There are people in this world who are truly alone, who have no one to share their thoughts, feelings, and lives with. Years ago, I thought I was one of them. When I left my parents' religion on my 18th birthday and they asked me to leave their home, I felt I was unintelligent, unworthy, unwanted, and truly, desperately alone. As the years passed, my brother and I opened communication between us, and although we were not without our problems and baggage, I realized he was the one person in my chaotic existence I could count on.
I think the life event that changed my thinking about my feelings of self-worth was the death of my mother. When she passed, Michael stayed with Ian and me for a few days. After the service, we talked for hours, and I came to see that many of the things I was going through and had been though in my life, he had forged the path for many years previously. His knowledge and wisdom, shaped by time and experience, was ahead of me and there for the asking. Although I suspected I was not alone in my life experience, or really alone at all, that night I came to believe it.
Michael is there for me, even though he is 3,000 miles away. He's the first one I call, as he puts it, "when shit goes sideways." When the going gets tough, the tough call Michael.
I used to have a Chevy Cavalier. One day, it quit. Just quit. Ian was still young enough to be in a car seat, and I had no idea what was wrong with the car. I let it sit, and she started up again, only to completely again quit a few feet down the road. The gauges looked okay, she wasn't smoking, the tires were still round, and nothing was dripping, so I was clueless. An uneventful drive home from the daycare center usually took about 15 minutes, but that day, it took 2 hours. It never occurred to me to call for a tow or call a mechanic...I called Michael.
"Hmm. Let the car cool down for a couple hours. Get a rag, a flashlight, and a screwdriver, and call me back at 8:00 your time."
From Seattle, he walked me though fixing my car. I learned from him that an engine needs three things to work: fuel, oxygen, and air. A leaf had somehow gotten caught in a place that was cutting off air flow to the engine. He may say it's just basic science; I know he is Obiwan.
A straight-A student in school, it never occurred to me that I might fail a course. Cost and Managerial Accounting changed that. A single mom, working full-time, I was putting myself through college to get a degree. Granted, I was a little tired and a bit stressed, but I failed the final exam for CMO1 six times. SIX. Times. CMO1 was the only thing standing between me and my baccalaureate. I called Michael.
"Hmm. Send me everything. I'll get back to you."
When I'm thinking straight, unencumbered by emotion and exhaustion, I tend to think in math. It's a beautiful language, orderly, logical, and sometimes humorous. It makes sense to me. Try as I might, I could make no sense of CMO1.
I sent him everything. The first day crawled by. I reasoned with myself to settle down. Michael will fix it. He has a life. Give him time.
The second day crawled by. I continued reasoning with myself. Settle down. You sent him the entire 900 page e-textbook and all your papers and assignments. Everything is going to be okay. Sleep with the phone. He needs a minute to read everything. Reasoning was quickly approaching a fatal end at the hands of emotion.
The third day crawled by. By the end of that day, reasoning completely failed me. I was checking my email every three minutes. All I could think was oh, god, I've killed him. Any minute the phone is going to ring and Camille is going to tell me it's my fault he's dead. I couldn't stop crying.
Looking back, all I can say is ... sheesh. There's probably medication for that.
After an eternity (about 76 hours, real time, but who was counting?), the email came, and Michael's first line was, "Think of the profit margin as a tangent line on a circle." Everything clicked into place. Not only had he read everything I sent him, he translated it into my 'native language'. I passed the exam with flying colors the seventh time I took it.
Michael moved to Seattle in 2000, and countless times over the years I've called him. When I got my Masters Degree, and when my son started using drugs. When I got my job teaching 7th grade math, and as recently as last week when I got the news that my Aveo was at death's door. I've forgotten the time difference and called him at the crack of dawn. I've called him with good news and bad, when I'm so happy I have to tell him or my head will explode, and when tragedy strikes and I can't stop crying.
Sometimes I think that when he sees the 716 area code come up on his phone, he probably looks for a place to sit down and brace himself. But he is always the deep voice of reason when my limbic system threatens anarchy. As soon as I hear, "Hmm..." I know it's going to be okay. I'm not alone.
I never really have been.
