Anniversaries

 Today is the anniversary of my first marriage. 

31 years ago today, I drove down two-lane roads in Arkansas, autumn peaking in the Butler Mountains, with a young man I hardly knew, in an ‘87 Chevy Impala, drunk with love and the thrill of derailment. Incredible.

My current husband (that sounds really awful, doesn’t it?) is having surgery.  He’s having a lumbar decompression performed by my boss.  All the men I have spoken of so far are Catholic and are a mix of. Eastern European and Irish heritage. What that means, I’m not sure.  I form partnerships, both romantic and professional, with a certain phenotype?

Jay broke his back in 1976 free-soloing a fairly easy climb. (Watch out for anything you think is going to be easy—you don’t give it enough respect).  He was in a body cast for 6 weeks.  They wanted to perform surgery, but he rehabbed his way out of it. Periodically, he would get slammed with back and leg pain, but would always master it.  Last year, he and his climbing partner took one of their lightning strike climbing trips out to Vedauwoo, driving without stopping from Paloma, climbing without stopping once they got there, and, upon his return, he had lower back and leg pain he couldn’t seem to shake. We tried everything, but…here we are.

I know too much about this.  I know they are running into scar tissue, and that his nerves are going to be adhered to the dura. I know that, although everyone thinks this will be easy and simple, they are underestimating this. I hope I’m wrong, but it’s taking longer than it usually does…I’ve assisted on probably a thousand of these procedures.

I took a walk at 730, which is about when they would have made the first incision. I walked for about an hour.  There’s a little park close to the hospital that not too many people know about.  It’s deliciously wild, with creeks and rocks and woods and a lovely trail.  I walked for 30 minutes, turned around and got back to the waiting room by 0830, which is when we would usually finish. Well, my surgeon would be done, and I would finish closing.

It’s the same park I walked in the morning my father died.  Only I went left then.  It was dark. Maybe 4 or 5 in the morning? I should remember the time, but I don’t. Oh, wait. I do. 451. The moon was up—a waxing crescent.  My father once told me that when he died, I would see four crows and one would fly away, and that’s how I would know he had died.  But I didn’t see any crows.  I did see 11 sleeping vultures in a barren sycamore tree.  I’ve always had a secret affection for vultures.  I was the only one on the trail. It was pretty cold.  Nick drove all night from New Orleans. My father, who had lapsed into a coma, whose heart rate had slowed to 30, did not leave us until Nick was in the room with him.

So, here I am in the same waiting room. And that’s my half hour…