Dark/moon/light.

…Because everything alive has its two sides; a word is one wing of the silence, fire has its cold half. - Pablo Neruda

Just a couple days ago, in this exact space, I wrote about my burning love of language. I have a physical need, as strong as any other human need, to spend time with words. But today, words irritate me like sand paper. Can both truths exist simultaneously? Today, I’m feeling the cold half of my fire for words.

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I’ve been writing a lot lately. Snips and chunks of my day, whenever I am free, spent typing, deleting, typing, writing with the speed of a 100 meter sprint foot slap to the track. I’ve been writing here, writing for the solitary audience of a notebook, and writing for this class. As much as I love playing with words, I often feel a deep, lonely distance between what I want to write, and what I actually end up writing. Like an archer who misses the target and hits a stray chicken instead, the squawk is loud and there are feathers everywhere. Often I look at what I’ve put to paper and it makes my eyes hurt.

I’ve been writing emails with a person who had become a friend, and now, somehow, is suddenly just a person again. I see an aching gulf between the words inside and the words that get written, and although the inability to bridge this distance comes from my own weaknesses, I feel betrayed by words. I also feel betrayed by the words I’m not able to give my CF compatriots who are currently in the hospital struggling. I wonder which words I could possibly give to help each one get through the night. My heart sinks and hurts.

I’ve been writing letters to my insurance company to appeal the denial of coverage for sinus surgery. The last time I attempted an appeal, to get coverage for a medicine I desperately needed, the process took eight months. My doctors say that the surgery is of immediate and pressing concern; until the insurance company agrees, I’ll continue writing to the maddening beat of a sinus headache hammer. My pleading words are drowned out by the incessant thud of the hammer and the ambivalent shuffle of insurance company forms. My head hurts.

Words feel useless today.

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Today I want to close my eyes to words and wash myself with music.

The most effective aphrodisiacs.

You may as well know this: S and I fight. Loudly. We have a hot and heated relationship. We’re mad about each other, fiercely devoted to each other, as close as two separate entities could be. And we fight that way, too. Especially on important days, like birthdays and anniversaries. Not really Valentines Day, because we don’t put too much stock in a Love Day established by a Pope in 496 AD. But today we fought. And oh how we fought.

We’ve been together for over a decade (which is A LOT if you’re counting in Hollywood years) and our fights have actually decreased in frequency and severity over the years. But they still rear their ugly heads every once in a while. What do we fight about? The usual- our different approaches to money, sex, and parenting. These are the most common issues that couples tend to fight about. But add a chronic illness into the mix, and, for better or worse, it intensifies everything.

For example, money: whatever money issues already exist are compounded by the never-ending medical bills. A single one of my prescriptions costs $5400 a month. A MONTH. Luckily, we have good insurance, and so our co-pay is about 100 bucks. But considering I take about 20 different medications, when you start to add all the co-pays, doctor visits, and durable equipment fees, not to mention the costs of things not covered by insurance, the bills start to pile up. And so does the stress. Not a day goes by that I don’t feel a moment of gratitude for our insurance coverage, but I also can’t help but wonder how we would use that extra cash if we weren’t spending it on medical bills.

It pains me to admit it, but CF is a part of our relationship, a silent body exerting its power over our choices, our fights, the way we spend our time and money, and the way we love each other. CF heaves stress upon stress on our marriage. I see it, know it, and hate it. But, when illness and death are always somewhere on the periphery of life, there also comes a gift: you try your hardest not to take love for granted. We both know that there’s an expiration date on this marriage, sooner rather than later, and the reason for separation will not be divorce. No 50th anniversary for us.  So we do our best to do our best with the time we have, and try not to wonder how much time is left.

Do you ever wonder how much time you have left to love your love? Your kids? Your mom and dad? Your work? Your pet? Your best friends? Asking yourself this every so often will do wonders for your relationships. It may not reduce the fighting, but I promise it will increase the loving.

So, what are the  most effective aphrodisiacs? A heck of an insurance plan works wonders in the bedroom. Death nearby. And sometimes, a poem too.

Lean toward the one(s) you love, as Stephen Dunn teaches us to do in his poem that I’ve selected today. Even if it means you have to swallow your pride, be the first to utter a word and break that deafeningly loud after-argument silence.

S, this is for you.

After the Argument by Stephen Dunn (clink on link to read the poem in its entirety and hear it spoken by the poet)

Whoever spoke first would lose something,

that was the stupid

unspoken rule.