Stuck in a Moment

Stuck in a Moment

As the song goes, they are Stuck in a Moment and they can’t get out of it. Stuck in the silence they created, waiting for the other to break. Much like a staring competition to see who can hold out the longest. She knows it will be her again in the end. It usually is. The only uncertainty is the length of time it will take. Days, weeks, months. Her memory deceives her into believing that they have even sometimes held out for years.

Stubborn determination blames the other. The silence is heavy, thick, severe. Cold as death. It pulls her into the darkness she swore she would never allow herself to fall into again. Yet here she is.

They are careful to avoid eye contact and give each other a wide berth to ensure they do not touch the other. Essential questions and answers are spoken in a safe tone, but it’s amazing how much they can say non-verbally. Events are marked on a calendar rather than pointed out and discussed. A sticky note penned with the word MILK prompts a trip to the store without having to voice the request.

He seems unperturbed, going about his daily business of leisure. Rising early to enjoy his morning coffee and toast in the company of newsanchors and meteorologists. She lingers in bed failing to find more minutes of sleep. She listens to a few guided meditations trying to align her day, seeking clarity, grounding, gratitude, any kind of positive energy.

She drags herself up feeling greasy from the night sweats unabated by the hormone replacement therapy she started five weeks ago and the castor oil wrap velcroed around her wrist to calm her arthritic thumb. She settles in the matching recliner next to his, sipping her liter of water trying to find warmth dressed in three layers of yoga wear, covered in a fleece throw, hand wrapped in a heated bean bag. The cold runs bone-deep, sending waves of shivers that feel like baby beetles crawling in military lines up her limbs and torso. She stares at the continuous slideshow of family photos on the Aura frame not listening to the drone of CNN’s latest roundup of breaking news.

He finishes his coffee and heads to his workshop. She pretends not to care as he heads outside leaving her free to let her tears fall. Her stomach rumbles, unable to decide whether it is hunger or a glowing ember generated by anxiety. Perhaps she is hungover from too much food and sugar from the previous day. She takes a small portion of leftover French toast casserole she made for their family’s Christmas brunch yesterday. She spends two hours scouring the crusted pans of yesterday’s casseroles. It is a mundane task that gives her a semblance of accomplishment with no thought required. It means she is not a complete failure.

The day after Christmas is always the worst. The letdown after all of the frenzied preparation, anticipation, and expectation of perfect Hallmark moments. The house, empty and muted of all laughter, joy and love brought by children and grandchildren. Technically, it is not really the day after Christmas. It is the day after Boxing Day. Being the parents of sons means that they have to wait their turn to celebrate.

They have mastered the art of pretense around the kids. When the grandchildren arrive, they turn on like motion-sensored robots, animated by the surge of joy and love gushing from innocent hearts. But as soon as they leave, they return to their lifeless state, depleted. With the adults, they are more like puppets, wooden conversations and responses jerked by string pulling. Whether they fool them or not, they will never know, since Such Things are never discussed in their family. Their kids, adults now, are well versed in this mode of communication. She read somewhere recently that loneliness is the space between what others see and what one feels. Bang. On.

Dejected, she resigns herself to the sunroom where the view is too pretty for her feelings. The tiniest of snowflakes float down from the sky layering on the frost crystals icing the trees. They look sharp enough to pierce her tender heart. Again, the sky is bleak and sunless, leaving her feeling raw and frigid. The bright whiteness blinds her darkness. The silence, harsh and heavy, is unbearable, especially when he is in the house. Then, the too-thick air chokes her, severing her spirit.

She lies on the La-Z-Boy sofa, cocooning herself in the baby blue velvet throw. She alternates between dozing and dazing, assaulted and paralyzed by unrelenting thoughts. She is sucked in this vacuum, lacking the will to do helpful things and rejecting her entire self-care routine in response to her own rejection. Unable to hang on in her swirling mind, she lets go, uncomfortably numb, until her stomach nudges her again, willing her to consume stale chicken-flavored ramen noodles. Swallowing hurts, but the bland warmth is soothing.

He has come back inside to watch a round of the World Junior Hockey Championship, hoping to get a proud glimpse of his second cousin playing for Team Canada. Like her, he persists with avoidance rather than open the can of worms that might follow from an attempt to reach out. She remains in the sunroom, dark now, and reads her tablet white on black. She goes to bed before he does and closes the door behind her, shutting out the intruding slit of light. She does not hear nor feel him come to bed. He must have taken extra care not to rouse her.

A cycle of grief ensues. She denies, thinking it is just a fleeting episode. She rages, blaming and resenting herself and him for letting this happen yet again. Rumi says the wound is where the light enters, so she holds onto that hope. She bargains, trying to placate him with minimal efforts towards conciliation, afraid of losing him for good this time. She falls into sadness at her failure, driving a deeper wedge between them. Finally, she accepts that she must be patient and let it come to pass, as it always does.

For over thirty years, their marriage has been severed, like a crack spreading across a windshield from changes between heat and cold. It stops then starts again. How long will it last this time? Will the crack stop or cut a new path? It happens more frequently now than it did before. Usually on anniversaries, milestones or not, and at Christmastime, triggered by her offers of affection, when she is fragile and hopeful. So her greeting cards remain stifled in her underwear drawer. She has learned that it is best to let him make the first move. Resist picking the scab to avoid creating a festering sore. His response to her Merry Christmas greeting was a barely disguised admission of lost love. Her attempt to snuggle was the guilty act that prompted this most recent round of stiffness and silence. Once, he blindsided her the time she came home late after holding vigil by her mother’s deathbed. He cruelly ensures her humility is kept in check, adding to the lifetime of scars on her heart. Perhaps she takes perverse pleasure in playing the martyr as a concealed form of self-punishment, denying the love she believes she does not deserve.

Notwithstanding, they have experienced truly happy times. In the beginning, their see-saw was equally balanced between good and bad. But retirement years have made the equilibrium weaker instead of stronger. She is stuck up in the air for longer now, it seems, stamina withered. After all this time, the question of staying together still comes up. She is crushed by the loneliness of being together.

How will it end this time? Will he reach in the night like he sometimes does, holding her tightly while professing tender love. Or will he withhold those three words, making her dread an uncertainty she is afraid to interpret. Will she break down, powerless to stop the cascading grief once the dam of tears has broken. Will he hear her then and hold her? Will they finally learn to hold on to their connection? Or will it fizz out like a pressure cooker letting out its steam leaving them settled until the next time?

Tonight he has handed her the remote telling her to watch whatever. She finds Crazy Stupid Love. Has serendipity played a part in playing this movie on this very night? Like the protagonist, she too has loved him since she was fifteen. When Cal halts his son’s dismal graduation speech about disbelieving in true love to proclaim ‘I met my soulmate when I was fifteen years old. … I have loved her even when I’ve hated her ... and I don't know if it's going to work out… But I can promise you this: I will never stop trying. Because when you find the one, you never give up.’ Hearing that resonating speech, especially that last line ... stirs a faint glimmer of hope.