollable spasm every so often. Decades later, we arrive to flat land on our way to the cafeteria. Our group has since been escorted to the base of the mountain. Asvin and I embrace the insulation of our indoor shelter, thankful to regain feeling and rid of the brutal force outside.
`
What happened next will be found later in the series.
Wednesday, March 19, 2003
Tuesday, March 18, 2003
I just wanted to say hi, stretch out my legs, give assurance that I am alive and well. My Canadian getaway exceeded expectations. One day I will mention more, but here is the problem with spring break: when we return from summer or Christmas, we return to a clean slate, a new set of classes, a new beginning, a chance of redemption. Returning from spring break, I'm faced with the same problems, the same deadlines, the same handicaps.
I enjoyed my break, but I'm no longer on one. Hopefully I'll get a brief one soon and write about my trip and everything else in my little world.
I enjoyed my break, but I'm no longer on one. Hopefully I'll get a brief one soon and write about my trip and everything else in my little world.
Friday, March 07, 2003
Thursday, March 06, 2003
I admit it's a problem that has escaped my control. I figured other people get addicted, but I was above that, to depend on a mass-manufactured product. I saw enough people my age experimenting; why not me? I mean, if I didn't like it I could just walk away. But I liked it. And I continued using until it became a daily habit. Now I'm just like the rest of the crowd. You know who we are: during a break in class, while you stick around or visit the bathroom, we step outside the building and reach into our pockets for that little box, and when finished we return to class relaxed and refreshed. At least I'm not one of those full-blown cases who needs it everytime he steps outside, the guy you never see without one in his hand. I don't anticipate ever reaching that level, but I do want more from my habit. I mean, if I'm addicted, I might as well get voicemail and downloaded dialtones as well.
Tuesday, March 04, 2003
Read the entry immediately below. I am in a quandry right now. I'm scared, I'm angry, I'm nervous, I'm crestfallen, I'm arrogant. My decision is not developing easily, and I know that whatever option I ultimately choose will make me feel bad in some way. By myself, I can only hear my biased side of the argument. That's why I'm looking for any thoughts you may have--- whether you know me or not--- concerning my ski trip to Canada.
My doctor tells me that a hefty chunk of kidney stone remains to be passed. He cannot tell me when it will pass, but the rock is still very high up the passage way. It could pass in a few days, it could pass in a few months. Passing a stone can be as/more painful than giving birth (words from my radiologist, who delivered a baby and passed a stone in the same month and thought the stone was more painful). Because of the possibility of passing this stone, my doctor cannot approve of my going skiing this Saturday (the trip is one week, March 8-15) and actually disapproves.
Of course a doctor cannot in any ethical matter advise a patient to pertake on an activity that could worsen the condition he is treating. Even though I probably would not pass the stone during the trip, it is of course a risk to go on this trip nonetheless. Of course there are other things to take into consideration.
Here are some things to consider when thinking, "Anthony should not go on this trip."
1. If I pass the stone during my stay in Canada, I would experience great pain and primarily be bedridden for my stay.
2. If I pass my stone while on an airplane, the altitude could make the pain even greater, and I would be trapped up in the air without any chance to see a doctor.
3. My doctor is a specialist, and his opinion is based on solid fact and experience.
4. Passing a stone can never be anticipated. The pain boils over swiftly over about ten minutes. I would not be adequately prepared for an attack during the trip.
But you must also, to be cliche, put yourself in my shoes:
1. Odds are that I would not pass my stone during the trip.
2. Having just gone through passing a stone, I have plenty of prescribed pain killing medication and heat straps that would essentially treat me the same as a stay in the hospital. Also, I know my body and would be able to make myself as comfortable as humanly possible (which is not very).
3. I have yearned to go skiing since I was young. I have never gone. I have only seen snow three times. I have never been to Canada This was to finally be my time to see the snow and glide (and tumble) down a mountain in a new world.
4. I am close to graduating college, and the opportunities to pack up and organize a trip like this are dwindling. In fact, if I don't go on this trip now, I cannot see myself being in the position to go skiing again until I am settled down and married. There will be no time when I am in grad school, less time when I am just jumping into my profession.
5. If I do not go, I will be alone in my college town, probably not passing my stone. If the risk would be too great to be on a plane for four hours, what about being in a car alone for the five hour trip home?
6. I spent a great deal of money on this trip (we'll just say it's in the $1000 ballpark). My trip is non-refundable. I will be economically strapped for the rest of the semester, and I could get nothing out of it.
What would you do in my situation? What should I do?
I like my urologist very much. When I first came in, he embraced my problem and immediately set himself to develop a rapport with me. Perhaps he was just excited to have a patient that wasn't on Social Security, or maybe we had that connection that all Italian-Americans seem to have, and it's also possible that he is just an enthusiastic, empathetic doctor. He rooted for me to overcome my discomfort and distracting pain to do well on upcoming midterms. When I told him I got a 100 on my last midterm (a day before my zap-the-stone procedure), he gave me a high-five. Regarding my first meeting with the people on my ski trip, he asked, "were there any hotties?"
I like my urologist very much, and that relationship he set makes it hard for me to hate him, even though I want to despise him so much right now. I underwent more X-rays today for a post-operation checkup. We were seeing if any particles from my stone were left unpassed, even though I felt in peak physical form and had been free of any stone-related activity since Saturday. And then I saw the X-ray. I saw the before shot, that gargantuan rock that caused me to limp keeled over into my friend's car as he drove me to the emergency room. Then I saw the after shot, and my nemisis was staring down at me, albiet with half his face blown off. To make things clear: when my doctor broke the stone, he only got half of it. I still have a fairly big stone to pass, another unwanted pregnancy. To add to this unwanted news came what I feared I would hear: my doctor strongly discourages me from going on my ski trip to Canada. The risk of passing the stone during my trip is uncertain, he says, but the pain would be excrutiating, and I would be in a much tougher situation for recuperation. I had entered his office upbeat. I left dejected and furious.
I like my urologist very much, and that relationship he set makes it hard for me to hate him, even though I want to despise him so much right now. I underwent more X-rays today for a post-operation checkup. We were seeing if any particles from my stone were left unpassed, even though I felt in peak physical form and had been free of any stone-related activity since Saturday. And then I saw the X-ray. I saw the before shot, that gargantuan rock that caused me to limp keeled over into my friend's car as he drove me to the emergency room. Then I saw the after shot, and my nemisis was staring down at me, albiet with half his face blown off. To make things clear: when my doctor broke the stone, he only got half of it. I still have a fairly big stone to pass, another unwanted pregnancy. To add to this unwanted news came what I feared I would hear: my doctor strongly discourages me from going on my ski trip to Canada. The risk of passing the stone during my trip is uncertain, he says, but the pain would be excrutiating, and I would be in a much tougher situation for recuperation. I had entered his office upbeat. I left dejected and furious.
Sunday, March 02, 2003
The world around me continued along its steady frantic pace, but I could only watch from my bed, my body visciously contorting in a veign attempt to relieve the pain felt when you begin to pass a stone that gets stuck on his way down. The past week was, in a word, brutal. I would stand up and feel as though someone were tightly clenching their fist inside my body. I would sit on the toilet and watch blood clots fire out as I urinated. To survive classes, I tentatively walked with a heat pack strapped to my back. To survive during the rest at home, I would take drugs, all those beautiful pain killers that turn energetic twenty-year-olds into floating, heavy-eyed zombies. I slept, then awoke in agony. I endured agony, then I slept.
With each day I gained a little more strength and a little more frustration. I thought of everything I was missing or could potentially be deprived of: Busboy Appreciation Week, the premiere of "Old School", the Switchfoot concert, my ski trip to Canada. I countered with:
1) I can still go to my front door and see "U light up our lives!" written in chalk by the girls of Chi O.
2) It will be in the theatres for several weeks and, later, on DVD.
3) It's not a farewell tour. There will be other performances.
4) The doctor can advise me how he wants, but I'm going on that trip!
My X-rays and consulation with the doctor led to my trip to the outpatient surgery center Friday morning. Everyone who had shared similar situations gave me hope that 24 hours after Dr. Cassisi would lie me atop a bed of water and nuke my kidney asteroid with ultrasound waves, I would feel revitalized and return to a normal life. I woke up Saturday morning, and I immediately tried to stand up. Normal sensation. I walked over to the bathroom. Normal. I did my business there. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal! I was normal again, and it never felt so extraordinary!
My family once again provided me the love and guidance needed in times of pain and frustration, and my mom and grandma drove five hours east on a Thursday afternoon so I would have proper caretakers during my day as an outpatient. A lesson learned from this experience: I more greatly appreciate and cherish my friendships developed in Gainesville. I have friends that will leave their home on a Friday night, drive me to the emergency room, sit in the waiting room until I am properly treated, and drive me home as the sun rises Saturday morning. I have friends that will buy me a Jimmy John's sandwich and stay with me as I eat it back home, making sure my vomit attack has definitely ceased. I have friends that will make me a pie and share a slice at my side. I have friends that will surprise me with a "get well" song on my answering machine. I have friends that will express their admiration for me even during my times of emotionless misery. I owe a dedicated, loyal friendship to all my caretakers, the people who extended an arm when I was desparate to stand.
This experience was terrible. This experience was wondrous. Never again, please. I'm back and just so eager to return to routine.
With each day I gained a little more strength and a little more frustration. I thought of everything I was missing or could potentially be deprived of: Busboy Appreciation Week, the premiere of "Old School", the Switchfoot concert, my ski trip to Canada. I countered with:
1) I can still go to my front door and see "U light up our lives!" written in chalk by the girls of Chi O.
2) It will be in the theatres for several weeks and, later, on DVD.
3) It's not a farewell tour. There will be other performances.
4) The doctor can advise me how he wants, but I'm going on that trip!
My X-rays and consulation with the doctor led to my trip to the outpatient surgery center Friday morning. Everyone who had shared similar situations gave me hope that 24 hours after Dr. Cassisi would lie me atop a bed of water and nuke my kidney asteroid with ultrasound waves, I would feel revitalized and return to a normal life. I woke up Saturday morning, and I immediately tried to stand up. Normal sensation. I walked over to the bathroom. Normal. I did my business there. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal! I was normal again, and it never felt so extraordinary!
My family once again provided me the love and guidance needed in times of pain and frustration, and my mom and grandma drove five hours east on a Thursday afternoon so I would have proper caretakers during my day as an outpatient. A lesson learned from this experience: I more greatly appreciate and cherish my friendships developed in Gainesville. I have friends that will leave their home on a Friday night, drive me to the emergency room, sit in the waiting room until I am properly treated, and drive me home as the sun rises Saturday morning. I have friends that will buy me a Jimmy John's sandwich and stay with me as I eat it back home, making sure my vomit attack has definitely ceased. I have friends that will make me a pie and share a slice at my side. I have friends that will surprise me with a "get well" song on my answering machine. I have friends that will express their admiration for me even during my times of emotionless misery. I owe a dedicated, loyal friendship to all my caretakers, the people who extended an arm when I was desparate to stand.
This experience was terrible. This experience was wondrous. Never again, please. I'm back and just so eager to return to routine.
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