Thursday, March 9, 2017

Streaking By

Frick Park in Spring. Hill between Beechwood and Forbes.
When I was 34, my wife encouraged me to get my motorcycle license, something I had wanted for myself but hadn't pursued. We learned it would be better for our marriage if I learned how to ride a motorcycle from someone I wasn't married to. I hesitated to ride fast enough to obtain balance and control of the motorcycle on Pittsburgh's streets, all hills and curves. I struggled to maintain balance and control of the motorcycle while riding slowly in the K-Mart parking lot, while people drove their cars past me as if I knew what I was doing. Instead of becoming one with the motorcycle, every fiber of my being was shouting "Attention K-Mart shoppers!" (Get out of the way now please don't let me hit you please!)

Pennsylvania offers a free motorcycle safety course. I was the only woman in my class. I passed the book test, took the rider training in the parking lot on smaller motorcycles, and failed the riding test. I did not have the confidence needed to let loose on the course. A year flew by and I returned to the class. Passed the book test. Returned to the parking lot classroom and was again the only woman on a motorcycle. This time some things made sense that just hadn't clicked before. I understood them in the fibers of my being. I counted up the miles and figured I had logged a total of 15 training miles in this parking lot, plus 15 from the year before - and I had a chance of passing the class.
On the day of our riding test, I was looking forward to smooth sailing from the training to the testing part of the day. October's cold rain started falling before our class ended, and we were blinded by the rain that stuck to our safety visors. Then we were told we would have to wait and take our test after a class that had come before us. The instructor explained that their test results hadn't been certified correctly, and they had to retake the test. Other returning students had not passed the first time so they were getting a do-over. From the sidelines, I would not be able to tell the difference.
As we stood on the curb in the cold rain, a group of women crested the hill. Women in riding gear, holding helmets, looking totally badass. Women retaking the motorcycle safety test. Each of them had their first motorcycle driving experiences in this class in this parking lot. They took the class together because their boyfriends liked to ride together.

One woman said to me, "I've had plenty of time riding, but I was never driving the bike."
"You mean you were always a passenger, on the back seat?" "Yes."
"It's different when you're in control of the bike, not the accessory." "Yes."
We each got our motorcycle licenses.

My wife bought a bike that was a good fit for my short legs and strong reservations. She rode us out to the pitted parking lot of a big box church that was empty on week days, and watched as I practiced swerving figure-eights around potholes.

When I was 39, she asked me to stop coloring my hair. She liked the silver streak that had come in down the middle. I said no, because I was job hunting.

When I was 40, she died.
I would give anything to run my fingers through the gunmetal grey, soft curls of her short hair.

I would give anything for my wife to see me get older.

I see the silver strands of my hair and I feel tenderness for all that she wanted to share with me. When I see older women who have white hair, or hair they've died purple or highlighted cobalt blue, I want to nod at them the way motorcycle riders nod at one another when they pass on the street, badass just for having their hands on the grips and doing the ride. In the moments I feel overwhelmed in the driver's seat of my life I look up in the mirror and see silver signs that life is streaking by, and I find steadiness in the speed.
I'm 42. I'm learning how to navigate the terrain without my wife gunning the engine, or standing back to witness as I set a course and pick up speed. I'm job hunting again.
I cut my hair to a professional length, and I left the silver streak that says this is not my first ride.


Post Script - The Pennsylvania Motorcycle Safety Course is funded with the learner's permit and licensing fees paid by Pennsylvania motorcyclists - so if you passed your permit test, come take the course you paid for! Check out the FAQs here.

Friday, March 3, 2017

Unaccompanied

I play one of Madeleine's favorite recordings, Yo Yo Ma performing Bach's Cello Suite No.1 in G Major. In my mind I am in our old house, on a massage table, watching the afternoon sunlight fanning across yellow walls, as Madeleine digs her elbow into some tender spot.

The embodied memories of having been married to a deep tissue massage therapist.

I spent last week on a tropical island in the extraordinary space created by magnificent people from around the world. I learned the fluid embrace, the cradling and the expansive space of Lomi massage. I experienced Madeleine and embodied her in her absence as I could not have in her presence, standing in a place at the table where she used to stand, moving as she used to move, reaching for her as I stepped into the space in my own right.



I walked barefoot on the black sands of Hawaii, the way I wanted to when I first saw the picture in the social studies book in elementary school. Before I could imagine that I would one day float in the Dead Sea with my wife, and we would come home with a part-siamese kitten who had bitten her hand on the street, and that he would be endlessly loving without ever getting any easier. If you had asked me then, I would have sworn my adult self would have gone first to the Redwood Forests (this land is made for you and me). From Hawaii I crossed the ocean and drove up the California coast with my boyfriend. We are holding off on a trip to the Redwood Forests, for a longer weekend, for a more languid ride. We stayed at a hotel on the beach and I collected rocks rolled smooth by the waves, because that is what I do. There is a Jewish tradition of putting pebbles on grave markers. I have a flicker of thought about whether I will place one of these on his marker, or if he will place one on mine. I crack a joke instead about how, having filled my pockets with rocks, I could walk into the water like Virginia Woolf.

On our way up the coast, we had stopped at a gas station for the bathroom and there were two women ahead of me in line. They said the guy ahead of them had been in there for ten minutes already. I knocked on the door briskly and asked the guy if he was alright (he was). One of the women remarked that I have more balls than she does. I explained that if someone's using heroin in a public bathroom there's a short window of time to use Narcan in the event of an overdose. She looked at me oddly so I clarified that, of course, there were a lot of other sudden ways to die that don't involve overdose - stroke, heart attack, aneurysm. She asked if I have a medical background. I said no, I have just become familiar with a lot of sudden ways to die. This seemed like a good time to leave and find an available bathroom. On the flight home, as we sat on the runway a man went into seizures. While we waited for medics to arrive the woman sitting next to me went into detail about how she nurses her husband through his diabetic seizures. I turned my gaze out the window to give our fellow passenger some privacy as they wheeled him off the plane, and I listened to my seat mate detail her seizure response habits, with the new found patience of one who now knows how turbulence evokes turbulent memories.

I crossed the continent and came home at midnight to an empty house.
Today my wife's siamese-ish cat cried and cried harrowing my soul like nails on a chalk board until I yelled at her - at Madeleine - "All those years of yelling at me from another room no matter how many times I told you I can't make out the words, and now you leave me with a f#cking cat who cries from the basement. FUCK YOU." And then I laughed until I cried. And I thought, finally, something about this is funny.



Tuesday, February 14, 2017

My Funny Valentine

Madeleine's angle for why we should move in together, was so that we could have time together after our dates when we weren't arguing. We would often start arguing on a date and not resolve the argument until long after, on a phone call. This was years before I learned the term "anxious-attachment style." It just seemed normal, romance between the daughter of an attorney and a woman headed to law school.

In the early days of reeling from losing Madeleine, in those months when it hurt to breathe, when I looked back on the issues we had just transformed in our marriage and those we were planning on working on next, what gave me peace was knowing how hard we had worked and how far we had come. We had earned credit with one another. We knew we were good for it.

The twenty years we had were a good start. We were partners living life at full speed when cancer crashed through everything. We wanted 40 years together. I think about the 20 years ahead of us we will never have. I have wondered how we would have worn those years, wondered if those years would have worn the clanking edges off of us.



And then I read the words of Isaac and Rosa Blum, who met in a war ghetto, survived the Nazi Holocaust, and lived to argue with one another for over 75 years:

“We have a different point of view, but somehow we’ve survived,” she said. “What keeps us together are the quarrels. That’s the cement of a marriage.”

“I love him in spite of all his defects,” she said. “It’s not so easy, but I wouldn’t change him for somebody else.”
Photo credit: Lea Clark, 2008