friends and family

As I mentioned, Lynn and I couldn't have a wedding because our combined income might make her ineligible for the state health plan that would cover her treatment.

Okay, so this speaks to just how madly in love with Lynn I was. Anything happening to her was terrifying. I had asked her to marry me, given her a ring, and committed myself to her forever. But without a wedding or a "legal" marriage.

We even tried going to the Catholic church to get married but without a marriage certificate and they would not allow that. The fact that we didn't have a wedding didn't change anything.

If you are thinking that I imagined getting married to someone else someday, the answer is NO! I had found the one for me! Lynn. So, my commitment to Lynn was forever.

Let this all sink in for a moment. We were in a rush with time hoping that they find a cure for Cystic Fibrosis - a genetic illness - so that she would live past her fifties. That's what I needed!

Treatment can cost several thousand dollars per year during good years. Even her mother could not afford that and their good insurance wouldn't cover Lynn's medical care.

What do I mean by a "bad year?" And what was it like in general, even during good years?

Occasionally, she would use an inhaler but that didn't seem to happen very frequently.

I drove her or we drove together to her clinic appointments in Chapel Hill. From Wilmington, that was a drive of over two hours. It happened for the most part only once a year.

They would check her oxygen saturation... take X-rays to see the scarring and the buildup of mucus in her chest.

Lynn was good about letting me sit in on every meeting, such as when she was taken to a room to be examined by first a nurse and then a doctor.

Most of the time we were very lucky because she was so very healthy for someone with this very serious and debilitating disease.

I might have turned away or left a room when they wanted to collect a mucus sample. Lynn understood that I had a weak stomach.

Anyway, so much of this was becoming routine. Most of the time.

I asked so many questions all the time. "What is that dark spot in her chest area that you described in the X-Ray? Is that mucus or scarring?"

The doctor would answer, "well, here is some excess mucus that needs to be cleared, and here is some scarring?"

"Wait, how do we clear that mucus?" I asked.

"Have you learned how to do the tapping?" the doctor asked.

"Yes, we learned about that from the physical therapist." I answered, adding a question "but it's still worrisome."

Then I asked, "What about that device that she is supposed to wear, is that better?"

"Not necessarily," the doctor answered.

Then Lynn said, "it doesn't clear it out for me, I can tell it's still there." Then she turned to me and said, "I told you about the problems and asked for your help the other day."

I felt so guilty. "Oh, my God, Lynn, I am so sorry." Adding, "it's scary for me. I know you need me and I'm trying. I'm scared when you are not well. That makes me feel guilty because I should be there for you... but I get sad and scared about the meaning of these problems."

I paused and added with tears running down my face, "I want a 'normal life' ... and if anything happens to you... I just love you so much, you make me feel good and happy. I can't imagine not having you with me."

"I know sweetie, I have had more time to deal with this," she said.

"Okay, so I still have a lot of questions," I said.

"Okay, ask away," answered Lynn with a smile that said she knew I really cared.

Then turning to the doctor, I said, "so, how often and for how long should I do the tapping to clear up the mucus as it builds up?"

"Well, about 15 to 30 minutes at a time in the evening would be good," answered the doctor.

"And the scarring, that looks big, what..." I could barely get my words out I was so full of anxiety and sadness... trying hard to be strong for Lynn.

It is SO MUCH easier to do this with clients or patients at a psych hospital.

Dear reader, I hope that is somewhat intuitive but maybe I shouldn't assume. I wasn't in love with my clients or the patients I served. We weren't sharing our lives together. They were not in love with me either. At least I hope not – that's another issue for later.

Also, the big secret that I have been avoiding is that Cystic Fibrosis is a deadly disease! I could lose Lynn forever!

My blood runs cold when I think of this as it did at the time. It's interesting how similar sensations can feel so different. When we were at the clinic discussing these matters, I could feel chills running through me... not the kind that I felt at the touch of Lynn's hand or her lips on mine.

I was, for the most part, able to push these issues out of my mind and not think about the reality of it. But on these visits, we had to look at this darkness in our life. Scarring and mucus appeared as dark patches on the X-Ray of her lungs and this darkness on her lungs was like the darkness in our lives.

In answer to the question I posed about the scarring, the doctor said, "her lungs still have a capacity to breathe and get enough oxygen to function in many normal activities."

During the visits, I would learn about how the scarring makes the lungs less elastic and that makes it harder for them to expand and get enough air to engage in certain activities that we take for granted... running, hiking, or walking long distances. And scars don't heal.

So, even if they had a cure that doesn't mean that everything would be fine.

When her health got worse...

There was a time in late 1996 when Lynn had to go into the hospital. Her lung functioning had gotten poorer or weaker and they wanted to put her on IV antibiotics in the hospital.

The doctor had explained that they wanted to go after the infections in her lungs. They had to try some of the latest antibiotics that were thought to be more effective in people with Cystic Fibrosis (CF). They were always learning new things about the disease and people were living longer.

It was scary for both of us. Waiting there in the lobby of the hospital I tried to stay positive and tell myself that things would be okay.

Then she was brought to an inpatient unit that was used for treating individuals with CF.

When Lynn asked me to get her something from downstairs – a drink and a candy bar – I was somewhat glad to have that opportunity. I was struggling to stay still. That's how anxious I was. I had a strong urge to walk. I couldn't sit still hardly. I was also sick to my stomach. That's what happens when I am anxious or scared. I felt queasy or nauseous.

I held her hand as they inserted the IV. I asked the nurse "what is that?" referring to the fluid that was being introduced into her IV.

"This is just saline solution," she answered... adding, "the doctor will give us an order to tell us which medications to give her."

I was sitting on the bed looking at Lynn. No words were spoken for a few moments.

"Do you want a book, or to play cards?" I asked, "or how can we pass the time?"

Lynn asked for a book by Anne McCaffery, one of her newest books that she had not read. Anne McCaffrey is a fantasy writer and I knew that she was a fan of her books. So, I just needed to know the title of the latest book.

"I want to stay with you," I said.

"I understand," she answered. "I am glad you are with me."

"Me too."

I added, "I can just be reading something too, a book that I like, as I sit with you."

"Okay, that sounds good."

"You can go meet my friend Carolyn," she said. This was a friend who also had CF and she lived in Chapel Hill. We were living in Wilmington about two hours away. I'm not sure how Lynn connected with Carolyn.

"Yes, we will see her when you get out too," I said. "Before we go home.

Visiting hours don't usually allow people to stay all night. That night I was in bed next to Lynn, on her left. She was asleep with my arm resting on her stomach or her chest. I just wanted to feel her breathing. We made sure the IV was out of the way.

I heard the door open, and I looked up to see a nurse checking in. She didn't say anything.

This finally ended and she came home. Our life went back to normal.

The worldwide web was still fairly new in the 90s. Lynn and I were both interested in poetry and I had the idea of publishing a poetry magazine on the web. This was in 1995.

I had a goal of becoming a psychiatric social worker and I was learning a great deal about psychiatric issues at this time. I will describe this in greater detail later.

Anyway, we were thinking of a title and I thought of a term that I heard in the psychiatric field – word salad. The definition from dictionary.com is as follows: "incoherent speech consisting of both real and imaginary words, lacking comprehensive meaning, and occurring in advanced schizophrenic states."

I had remarked that at one time, years ago, I had struggled to make sense of poetry... like when I was growing up. I once had the impression that poetry was hard to understand. Maybe I just had bad teachers.

This seemed like a good name that we both liked. So, we called the magazine "Word Salad" or "Word Salad Poetry Magazine." I got a domain name online and started creating a static website. This was prior to WordPress and so I had to work with Microsoft Word or perhaps WordPerfect (yeah, back then both programs were equally popular).

I would then create a list of pages for each poem with links on the main page which would serve as a table of contents.

Lynn let me do everything related to the presentation of the book on the web.

I also did what was required to try to get submissions. Back then, newsgroups were very popular, and your internet service provider included a list of newsgroups that you could subscribe to. It is similar to a forum today, but they were more open and not controlled by any particular owner... meaning there weren't strict rules about what you could post.

Consider something like this today. We might join groups on Facebook, but someone is an owner and creator of the group or there are a small group of administrators for the group. Unsolicited requests for submissions posted to a group might get you kicked off for sending spam.

Newsgroups were not like that and you could find appropriate groups where you could find creative people who are writers and poets. That's what I did.

Poetry submissions started coming into our email account for the magazine.

Keep in mind that at the time this idea of an online magazine was very new as well. That is no longer the case.

We decided to publish four times every year. Around the time when we were getting ready to publish an edition, I first asked Lynn to sit down in front of the computer and see what she thought of some of the poems we were getting – which ones did we want to publish?

She said she wanted me to print out all the poems that I got. I did that and she started creating piles for rejects, those we might want to publish, and those she or we liked. She might show me ones she liked right away along with the ones that were in the "maybe" stack or I would look later... sometimes I would start off indicating which ones I liked.

This was really taking off and it was amazing.

At one point, we got an interview with Ben Steelman who is a reporter with the Wilmington Star-News. We sat down together with him outside near his office in town. It was memorable.

We got some submissions from our friends as well.

A similar process occurred when Lynn would edit/proofread my papers for graduate school. She would ask me to print out the paper and she would go about marking up typos or other stupid mistakes I would make in my writing. It's strange how easy it is to make all these errors even if I was a much better writer than might be indicated by some early drafts of my papers.

In the next section, I will describe some aspects of my career. None of that would have been possible without the support, nurturance, and encouragement of Lynn. That journey might have started in the 80s when I decided I was going to go into social work, but it took off in 92. That just happens to be the same time when I met Lynn.

The title of my book indicates that I am a Clinical Social Worker, or a psychiatric social worker... a mental health professional, and a psychotherapist. So far, this might seem like a love story. It is. However, this story, everything I have written about so far and will describe later is related.

Being able to meet Lynn took a tremendous amount of effort and in a way, this was a story of success. Remember, when I was learning to overcome shyness, back in college (undergraduate college) I was interested in dating, finding a girlfriend, and ultimately having a family?

Self-actualization for me was found in the relationship I had with Lynn.

The same effort to overcome shyness would be crucial in my career including, but not limited to, my choice of career. 

So, we got engaged to be married and our relationship grew.

We had in mind a life together forever as husband and wife. To live happily ever after. This story is a bit complicated though. Let me explain.

Like everyone else, we wanted a "normal life."

The problem was that Lynn was born with a chronic illness called Cystic Fibrosis (CF). This is an illness or disease that may not be known and understood by everyone reading this. It might be hard to understand the impact of CF on our love story.

Cystic Fibrosis affects about 30,000 people in the US, so it's a rare disease. It causes excess mucus to build up in the lungs and digestive tract.

Because of the impact of CF on the digestive tract, Lynn had to take a bunch of pills with every meal and had to use inhalers and other medications to maintain her health. She also needed various medical equipment for health maintenance.

Cystic Fibrosis affects a person's breathing. This includes, but is not limited to, decreased oxygen saturation in the blood and scarring of the lungs. This scarring comes from infections. Because CF causes excess mucus to accumulate in the lungs, this creates a breeding ground for bacteria, and the bacteria cause infections.

Over time, the scarring due to infections grows. This scarring is permanent. Decreased lung capacity then makes it hard to breathe. Lynn had some equipment to clear out the mucus that was accumulating in her lungs. I also learned the tapping exercises to loosen the mucus.

They taught me this at the clinic where we went for Lynn's medical checkups and treatments. I would cup my hands a certain way and tap her back, the side of her chest area, and the front of her chest. Sometimes she would or could do this on the front of her body, in her chest area. However, that can be tiring and so I needed to learn to do this right.

Lynn provided feedback on where I needed to do the tapping. She could tell where the mucus was in her lungs and where it needed to be loosened and cleared out.

She had a persistent and distinctive cough, also, as a result of this buildup of mucus.

Again, this mucus was a breeding ground for bacteria, as I said. So, we had to clear the mucus out.

As it is a genetic illness and she was born with it, it is a pre-existing condition. Maybe if I was able to get a job with a large company there might have been a way to get insurance coverage but even then, that's not guaranteed, and what if I changed jobs?

People might wrongly think that I am talking about the financial burdens of Lynn's medical care. I am not in any way speaking of the potential financial burden of her medical care and how insurance might help with those expenses. Even a so-called good insurance plan is NOT the solution. 

Insurance is all about protection against things that might go wrong and the financial burden that one incurs when this happens.  Take property insurance as an example. You purchase this in case your home is robbed or damaged. You can't buy insurance after your house is robbed and hope the insurance agency will pay to replace the property that gets stolen or damaged. You need to have insurance before your property is stolen. 

I had that happen where I had property insurance and something was stolen. We estimated the cost and value of the stolen item and I was given a check or payment that was based on the current price of similar items. 

So, this was about access to medical care that was crucial for Lynn's survival. I'm not complaining about how expensive this treatment might be. I am talking about the need to guarantee that she had access to medical care necessary for her continued living.

We discussed with the staff social worker(s) at the clinic when she went for treatment or for a checkup. We discussed the state health care plan that covers people with Cystic Fibrosis.

This seemed to be the only option. However, to qualify for this health care plan, her income had to be kept below a certain level. She had to live in poverty.

In addition, as husband and wife, if our combined income exceeded a certain threshold for a married couple, she might be dropped from the health care coverage that paid for her medical care.

CF is fatal, also. It used to take people's lives before they reached 18. However, people are living into their 40s and 50s, and beyond their 50s, now. Obviously, this is not enough! I would likely live so much longer than that. At the time, I told myself that they would cure CF soon.

This is the tragic aspect of Cystic Fibrosis - the shortened lifespan. It's hard for the person with the disease but it's also very hard for a spouse. I mean Lynn was my source of happiness. I was totally in love with her. I could not imagine a life without her.

We had to cherish each moment and live our lives in each and every moment. Dwelling on the reality of her shortened lifespan would deprive us of the experience of a normal life - normal in the sense of falling in love, getting engaged, and living together forever as husband and wife.

Our forever would have to exist in each moment we had.

Now, consider the cost of treatment. It is estimated to be over $6000 per year and could cost tens of thousands of dollars. We are talking about something more serious than our financial woes -  we had to know that she could get the treatment she required - it was a matter of life and death, literally. Even with her mother being married to Bob, which meant that they had a substantial income, they never took a chance on her losing access to the insurance plan. They didn't say "Bob works for a big airline with great insurance so Lynn is safely protected."

Taking a chance on not having access to medical care was not an option. It would be morally and ethically irresponsible.

Lynn was relatively healthy for a long time when we were in our 20s and 30s. Occasionally, she had problems though. She might have to go into the hospital for IV antibiotics. That would bring the costs into the tens of thousands of dollars but I'm getting ahead of the story.

As you can see, this creates a problem in terms of taking our relationship to the next level and getting married.

What does a couple like us do? Just because a woman has Cystic Fibrosis doesn't mean that she doesn't have the same desires, hopes, and dreams as any woman or any girl. People with CF fall in love like everyone else.

I bet, dear reader, that you haven't put that much thought into a scenario like this. Unless you are living with this as a couple, you cannot know what it is like. I mean we wanted to take our relationship to the next symbolic level - to get married. This desire should come as no surprise.

Lynn had to deal with both of these issues - having a serious and potentially fatal chronic illness AND also being denied the option of a normal life where a woman gets married and has a wedding.

It was so painful and infuriating!

How dare we be denied the right to marry just like everyone else!

Occasionally, I would feel guilty back then about having sex without having had a wedding. I didn't like the fact that she called me her fiancé and that I was calling her my fiancée and yet we were having sex. I really hate talking about those moments. I didn't like how it made Lynn feel.

I don't remember what I would say but it would lead to Lynn asking, "do you regret what we do?"

I would always respond, "no, of course not." And I would feel such shame for making her feel like I regretted making love – expressing our love through sexual intimacy.

My sister worked for an insurance company and she may not have supported universal health care. Years later it would make me want to spit in the face of both of them for what I once heard that sounded like an expression of moral and emotional indifference when Mom said "the world's a dangerous place." It was offensive and disgusting.

I wanted Carrie to speak up and say that she had not considered a scenario like the one Lynn and I faced. I may have just misread what I was hearing by what Mom and what Carrie didn't say. At the moment I heard that it was disgusting, though.

I hope to share this book with Carrie and hope she will understand my momentary sense of outrage. I don't hold a grudge about this but it did hurt me.

Also, as I was Christian, I had been brainwashed with ideas about how you are supposed to act sexually. The teaching was that sex should occur only when two people are married. This would be problematic in our situation, obviously.

I had decided I was going to live as Lynn's husband even if we didn't officially get married. Our sacred union would not be denied based on the impossible position that the state put us in. I would say that in the eyes of God we were two that became one as it has always been... one body, one soul... one being. In the eyes of God, we were married.

After the loss of Celta, I doubted my ability to love again or succeed as a social worker because I had my own problems so how could I help others. What I couldn’t predict was that I wound fall in love and discover just how amazing it would be to live as husband and wife, to love and be loved.

Moving to Wilmington for a technical writing job was what I needed to get back on track.

I was sacrificing the chance for a higher salary as an engineer because I felt compelled to assist others. Engineering held no real value for me, no matter how much money it could bring. The satisfaction of helping people through my work was more important to me than any salary or title. Plus, I would never get hired because I wasn’t an actor and couldn’t convince a would be employer that I was interested in any engineering job.

Because of my increased confidence in my ability to write poetry, I forced myself to attend the first of many open mic poetry readings at the Coastline Convention Center and committed myself that first evening to getting in front of others and sharing my poetry. I was aware that therapists have to lead therapy groups, so I better get used to being the center of attention.

The emcee was Dusty who was like a mother figure to me - kind and welcoming - this might have made it easier. After that first event, I started attending the readings and sharing my poetry every Sunday.

I started reading poems about the grief and loss of Celta and didn’t think I would ever find love again. I wrapped myself in the warmth and comfort that was created on these Sundays. This reflected my personality and desire to nurture experiences like this for myself and others.

Life should be like that for everyone - welcoming and nurturing.

While attending these events, I felt a new breath of confidence that was new. I wondered if it had to do with the experience of being loved by Celta. Despite the loss, the memory of someone seeing me as that special was transformative.

I met someone who interested me. I somehow found the courage to ask her out to attend a large poetry reading that was going to be held on Carolina Beach. This was a bigger event than the regular open mic events where I met Lynn. To my amazement she accepted my invitation and gave me her number.

On that first weekend together, at the close of a vibrant 4th of July, when someone she knew casually inquired if I was her boyfriend, she replied, “no, we are just friends.” I swallowed the sting of her words, convincing myself it had to be enough, for fear of upsetting the uncertain nature of this relationship. I let the currents of our connection carry us where they may.

But soon, the tide would turn. Before I even needed to label the relationship as more than friendship, I relentlessly demonstrated my devotion by making myself perpetually available, every single day. She was acutely aware that she was the sole focus of my affections.

Lynn was breathtakingly beautiful, a beacon of light that emerged from the shadows of loss and pain. In the wake of heartache, something extraordinary began to blossom.

Each moment with her was a testament to a life filled with joy, excitement, pleasure, and tranquility. I believed that this profound happiness and serene peace would be mine for ... forever in so much as I could think about that concept. Each moment was like eternity.

The first kiss was electric, searing itself into my memory with a force I could never have anticipated. It happened on the beach, where I had commanded my restless thoughts to silence, urging myself to exist solely in that moment. The crashing waves harmonized with the tranquility we shared, and suddenly, as if conjured by some unseen force, everything changed. There was no need to dissect our relationship status or analyze our feelings; the moment simply unfolded like a spell.

Our faces instinctively turned towards each other, eyes locking in a gaze that spoke volumes, a silent invitation to close the space between us. My face angled slightly to the right, and hers mirrored mine. We inched closer, drawn together by an undeniable force.

Our lips met, and remained pressed together, taking me somewhere I had never been previously. Her arms wrapped around my back, pulling me into an embrace that made the world fade away. If there were others nearby, they ceased to exist in my awareness. This public display of affection felt destined, intensely right.

A year had passed since a forgettable kiss on a date, one devoid of the magic and meaning that Lynn and I discovered in that fleeting moment on the beach. Our kiss was shorter in duration, yet it surged with an intensity that eclipsed anything I had known.

Her mother's retirement home, a sanctuary that was often empty, became our refuge. Even when her mother or stepfather were present, it didn't matter; our connection transcended their presence. Each day was punctuated by intimate and fervent kisses on her bed, an exploration that was both exhilarating and tender, yet never ventured further.

Then came the pivotal moment when I handed her the engagement ring. We had selected it together, a symbol etched into our future. The lady at the jewelry shop, with a knowing smile, mentioned, "Your fiancé can pick this up Monday."

She was already aware that I would have it in my possession when I arrived on Monday. Yet, before I could utter a single word or orchestrate the cherished moment every woman dreams of, I witnessed her face transform, tears of sheer joy cascading down her cheeks. The sight was so breathtaking that it stole the air from my lungs. I was overwhelmed with profound elation, knowing that I had the power to bring HER such unparalleled happiness.

In that heartbeat of a moment, I believed with every fiber of my being that our shared joy and tranquility would reverberate through eternity.

Peace and joy were what I had found. It was as if those two different things (joy with excitement) and peace could coexist at the same moment.

Helping people to heal as a therapist was another dream of mine that I was awaiting. It was obviously different than an exclusive relationship with a life partner but playing a transformative role in the lives of others was part of my dream and part of what I knew I wanted.

After getting engaged, Lynn's mother offered to buy us a house where we could live as husband and wife.

During our years together, it was amazing. I loved giving gifts and sharing my love for Lynn with others, even complete strangers. It felt spiritual. Even though I am shy, I still wanted to share details about my life as if I had discovered something full of awe and wonder and I wanted others to know about how good life could be.

We argued quite often but that was ironically what made this relationship healthy and I had developed a stable attachment style. If I said something hurtful, I would make amends right away.

For years we lived as husband and wife. I never took what I had for granted. I certainly never did anything that could cause Lynn to love me any less than what we were sharing. It never made sense to me the way some people do things to their spouses because they think that they have them and they won’t leave.

This experience of love is a story in itself. I truly couldn’t imagine it ending.

As I talk about my goals in life and my plans it occurs to me that I should talk about what Lynn might have wanted out of life. I certainly don't mean to imply that she lacked ambition.

First, let's consider my observations of our other friends who were poets and/writers. Many of them had a four-year degree in English. Some of those who were part of the poetry scene had degrees in other fields. By and large, though, most of them had a Bachelor of Arts in English.

If you are thinking as the world thinks or as people think in America, you might think that this degree is not very practical. That's because people only think about how they are going to make money with their degrees. They might say "what can you do with an English degree?"

By this time, I would have found that offensive and would have told anyone that I found it offensive. 

I know that my siblings and parents never made such statements to me or around us during this time period that were critical of people who don't get more "practical" degrees. That would have crossed a line and been obviously offensive to me based on who I was with - who I loved.

Dear reader, Did I say I loved Lynn? I'll get to that.

Anyway, yes, I had conversations with my siblings and parents during this time period. 

Lynn's self-esteem and assertiveness were contagious. That is one of the things I found so attractive about her. One of her statements that she commonly used was "that's unacceptable." I really wish I could think of a context where I heard this statement. I'm sure it might have been in relationship to something I said. The point is that I had become much more assertive too. I was no longer taking any kind of abuse from anyone.

I know my parents were very critical and judgmental of others and so I didn't talk about Celta that much because, at the time, I was not in a position to be assertive and say that I am profoundly offended by anyone saying anything critical or judgemental about Celta and the problems that she had. 

Things had changed when I was with Lynn. 

In many little ways, I would have made it evident that I would have rebuked any statement that was insulting or critical of something like the choice Lynn made to get a four-year degree in English. 

Anyway, I grew up in a household where the man is the head of the household and he supports his wife. This was not what I wanted nor would that have been acceptable to Lynn.

The next relevant fact is that Lynn had to qualify for an insurance program for people with Cystic Fibrosis. It was a state program that had income requirements. People with Cystic Fibrosis require medical care on an ongoing basis to maintain their health. In addition, she had medications to take. There was equipment that she needed for her health needs. The point is that she couldn't take a chance of not having medical coverage. Therefore, she had to limit her work hours and her income.

So, now, what were her dreams, or what did she want out of life? She had discussed with me the idea of getting a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) degree in poetry as our mutual friend Jean Jones had done. With his MFA he wasn't using it directly for employment purposes. 

Therefore, from a certain point of view, Jean wasn't using his degree, per se. This is relevant to the fact that I mentioned earlier that there was a misunderstanding about me not using my engineering degree. I had stated previously in this book that I definitely should have gotten a degree in English or Psychology to avoid the expectation that I would get a job as an engineer.

Jean had been published in academic press publications and had quite a publication history.

Lynn wasn't seeking that kind of recognition. She said her poetry was initially just for herself. Obviously, she was sharing it at the readings but that's it.

We both valued having someone in our lives that admired and respected us. So many people seem to instinctually look for a relationship as something they feel they ought to do. 

Lynn and I did value the relationship itself. If it had not been "right" or if there had been "problems" it would not have lasted. It seems like between Lynn and me, I was the only one who dreamed of a relationship and getting married as an important goal in life. That being said, our relationship just happened and it was surprising and unexpected. 

Of course, we argued. We were constantly talking about every little thing... the meaning of life for us... debating topics. I know how I felt when I said something mean or blurted out something. I didn't let much time pass before I apologized. I just don't remember anything that stuck in my mind as worthy of including in this narrative. I guess the reason is that we moved past any problem.

Gift-giving...

You think of holidays... Remember from the last chapter, how Donna and Kerri were so excited to get photos of the cute couple? Yeah, it was all magical and fun - delightful.

This was the first time I had thought about wanting to buy gifts for someone I loved. Yes, loved. After that evening around our one-year anniversary, when Lynn brought up the topic that we needed to declare that we were boyfriend and girlfriend, I had said "I love you" and she responded, "I love you too..." after that it was common and comfortable for us to say, "I love you."

She might have conceded that I was the more impulsive in the area of romance. I would be the first to say "I love you" many times - not always. She was more likely to call me "sweetie" or "honey" and I tended to just call her Lynn. It is only in retrospect that I realize how wrong I was not to use such terms of endearment. 

I did tell her those words "I love you" so extremely frequently. I wasn't shy about saying what I was feeling.

We both liked public displays of affection too. This would not diminish over time. I didn't have to be the one to take her hand. She was somewhat playful and mischievous. It wasn't corny like playing "footsy." She had a sense of what felt good to me. If we were out somewhere, she might take my hands and sit in my lap... caress my legs, or face and arms.

I remember Valentine's Day the February after we declared that we were boyfriend and girlfriend. I felt so good walking into a shopping center and looking at the roses. I asked someone for help because I had never done that before. We had discussed going for dinner. I must have hinted at what my plans were, and she was thinking that she would pay for dinner. We were going to go to a sushi place.

I wanted to be seen or noticed as I picked out the roses. Remember, I am a shy person, and yet here I was seeking to draw attention to myself.  It might have been at a grocery store, but it was just magical to me because I had wanted to be seen. Before my time with Lynn, I didn't bring attention to myself. I felt chills it felt so good. I felt like I was ten feet tall!

In the past, buying gifts for me was a quiet matter. But today, I just wanted to be noticed and I spoke up. "Hi, I need roses for my girlfriend" I declared so the employee would hear me and the other customer. "Yes, for the card, something decorative maybe? It should say 'I love you,' obviously. I guess I will write Lynn and sign Bruce." I wanted to be saying this out loud.

"Oh, you can pay at the register when you leave the store," she said. And I thought, "great, more people will see me carrying flowers for Lynn. They'll know I have someone special and someone who thinks I am special."

It was like the second Christmas. We both had ideas about what we wanted but I went to a jewelry store. I had no idea what to buy. I walked in and waited for the lady behind the counter to come.

"I need a gift for someone I love – my girlfriend." It seemed important to say more than just 'my girlfriend." I wanted to say "for someone I love" and for that to be heard by anyone and everyone. Yes, I, the shy person, wanted to be seen and noticed. 

"Okay, do you know what she prefers – silver or gold?"

"Silver," I declared. I wasn't being cheap, but I just knew she preferred silver. We looked and looked. I had to admit what my budget was, but I was thinking of Lynn and not trying to win the approval of a store clerk. She could tell that I was thrilled to find something that we thought was pretty. I had asked her opinion and another girl there who was a little younger. My dream-like smile must have given away my feelings, plus, there was the declaration that this was for "someone I love."

When we were together, everything about us said that there was no one else in our lives. Two creative types falling in love know what they feel. I guess. I mean we had not needed to say to each other that we aren't seeing anyone else.

I thought about everything that was happening in my mind, turning over the events. I didn't take anything for granted or think about it as a routine thing that happens in life. In other words, finding a girlfriend wasn't just a stage in my life that I had expected.

I know from my own observations that becoming a couple can be seen as an event that happens quite often. It could have been that way if I just followed the guidance of the future that was laid out for me when I was still growing up. You might get a sense of what is supposed to happen in life. At some point, boys will be into girls as the most important thing to them and vice versa.

Have you ever heard the song "That's the Way I've Always Heard It Should Be?" by Carly Simon? 

It's peaceful and sweet but there is a sense that there is a bit of melancholy as she sings:
"My friends from college they're all married now
They have their houses and their lawns
They have their silent noons
Tearful nights, angry dawns
Their children hate them for the things they're not
They hate themselves for what they are
And yet they drink, they laugh
Close the wound, hide the scar"

This was not like that. I had seen "love" in my family and elsewhere and this wasn't that. What I had seen was routine. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, we weren't boyfriend and girlfriend because that was the way I always heard it should be. 

This was our own experience.

Also, Carly Simon seems to overuse the word "hate" regarding children hating their parents. Do any children hate their parents really? Hate is a feeling and not a choice in some instances and that feeling was something that I have felt but that's another story. 

Getting back to Lynn and our love...

A touch, a look, a smile, was a declaration of our love. We were two poets sharing our love publicly like reciting a poem.

The same could be said if someone saw us kiss. I'm not saying we kissed passionately in public and made others uncomfortable, but it was slower and more expressive – a slight pause to make sure our eyes met, a smile first, then a gentle meeting of our lips.

Some of the substance of this chapter includes things that I thought about holding back for later to avoid being repetitive. Our relationship would grow in intensity and I might want to describe a slightly similar scenario again.

If we had argued and she got upset, for me, I felt bad about us being mad. I would approach her, smile, say "I really love you and I'm really sorry." She would smile with amusement because she couldn't stay mad no matter how much she wanted to.

I hope it is obvious that it would not be acceptable for us to lose our temper and slap or hit. I just don't remember the substance of the arguments. That should be obvious and a given fact in every single relationship... but I have heard from females who were hit by their husbands. 

Let me jump ahead a bit to present how an argument might play out. I don't even know what we were fighting about but it got to the point that we were going out together for a book signing event in which our friend Jean Jones was releasing a chapbook of his at a coffee shop downtown. I was driving.

I think my brother and his girlfriend were with us. Note that the fight was not enough to keep us from our plans. Anyway, we took a seat upstairs. We sat down together without saying anything. I announced, "I'm going downstairs, I'll be back."

I walked downstairs and then approached Jean. "Let me get two copies, Jean," I said. Can you sign one to or for Lynn, please?"

I then ordered an iced tea and walked upstairs. Lynn had a sullen look on her face as I rounded the table. I guess she had not noticed the iced tea or maybe she didn't notice that it was prepared the way she liked it with a lemon.

I first handed her the chapbook and said, "This for you, Jean signed one for you, too."

Lynn looked at me and a smile spread across her face – an amused smile as she briefly looked at our guests and then back at me. "How can I stay mad at you when you do this?" She said with amusement.

I responded, "well, it doesn't mean that I don't love you just because we are fighting."

Anyway, that night my brother left soon after that either because he was bored or because he sensed that Lynn and I wanted time alone. I hesitate to give him too much credit for sensing such things. The ice had broken between Lynn and me and we wanted to make up for the lost time that evening.

What attracted me and what I shared with Lynn...

One of the things I mentioned above, in this chapter and earlier, was about her dreams, goals, interests in life. Perhaps she would get a Master of Fine Arts (MFA) degree. Oh, she also spoke of getting her own kiln – it's used for baking pottery (after you shape the pottery it must be put in the kiln). Anyway, I had not talked about my goals and plans.

Lynn was very practical, I noticed, and this was attractive to me. When I spoke about my plans or ideas for the future – e.g., my graduate education plans or job opportunities – she would ask questions, let me bounce ideas off her. I would be thinking out loud in a way. 

I would think out loud to her, saying "So, this is what I need to learn as I move into a career in the helping professions or the psychiatric field...." and I would discuss how I was thinking of paying for graduate school – yes, there are loans specifically for this purpose.

It was refreshing to have someone again who would hold my desires for success as I defined it in such high regard.

A deepening of the relationship...

As the relationship grew and we approached the second year the topic of marriage was being discussed by both of us. This was a conversation that emerged naturally, organically. It wasn't something that should or ought to happen. It just happened.

It was almost July, and this would mark the fact that a year had passed since we started seeing each other.

It would be an understatement to say that I was a feminist and that this was something that was attractive to Lynn. I suppose if I had thought about it, I would have said that I was very feminine.

Anyway, the obvious fact that occurred to Lynn was that nothing was said about the nature of our relationship. I mean when we first went out, she had answered at the end of the first day, when asked if I was her boyfriend, that we were "just friends."

I had not pushed the matter. It's also important to realize that if Lynn thought I was seeing someone else she would not be doing with me what we were doing. She had a very strong sense of her own self-worth. She knew that she deserved to be treated like she was special.

It was Friday, July 2, 1993. The sun had set and we were outside at my place. We could hear my roommates from time to time inside and the TV. The sliding glass door was open except for the screen door to keep the bugs out. The light was just fading from the sky.

With just enough light still in the sky, we found a spot that was outside the lights from the sliding glass doors that lead into the living room where my roommates were watching TV. This says something about how much Lynn wanted to be intimate with me.

No, we were not undressed but it would have been awkward if either of my roommates walked out and came upon us. I think they knew this much. Maybe Lynn did too. Yeah, they had a good idea of what we were likely to be doing.

I guess we could have just been talking. As I mentioned earlier, having someone to share my dreams with was so valuable to me. I wanted and needed that confirmation that I was on the right path in life. I knew I was, but it still mattered that this was confirmed for me.

After a while, we took a seat on a lounge chair and another chair outside. I sensed something was on Lynn's mind.

Lynn said, "Are we more than friends... do you want to be more? Do you want to be boyfriend and girlfriend?"

I was taken by surprise because I had realized that of course, we were so much more than "just friends."

I did feel comfortable and understood enough about Lynn to know that this was not a question that I had to fear. It wasn't like we were going to surprise one another with our feelings. Lynn had already told me she was glad that I had been so persistent. So, why had this not come up?

I said, "Yes, definitely."

I commented with almost a bit of amusement in my voice, upon the passionate moment we had shared sitting on the lawn just moments ago.

I said that I don't kiss my friends like that. So, we are boyfriend and girlfriend or vice versa... does it matter? I guess we both realized that we wanted to make this official.

"We are boyfriend and girlfriend, right?" I asked her.

She said, "yes, I wanted to ask, though."

I said "I am so glad you asked this. It's important. You are so important to me. I feel so amazing. I want to say something more, but I guess you know... but I want to say something more."

I caught her smile as I looked up. That only made this more special. I mean the idea that I could make Lynn feel special and happy was a wonderful feeling for me.

"I love you," I said without thinking and her eyes lit up like something amazing.

She answered, "I love you too."

I felt butterflies in my stomach. I don't mean the kind of feeling that I get when I am nervous. This was real and yet I almost thought I was dreaming.

"We should tell my roommates," I said. "They will like hearing about this. I like how they add to the moment. Do you know what I mean? It's like they are genuinely excited when they see us together."

So, we joined hands and walked inside. Donna was sitting down near the TV and then looked up and said, "Hi."

Terri walked into the room also.

I said, "This is my girlfriend, I mean, Lynn and I are boyfriend and girlfriend."

"Yes, we know that," Donna said looking at Kelli with a curious and amused look on her face.

"We were just talking about this, just now."

"We knew that already," they said laughing. I noticed that there was something pretty about the way Donna smiled and laughed.

"Well, we just were talking and decided this now... or we made it official."

It's so great when others are happy for you. When other people in your life rejoice at your happiness.

I was discussing this with a female friend recently and she was thinking and observing things from the perspective of how things generally work out in relationships. Please understand that what Lynn found attractive about me were those traits that are more commonly associated with females – my feminine character traits. 

At the time, back then, things like this were not discussed or put into words. Gender identity was not being discussed back then and so there were no words for what I was noticing or feeling about myself. But I don't mean to make this all about me. 

On the contrary, this is about us both. 

I cared deeply about the relationship and she knew that even if I didn't come out and say it. That's a guess. Like the guess that I didn't have to worry about how the conversation would go when she asked if we were more than just friends or if I wanted to be more than just friends.

I told my roommates that I had worried about the fact that I had to try so hard during the first month or two to get Lynn to want to spend time with me every day.

Lynn said, "luckily Bruce had been very persistent."

I said to my roommates, "it's great that you were both here for us to mark this occasion."

Terri looked surprised. "This is the first time that you have called each other boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"Well, yes, but I guess everyone knew... Knew we were seeing each other," I said.

Even I was a bit amused at this point.

I admitted to everyone that I was so glad that I had the courage to be persistent.

From roughly this time forward, I wasn't feeling shy around her and she had never been shy about speaking her mind and saying what she wanted.

Everything was comfortable and serene. We were in sync. We were best friends. And more. In the next chapter, I will fill in some details about both of us and how we spent our time during this period. I will later expand on the work/career aspect of my life.

Before I met Celta, I was 23 —
out of a childhood of emotional deprivation,
past undergrad where I somehow believed
I was becoming confident —
an extrovert on campus,
but not at parties,
not in groups of more than six,
still too shy to speak in class,
still escaping to the movies alone
on Friday afternoons.

I thought I was becoming someone.
Still, I was mostly surviving.
Still needing to grow.

Then there was her.

She was the first
to see me in a way
that made everything before
feel like a long, dim dream —
a story I try to tell
about life before 23,
but it’s mostly devoid of detail.

It’s not that I have a bad memory.
Some things are still vivid —
like being four years old,
floating in the YMCA pool,
held in someone’s arms,
and feeling certain
I didn’t deserve to be held.

But most of those years
blur together.

Maybe because I hadn’t really begun
to live yet.

Another Place, Another Time, Another Life

We used to walk
hand-in-hand
at the Botanical Gardens —
in Athens, Georgia,
following the paths.

This was my escape,
my other life.

And what I felt
is hard to put into words,
but I can say
that this...
        this sustained me.

(The feelings remained
and echoed throughout the upcoming week) —
until I could see her again
a week later.

We lived in different cities.
I lived with abusive parents —
I suppose I chose this.
I was an adult.

What I felt
            not just holding her hand,
or wrapping my arms around her —
but the way she held me,
chose to be close to me...

 

Perhaps there’s something else
I am leaving out...

Maybe it has something to do
with love.

Her love?
Mine?
Both.

I don’t know...
maybe because I had not known love —
from anyone, at all, ever,
before I was 24.

The Swing

Three of us are walking
in a small field—
the girl I loved,
myself, and her friend,
whom we had come to visit.

We came upon a swing,
and as I remember it,
I am in front of her
pushing her gently—
away, knowing she would return.

It wasn’t the way her hair
was caught in the sunlight
before me,
nor the smooth,
calming, undulating motion
of the swing.

It was what happened
in the quiet that fell—
a pause in time—
when our eyes locked,
and everything else faded
from our awareness.

David’s voice grew distant,
his presence dissolved.
She saw only me.
And I saw only her.

In that moment,
there was no one else.
No labels.
No explanations.
Only knowing.

After so many years—
decades—
I still remember this moment.

That’s what love is.
The kind you feel
in the body,
in the silence,
in the return
of the swing.

Where the Love Was

They said you were an angry woman —
but where was your anger at me?
Could you be so angry at the whole world
but not at me?
Not ever?
(We had only a year.)

I guess that has something to do
with love — our love.
I kept waiting for that anger
to turn on me,
for me to do
something
to provoke it —
yet I only saw
your smiles at me.

That’s where the love was.

And what about the
I love you’ s
we exchanged?
I’d never heard those words
or said them
so many times.
I never felt so moved
to say “I love you”
until then.

That’s where the love was.

Or maybe it was in certain
snapshot memories...
Like that day in the park —
I was telling a story from my past,
not even a remarkable one.
But when I looked up,
your eyes were on me —
captivated, hypnotized,
transfixed.

I still remember it
decades later,
along with so much more.

That’s where the love was.
Or is.

And finally,
it was in all the tears
I shed when I heard you died.
I never cried before that.

The love,
it’s in the memories —
in the knowing
that you are always a part
of me,
and I, a part of you.
There’s comfort in that.

I guess love isn’t
just a place
long ago.

Maybe I really didn’t believe
that someone could love me —
or be so deeply interested
in me.

These days,
or in the past few years,
I seem to have needed something
more
than just a touch
to feel anything as intense.

And most importantly —
it’s not the intensity
that matters,

but the overall mood,
the mindset of the relationship —
that is what matters.

I’d like to begin this collection with an introduction written by my dear friend Thomas Childs Jr. back in 2010. When I first published these poems in January of that year, I asked Thomas if he would write something for me, and he graciously agreed.

By the end of that same year, I had remarried and returned home, only to receive the devastating news that Thomas had died suddenly of a heart attack. We were both still in our forties. Just weeks earlier, I had spoken to him. It was surreal — like a nightmare I could not accept. Losing Thomas left a hole in me that will never be filled. It’s a wound I keep open, in a way, so that he remains alive inside me.

Below is Thomas’s introduction, exactly as he wrote it.

An Introduction

I first met Bruce nearly twenty years ago.  Looking back, we were both idealistic young men with high hopes for the future and a shared passion for poetry.  Over the years, we got older and lost touch with each other.  However, I feel an affinity with Bruce because even though over the years, we may have gone through trials and tribulations, we have BOTH learned from them.  We may have been beaten down but not defeated.  We have not let our demons that haunted us have the last word…  And one thing I can say about Bruce is that he has channeled all the hurt and pain he experienced into his poetry.   

In the wistful “Dreamlike Visions” and “The Whole Story”, he talks about a hopeful vision of love that is over too soon and the possibilities of what could have been…  but will, instead, never be.  “Tears for Grandmother’s Passing” is a coming to grips with a loss of a loved one.  The collection of Christian poems paints a picture of rediscovered spirituality.  My personal favorite, however, is “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.”  In his reflection of that poem, Bruce mentions the poet Anne Sexton’s struggles with depression and psychiatric hospitalization and says “She (Sexton) never made it all the way back.  I am so glad I did.”  That makes two of us, my friend… I CAN relate. 

In conclusion, it is my hope that you enjoy this collection of Bruce Whealton’s poems.  In fact, Bruce, I thank you for asking me to write this introduction.  It was a singular honor to grant your request.  You put your heart and soul for all to see into your writing and we, as readers, are richer for it.   

Wow, I cannot thank my friend enough. 

Addendum

This book is a testament to what really matters.
It holds poems inspired by the people I have loved most deeply — and by the unthinkable pain of losing them.

What are we when we give ourselves fully to another — become one life, one heartbeat — only to have them torn away by death or by forces beyond our control? I know now it wouldn’t have mattered if we had shared a single week or fifty years as husband and wife; the pain of losing that love is exquisitely unique, the most profound wound I have ever known.

The title What Really Matters came from words I once wrote to Lynn. In 2000, my entire life collapsed under the weight of losing my home, my job, and the career I loved as a therapist. But even then, I realized none of it compared to losing her. This collection is my way of saying that — of carving those words into some solitary rock the way a desperate lover might, hoping someone will see.

I think of Don Henley’s song, “New York Minute,” with its haunting lines:

Harry got up,
dressed all in black,
went down to the station,
and he never came back.
...
On some solitary rock,
a desperate lover left his mark:
"Baby, I’ve changed. Please come back."

If I had written that song, I would have told you exactly who Harry was, who the girl was that he loved and who loved him. Because for reasons I can’t fully explain, I want you - my reader, my witness - to know these people. I want you to know Celta Camille Head, the first woman I ever loved, who died so tragically young. I want you to know Lynn Denise Krupey, whose tears of joy when I gave her our engagement ring remain the brightest moment of my life.

This is how I cope. By naming them. By refusing to let them vanish.

There is more to say, always more — stories layered with survivor’s guilt, self-blame, longing, and awe. But it’s a long story. And so, I’ll leave you now with the poems.

In the last chapter, I told you about the joy I found in finding someone to love and someone who loved me. I told you about the experiences I had, and I hope it was clear just how meaningful this was in my life's trajectory. It was so important to present the profound and positive impact this had on my life.

This was life-altering.

The experiences I had growing up, in my home environment were toxic to the development of the kind of self-confidence and self-worth that I would need to achieve my career goals. Something had been missing despite all the improvements I had made in my sense of worth.

It's hard to know what you need to overcome a problem that has existed throughout your life. My therapist or counselor in college was very talented, competent, and profoundly helpful. However, we failed to fully appreciate all the negative impacts of abuse and devaluation that I had experienced in my home life from my parents.

Then I met Celta, and something happened. She seemed to delight in me. She was so interested in my experiences. She also was concerned about my well-being and happiness. I knew she was thinking about me for most of the day each and every day! Her diary-style, stream of consciousness letters told me this.

I knew she was thinking about me for so much of her day, each and every day, because of the letters she wrote to me - her diary of sorts composed with me in mind as someone she wanted to share her life with. I had realized that I previously thought that I was not that important to anyone. This is what I meant by seeking a relationship with some aspect of exclusivity or the idea that I could be the most important person to someone.

I knew that I was the only one that Celta loved the way she loved me. Previously, I had friends, but they all had a boyfriend/girlfriend or spouse or the relationship wasn't as close.

After I was with Celta, I felt like I was ten feet tall... confident... worthwhile, and deserving. My self-esteem was higher than it had ever been in my life. I also felt safe trying new things. This idea might seem unexpected. She was just a small girl (woman). I sensed that she deeply cared about me and thought about me and that was transformative.

It's important to underscore these important points before I move on with this story.

When I say that our relationship was platonic, I mean that we were not boyfriend and girlfriend. We didn't have a physical relationship. That being said, we did exchange "I love you" on a daily basis or whenever we talked on the phone or saw each other. We were close and perhaps somewhat intimate and physical but not in a sexual way.

Late in December, something happened. I had moved to kiss her as I was leaving. It was impulsive. Her lips were so thin that I didn't feel what I imagined I would feel. This was my first kiss. I felt confused. She had not turned away or signaled in any way that she didn't want me to proceed. So, why was I uncertain? I didn't have to be shy with Celta. But I didn't want to use her for my own personal "experience."

I would play this back in my mind as I drove away. Yes, I wanted to kiss her. Having decided now for sure what I wanted, next time I would kiss her.

Sometime later I pictured my face turning to the right and moving closer to her as she moved toward me. I had been in sync with her and felt so comfortable. I knew that she might have said that one time that she was not in love but when we were together there were so many times when she had that look of someone who was so happy, comfortable and it sure looked like she was in love. Well, she definitely had "romantic" feelings.

Also, when I was with her, I could see myself and my feelings. You just know those things. There were so many subtle behavioral cues that told me what she was feeling and how she was responding to my touches... how I held her... where I touched her. Everything had been welcomed. I played back memories of how when I touched her she moved closer to me.

As I replayed the imagined kiss – next time - I would begin to tilt my head to the right, bend down, she would be acting on instinct, without taking the time to over-think it – that's what I would do, and she was my mirror. Sometimes we do things as if the moment is such that it is inevitable. She would move to meet my lips... she would be transfixed upon my eyes and I hers. I felt excited as I replayed this in my mind.

It was as if it had happened already, almost.

It would never happen.

On New Year's Day of 1991, I got the worst news of my life. A phone call. I was in my room on the second floor of the house owned by my parents. "Celta died last night," I was told.

"How?" I asked as if this wasn't possible or real. I was stunned. I wanted my willpower to make it not real!

"There was a fire... she died from smoke inhalation." It started from an exposed electrical cord on a TV.

My mind registered information about the funeral, its location, and time but I could not find the words to begin to convey any sense of what I was feeling. I had spoken a few times to the man previously. He was a friend of the family. Tears were flooding my eyes. I just said, "Okay, I'll be there but I can't talk..." my voice breaking. I needed the family to expect me.

I dropped the phone and began to cry so bitterly.

I hurt so much!

I cried so much as I drove the way to the funeral. Just before the funeral, I looked at the closed casket and was overcome. Someone was standing by it and for a brief second, some part of me wanted to open the casket and find out that it wasn't Celta that was inside.

At the funeral, I cried more than everyone else combined. I didn't care how I looked.

It was at the Episcopalian church where I went with Celta and where I would sit down next to Celta's mother and Celta. I was still Christian, meaning I went to church on a regular basis.

Standing outside after the funeral people were talking. I was looking at the closed casket unable to believe this was real. I was still crying. Celta's mother instructed me not to come to the burial. She could tell that I was not going to make it through that event. My state of mind was such that I needed to be told what I should do now.

At the burial the one person who loved Celta most, who felt a visceral sense of grief above and beyond that felt by the others... that one person would be missing. I would not be there. I had followed the directions of Celta's mother and left Athens (Athens Georgia).

I certainly felt betrayed and abandoned by God. However, I did go to grief counseling at the Catholic hospital in Augusta, Georgia. A nun was leading a grief counseling group – spiritual counseling. She was using guided imagery, relaxation techniques, prayer, and biblical references. I met with her a few times and asked for tape recordings of the sessions.

In the group sessions, she spoke about the stages of grief. We were encouraged to bring in things that were mementos of our experience with our loved ones. I listened intently as others spoke. I was by far the youngest. I had studied the grief process in a psychology class at Georgia Tech. I read some more about this from a "clinical" standpoint. I was keeping reality at a distance.

I was in denial at times and at other times I would be overwhelmed with the idea of not being able to see Celta ever again and I would cry and cry.

So much is strange about this time period. The struggles with my parents were never intentionally instigated by me out of anger for anything. They just seemed uninterested in me and my life, other than to tell me what I ought to do.

I suppose I wanted to share the fact that someone had loved me to explain what had changed. It was surreal that there was such denial that anything had happened or changed. I might be in denial as a symptom of grief but I wanted to celebrate the relationship that I had. Where would I begin?

To cope with the tragic loss, I started drinking. A lot.
 

I was put on a tricyclic anti-depressant by a psychiatrist. I had developed panic attacks as well. The anti-depressant had the effect of creating a sense of positive feelings even with my mother standing there one morning ironing something for work with my father getting ready too. Those fake feelings were only transitory. It is reminiscent of the song by REM titled "It's the end of the world as we know it."... and I feel fine. I guess I felt "high."

The days flowed around me like a mystical experience in which I flowed in and out of my body. I wasn't fully alive or so it seemed... betrayed even by God.

It was all a blur. My entire existence.

Somehow, I did get a job finally that could have made my parents satisfied. Everything was always about them. They never asked about anything that was happening to me. So, they never inquired about why I was going for grief counseling because they had no knowledge of this.

Anyway, I got a job at the National Science Foundation as a contractor. I was developing a network for the museum and that involved network programming in the C programming language. I was a software engineer. I did accomplish a great deal in that job capacity and my supervisor was very impressed with my talents.

Again, this was not at all interesting to me. Yet, I was making sure that I successfully met all deadlines and deliverables.

I vaguely remember a summer trip to Las Vegas. The company paid for this to cover some training related to my work. It was amazing. I had this incredible per-diem rate where I was paid my salary plus extra money for expenses that exceeded the cost of the hotel room.

Vegas was probably the worst place for me to go with so much free cash and free drinks in the casinos. Somehow, I made all the presentations for the training that I was sent there to attend. In the evenings and free time, I hit the casinos and made some decent money. Nothing to write home about. Gin or vodka was an escape but somehow, I didn't drink so much so as to get sick at night or even the next day.

As I try to write this now, I have only momentary snapshots with no full-running narrative memory. Just random disconnected sensations. My hands were unable to touch the leather inside a car. The sun shimmers on the pavement. Casinos. Drinks. Sitting at a poker table. Pulling a lever on a slot machine.

I must have done what was expected of me. I don't remember any complaints from my boss.

Yeah, I moved through time like a robot.

The job was going well, as I said. I was proud of how well I was doing.

I was drinking more and more during this time period after the trip to Las Vegas. Everything except beer. Vodka with tonic or orange juice. Gin and tonic. Whiskey with ice, water, or coke. Not so much wine.

I was passing out and once or twice I would puke. I really hated throwing up, always.

I did meet this girl from the home office of the company that was paying me. She lived in Alabama and I was in Augusta, Georgia and we decided to meet in Atlanta, Georgia where I had graduated not long before that.

My supervisor was joking that I had "jungle fever" because I was a white guy who was going to date a black woman. He was black, as well. I didn't let that bother me. Spike Lee's film "Jungle Fever" had been out, and it was an important film. I have always been fine with having a conversation about race if that was something that was desired.

My mother actually asked about my date. I suppose her name sounded ethnic and my mother asked about that guessing that she might be Italian. I said, "no, she's black."

I remember that this was the first time I kissed anyone other than a brief kiss that Celta and I shared back in December of the last year. I mentioned that above.

This was extremely passionate. She brought her kid and left him in the car and parked near the Student Center - the same building where I worked on the bottom floor in the post office.

We were looking for someplace to sit or be as private as possible outside after dark. I remember making out at a few locations here and there. I could feel her large breasts against me, and I was aroused.

My first passionate kiss. Before Lynn. We'll get to that later.

Did I feel guilty about dating so soon after Celta? Maybe. But I wasn't actually feeling nor was I "aware" during this time period. I was so numb that I needed to feel something. To wake up! I was trying so hard to wake up. The tricyclic antidepressant made me feel good for a few moments. That didn't make it a meaningful experience.

Then later there was the fact that she said in December that she loved me but wasn't in love with me. I had only known her for one year, from January through December 31 or 1990. I do know that countless times she had that look like someone in love when she looked in my eyes. I was fairly certain she was trying to protect me from being hurt. But I never got a chance to ask her.

And that kiss? I had stopped, not her. It was my first time kissing anyone and I should have been aware that her lips were so small that if I didn't feel anything at first I should wait or stay there. I was always comfortable with Celta. She had never rejected any of my touches.

My mother had made me feel so not okay and so had my father somewhat. This "date" was a way to get out of the home and to appear normal to my mother. If I was going out with someone from the company that employed my services, it made me appear less worthy of the criticism I had been getting from my parents. That's how I figured it. It was an escape.

Some people with Borderline Personality Disorder or trauma disorders will cut their own skin with razors or something sharp just to feel something. The date was something like that.

There wasn't a second date. I had expressed my concerns about pre-marital sex. We weren't even in a committed relationship. I drove to Atlanta to meet her for a second date, but she never showed. I was frustrated out of embarrassment. Then I just forgot the entire matter by the next day and never thought about the matter further.

The various medications and the alcohol impeded grieving and dare I say reality testing. People who are grieving are in such a state of denial that it is almost like a temporary psychosis. From what I was reading and hearing in the stories of grief that I studied, "normal," healthy people did for a while embrace denial to such an extent that it bordered on delusional thinking.

The loss of Celta could not be washed away with alcohol, grief counseling, or an intimate date.

Poetry as an outlet...

I can thank my mother for introducing me to Martin Kirby, who went to our church and he was a professor of English Literature and related subjects at a college in Augusta, Georgia. He would become my writing/poetry mentor.
 

I would show up on a regular basis for poetry readings where I shared my poetry and got feedback, advice, and guidance on writing good poetry. He also heard me write about my experiences with Celta and listened to my experiences. This was very helpful because I had no other outlet for this or place to talk about Celta and my relationship with her.

He said he thought it would take about 10 years for me to be able to write good poetry about Celta because the feelings were too raw.

I was living in a difficult environment with my parents. I was dealing with a major tragedy and yet the name Celta wasn't even being mentioned.

Between drinking, the different medications I was put on, and the panic attacks, I had to go to the Emergency Room (ER) on two occasions.

The psychiatrist tried me on a major tranquilizer, and I had these horrifying muscle spasms that twisted my body up into contortions that made me think my bones were going to be broken in my neck and elsewhere. The doctor said that in higher doses the drug is used for psychotic disorders but somehow it would help with my depression, I guess. That was the reason I was taken to the ER once. My father took me.

Another time I had a panic attack and again my father took me to the ER. It's strange that they weren't asking why all this was happening. Nothing like this had ever happened to me. NEVER!

The only ones listening to my stories about Celta were Martin Kirby and his wife as well as the attendees at the grief support group. Again, my parents were not interested to learn anything about this matter. They never seemed to have any awareness that I was even going to grief counseling.

This is so utterly astonishing! I had not deliberately been trying to keep everything a secret about what was going on with me. On the contrary, I looked for an opening to discuss the matter. I wanted to repair and improve the relationship. I wanted to share the fact that I had found someone who loved me.

With all this going on, all the problems I was having, I began to doubt that I could achieve my goals in life, my career goals. I wondered how I could help others when I had so many problems myself.

It should be noted that while I was put on a major tranquilizer, my psychiatrist NEVER said he thought I was psychotic. We knew I had problems coping with overwhelming stressors.

After the job with the National Science Foundation ended, another opportunity presented itself in March of 1992. I was offered a job in Wilmington, North Carolina, to work with Corning as a Technical Writer. They wanted someone with a technical background.

This would change everything. I was about to be on my own again. Finally!

My perception that I had long-term "problems" would disappear as if by magic, literally - it was unbelievable. My problem had been living in a toxic environment and that was complicated by the grief and the effort I had made to ignore, suppress, or deny the natural process.

My own doubts about my ability to achieve my career goals in life were contributing to the problems I was having.

It's hard to believe that I had only known Celta for one year – the year 1990 and when that year ended, so had Celta's life.

The tragic loss of Celta did not erase the positive impact she had on my life. There were other positive experiences during this time. I had become more confident.

I had been writing poetry about the experiences I had with Celta and I wanted to share that with others. I had been sharing that with Martin Kirby my poetry mentor but now I wanted to share this with others. It was so important and meaningful!