And I’m Okay
Decibel 90 in Black and White
There are days when life is harder than you thought it would be when you open your morning eyes, and there are those blessed days when most things are simple. Simple like they used to be. Attending a friend’s birthday party open mic at 8:00 p.m. You may not be able to drive now, but you hop in an Uber and don’t think about what mobility aid you need, if your pain medication is in your pocket, or even if you have the energy. You throw caution to the wind and order a straight-up Diet Coke and perch on a bar stool next to a buddy you haven’t seen in two years and say hello. You don’t explain what has been happening since he last saw you. You don’t mention the treatments, the partial recoveries, the flare-ups, or when you had eye surgery to repair the Thyroid Eye Disease or the dental surgeries to repair the war your body has waged on you. Instead, you get to smile and enjoy the music. You turn to friends of friends and introduce yourself with a handshake, smile, and a simple, “I’m a friend of Jeff’s. We’ve known each other for about a decade.” You say that you’re a teacher, but now you're in private practice as an English language instructor, freelance writer, and actor. There’s no need to mention that there’s an ever-present twinge in your chest because what good would that do? It would only drown out the music and the banging drumbeat that your Apple Watch tells you is a Decibel Level of 90.
You’ll only be there for thirty more minutes, and with the bangers comes a minor inconvenience. What is ever perfect if not fragile? Life. Don’t treat me like a Porcelain Doll because I have already shattered and have glued myself together with the hope that I have enough glue to hold my insides together. Each morning when I wake, I find a tiny scrap of porcelain breath, or pain, or tremor in my leg, and I take that glue I hold onto with rest and reserve, patch that piece right back up because that’s what you do. That’s what I do. And I’m never the same as before, but how could I be? If I were the same as before, I would have missed each sunset I would have viewed through my phone, but instead, I now turn my gaze to the horizon. I would have walked quickly with my head down, instead of making eye contact, on the path by the pond I walk beside each day, and not have said “hello” to a stranger walking past me, living their own story. If I were the same person I was before, I would have been stuck in roles that were not meant for me to stay in.
On the last day of my teaching contract, we sat spaced in church pews on a religious retreat in the Catholic church I attend weekly, even though I’m Greek Orthodox. But peace is peace. We were asked to describe our year in one word, and I said “sadness.” For so many reasons. I sat by myself toward the back of the church and cried over all the things I couldn't know and all the things that had already been said, and all the things I was so angry about, always saying, “But it’s ok.” The church filled with spiritual instrumental music, and silently I whispered, “I am heartbroken and it’s ok.” Not “but” it’s okay, the time for “but” has passed. The conjunction is not needed to make things ok. The coordinating conjunction “and” feels appropriate. I am not okay, and that’s fine because I will be again when I realize what my next role in life is, and maybe it’s not linear. Perhaps it’s not building blocks or climbing a ladder, but having new experiences. My tears stopped. I sit here and type about my retreat experience and the music experience last night, and I realize I’m a little heartbroken over an administration I trusted. I’m a little heartbroken that I got sick. I’m a little over saying “but it’s okay” and transitioning into “and I’m okay.” I think each of us has our own way of moving through crisis mode into a place of peace that lasts for God only knows how long. But in those moments of okay-ness, the decibel levels don’t matter. The noise of all the stuff just stops, and we find ourselves being.
With ringing ears, we walked to the park and sat beneath a starless sky, beautiful nonetheless. I drape my arm over the back of the bench as I sit with two old friends and two new acquaintances, sharing an hour of laughs. For a few minutes, none of us spoke. The breeze, so gentle, tickled my legs; it was so welcome after days of 100-degree-plus Chicago temperatures, and I felt okay. There are days I can’t remember what it feels like to be carefree or to walk without my legs buckling, or swallow my food without clutching a glass of water to help it go down. But last night, I forgot all of that, and there was no need to explain it all away or justify what my next role would be. No need to explain my productivity or who I’m querying my manuscript to, or think about auditioning for a show again, or how I’m growing my tutoring practice. Even with all its vibrant color, sometimes life is black and white and so simple. Tonight, as I type, there is no gray, blue, green, or orange; just stark truth — and that truth is, my heartbreak is lifting, and tonight I feel okay.
