Tag Archives: a broken heart

“Here Comes the Sun, Little Darlin’. Here — Comes the Sun.”

The hospital walls were the color of…

I don’t know.  How does anybody ever manage to remember the color of these walls?

One of the walls appears missing entirely:  Instead it is taken up by a giant window, with a hideous air-conditioning unit directly underneath it.  They don’t build windows like that on the East Coast.  Everything must be larger in the West: More land, wider roads; bigger closets and endless windows — windows from which we gaze upon the same vast land and highways that carry us along the coast, to and away from love, in a never-ending act of our indecisiveness about solitude.

In Vermont, there are houses with porches and hammocks; and in those houses, the window are unhinged, then flung open, into the idillic streets, best colored during Indian Summer.  In Maine, the window panes collect moisture, balancing out the difference between the temperatures with precipitation and moss.  In New York, one can always find a jammed window, or a broken one; and often, there is some lever one must work, in order to let in some fresh air.

I’m staring out of the giant hole in the wall, with sliding glass, into the desolate desert landscape with gray domes of industrial buildings and rare traffic.  I can see the packed parking lot of the hospital on the ground floor, and judging by the way people leap out of their cars, once they find a spot, I can tell the status of their beloved’s health.  The worst cases pull up directly to the curb.  Others choose to ride in an ambulance.

I see the disheveled head of a woman clutching a baby blanket being helped out of the red swinging doors.  She is being lifted by two men in uniforms; and once on the ground, one of them must remind her how to walk.

I look away:  Dear God!  I think I’m starting to run out of prayers.

On the horizon — gray mountains.  They are always gray, on this side, and only in the deepest winter do their peaks adopt a different shade:  of stark-white snow.  I think of the East, again.  The mountains aren’t mountains out there:  They’re hills.

Everything must be larger, in the West. And I’m one of those travelers, speeding along its wider roads, in a never-ending act of my indecisiveness about solitude:  chasing, then running away from love — then, coming back for more.

The beep-beep-beep of the life-support machine brings me back into the room.  I am alone here.  Well, no:  She is here too.  But I’m not sure if her Here is in the same vicinity as mine.  The doctors have managed to bring her back from wherever that is a broken heart takes its victims:  They have struggled to bring her back Here, through a series of shots and shocks and tricks of the trade.

So, now she is back Here; but I know her Here — is nowhere near.  It’s a different space entirely — a different Here where I, despite my conflicts with love, do not yet wish to be.

The doctors have spoken of Hope.

“Here is still some,” they say; and because they don’t avert their eyes, I wonder how many times they’ve had to say this — just today.

And how are they going to say it again to the disheveled mother who’s forgotten how to walk?

I come up to her bed.  Her skin is ashen.  I’ve never seen this color on the living before:  It’s yellowish-blue, sickly and wax-like.  It juxtaposes against all other shades with defeated sadness.  So, the fuchsia pink of her pedicured toenails peaking out from under the sheet loses all vividness.  The acrylic nails on her fingers, of the same shade, now have an appearance of props.

I remember she used to snap them against each other, when laughing herself to tears while telling a joke.  She was good at jokes.  And in my memory, that hollow sound of snapping nails has come to mean her good moods.

The beep-beep-beep of the life-support machine brings me back into the room:  Again!  It reminds me of the rhythm her broken heart is forced to take on, in order to stay Here.  Is this — the sound of Hope?  This slow, mathematically precise beat of an intelligent machine that, despite its act of mercy, does not possess the sensitivity to understand?

Her body has left this Here:  The Here of the Living!  She doesn’t want to be Here, anymore!  And it is a terrible thought; and I cannot bring myself to say it out loud, in front the drooping face of her mourning husband.

I stand by her bed and study her face.  It’s not peaceful, as my useless novels have promised.  She looks perplexed, and I find myself fixated on the faded outline of her lipstick.  I want to wipe it off for her:  She would have wanted dignity, while — and if — she is still Here.  She is a woman with no heartbeat but perfectly manicured nails.  I think of paging the nurse.

The tubes, running to and from her wrists, fascinate me with their width.  I follow them with their eyes, up to the beep-beep-beep of the life-support machine.  I study the monitor.

What was I looking for?

I return to her face, looking for answers.  A tiny tear, that has formed at an outer corner of her right eye, begins crawling across her temple.

“Are you here?” I whisper and grab her hand.

But I have never felt that temperature on the living before.

Not Here.

“I Was in the House — When the House Burned Down.”

Trembling.  Waiting for clearer thoughts to come in.

Here comes one:

“How is it that I’m shivering in a 110-degree heat?”

That’ll do, for now.

Gently!  You must handle yourself — gently.

Standing on a street that to a bystander’s eye would appear idillic and “homey”, she wonders about the horrors that could be happening behind the closed doors of these same “homey” homes, with pretty white doors:  the quiet, muffled horrors of domestic violence.

“Beware — of pretty,” another thought comes in.

There is a reason why she has always loathed the sight of the white picket fence:  They reek of false advertisement and broken promises — of broken hearts.  And the heart that break due to the broken promise — takes longer to heal. She is now cradling her heart, in her heaving chest; but it would take her years to learn just how long the healing would take.

Her thinking is fragmented.  If only she could get a grip on this shivering:  If only she could catch her breath.  But the body takes its time.

There is a violence that lives in every body:  A violence that strikes at another — or at itself.  It always comes from the darkest corners of one’s soul and it prefers no audience.  But those whom we love the most often fall victim to it.

So, she is catching herself wonder about the suffering that others endure when love betrays its goodness.  It is much better to be thinking of others, in moments of extreme pain.  Because the end to her own pain — she cannot possibly see from here:  In the “homey” neighborhood that has broken its promise to her and found her homeless, in 110-degree heat.

Besides, the suffering of others should remind her that someone is always having it worse.

“How can it possibly be worse?!” another thought flings itself inside her throbbing head.

The chest is heaving.  The heart is beating fast:  It is not broken yet.

“Do people die — of broken hearts?” she thinks and sits down on the curb to catch her breath.  Is that what happens — in heart attacks?

A Heart:  Attacked.  That would be the name of her cause, if she were to stop breathing right now.

She stares at her feet.  The pedicure on her toes is of her own manufacturing.  She’s had a hand in that.  The chosen color is pink:  They have just passed Easter, on the calendar.  The pair of shoes, that she’s had very little time to peel on before leaping out of the house, are multicolored:  Each strap bears a neon shade.  When she first laid her eyes on them, on a shelf at Payless, she thought.

“When in the world would I wear those?!”

Now.  She is wearing them now.  And in a juxtaposition with her black tank top and blue bicycle shorts, they fail to make any sense at all.  She chuckles to herself:  Yes, she actually chuckles — while shivering — because she is thinking that she must look like a burnt house victim, right now.

And isn’t that what happened, anyway:  Her “homey” home has burnt down on its promise?  It has collapsed on itself, and no matter its false appearance from the outside, behind those pretty white doors and the white picket fence — one can only find ruins.

She shivers and looks over her shoulder at the sight of the house:

The perfectly groomed, neon green lawn — FAKE!

The deceivingly white and pink exterior — FALSE!

The beautiful rotunda window of its office space — LIARS!

A distorted face of a man has been watching her through that window.  She has just realized that.  He is puffy and unshaven, bewildered behind his thick-rimmed glasses.  His mouth begins opening once he notices her looking back.  He is that bug-eyed bottom-feeding fish that outlives the smaller bastards in a shared tank.  The existence of his type is necessary, in nature.  She knows that.  Symbi-fuckin’-osis!  But again, it would years before she sees his purpose in her life.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!” she can lipread on his gaping, bottom-feeding mouth.

“I hope I took my glasses with me,” another thought happens.

That’s when she realizes she’s actually not seeing the man:  She is remembering him, at this very moment.  The brain is taking in the memories:  The bits that it will then try so very hard to forget.

The shivering hasn’t subsided, but it has transformed into an all-over warmth that happens to the survivors of car wrecks.  This is:

The Body:  Coping.

That is the name of her current disease.

No, she wouldn’t die of A Heart:  Attacked.  Not on this day.  Her body has chosen to persevere, to survive the violence.

The shivering is violent.  The body is confronting brutality with its reserve of sudden energy.

This is what it takes — to survive:  To outlive the broken heart.

She wants to go to sleep but then realizes that it’ll be a while; for she has just leapt out of a burning home:  a “homey” home. The thought of anything too far ahead refuses to happen; and strangely calm, she is grateful for that. She thinks no more than five minutes ahead.

Not feeling her own body, she picks herself up off the curb and reaches for the giant black bag packed in the middle of the night.

And:  She.  Starts.  Walking.

It should be hard, in theory, to not know where she’s going.  She’s got no home.  She knows no shelter.

But she is only thinking of one step at a time — and only five minutes ahead.

Gently!  You must handle yourself — gently! — when you survive.

She’s chosen to survive.  It would begin when she starts walking.

Away.

“You Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog!”

I love men.  And I love dogs.  And I love men that love dogs.

And I’ve never had a dog, but I’ve had enough men to know that no other animal in the world is better suited — for a good man.

It just looks right when you see it:  One of those sporty baby-tall boys, tired from a day of conquering the world in the name of his girl, slowly walking behind a leashed creature early in the morning.  They both would be barely awake, yawning their sleepy faces into something so fucking adorable — into something that would jumpstart my ovaries into wanting to give life — and they would rapidly blink their kind eyes at the world that they couldn’t wait to get into:  A man and his dog — the creatures of such strength and goodness, and of such unconditional devotion, so very different from my own feline predisposition.

Their fur would be equally disheveled, either from sleep but most likely from the roughing caresses that woke them, that day.  Before other mortals would summon enough will to get out of their beds, a man and his dog would step out to greet the world firsthand:  both of them aging without ever surrendering their innocence (and neither their strength nor the unconditional devotion).  I would always want to come close to them, and burry my face in their hair, in all that goodness.  If I could, I bet the man’s head would smell like the hand of his girl, ever so lovely; while the dog’s — like his own.  And together, they would smell like a home I have yet to build, somewhere on a hill that would overlook the rest of my life — with forgiveness.

Instead, I am stuck watching them from a distance.  At least, for now.  But willingly, I would smile away at their expense while secretly tearing up from the privilege of being ever so close to all that strength and all that goodness.  My ovaries would get jumpstarted into wanting to give life; but there they would be — a good man and his dog — slowly shifting their athletic limbs in the morning, not yet ready for play.  But give them a good meal and a tender nod, and off they would go:  leaping, running, panting, inventing their games as they went along; yelping contagiously, whimpering for attention; teasing or asking to be teased.  And they would both be finally released from having to tone down their strength and their overwhelming enthusiasm.  And the world would be theirs for conquering — in the name of their girl.

The dog would pull the master’s hand via its leash, as if saying:

“Come!  Be!  Love!  Play!”

“Let’s!” — the good man would follow; because, being so very different from my own feline predisposition, he would never grow out of his habit for a child’s play.  And unlike me, he would never grow up.  Thank goodness!

Then, there are those little dogs, completely domesticated and entirely dependent on a man.  They remind me of plush toys, with their teary eyes and perpetually stumped little faces.  And one would have to be born with a heart of a villain to not want to reach for them, at least; if not sweep them up and stuff them under a coat, next to the heart — as if craving a piece of all that goodness.  They are not really my type of dogs, because the world seems too big for them, and mostly full of danger (and that’s not my type of a world).  So, they shiver and retreat, seeking protection from larger animals.  But then again, in such dependency and trust, I bet I could heal a wound or two on the surface of my perpetually stumped little face.  And perhaps, in this life, I would be able to move on a little bit faster — with a tiny creature stuffed under my coat, next to my heart.

The fancier dogs I treat as pieces of artwork.  They strut with dignity.  They hold their statures with focus and calm.  But unlike cats with pedigree, these purebreds still haven’t forgotten the pleasure of some rough play — a bigger child’s play — or of a rough caress.  To the contrary, because they are best equipped to win, they cannot wait for it.  So, they pull their master’s hand via their leash, as if saying:

“Come!  Be!  Love!”

From one moment to the next, they are ready to topple you over at the door, after you’ve finished your conquering at the world for the day — or to save your life.  And you cannot dare to object to either, because all that strength and goodness — and all that unconditional devotion — dwells in the best of intentions, and sometimes, despite their own.

And that’s just the thing about those sporty good men (good boys) and their dogs:  Once a girl earns their unconditional devotion, their own life is no longer a matter of the biggest relevance.  They may be in the mood for an occasional rough play — or a rough caress.  They may even sometimes be quite child-like in their dire need for a silly toy.  But if a girl can give them a good meal and a tender caress, off they would go:  conquering the world, in her name.

And with all their strength and goodness — with all that unconditional devotion — they have the ability to restore a woman’s heart, into more life and into more love.

A Breakthrough Period. A Breakthrough.

Finally!  The skies have cleared.  Not a shred of a cloud upon the glorious skies that make this kinky city lovable and nearly perfect.  They make this city mine, for now:  Thank goodness for this city!

It had shoved, and yanked, and jolted me for long enough to have taught me by now just how much I could tolerate.  It had taught me my strength — and my forgiveness — and despite its endless attempts to shake me off its surface, I have learned to hold my ground.  I have learned to stay grounded.  And suddenly, it is crystal clear:  The storm has passed, the dark mood is over; the horizons are endless — anything is possible!  And it is time — to move on.

And finally, I have slept!  For eleven mother-fucking hours!  The late nights of being spun-out over an abrupt ending of my love affair have officially ended.  No more scratching my head, covering it with open sores; then licking them to healing.  No more pacing barefoot between the unlit rooms of my apartment, thinking if only I’d run up enough mileage I would come across — exactly! — what had gone wrong.  No more sweat-inducing nightmares with every unlikely character taking the place of the departed lover, playing out his departure over, and over, and over again.  (Leave already!  GO.)  No more endless texting session to all my brothers just so they could make me laugh, make me light again; but first — “make me understand”:

“Make a list of what you learned,” one of them, the most beloved and the only one to always outdo me in passions, recommended.  “But fuck it, V!  What do WANT?  Make a list of what you want!”  

So, I did.  For over a month, I was the perfect student of my own fuck-ups:  Jotting down “the lessons”, pretending to be perfectly content with “the experience”.  Scrambling for gratitude, getting a hold of it with my two fingers, then putting it against my body like a vintage dress I still could not afford.  When will it come:  Forgiveness?  I distracted myself with plans.  Secretly though, I’d still rewrite our chronology, on the edges of my pages, as if I had a fucking chance at finding out when it all broke.  When it all went to shit.

The body had started to give in.  How could it not?  He had become my pattern.  He took it with him.  All other habits got shifted; all other habits other than breathing.  And bathing.  But that last one I’d commit only because that’s where his ghost would hang around the most:  Balancing on the edge of my sink, in a caramel-colored light, feasting on me with a quiet gaze — so in love with me, still! — just the way he had done it that one night, in the beginning.

So, the system had gone into a self-induced shock:  Leaking and letting go.

“Has anything changed, drastically?” a gentle doctor — a gentle man — asked me yesterday.

I had been sitting on the edge of a cold leather bench balancing my bare feet on a metal drawer underneath, and my chin — on my knees.  It always happens, in these clinics:  Too short to reach the floor anyway, I fold myself into these fetal positions.  Child-like:  a little girl.  Before the doctor entered, I had been studying my toes, wiggling them against the fluorescent lights above to make my nail polish sparkle.  How — when?! — had I grown so much, yet managed to hide the little girl in the corners of my smile, or in between these wiggling toes?  Or somewhere in my laughter he had once claimed to love the most?

“You sure?  Nothing different?  Any changes:  in diet or medication?”

Had I been given the task of casting this gentle man during my time of having hit the bottom, I could not have been more merciful:  The doc looked godsend.  With a headful of completely white hair, the face of compassion, and gentle fingers that smelled of eucalyptus, he stood there — all kindness!  all gentleness! — and received my every head shake “no” with patience.

I felt like a liar:

“Nope.  Nothing has changed.”

But what else could I say?  “I lost a love?”  That’s not a symptom.  And even if I did confess it, how could I possibly word it without making it sound trifle?  Because women don’t die of a broken heart.  Although, I did once bury this one woman…

“Any pain?  Here?…  What about here?”

He was pushing into the corners of my hips, looking for the sources of pain in the corners of my body.  Well, I hope you find it, doc.  I hope you figure it out.  Because, obviously:  I can’t.

A nurse entered the room and hung above me, while holding my hand.  She looked like an older sister, or that one guru I once had who had taught me how to channel my compassion into my touch.  The nurse’s face would’ve looked calm had it not been for one wrinkle at the beginning of her right eyebrow.  I shifted:  Something felt cold.  The nurse squeezed my hand, caught my gaze and smiled, making that wrinkle disappear.

“You’re okay,” she said.

“You’re okay,” Dr. Godsend echoed a minute later.  “They call this ‘breakthrough bleeding’.”  (“Breakthrough”?  Holy shit.  You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me!)

“But is it normal?  Four weeks?” I was beginning to feel relieved; relaxing, landing into my exhaustion — finally!  Still:  I just needed to make sure.

“Yes.  We don’t know what causes it, but…”

Dr. Godsend lingered, giving me the last chance for a confession.  I passed.

And so had the storm.  The storm — had passed.  The dark mood — was over. 

“No Chekhovian deaths for you.  Not today!” another gentle man received me in the waiting room.  Had I been given the task of casting this man during my time of having hit the bottom, I could not have been more merciful:  Older than me, he had long accepted my transferences onto his fatherhood.  Gently, he squeezed me into his side and walked me out:  Slowly, child!  Baby steps, little girl.  One foot at a time.

From the top of the hill where this godsend clinic was built I could see my city.  Thank goodness for this city!  Although still covered in that fog of the Bay, it was beginning to feel warm.  It was getting warmer.  The storm — had passed.  The skies were returning to their endless-less.  And it was time — to move on.

No.  Women don’t die of a broken heart.  But sometimes, they do bury their lovers in their “breakthrough” period.

A breakthrough. Period.