Thursday, March 20, 2008

2.6 hours

I think I'm going to hurl.

There are a variety of possible reasons:
  • yesterday I had that conversation I'd been waiting for for 10 months and it turned out the salient reason for that woman to disappear from my life instantaneously was just that I was "never that important to her." Learning that I wasted so much time on a liar who just now got the balls to tell the truth feels somewhere between getting mugged in the New York subway and finding out your "boyfriend" was just using you for sex.
  • yesterday I drank one beer over a period of about two hours while eating food and despite the low alcohol content, the food and the fact that I was not drinking on an empty stomach I feel hungover. Apparently with this newest medication abstaining from alcohol isn't just a good idea because it allows the medications to work without being mixed with a depressant, now it doesn't require any intellectual willpower: alcohol makes me sick. Unfortunately, I like champagne--like the taste and enjoy sipping it sophisticatedly--and today there will be a champagne celebration of the near completion of four years of medical school and The Match.
  • yesterday I stayed up until about 1:30 a.m. (I guess I was writing? reading? I don't even remember.) and didn't take a sleeping pill to help me rest on the night before The Match because there wasn't enough time left to sleep, plus I thought I was tired enough to sleep because that's what people do when they're tired. But I'm not "people." I'm a girl who doesn't always sleep at the designated time, but can type first thing in the morning with her eyes closed most of the time.
  • The Match.
Oh. That.

It's here.

In 2.45 hours I will finally know where Justin and I will live for the next four years. The future may involve moving hundreds and hundreds of miles away from the scene of San Diego, where we have shared our lives together for nearly six years. The metaphorical seed of our relationship may have been planted in Athens, but the roots took hold and the tree began to grow and blossom in San Diego. Fortunately, we are a hardy plant of great strength and endurance that has already weathered many storms (one near death experience connected to often fatal illnesses each, death in the family, medical school entry and four years--a known cause of divorce, financial strain...). I am pretty sure we will transplant together and just grow to be more beautiful.

But still, for two control freaks, we have way too little control over the news to be delivered in 2.25 hours. Military wives face this strain constantly: deployment, transfers--no arguing, no choosing. Just going. Then they have to live in those new places while their husbands go to work for "six months" that becomes nine, 10, 11... and then do it again. I married a Marine. At least I get to live with him when we move. Plus we did get him into medical school and knew that moving in four years was a possible outcome. We just both liked San Diego so much that we did not think we would have to go. (I should have thought more clearly: A Marine who was at the top of his class in the Marines and community college after surviving an amputation that led doctors to tell his mother to say goodbye, and who worked full time at night while he took a full load of classes as a UCSD undergrad, who survived a deadly bone infection in our first year of marriage, who got into one of the best medical schools in the country, who maintained both high marks in school and the "extra elective" of marriage, who scored well on finals and national exams while his mother was dying (and he was caring for her) and immediately after her death, who served as a groomsman/best man in at least four weddings while in medical school, who my parents adore, who loves me despite my illness, who acts as the CFO of our family, who worked on a research project from undergraduate through the present and is going to speak about his findings in Rome next month.... of course this Marine will be in a position to rank some of the best schools in the nation in the specialty of his choice. Of course they're going to like him at those schools and he will like them. Of course he could comfortably rank his favorites and exclude his least favorites. Of course he Matched. Of course....

But there's still antics like this morning's ironing decision. These kind of things make the extraordinary, impressive man described above still human and really fun to live with:

"I'm going to try this wrinkle remover," he announced triumphantly as he examined his long sleeved business casual shirt.

"Good idea," I reply and continue to type.

He moved the sheets on his side of the bed.

"Read the directions."

"Of course."

"They don't involve putting the shirt on the bed," I said, concerned that my laptop would catch some of the spray.

"Yeah they do," he said with confidence, as if he were an expert on laundry. In a robust voice he reads, "Place garment on hanger...." Then his sweet dimples appear with a little sheepish grin and he carried the shirt to the closet to retrieve the hanger.

1.45 hours.

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