handicap #3...or, what the @#%$!?

When I tell people that my little arm is the least of my handicaps, I mean it. But I think it's hard for them to believe. That's why, for the most part, I avoid talking about my greatest handicap––It's too complicated for me to grasp, much less ask anyone else to understand.
 

So, if for the rest of this post, you feel like you've disappeared into an uncomfortable dreamlike vortex of surrealism, I understand. And because this stuff is still uncomfortable for me to relay, and because my head feels like a muggy jungle today, I'll let you have a peek at an essay for the book...

Danielle is tall and thin with thick curly hair. She’s an artist and she paints detailed and colorful oil paintings that she then reprints on greeting cards; and I believe with her that one day she will have her own company. I hope it’s called Greetings From Dani Mae. But right now Dani can barely leave her house. She spends most of her time in bed, trying to muster enough strength to make a decision or call a friend on the phone. And she doesn’t have that many friends anymore. She has spent most of her late twenties struggling with debilitating pain and fatigue and trying to figure out what to do that might start to make her better. Sometimes after I get off the phone with her, I ask God, “Really? How much longer can she suffer like this? God, please.” This is how I pray when I have no idea what else to do. “She’s only in her twenties,” I say, certain that God must understand the entitlement of youth.

I was twenty-five before I fully faced my limitations. I was recently graduated from college and working at a radio station. The very same station where I met Joey. I was copyediting, living with a roommate in the first apartment I paid for myself, making friends, and going out on Friday nights. I was feeling good about life, full of expectation, walking through doors of opportunity as they opened up one after another.

Then I opened a door and walked off the edge of a cliff. I got the completely unexpected opportunity to go to Greece to cover the Paralympics as a broadcast journalist. I spent three weeks in Athens, hitting the streets every day for interviews that would be broadcast on local radio stations around the world.

At first, I was on an adrenaline high, then I started feeling really tired, doping up on caffeine and sugar to keep going. One day out on assignment, I got really dizzy. I thought I might pass out and considered calling a colleague just in case, but I was about to interview a gold-medal winning tandem cycling team, and I was determined not to miss the opportunity. I didn’t pass out, but a day or so later I got stomach cramps so badly, I returned to the base at mid-day and crawled into bed.

Over the next and final week there, I knew something was wrong. I was exhausted as soon as I woke up in the morning. I felt dehydrated. I felt nauseous. I felt sick. Flying back to the States was nothing short of a nightmare. From Athens to London to Baltimore to Albuquerque––it was all an agonizing haze. I could barely carry my worn, torn body through the airports. I curled up on the floor of the plane, only vaguely aware of flight attendants coming and going down the isle.

At home, nothing improved. I went back to my regular job, but something wasn’t working. At first, I thought it was jet lag, then a week became two weeks, then three. It got worse. My whole body felt consumed by a constant feverish haze. My parents took me to urgent care and I came home with antibiotics. My primary physician was kind and open-minded, but she had no idea what was going on. She said, “Hmm,” and wrote things down on her clipboard. Then she suggested we do a pap smear since I was there already and overdue. Well, I figured, it couldn’t get much worse.

I went to see an endocrinologist who said most of her clients were women looking to get rid of facial hair. I wanted to cry. I did cry. I was constantly under a heavy cloud of fatigue, nausea, and worst of all, the unrelenting burning feverish feeling. It became my constant companion as I went to doctor after doctor, each taking my temperature at normal. I was treated for dehydration, then a kidney infection, and finally my primary physician sent me home with a starter pack of anti-depressants after I started crying in her office.

The constant burning felt like an internal furnace that wouldn’t turn off. It was intolerable. It was life-sucking. I could see the real world--my living room, smiles on faces, grassy yards--but I felt very far from feeling it. Yet, sudden sounds, like a car door closing, made me jump, my heart pounding. Sometimes I saw things right in front of me, but still wondered if they were real or if I was hallucinating. I was terrified all the time, unable to relax. I was exhausted, but I couldn't sleep.

One afternoon, alone in my apartment, I crumpled onto the floor in the hallway, pleading with God, “You promised you wouldn’t give me more than I can bear,” I said, “You promised! You promised! I can’t do this anymore, I can’t do this, please...”

Every weekend, I went home to my parents’ house and lay on the couch in a swoon. Every Sunday evening I picked myself up and drove back to my apartment, heavy with despair. I felt trapped and alone. My head was constantly in an inexplicable fog. I didn’t understand what was wrong with me or how to get better, and I was angry. Going to Greece was one of the most amazing things I had ever done...and now this. Something I did brought me to where I was now, I felt sure. What had I done to deserve this?

To be continued...

a toast

It's Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. I'm not Jewish, as far as I know, but I do attend a synagogue; something like, I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV...or not. It's a long story, but apparently being in the physically handicapped minority just wasn't marginalized enough for me.

New year pooch smooch, anyone?

But I kind of like starting a new year in the fall, when everything is changing anyway. So I've been thinking about resolutions. I know the old New Year's resolution is a bit of a farce, but a little reflection never hurt anyone, right?...Actually I have evidence to the contrary, so scratch that, too.

Let's start over. Yes, exactly. The turning over of old year to new is a time to start over, and that's a nice thought. It motivated me to turn my generally free rambling thoughts toward a little self-evaluation, and run down a checklist of areas that need a little upkeep. And this is what I found: I've been drinking too much beer. Actually, I may have been drinking a beer at the time that I made this observation.

What's that? You wouldn't have pegged me as a beer-loving kind of gal? Well, it's true that alcohol has historically not exactly been welcome in my family. But in just three generations, we've gone from teetotaling to having an average of one beer per night––yes, that's what I mean by too much. But despite a strong historical cocktail of puritanism with a twist of prohibition, I hold that I'm just getting back to my German roots. I hear they drink beer at breakfast over there.

And I'm a snobby beer drinker. No Bud Light or Coors for me, though I'm not opposed to Corona, in theory, because of my pseudo Mexican pride. But the micro brew is my beer of choice. A good ale to be exact. Maybe something a little hopier if necessary. And there are few things nicer on a summer afternoon...or fall, or winter, or spring...than sitting on the patio of some local pub with friends. The last time I went out for a beer with Opie, I saw a guy with the international handicap accessible sign––the asexual figure in a wheelchair--tattooed under his ear. I never got up the nerve to ask why. And I'm still wondering. 

Little Gen demonstrates a new vice.

It's not really that I feel at risk of overindulgence, despite my mother's fears that the next generation will all be raging alcoholics; but that drink to close the day is just getting a little too important. I'm just wanting it a little too much, to relax, to not think, to have something to hold while Little Gen and I finish up the next episode of Breaking Bad.

But mostly, at the end of a day, I don't want to forget things that make me feel grateful and things that need forgiving. It's nice to feel like we can erase those things, that it's just another day done, but these are the stuff of life. If I have to sweep away the tracks I made today, something's wrong with the way I'm walking.

So, if you just checked out through the last paragraph, it's just this: I decided no more beer. But when I thought about never having another beer ever again, it sounded like a long time, so I decided no beer till the end of October. No need to get carried away, right? And after a month, I'll reassess. Maybe I won't want to drink beer anymore. Maybe I'll be feeling healthier. Or maybe I'll run to the closest micro-brewery to celebrate. I don't know.

But while I'm not drinking, I'll think about how much I want a beer, how much I think I need one, and then I'll remember that what I really need can never be filled in a glass.


L'chaim.


OneArmGirl

one arm boy

OK, I have big news. In fact, this may be the biggest news I'll ever have, so I hope you are in a position to appreciate it fully. Turn off the television and turn the stove down to simmer, folks, cause this is BIG...

I've found my doppelgänger. Or, rather, he found me. Just over a week ago, I received an email from a guy with one small arm just like mine! Note: I do not use exclamation notation lightly.

Yep, OneArmBoy. Not only was he born with a small left arm with three fingers just like me, he was born in the same year, in the same month...no, not on the same day. C'mon, that would be ridiculous.

People, I don't know what to do with myself, I'm so excited. I've spent the last week telling everyone that I met a guy just like me. Mostly, I've gotten, "Oh, really, that's cool..." But my friend Kristen said, "I WANT TO MEET HIM...and then cut off his arm so there is only one [of you]." She's very loyal. 

OneArmBoy was born in Holland...or the Netherlands...I'm still not sure what the difference is. I do now know, after inspecting various maps of Europe, that Holland is nestled right up against Germany. He's Dutch; I'm Deutsch--it's not exactly unlikely that we are actually related--Maybe twins separated at birth. Except my people left Europe some time ago. And I can't say why a person would ever wear wooden shoes. There goes that theory.

Thankfully, in Holland, you learn English in school, because this would be a much different post if OneArmBoy had written to me in Dutch. He was a bit shy to get in touch anyway....probably because he was afraid something like this would happen--I would write about him. I'm lucky he's given me permission to do so. I swore by my other arm that I would not publish any pictures, and just in case he is the only guy in Holland with his name, that shall also remain under wraps.

I can tell you he has an understated smile that hints at both a sensitive spirit and a keen sense of humor; he knows his way around computers; and when kids ask what happened to his arm, he says, "I left it at home, I thought one was quite enough for today."

And yes, ladies, he is available...for now...

If anyone is more excited than me, it's Finneas, because now he has a pen pal, though it's more of a Cyrano De Bergerac situation since Finneas can't type. OneArmBoy's smaller appendage did not have a name. Strange, I know. But now, thanks to his making my acquaintance, Dr. Claw has a name. He also has his PhD, apparently. Of course, who am I to assume Dr. Claw is masculine.

I'm only a little glum because I wish I could hang out with OneArmBoy. You know, so we could both feel more average for a change. I've imagined it. Of course, we might just become a bigger freak show; we might draw a crowd. A small following, if you will.

More than likely, we'd just stare at each other, neither of us used to seeing someone like us. Watching home video of myself is strange enough.

But after we're finished staring, we could hold right hands and spin in a circle or have a tug-of-war with our small left arms. We could race my Mazda and his Kia, using only our knees to steer our respective vehicles. We could set up double blind dates with people who didn't know about our one-armedness and then never mention it on the date either. We could pose for a photo with a pitchfork...

Art-show-goer: "Well, it looks like American Gothic, but something's not right."

The possibilities are endless.

We're in the process of forming a club. Membership would be limited, of course. Though OneArmBoy says we shouldn't discriminate. Spoilsport.  

Like me, OneArmBoy does not know what caused him to be born with one small arm. After some research, it was decided we may have what is called Poland's Syndrome, but there are some inconsistencies. For example, people born with Poland's most often have a small right arm. And they are mostly boys. I read an estimate that only one in between 10,000 and 100,000 babies are born with Poland's Syndrome. Apparently, people with tiny arms come in small waves.

The equation that deduces the probability of our meeting is probably enough to make a mathematician's head explode.

You're just not gonna run across one of us every day, thus ensuring my job security...ahem, our job security. Unfortunately we've still got nothing on Nick Vujicic. But that's not gonna ruin my party.

OneArmBoy, it's very very nice to meet you.

OneArmGirl

the thing about love is... part 3

It turned out that Justin and I were willing to love each other. He went fishing one weekend and brought fresh trout back to cook in my apartment. We took late-night drives up into the mountains. He took me out to the airport viewing area and taught me to tell which direction a plane was going from the wing lights. We prayed together and talked about what it means to pray like you believe it makes a difference.
 When I wasn't feeling well, we watched movies, me leaning up against his white tee and six-foot frame.

I met Justin’s mom when she was dying, laying in a hospital bed set up in the living room of their house. Later, he was talking to her about his friends and mentioned my arm. “Justin, you know that’s OK, right?” she said.

I will never forget the first time, his arms wrapped around me, he reached down and stroked my tiny arm, so very gently, feeling each finger tenderly. No one had ever touched my arm like that before. It wasn't like my mom's touch or when my sisters playfully grabbed and pulled on it. It felt like another, new kind of love. Overwhelmed by a thrilling sense of surrender and trust, I felt laid bare, accepted, and grateful.


Justin and I stood by each other during some of the toughest times in each of our lives. He was the voice in my cellphone calling from Texas when I was very ill and my life was spinning like a merry-go-round in outer space. I was the one who listened when he needed to talk about his mom, to cry and wonder what she would have said.

Not only had our “baggage” not pushed love away, sometimes I think it was mostly our struggles that brought us together. We had a lot in common: both oldest children, both driven, both from families with country roots; and we'd both been through some tough shit at a young age. But we were a lot different, too. I was four years older. He loved MASH and fishing; I preferred sushi and independent film.

On a camping trip with friends, we played Would You Rather which offers players a bizarre array of improbable choices. “Would you rather make love to someone with no arms or no legs?,” was the question. I chose no arms, feeling they were somewhat superfluous anyway; Justin chose no legs. “Because you need arms to hug someone," he said.

I wonder now if that was a sign.
 
I think of Justin as my first adult boyfriend, even though I never called him that. He was genuine and sacrificial and he taught me that my mom is right, that I am something special and worth being loved.

Even after our romance had dwindled, he drove six hours out of his way to visit me after going to a baseball tryout. Ironically, it was I who found I couldn't love him the way he deserved. Sometimes I still wonder why. Several years ago, he started dating a very beautiful woman. He proposed to her in Europe and last I heard, they were living in California.


I'm working on a theory. I think when it comes to love, we're so worried about being a certain way or doing a certain thing to attract the opposite sex, that we forget to just be...ourselves. That’s not to say that having someone to point out our self-destructive behavior isn’t sometimes helpful, but I don’t think it really gets to the root of the problem. Even those women who had Dr. Phil in their ears looked a little awkward and tense, and I’m sure their dates thought they sounded really intelligent, but were at the same time wondering why they always paused and stared off into space before answering. Maybe their dates assumed it was for dramatic effect.

When I was a freshman in college, a sophomore theater major told me that he and some friends were sitting around on campus one day talking about their definitions of beautiful. You see, that’s the kind of thing a group of guys can do in college and not feel silly. Anyway, he said he told the other guys that I was his definition of beautiful. It could have been a really great pick-up line except that he never asked me out. Maybe he was method-acting.

I’ve often thought about what he said and what a nice compliment it was, and how much I really would like to live up to it.
 But some of the most attractive people I have ever known were overweight or had acne. Physical beauty is a mirage, a distraction. Real beauty is something anyone can be, but few people are. And that’s what I would tell the little girl who thought maybe she wouldn’t ever have a boyfriend because she was missing an arm, if I ever had the chance to meet her.


“So you see,” I would say, “the fact that you have an abnormal appendage is really the least of your problems.” Well, I’m still working on the semantics. I would also tell her that she is probably the main reason why I decided to write about love and disability at all. And she's much less alone than she believes. I'd estimate nearly every little girl and boy worries, at some time, that they are unlovable because of how they appear to the rest of the world. Somewhere along the line, they are led to believe that they just don’t quite measure up—-that their thighs are too big, that they are too shy or talk too much. But here’s a secret that, incidentally, has revolutionized my life: you don’t need to be missing an arm or a leg to feel this way. I once saw Uma Thurman on Oprah talking about how she had really low self-esteem. You can be famous and gorgeous and play sexy vixens on film and still feel completely unloved.

The truth is, you don’t have to try to be anything to find love; if you love yourself, other people will fall in love with you. That's it. Whether you have one arm or two, use a wheelchair or walk on two feet; whatever you have or don’t have, these are all minor details when it comes to romance. And if you can grasp that, you are well on your way to finding love, and probably won’t ever need to go on the Dr. Phil show at all.


OneArmGirl

the thing about love is... part 2

I was watching the Dr. Phil show and he was doing a whole segment promoting his book Love Smart: How to Find the One You Want—How to Fix the One You’ve Got.

There was a woman on the show who was having trouble getting a man and she didn’t know why because she was actually quite attractive. So Dr. Phil sent her on a test date with this guy, and a cameraman to tape the whole thing. And it turned out she had all these fatal date-killing habits, like she played with her food, and never made eye contact, and talked all about the guys who had left her in the past.

So Dr. Phil explained to her that she needed to avoid doing these things if she wanted things to work out, if she was looking to find Mr. Right. And all the audience members seemed to feel better because now this very attractive young woman was freed from all the things holding her back from the life she always wanted, and she would probably get a marriage proposal the next day.

There were other women on the show with the same problem of not being able to get a man and this time Dr. Phil went on their dates with them. Actually, he went in their ear in the form of a microphone so he could tell them what to do and say while they were on their dates. Although he did this to correct previously romance-sabotaging behavior, this seemed like cheating to me because I think anyone would do alright if they had Dr. Phil in their ear. He told them what to say and how to say it so that they sounded like really great, quality people, which I’m sure they really were when they were being their best selves.

I admit that maybe I watch these shows because I’m secretly hoping that there is a fool-proof, sure-fire way for finding the love of your life. Like a three-step plan or a love potion. It’s what we all hope for really, isn’t it? But I think if there was such a prescription, we might not even need the Dr. Phil show because the secret would have been out long ago. But is learning all the correct ways to act or things to say really the answer?

I didn’t date at all in high school and I didn’t date much in college, either. This might have caused some serious damage to my self esteem except that because of my experience with Alex, I still believed God had big things in store; and also that’s what my mom told me.

But over time, kind of subconsciously, I built up a lot of reservations about finding a guy who would appreciate just how “special” I was. I was sick a lot and had a crooked spine, besides having only one arm, and after a while that starts to make a girl think she is going to have to find someone else who is pretty “special” too.

A fan of the strong silent type

Then, a year or so after I graduated from college and moved back to New Mexico, I met Justin. Justin loved baseball and airplanes. He pitched submarine, low to the ground, and hoped to go pro after school for electrical engineering. Justin’s mom had brain cancer, and a year after I met him, she died. He was only twenty and losing his mom was devastating. But that was just the beginning of his problems. After his mom died, his dad got really sad and depressed and started doing and saying things to the people that he loved that were not very loving at all. Justin’s sister also started doing some crazy things that teenagers sometimes do, and his little brother got stuck in the middle of it all. Because Justin really cared about his family, this was all very difficult for him.

It wasn’t until the summer after his mom died, while he was home from school, that I started to really know him. One day he emailed and asked if I could teach him some ballroom dance steps that I had recently learned in a class, he said, so he could take girls dancing when he went back to school.

One night after the local baseball farm team game and ice cream shakes at the 66 Diner, we had a long talk in the living room of my apartment. Somewhere around 1am, he asked if I ever thought my physical problems would keep someone from wanting to be with me. My initial reaction was to say, “No, of course not, I know that’s not true.” But the truth was, I had thought that. I knew that I was worthy of someone loving me and wanting to be with me, but I still wondered if that person existed. I wondered if anyone would ever understand all my issues and be able to handle them. As it turns out, Justin had wondered that same thing. He didn’t know if he could find a girl who would understand what he was going through and be able to handle the craziness of his home life.

I think that’s when it started to dawn on me that all single people with all sorts of “disabilities” are just wandering around this earth wondering the same thing: if they will ever find someone who is able to share their burdens, someone who is big enough to understand where they’re coming from and to love them just the way that they are. And I began to realize that I had, in some ways, been waiting to even start looking for that person until I had “solved” all my problems. I pretty much assumed I was stuck with the arm, but I didn’t want to fall in love before I figured out how to be well and how to fix my back problems. The last thing I wanted to do was burden someone else with all my issues. I felt, when it came to love, I needed to be the “whole” package so that I could sell to the highest bidder. Then with just one pointed question, Justin shaved off all the layers I built up over the years to protect myself, and went right to the heart. We were both really asking the same question: could we be loved, fully and completely, just as incomplete as we were?

To be continued...

the thing about love is...

My love life has always been a private topic. I'm the sort of girl that, if I had a crush on you, you would probably have no clue. I would purposely act ambivalent. I became much more flirtatious in my early twenties, but if I really like someone, my closest friends are lucky to know.

And even though this blog is all about, well, me and my personal life, I tend to keep a bit of emotional distance. I think of OneArmGirl as a public persona, more a projection of myself. So, this is hard to bring up because it hits close to my core, but I recently hit a romantic dead end that felt like a sucker punch to the stomach.

To be fair, there was hardly a beginning, but when I met Jake last year there was chemistry the likes of which you just don't see everyday, hours-long conversation over endless free-refills-coffee included. I felt like he saw through me, he got it. He told me I was special. And I think that's why, when I found out he was pursuing someone else, it hurt so much. I could expound, but I think the truth is much like it always is with this sort of thing, that it just wasn't meant to be. I'm a believer in that, and I wasn't nearly jumping into anything with both feet, but rejection is rejection, and it's always gonna sting.

Several years ago, I started writing about love and it seems appropriate that I share that essay with you now. I think it might be good for me to read it again myself. I changed some names, but the stories are true.

-------------------

I don't know a lot about love, but I'm learning.

I went to get my hair cut, and the hairdresser, an older, very friendly woman, asked if I had trouble with boys because of my arm. Her question caught me off guard so much that I didn't even know how to respond. She went on to explain that she cut the hair of a man who had a daughter with a similar handicap and, apparently, this little girl was disheartened over rejection from boys in school. I don't remember what I said to her, but I do remember wishing I could sit down with that little girl and tell her some of what I know...

I like to tell people that I had my first real boyfriend when I was five. And then I add, “he was an older man.” He was eight. His name was Fin and he lived across the street. He was half Norwegian and half Greek and he lived with his mom and older brother. His dad wasn’t around. We spent a considerable amount of time together watching Thunder Cats and playing in my backyard. I don’t remember if we kissed. It’s not really important, I guess. I like to tell the story of Fin and me because, thinking back, it seems like such a simple time, a simple love.

I think what I didn’t realize then was that, in those early years on the streets of Philadelphia, I was learning that I was lovable. I had, in fact, several good friends all on the same street. No one taught me to believe that I was a social outcast and so I turned into a socialite instead. We opened our home to the neighborhood and the neighborhood came over. Kit lived next door and liked puffins and milk. Yvonne taught me how to rollerskate. Fin and I and my Lil' Sis built snow forts in the backyard in the wintertime and found kittens under the woodpile in the summer. One day, Yvonne told me Fin wanted me to be his girlfriend. When you are five, there is always a third party involved. I struggled to understand the proposition. I knew that I was special to him and I didn’t want to lose his friendship, so I agreed. Thus went my introduction to romance.

I was adorable when I was little; I'm not bragging, this is merely a fact. I had a forest of curls on my head, a precocious personality, and corduroy pants (it was the 80s). Someone once told my parents that when I got older my dad would have to carry a shotgun to keep all the boys away. I remembered that and, in some subconscious way, I’m still waiting for that pronouncement to come true, like the fulfillment of some old prophecy spoken over my cradle: “One day, in the not too distant future, this child will become a great seductress, enticing men from far and wide with her smile, good looks and great personality.”

In reality, I feel a little inept writing about love and romance. Here’s why: I don’t think I have that much experience. I lost touch with Fin when I moved to another state. I’ve never been in a “long-term” relationship. Actually I don’t really know what that means. When does a relationship become long-term, after six months, two years...? Some days I think I’ve learned a lot about love, and then other days I think I don’t know anything at all. I’ve decided love is like that—-just when you start to feel like an expert, something happens that makes you feel like a novice all over again.

In high school I began to know a boy called Alex. He was good-looking and funny and just had a way of getting under your skin that made you like him even more. He always asked to borrow pencils in Algebra because he never remembered to bring any. I pretended to be annoyed, but I liked that he needed me. I thought he was cool and I wanted his attention. But I also thought that we could never be real friends because he said rude things and cursed sometimes. I was pretty serious back then and a bit of a goody-two-shoes without meaning to be, but I was, so I figured he was off limits.

Then I didn’t see Alex much for a while and it wasn’t until my last year in high school that he came back on the scene. Literally. He joined the drama kids and we spent hours after school in the afternoon on the same stage, rehearsing for musicals and various plays. But something had changed. Alex wasn’t as crass. He told me he'd gotten serious about God. But this seriousness didn’t make him any less funny, and maybe even more popular. Before long, he was getting lead roles on stage. Girls mooned over him shamelessly and he became a hot topic in the dressing room.

When the end of my senior year rolled around and prom was on the horizon, I knew that I had a major crush. But I didn’t really do much about it. I’m not the type to fight my way through a horde of girls to get the guy I want. It's always seemed illogical; I figured if a guy wanted to be with me, he would be with me and not with some other girl. If he wanted to be with another girl, then what could I do about it. Yes, I thought about things like that in high school.

The only thing to do, really, when suffering from unrequited love is to go home and cry to your mom about how ‘if he only really knew you, he would definitely choose you over that other girl’ and so on. I don’t remember if I did much crying, but I do know that while some girls went scrambling about to find prom dates at the last minute, I simply decided not to go. And I was OK with that. I had gone to prom the year before with my friend Eric and I figured it wasn’t that big of a deal anyway. I put on a brave smile and accepted reality, not even admitting to myself that I wanted to go with Alex.

Then, something magnificent happened. The day before the dance, everyone was talking about prom and Alex asked if I was going. I said no and he said he would have asked me to go, but he thought I was already going with some girlfriends. That’s when a huge crater opened up in the floor and swallowed me. But somehow I was still standing, dazed but upright, in the theater auditorium.

Driving home from school, I was euphoric. It turned out that Alex’s sister was getting married the next weekend and he already had a tux, so I rushed to town the next morning and bought a dress. And we went to prom, Alex and I. I walked in on his arm, the leading man with the one-armed girl who never got a lead role. Half the girls at the dance would probably have given an arm or a leg to be in my place. OK, at least twenty-five percent. It was just a dance, but I knew even then that it was much more to me.

Prom was not the beginning of a happily-ever-after love. I went away to college and eventually we lost touch. Last Christmas I heard that Alex is married and living in Oklahoma. But it was the beginning of me believing that ‘too good to be true’ is just a routine part of faith and believing at all. Before I left high school, I joined other senior thespians in painting a mural in the theater stairwell. On my part of the wall, I painted the words “Nothing is Impossible.” When I left high school, this is what I believed about love.

To be continued...

ode to the great beast

There's been a lot of buffalo in my life recently. And that's not a metaphor. I'm talking bison, the modern day progeny of those wild fuzzy big-headed beasts that used to roam the prairies of North America before we killed them all.

When I was a child, I saw a painting of a herd of buffalo running off the edge of a cliff. So intent were they at getting away from the hunters, they would stampede and willingly fall, line after line, to their doom. When I looked at it, I felt panicked. I wanted to warn the buffalo, but I feel now it wouldn't have done much good. 

A friend made on vacation.

I drove to Colorado this past week with Asif and Little Gen. A road trip that was supposed to take eight hours, took us twelve because we accidentally took the wrong route. And when I say we, I mean I. But because we were on the scenic route, we saw buffalo roaming freely across the grassland. And when we stopped the car, two adults and one baby buffalo came right to the fence and looked at us before turning to graze in another direction. I would imagine we were as much an oddity to them, Little Gen jumping out of the car with her camera and running across the road, as they were to us. But it still felt like stepping back into a wilder time.

Brushing Sam

Close to the farm where I work is a pen with about eight buffalo and a couple long-horn steer enclosed. When I walk Sam the horse back a trail along the gully, he stops suddenly, ears pricked forward, head held up. He sees something strange. He sees the buffalo. From the road, you wouldn't even know they were there. They see us, too. We just look at one another, as if trying to fit a new piece into the puzzle of our experience. I guess these buffalo have never even seen a cliff, but I wonder if somewhere, deep in their DNA, they remember prairies and pioneers and Indians riding bareback.

Sam won't let me ride him at all on the trail. As soon as we reach the iron gate that marks the start of the dirt path, he decides to go home, with or without my consent. I fight him until I think he's going to accidentally back over the edge of the gully and dump both of us in the ditch. A former championship jumper, Sam grew up in an arena. Buffalo were not involved. So we walk the trail together.

Whenever I see buffalo, I am suddenly filled with an unfamiliar awe, like I'm witnessing something special; something that shouldn't exist or doesn't really, like a dinosaur. It's nothing like looking at a cow, which seems weak and mass produced, with the wild selectively bred out of it. A buffalo seems closer to the divine design; even its eyes are deep and secretive. I kind of want to ride one. I'd just hold on to his woolly mane.

On the wall of a Thai restaurant.

Why do buffalo excite me? I'm not sure, but I seem to have a particular liking for other large mammals. I feel equally impressed by elephants and their complex emotional range. And yes, I'd like to ride one.
 
I still remember the first time I led a horse by a rope, it's hooves clicking rhythmically on the pavement; this huge animal that could easily trample me, was completely in my control. I felt powerful. 

American buffalo have endured for centuries without extinction. They make me feel strong.

OneArmGirl