The D Spot

August

Tue, 19 May 2009 18:45:54 +0000

Do you remember that night, back in August? We were at the park, near the river where you always told me the rats were as big as chichuahuas. You told me that so I’d be scared, and find solace in your arms. I believed it for the same reason.
We lay on the old beach towel under the willow in what I had come to believe as ‘our spot.’ The river had that dank, late-summer smell to it and it was too sultry for even the crickets to do more than give half-hearted chirps every now and again. We had a six pack of Budweiser that some older guy had bought for us when you threw in the extra $20–money I’d made babysitting. It was too hot to do more than lay side by side. Even our teenage hormones were dazed by the heat.
That was the night that you first told me about Beth. Even now, the name makes my gut clench.
I remember that you’d been distracted, drinking your beer fast and crunching the cans before pitching them into the heavy water. I felt a similar clench in my stomach. Something was bothering you and I was scared you were going to end things. I had always known you would break up with me, because I’d always known you were too good to be true. But it had only been a year that we’d been together, and I was hoping for more time.
Of course, you didn’t break up with me. Not really.
It would be a good arrangement, you explained. You and Beth would be together at your school, and I could have a boyfriend at my school. Nights, summers, weekends…it would be just you and I.
I remember panic rising in my throat like vomit. I was confused and felt like I would suffocate in the humid air. Wasn’t I enough? I wondered. I had given you absolutely everything. I did everything, anything, you asked of me and you told me that you loved me. I had nothing left to give and yet you wanted more.
I didn’t speak at first. It was like when we’d first started dating, and I couldn’t speak to you in front of other people. I was so awed by your presence and the effect you had on me back then. This time, I was simply speechless. I sipped my beer and pulled a cigarette out of the pack next to me. When I fumbled with my lighter and you took the cigarette from my lips, put it in your own mouth and lit it and then put it back in mine. Wordlessly.
I dragged deep and finally looked into your eyes.
Dangerous territory, those eyes of yours. Dark brown with flecks of yellow near the irises, they acted like a magnet to my soul. It was no lie when I told you that sometimes, looking deep into your eyes, I heard music. You told me you heard the same when you looked at me.
I sighed. Of course I’d do it. Anything for you, up to and including giving you away for five days a week.
I didn’t say it like that though. I didn’t utter a word.
Instead, with the same magic that pulled us together the second we met just over a year ago, I drew you to me–or you drew me to you—who knows how to define that magnetic pull we shared.
Our kiss was slow and hesitant, more like the first kiss than the thousandth. Your question, my answer. Was there much difference between a hello and goodbye? Did it matter?
We made love under the willow that night, and I raked my nails down your back as I came. I wanted to leave my mark on you. This girl–this Beth–she might have you at school, but I had you here. Now.
You shuddered when I broke your skin and I felt you release inside me.
We lay there for quite some time, our breathing slowing, our legs entwined. Eventually you leaned up on your elbows and put your nose to mine. “I love you” you whispered.
That would have been the perfect time for me to give you all the reasons why you shouldn’t play this game. You should choose, me or her. You shouldn’t ask me to give you so much freedom. What boy in my school even compared to you? No one had those eyes, that magnetism that sensuality that called out my own desire.
But of course I stayed silent on all this.
“I love you too” I replied.
Of course I did.

May

Mon, 11 May 2009 12:53:22 +0000

Fragile days, these
springtime mornings.
The long drive with
nervous laughter.
We spiral up the parking garage, looking for a spot
closest to the elevator
in anticipation of when it’s over
and you are blasted from the drugs.
I always get lost trying to navigate
the hospital corridors and you laugh,
reminding me that I work there, I should know better.
The wait in the room, the magic push of fentanyl
and the procedure,
as it is.
How you manage this with such grace is beyond me.
Then another long walk
back to the car.
This time I drive.

you

Mon, 27 Apr 2009 21:22:53 +0000

Here I am back again, with you.
Yes you. You know who you are.
I realized today that I am never alone. I feel you there. I imagine you in the car next to me, walking beside me as I push the cart in the grocery store. Sometimes I think I hear you , whispering just out of the range of my hearing.
I am drawn to you, and I have yet to see your face. I put other people’s faces where yours belongs, and sometimes the fit is close…but not exact.
Who is it that sings me to sleep at night, when the house is quiet and still?
Who is it now, standing just over my shoulder and behind me, watching me type these questioning words.
And what I don’t understand is that, if you are with me all the time, guiding and guarding me…why can’t I ever feel your presence when I am in the dark times? Why do you not come then, when I am alone with my frustrations, my lonliness, my tears? Are you truly that fickle?
What is a guide when the seeker is lost? What is the purpose of being with me, all the time, close but untouchable? Sometimes I long to find a friend yet my arms reach out into nothingness.
I feel like I am searching and looking and trying to scrabble my way on my path and I am not alone. No, for I have you.
Or better put, you have me.
I just wish I knew who you are.

Those who are dying.

Mon, 30 Mar 2009 17:20:00 +0000

You can always tell the ones who are dying
they are quieter, more polite.
So focused on the inner battle,
trying to maintain the even in and out
a gently erractic pulse;
the ones who are dying are soft spoken,
take a back seat to the drama,
as if knowing that it wouldn’t matter much anyway.
And the ones who aren’t dying
well
You can tell them too.
They are crying yelling
swearing at you with spittle soaked words
Threatening lawsuits
Crawling across the floor in order to
better impress with
histrionics and moans.
Meanwhile,
the quiet one in the chair…
she just slips away
between the time you call security and the time you grab her chart.
Almost too late,
You step over the writhing on the floor
to reach the crash cart.

Sunsets and Roses, revisited

Tue, 24 Mar 2009 16:52:03 +0000

I am reminded of you this
early spring.
Usually your ghost haunts my summertime nights,
I don’t know why you are here
now
inside my thoughts
reminding me of long ago wishes
and midnight moonlight
and
the sunsets and roses
I saw in your eyes.
The last time I saw you
I barely remember.
the last time I kissed you
I cannot recall.
Those days were so hazy and
we were so young
by the time it was done
I wonder if I ever knew you at all…
I used to feel you, know your thoughts
I’d pick up the phone when you’d barely just dialed.
You threw stones at my window and
sang to me at the dock
by the lake.
You told me your secrets.
You cried with me.
One night of many
breakups
You sang Prince to me
While your mother flirted with my dad in a cigarette cloud.
The last time you left me
in that early summer morning,
I saw reddish highlights in your hair
and we kissed and said
‘later’
Never expecting to
never see
each other
again.

impending destiny/old dog

Fri, 13 Mar 2009 15:54:56 +0000

Feeling a sense of impending destiny today…
Not sure from where it originates but anticipation runs high.
Doesn’t feel like meeting an old friend, or getting a surprise phone call.
Not even sure, today, if this implication is even a good thing.
Things are happening for a reason the last few days, inevitably traveling towards a foretold future.
Only problem is that I haven’t picked up my tarot cards in a long time, and my eyes have been blinded to my own forthcoming.
My dreams tell me nothing but tall tales of fancy and impotent longing.
Crow has spent some time with me, yet another speaker of change.
Whatever it is I hope someone holds my hand when it happens.
*******************************************
Old dog watches sadly,
quietly from his place on the floor.
Eyes drooping red-rimmed, he sighs now and then
for effect.
Watching as Mistress labors in her duties.
Now on her knees, scrubbing the floor til it shines.
Mistress stands slowly, popping knees and stretching her back.
She regards him with affection,
her constant companion in all things domestic.
Pats him on the head and old dog thumps his tail,
raising a small poof of dust on the carpet.
He’d smile if he could.
“Good boy,” she says to him,
before turning and getting the vacuum out of the closet.
Old dog lays his head on his paws again with another
theatrical sigh.
Waiting for the next break in Mistress’s daily routine.
Maybe next time she will give him a cookie.

Strength.

Fri, 13 Feb 2009 13:54:29 +0000

I am tired of being a strong woman today.
There, I said it.
I have carried my children, my husband, my family and my friends for so long. I give everything I have to them all.
I spend at least 36 hours a week caring for my patients and when I come home at night, I tend to feel empty.
I am tired and my back hurts.
Some would argue that finding inner happiness depends on relying on one’s own sense of ‘strength of self.’
Some might say that depending on those outside of us to help us find what we lack inside is a measure of neediness, codependence, or some otherwise identified basic fault.
Is it wrong to admit, as a person and a woman, that there are times when it necessary to be the one carried, instead of the one doing the carrying?
Is it safe to admit when the burden seems too heavy, and the steps too steep?
The fear, at least for me, is that admitting a need and having no one fill it is worse than keeping quiet about it. Better to soldier on through, little cowgirl. Buck up, take it like a woman.
Inside it feels like a highwire act. How much of me is left, and how can I best spread it around?
People call it looking for balance.
I call it being tired.
I am tired of being a strong woman today.

The crashing of the waves and the echo of a dream

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 19:52:57 +0000

I watched the waves crash on the beach. The moonlight rippled on the unsettled water and I licked salt-flavored lips. Even up here on the 10th floor, I could feel the pull of the ocean, the magic of the tides.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” I asked him. We were both leaning our elbows against the balcony railing, our shoulders just a few electric inches from each other.
“Yeah,” he said distractedly, not looking away from the water.
I was silent, allowing the rhythm of the waves to calm my mind and settle my frayed nerves.
I stole a sideways glance at him. He was still starting out at the ocean, his brow slightly furrowed and lips pursed.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He shrugged and turned to me. “Yeah, I guess. Just thinking.”
I nodded. I understood how the ocean could pull at one’s mind, churn up thoughts from one’s own hidden depths. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He looked away quick to the left, towards the water, and then back again. I felt a catch when our eyes met. I could see the wall go up in his thoughts. “Nah,” he said dismissively. “It’s nothing. Work stuff.”
“Ah,” I said, turning away so I wouldn’t have to be faced with his boundaries. “Ok.”
We were silent but for the sound of the waves as they crashed higher. High tide would be coming soon, and the wind was picking up. Somewhere in the darkness a gull screeched. I shivered.
“Are you cold?” He asked.
“A bit,” I said, surprised into honesty by the fact that he had noticed.
“Here,” he said and reached his arm out.
Almost against my own will, I allowed him to put his arm around my shoulders. I felt the heat of his hand on my upper arm and I smelled a hint of his deodorant and shampoo. I slowly felt myself relax.
“Better?” he asked, smiling at me.
“Yeah,” I said, returning the smile.
We turned simultaneously back towards the waves as they crashed higher up the beach, lost in our own thoughts as the sand was slowly swallowed by the rising tide.

The spaces between us

Sat, 03 Jan 2009 16:46:56 +0000

Sweet like sugar and tasting
like the insides of a sour candy after I’ve
sucked all the tartness away.
Holding onto me like warmth
Like the smoke from a fire that I smell
the next morning in my hair.
I feel you breathe
I see what you see thru your eyes as they are
clouded with me.
I hear what you hear and I listen closely to
the words left unsaid, the spaces
between the words are where the real
conversation lies.
I lie with you nightly, hearing the
beat of your heart, the
rustle of your hair as it grows and the
edgy sound of silence as you dream.
We dream together and I can almost reach you
in the dreamtime, the quiet time,
in the spaces between us.

another night, another shift.

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 17:39:46 +0000

Sometimes its brutal trying to be nice.
Dealing with someone manipulative, who wants everything and then a little more. People forced to be within 4 feet of each other, yelling at each other. Making fun of one another.
Always the peacekeeper, I try to walk the fine line between supportive and firm.
Ship them out, treat and street. They leave to come back another day, with the same wants, the same needs, the same demands. “But they ALWAYS give me TWO sandwiches. But they ALWAYS give me three rolls of medical tape. But can’t you just give me a COUPLE ace bandages?” And why on earth do you need this stuff anyway? I want to scream it, but its that firm yet supportive smile, with a no and a shake of the head.
Yes, go ahead, take the leaflet from housekeeping. God knows what you need it for but go ahead and yes, two sandwiches if it makes you actually leave the room an hour after I discharged you.
And to turn around and find another person, a friend, being threatened by one of her patients. Security swarms and the police eventually show up a couple hours later. Meanwhile, the perp is gone, laughing all the way.
How do you maintain the professionalism when they just suck you dry?
There’s that phrase again…’compassion fatigue’.
Yet I go back, we go back, time and time again. Sure it pays the bills. But it’s more than that.
Maybe next time we are faced with the wants, the needs, the demands…maybe that will be the time we actually fix something for a change.