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Each time I sit down to write about Jackie, it always begins with the same sentence "she's her own kind of perfect." That's also where I usually stop writing, my finger hovering over the space bar, because I don't know what to say beyond that. She is broken and by every definition fragile. But still, to me at least, mind-bogglingly perfect.
Once a month, I throw some clothes in a bag and catch a train to New Jersey. As soon as I'm there the bag gets tossed aside, the baby is kidnapped from whatever brother happens to be entertaining her at that moment and then I hold her face up to mine to whisper my hellos. I look for a flicker of recognition and some part of me hopes that she'll smile, knowing that the chances for both are slim. She looks in every direction but mine, and still my heart regularly explodes. Her eyes. One eye, her right eye wanders off randomly. Her eyebrows also go up and down so that she constantly looks surprised by what she's seeing. Surprised by what's in front of her and off on the periphery, where her right eye is exploring things. She looks ridiculous and heartbreakingly cute.
I have never loved someone more or wished for the outcome to differ from what it will likely be. Probably not today (it's been months since her last uncontrolled seizure), but eventually and entirely without warning she will be there, nose pressed up against mine and then, she won't. This is the part that I cannot accept. This knowledge, the result of articles and google searches that always leave me bargaining with God.
Her last trip to the hospital, for an annual check-up that we'd known about for months, showed an almost constant rate of seizure activity. We hadn't prepared ourselves for that blow. Or, maybe it was just me that was unprepared. I sometimes manage to convince myself that she'll outgrow all this. That she'll get better as she gets stronger. I tell myself that she's beaten the odds so far and so, no one can definitively say what her future will hold. It's a mental pep-talk that keeps me from focusing on what might be, and focusing instead on how perfect each moment with her is. Even so, whenever she ends up in the hospital, I become painfully aware of the delicate balance between life and death, and how absolutely incapable I am of handling that transition with any sort of grace.
My boss and I have this thing where at least 2-3 times a week, one of us buys some form of chocolate on our lunch break. You see, chocolate is what stands between us and a mountain of stress. Well, that and Cool Whip.
Have I spoken of my love for the whip that is both cool and refreshing? No? It could probably be described as a minor obsession. In the hierarchy of personal obsessions, Cool Whip falls somewhere between Richard Simmons and face creams. Two subjects that I'm ashamed to say occupy far more of my attention than is probably healthy.
Once, back in high school my mom asked what I wanted for my birthday cake, and I replied quite seriously that I wanted "a tub of Cool Whip that no one else is allowed to eat". Needless to say, I got my tub. Unfortunately, that still didn't prevent me from pitching an epic sized fit (like only 16 year old girls can) when someone other than me, dared to dunk a finger into that little tub-o-deliciousness. Since then, plenty of well-intentioned/concerned friends have read me the ingredients list, rightfully observing that Cool Whip is not so much a dairy product, as it is a witches' brew of chemicals waiting to rot my stomach. What they fail to understand is that in my mind, even if it does rot my stomach, at least I'm going down happy.
So, just imagine what my jaw did when I opened a pack of Reese's Peanut Butter cups and saw that the liner was advertising Reese's Whipps. For one brief, awesome moment I envisioned all the snacks that would benefit from a dunking in whatever product combined three of my favorite things: whipped topping, chocolate and peanut butter. I could not google it fast enough. But nooooooooooooooooooo, Hershey's was just toying with my emotions. Reese's Whipps with two stupid p's instead of one, is a candy bar. And now? Well, now I'm just kind of bitter.
I wish I had a plausible excuse for disappearing off the face of the internet for the last month or so. But, to be totally and completely honest, Internet, I don't. Not that I don't love you. We've got a pretty good thing going right now. You're like cheap therapy and for that, my whole family thanks you.
In other less boring news, I joined Match.com. That slapping noise you just heard was the sound of my mom's jaw hitting the keyboard. And that tinkling noise? Uh-huh. She's reaching for the keys.
Before you start giggling like a hyena with a caffeine problem, let me just explain. I joined on a whim and then I filled the damn profile in a less whim-inspired moment. After that, I sat and waited. As of this post 862 people have viewed my profile and from those 862 people an infinite number have winked, sent flirty messages and in every other fathomable way possible, tried to assert that we were DEFFINITELY a match. Apparently men are able to reach this stunning conclusion by staring at a picture for a few minutes. But here's the thing, I sort of hate it. Except now it's like a bad relationship that I don't know how to get out of because Match is still charging me for this stupid experiment.
The feeling vaguely resembles that of a first date where one person (me) just wants to make googley eyes at the other person and the other person (match.com) wants to go to third base with my bank account. To state the perhaps not-so-obvious: I am just not that kind of girl. So now I'm back to square one. Making googley eyes at real people rather than a computer screen and feeling much more comfortable with the current state of things in general. That said, if you happen to know any single men living in the NY metropolitan area who are between the ages of 24-30, taller than 5'11, are emotionally available but not too mushy because that makes me all itchy and uncomfortable AND are ok with the fact that I will always love sweatpants more than I love them, will swear like a sailor but still expect their butt to be in a church pew come Sunday then for shitsakes, hook a girl up.
I have to say, the BEST and I mean tears-rolling-down-my-face-laughing email that I received was this one from a guy who I can only describe as a crazy bigot who couldn't spell worth beans.
"I don't know if you understand this, so let me spell this out for you.......You are a good-looking woman and your probably really annoying, I mean you really do appear annoying and I bet most of your past
boyfriends cheated on you b/c your so annoying....So get up and go annoy everyone in America, b/c you seem to be an expert on it.
P.S you should change your intro to hi my name is Sarah and I'm really annoying...."
Sadly, I just don't think it's going to work out between us.
Each time I sit down to write about Jackie, it always begins with the same sentence "she's her own kind of perfect." That's also where I usually stop writing, my finger hovering over the space bar, because I don't know what to say beyond that. She is broken and by every definition fragile. But still, to me at least, mind-bogglingly perfect.
I have never loved someone more or wished for the outcome to differ from what it will likely be. Probably not today (it's been months since her last uncontrolled seizure), but eventually and entirely without warning she will be there, nose pressed up against mine and then, she won't. This is the part that I cannot accept. This knowledge, the result of articles and google searches that always leave me bargaining with God.
