Harder to Fall

     There is the old phrase "the bigger they are, the harder they fall". That might apply to our expectations in love. At least for us older folks.
     We fell in love more easily when we were younger. We suffered our share of breakups along the way; so, as we got older, we lowered our expectations.
     We don't expect to find someone who would be perfectly suited to us. At least not easily.
     Because we learned about compromise, we know we will not find someone whose views and opinions match ours. Not exactly.
     We expect that "all the good ones" are taken, so we have to settle for second best.
     No, you are saying, this is not true. I agree. But we have grown a bit numb to the process.
     And that's where we run into trouble.
     We have learned to ignore our expectations. We won't consider fanciful expectations, until they look like more of a sure thing than they used to. We tend to ignore them until they go away. Unless we fall in love.
     That is when all the blood drains from our brain and we again do stupid things, like daydreaming about a future as half of a loving couple, imagining our new sweetie pie being fawned over at family events, even envisioning that certain ceremony that unites two into one....
     The deeper we fall, the less the brain works, the more hope takes over, and the bigger our expectations become.
     Then reality strikes. The feet turn cold. The looming commitment is spurned. Our big expectations tumble.
     And the bigger they are, the harder they fall....

A, B, C, C, C, C, ....

     My friend Rachel's husband died yesterday in the small, dark hours before dawn. She is only 33. Her husband Brian was 41. They were married not even six years. Their son Lucas, who they call Luke, is about three.

     She is a friend, but I never actually met Brian. Rachel is the daughter of José, who I dated for about a dozen years, mostly during the '90s. 

     Rachel was about nine when I first met her. Our August birthdays are one day apart, and we are both typical Leos, but in our different, generationally-appropriate ways.

     I saw her a couple of times during my time with her dad, but knew her mainly through his words, his memories of her as a toddler: her straight, black hair hanging down to her 'culito'—his Spanish term for her baby bottom; or, after his divorce, Rachel standing at the screen door, crying her eyes out, watching him walk away after a visit. He said those moments killed him. 

     In 1997, before my son's wedding, I wanted a make-over and went to see Rachel at Merle Norman's. 

    José and I broke up the next year, but stayed in touch. Rachel knew that, and she called me in 2003 when her dad was hospitalized in a coma. She told me he might not make it. I immediately drove the hundred miles to sit with him. He didn't move; but, for one last time, I held his hand; told him how much I still loved him; that I knew how much he loved me, too; and that it was okay to let go and find peace.

     He, too, died later that evening, in the small, dark hours before dawn.

     I lost track of Rachel for awhile, but somehow found her again. Maybe it was Facebook. I can't remember. Rachel posted her life on Facebook, telling when Brian's cancer was treated, went into remission, or resurfaced. Her friends rallied around her.

     I baked a carrot cake for them, coincidentally Brian's favorite. Rachel was to meet me to pick it up, but sent her sister instead. Brian had taken sick very suddenly and had to be rushed to the hospital.

     At another time, we were to meet for lunch. After waiting awhile, I called her. Oh, no, you have the right date and time, she told me through her tears; then apologized because she was at the hospital with Brian. He had again taken a sudden turn for the worst.

     In 2011, we got together for dinner and talked long about her situation, and also about José, laughing and sharing stories. She knew he was no saint, but we agreed that we loved him dearly and we knew how much he loved us in return. 

     In early 2012, Brian was admitted to the hospice on an urgent basis, something that would recur several times before he passed. Rachel came to my place that first time, in tears over his suffering, her heart breaking for fear of losing the love of her life, about Luke losing his dad, about Brian's own sorrow for not being there for Luke as he grows up, and about her fears of coping afterwards. So much for one to take on...at any age.

     A, B, C, C, C, the Big C, Cancer, Cancer, Cancer. That's what took Brian yesterday. That's what took my ex's wife of 20 years in 2009. What took my dad in 1990. And my mom in 1982. And friends. And classmates.

     On Facebook, I see so many posts of anti-cancer images and slogans, with entreaties for all of us to 'like' and 'share' them "if you are against cancer." If? Are you serious?

     A, B, C, C, C, ... C me die. C me die. C me die....