A Monday morning reflection on failure, death and gall bladders.
My good friend Eric (also Jessi's brother-in-law) had his gall bladder removed Friday night. He was in a great deal of pain all week from what he thought was food poisoning, only to discover that his gall valve had turned gangrenous and he had a gall stone the size of an egg lodged in the tube between his gall bladder and his stomach. They popped him into surgery and a few hours later he was resting at home, doped up on vicodin and napping on the couch. Freaky.
Yesterday was the one year anniversary of the night Jessi and I decided that we would "try dating." Twelve months later, we're living together and unmarried in name only (something we'll be remedying in the near future). I've never been happier, but I'll be damned if that kept me from making a royal jackass of myself on our first anniversary. Having forgotten to pick anything up on the way home from work Friday and having no real opportunity to get something before Sunday, I decided that I would wait until I got off work tonight to pick up a stargazer lilly (her favorite flower) and a card. She finally told me last night that she had been expecting to exchange cards/gifts that night (which makes sense). Despite her attempts to make me feel better, it was obvious that she was disappointed in my lack of sensitivity to the issue. Just like everything else in my life, I decided that I would let it slide a day and that everything would be fine. Well, it wasn't fine. You only get one first anniversary, and I botched mine something awful.
If Jessi read this, she would tell me to stop feeling badly about it. Unfortunately, that's not going to happen anytime soon. There are a number of personality flaws that I have in abudance, and the inability to organize 90% of my life is one of them. Not feeling badly about it isn't going to do anything but make me screw up again somewhere down the road. Sometimes you have to face your failures and live with the unpleasant knowledge that you disappointed someone you care about for a while. That's part of being an adult (something else I'm not terrifically good at), and without it we'd never learn from our mistakes. So Jess, even though you probably won't ready this, I want you to know how sorry I feel. I'm not going to let this go any time soon, and the next time my sloth and selfishness wants me to put something off, I'm going to remember what your face looked like when I told you that I didn't have anything for you last night.
In other unpleasantness, things have finally come to a head between myself and my parents on the matter of my dog. Maggie is a nine-year-old beagle, and aside from health problems and a behavioral problem that keeps her from being left at home alone, she's apparently starting to growl and nip at Hans, my two-year-old nephew. My parents have decided to accelerate their attempts (and, by proxy, my own attempts) to find a home for her. I'd love to take her, but the apartment Jessi and I are in doesn't allow dogs. Even if they did, between the two of us we wouldn't be able to stay with her during the day.
My dad told me on Friday that if they can't find a home for her, they're going to take her to the Humane Society. Given her age and her health and behavioral problems, a trip to the Humane Society will undoubtedly lead to her being put to sleep. The thought of it makes me so angry that I can't bear it, but I don't really know what else I can do. Any attempt to take care of her myself would be detrimental to the life that Jessi and I are building together, and as much as I love my dear beagle, I love Jessi more.
So despite a good friend who's going to be bed-ridden for a week, a serious foul up on the relationship front and a potentially dead dog, I find myself in unusually high spirits this Monday morning. I'm happy because tonight I get to go home to Jess, who loves me even though I'm so fundamentally flawed. Amazing people like that don't come around often, and I'm so lucky to have found one.
-Sam
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