Salute to Summer’s End

Dear Gentle Readers,

I hope you all enjoy these last weeks of summer vacation. I’m on hiatus, but will return with more stories of life and love in a couple of weeks.

Cheers,

The Word Wench

Fat Class

Wednesday evenings you’ll find me in Fat Class – what I fondly call my ongoing weight management class. Over the last year, I’ve lost about 30 pounds with this program; and for a good six months, I’ve maintained the loss – no small achievement. I still have another fifteen to twenty pounds to go, and this time next year, I should be looking like Rachel Weisz.

Just joking.

Seriously. I’m here because of a back injury I sustained a couple of years ago, when I accidentally pulled a large and heavy Shop Vac down on my head while cleaning my attic. Despite feeling the shock of the impact through my spine, for a couple of days I laughed at the absurdity of the incident and shared it as an amusing dinner anecdote. I was not amused and in fact sobbing with pain a few days later, however, when, after a particularly bumpy bike ride, I was unable to stand and could barely walk or sit.

My recovery was slow and fraught with setbacks and it was a good six months before I could forego a back brace and special implements and strategies to replace sitting and bending and lifting and carrying. Eventually my thrice-weekly chiropractic visits dropped to two, and then to one, and I got back to exercise—walking—with a vengeance. A year later and about 85 percent recovered, though, I hit a plateau. And because I wanted to feel even more healthy than I was – as grateful as I was for feeling as improved as I did – I began to examine those variables I could tweak to make a difference.

I chose two: More and different exercise to strengthen more of my body, particularly my back and stomach muscles. And weight loss, to take the extra burden off my back.

Exploring exercise led me to spinal work, where I learned about natural posture and relearned sitting, standing, walking, and lying down using these principles. I experienced pretty miraculous improvement over a few weeks’ time, and soon found I could walk farther and longer and stronger than I ever had. My preference for sustainable weight management led me to Fat Class, where the loss of pound 17 was a watershed moment, one where I could literally feel the weight lift off my back. I felt like a new woman, and I know there’s still room for improvement.

And so here I am in Fat Class.

This is a practical, data-driven program that focuses on portion control, exercise, conscious choice and personal accountability. It begins with a 13-week commitment that includes a strict attendance policy, and it proved to be just the thing I needed to stick with a food plan long enough to learn some important things about myself that, believe it or not, I didn’t know, well into my forties.

For example, turns out that every individual has a pretty specific volume of food at which their stomachs feel comfortably full, and this fullness is important to hunger—and consequently—weight management. And turns out that I’m one of those who require a pretty large volume of food to feel satiety. So, working with this insight, I learned to identify ways in which to eat that volume while balancing calories. (Two words: More veggies!)

It all sounds so serious, but really, Fat Class can be a lot of fun. Week by week, the bond of camaraderie and support grows among those of us in the trenches together fighting the battle of the bulge. We’re pretty real, speaking of and solving for the daily and unexpected challenges that can trigger unconscious eating, and often we make each other laugh, particularly when we share our practices for portion control, like drinking a single beer poured out in multiple servings in champagne glasses, or whipping out measuring cups and pocket scales in restaurants.

Our instructor, Carol, vivacious and witty, is a delightful mix of tough cookie and gifted storyteller, holding us in thrall with earnest encouragement and her unexpected one-liners. Her commitment is unflagging but practical, and she’s wise to the human psyche.

“Accountability is extremely important,” she says to me firmly, after reviewing a particularly sloppy week of my record-keeping.

“But hard,” I say.

“Yes,” she says. “Old habits die hard, because the truth is that sometimes we really just want to keep doing what we’ve been doing.”

“But in some way, the behavior is serving a need,” I say.

“Yes,” she agrees. “And that need isn’t bad or good; it’s a need with a reason. But your line of inquiry might be: What am I trying to move toward? Why do I want to do things differently? What need or needs would that ‘different way’ fulfill? What new or different outcome am I trying to create? And then, with intent, action: Can I focus on that new intent and desired outcome and make choices that support that? Because here’s the thing: Once you make those different choices, and you’ve experienced that new outcome and results you like, you’ll find it easier to continue to make choices that support that new way of being or doing.”

It’s food for thought that I (just call me ‘Grasshopper’) continue to chew over.

Anyway, tonight, summertime Fat Class begins as it always does with the horror stories that send chills up our spines.

“Let me remind you that it can be dangerous out there in the gap,” Carol says. And here let me explain: “The gap” is what we refer to as that difference between the amount of food our bodies need to be healthy and in balance, and the overabundant amount of food on offer daily in American culture, particularly in restaurants, but often in our offices and vending machines and homes as well.

Carol continues, “This week’s Bad News from the Gap features a couple of milkshakes, a popular treat this time of year. The first is the Baskin Robbins’ Heath Bar Shake. This beauty totals 2,300 calories.”

The class gasps.

“Yes,” says Carol. “That’s almost twice the total daily caloric allocation for some of you women on maintenance.” I nod. I’m one of those who can look at a stick of butter and gain 12 pounds.

“Our second feature is Dairy Queen’s Thin Mint Blizzard. This one totals 1500 calories, and includes one whole package – remember, there are two in a box – of Thin Mint cookies from the Girl Scouts.”

“You mean ‘the girl devils,” someone says loudly. We laugh.

The girl devils may tempt, but as Carol points out, they’ve got nothing on our own mind devils, really. Over the years, I’ve shown a good number of devils the door, and now I simply refuse to answer when they come knocking. Abstinence has become a cornerstone strategy: I don’t go to places like Dairy Queen or Baskin Robbins anymore. If I buy a food and have it in the house and find I consume it too quickly, I don’t buy it again; it’s likely a trigger. I no longer cook much, except on special occasions, and my menu is quotidian; I stick to some pretty basic items. This is what Carol describes as decision-free eating. Ultimately, it might seem boring or limited, but it’s a tradeoff I’m willing to make; I like feeling better in my body, and I like being free from a good deal of mental self-torture.

After reviewing the class’s food and exercise records and discussing upcoming challenges, Carol moves on to the evening’s topic: fast food and dining out. We discuss strategies, options, and better choices, including abstinence, selectivity, and offsetting occasional over-consumption with calorie deficits and extra exercise.

“It’s important to give yourself a break with decision-free meals,” says Carol, wrapping up. “And as we’ve discussed, that can be hard to do out there in the gap with portions gone wild. So any suggestions when it comes to fast food?”

“Don’t eat it!” someone calls out. Many of us agree.

“Anything that can work, if necessary?” asks Carol.

“Well, there is the Happy Meal,” Marty volunteers. “The cheeseburger at 320 and small fries at 210, with a diet soda, gives you a meal for 530 calories.”

“Yes,” says Carol. “And believe it or not, those are portion sizes that were considered regular adult meals in the 50s when McDonald’s first opened. Yes; the Happy Meal could be a decision-free option. Good suggestion.”

“Actually, it’s not quite decision-free,” says Marty, “ You have to decide if you want the girl toy or the boy toy.”

“That’s easy enough,” I quip. “I’ll take the boy toy. Yummy.”

We laugh, Carol dismisses Fat Class, and we head off into another week to make our ways safely through the gap.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail

A Breastrospective

I.
I’m baring myself here, tits and all.

One morning, I’m doing a breast self-exam for the first time in a long time because I’ve been feeling a lot of discomfort and weirdness on and off in the upper left of my chest and back for a few weeks. And that’s when I find the lump. Its presence is palpable at approximately a centimeter in diameter and hard.

At work I watch the clock and call the clinic as soon as it opens to get an appointment with my doctor. She confirms the lump and sends me to radiology to schedule bilateral mammograms and an ultrasound. My tests will follow a week and a half later, the earliest appointments available.

Once I have my pink slip, I walk to the car. I am crying, hard, before I can get the door unlocked and slide in behind the wheel.

II.
It’s not my first lump ever. But this one feels different. And I feel differently about it. I find myself thinking that the lump must be related to the chest and back discomfort, and I wonder if some huge tumor is growing inside my rib cage, pressing on my vital organs and extending itself through my ribs and into my breast. I realize that logically I cannot know this, and I’d likely be in much worse shape if it were true, but I cannot stop crying, nonetheless. I know I’ll be no good at the office, so I call my friend and colleague Rose, tell her what’s happening and ask if she will gather my things and meet me outside.

Rose is waiting at the curb when I pull up at the office. “Can you talk for a few minutes?” she asks, concerned. I nod.

We sit at a picnic table in a secluded corner of the parking lot, and I tell her what I know. She offers me sips of her hazelnut latte, which comforts, and she offers to go with me for the tests, which comforts even more. She shares her own and her mother’s experiences with lumps, both benign, and our talk helps me regain equilibrium. I even make us both laugh when I say, “Thanks for letting me get this off my chest. You know, I just needed an excuse today to avoid writing up my damned performance review.”

Back home, I call Doc. Our “opensure” is new and tentative, but his response of “A lump? Shit! Oh shit!” gives me a sense of comradeship, and his inquiries about my symptoms and next steps help me feel less overwhelmed. Still, unable to sit still, alone in my house in front of my monitor after we hang up, I walk next door to Kate and Jake’s and tell Kate. Kate offers to go with me on testing day too, and she reassures me, pointing out that the appearance of such lumps is not uncommon in menopause. Jake provides comfort food, making tunafish sandwiches and pouring glasses of milk.

Later I call Horst, who tells me he’ll call his mom, a breast cancer survivor, for more information about what I can expect with the tests. As I am lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and starting to worry, he calls. “Are you worrying? Don’t. My mom says that 80 to 90 percent of these lumps are benign.”

I am so thankful for my friends, I think, just before I drift off to sleep, calmed, with Horst’s voice in my ear.

III.
I am large busted. Well-endowed. Stacked. Have a rack. And I’ve had an ambivalent relationship with my breasts my whole life. I’ve felt, at various times, impatient for them, delighted by them, betrayed by them, dismayed by them, happy with them, unhappy with them, comfortable with them, at peace with them. Now I’m afraid of them.

In fifth grade, I couldn’t get them soon enough.

I remember cornering my mother in the kitchen one afternoon after school, away from my three younger, inquisitive siblings. Umm, Mom,” I asked, “I was wondering. . . Ummm, ahhhh, ummmm . . . could I get a bra?”

It had taken me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to raise the subject. I held my breath as I waited for her answer. In retrospect, I applaud how careful she was. “Well, sweetie,” she said, “Bras can be uncomfortable, but if you feel like you need the support . . .”

“Yes,” I said, relieved that making my case was this easy, although not quite understanding what my mother meant by “support.” I’d had a twinge or two of late over my chest and so I expected my breasts to pop out any day now, and I really, really, really wanted one of those pretty white satin-and-lace bras, with the little shaped cups and the pink rose stitched between them. Already this week, three more girls had shown off theirs in the bathroom, away from the watchful eyes of our Catholic school nuns, and I was envious and embarrassed. I didn’t care if getting a bra would cost me my standing with the boys as arm wrestling and dodge ball champion; I wanted one too. “I think I really need one,” I said.

My mom took me shopping that weekend. I felt so excited, on the verge of something wonderful and mysterious: I’d have a bra, breasts, and my hair would grow long -and straight, miraculously. I wandered through the girls’ underwear department, gazing blissfully at the pretty things, while my mom consulted with the saleswoman.

Moments later she stood in front of me. I stared blankly at the utilitarian-looking white cotton triangles joined by thin strips of elastic that she dangled on a plastic hanger. “What’s that?” I asked.

“It’s a training bra, honey,” said my mom, gently.

Clearly my mom needed more explanation. “But mom, that’s not the kind of bra I need. I need that kind of bra,” and I pointed to the lacy cupped bra with the pink rose.

“Sweetie,” my mom said, “That bra is too big for you.”

I think I ended up with both bras because my mother could sense my dismay and my fragility over what I seemed to be taking as a blow to my girlhood at the thought that I could not muster up enough to fill those lacy cups when all the other fifth grade girls could. Once home, I tried on both bras. Of course, the training bra fit. And of course, the lacy rosebud bra bagged in the cups.

I tried on the lacy bra every morning and every evening for the next month or so, impatiently willing my breasts to grow and fill it. I refused to stoop to stuffing, although I did pray to God to intercede on my behalf. Twice a day, every day for a month I persisted. But then one day, I’d had enough. Nothing was happening. Nothing was EVER going to happen. I inveighed against the other girls at school; I cursed the stupid tempting bras designed to get one’s hopes up with promises, undelivered, of all wonderful things; I railed against God – and went so far as to question if there even was a God. And then I balled up that loathsome lacy bra and stuffed it in a brown paper bag on which I wrote in all caps: DO NOT OPEN UNTIL 21!!!!!!!! And I shoved that damned bag way, way, way, way, way back in the linen closet, where we didn’t find it until we moved some two or three years later.

IV.
Over the next few days, after finding the lump, I struggle. Lying in bed at night alone is the hardest. This is typically my prime time for mental self-torture, it is true, but it is also true that right now I find it is the time of day where I wish there was someone to hold me and say, “Stop worrying, Wenchie. You’re okay for now. We just have to wait and find out. In the meantime, let’s try not to worry.”

In bed in the evenings and in the mornings, I feel the lump. I check it so often that the area over my left rib cage soon is throbbing constantly. Or, I wonder, is it throbbing constantly because of a fast-growing cancer? What if I only have weeks to live? My outlook blackens fast, and these thoughts start to plague me during the days as well. So unlike me, I think, and so I make an appointment with my counselor to talk. In her office, I talk and talk around things, holding myself to cheerful stoicism, while she listens, silent, calm, and watchful, until suddenly I blurt out what I haven’t said to any other person besides myself.

“I know I don’t know anything yet, and there’s really no sense in worrying. And I’m not really worrying, but what if I do have cancer?” My voice trembles, and I am almost defiant. “I’m sorry, and I don’t mean to trivialize the battles cancer patients and others are fighting for their lives every single day, but I just don’t want to deal with this.”

Julia, my counselor, is not shocked. I see that I don’t have to protect her, and that frees me to say what feels true and has been frightening me most. “I just don’t want to fight anymore. I’m tired of fighting and bucking up and healing and integrating and working through shit and being responsible and earning a living and taking care of a house and a car and work and my health and doing what needs doing all by myself. I just don’t want to work so hard anymore. I’m not going to fight this.”

We both let me cry for as long as I need to.

That night, I lie awake in bed for a very long time. But I’m not as scared – not of maybe having cancer nor of my own thoughts. I would still prefer to have somebody here to hold me and tell me not to worry, that it will be okay, and that whatever happens, we’ll handle it together. But the fact remains that I don’t have an intimate with me right now, in this moment. Other than myself, that is. And I think about this for a while: Can I do for myself what Julia did for me today – simply sit with what I’m feeling, really be here for me now?

It feels a little silly, but I try saying the words out loud: “Stop worrying, Wenchie. You’re okay for now. We just have to wait and find out. In the meantime, let’s try not to worry.”

And my voice, in the dark room, sounds soft and gentle and soothing to me.

I talk to myself for a while. I call myself “sweetie” and “honey.” I am kind and tender with my words. I sing myself a lullaby. The cat, perhaps curious, comes and curls beside me on the pillow and licks my face. I sink into myself and fall asleep.

V.
Anyway, the final laugh (God’s?) was on me when I “busted out” as they say, years later, in high school, from a modest C cup to a double D, between my junior and senior years. This new development, shall we say, strangely complicated my image as the nerdy girl who was one of “the brain squad,” along with all the computer and physics guys. Now I was confused, as were the boys I suspect: Did they want me for my witty repartee and stellar lab write-ups or did they hope to eventually cop a feel? When my guy posse, with whom I’d hung out for years, started using lines from our favorite Monty Python movies against me (“Wenchie has such ‘huge tracts of land’!), I felt betrayed, by my breasts and by them.

Partially to maintain my brainiac image and ensure that none of my peers confused “big-breasted” with “easy” – and partially in retribution – I refused to date any of the guys, and instead started seeing an older man who feigned no interest whatsoever in my mind.

VI.
As good fortune and organizational skills (not mine) would have it, my sister Mare comes into town for a week’s visit a few days after the lump’s discovery. I have taken the time off from work, and Mare, quiet and smart, direct and practical, quickly takes me in hand and gets us into a routine. She cleans my house and has us taking daily walks, watching movies, and getting out and about. She refuses to let me dwell in anxiety.

“Listen,” Mare says firmly, holding up her hand when I tentatively suggest that I show her where I keep my will and other documents, “No. We’re not doing that. Not now. IF we find out something’s wrong and I need to come back out, I will. And THEN you can show me everything. But we’re not going there now. Not while we don’t know anything.”

And that is that. Mare’s boundary-setting works, and within a couple of days, our conversations and walks and excursions and Scrabble games crowd out my daytime worrying. We do girly things: eat cake and chocolates, lunch, get manicures and pedicures, go shopping. I’m surprised to realize I’m having so much fun.

At night, though, after we call our goodnights down the hall to one another, I lie in bed with my thoughts. I’m not feeling morbid, really; rather, I am growing curious and surprisingly light-hearted in inquiry. Having given myself permission NOT to fight, and enjoying having my sister here to play with, I find myself asking, “Am I, in fact, ready to leave? And will I leave with any regrets?”

I am surprised to discover that I have very few. There are no places where I’m dying (forgive me) to go or things I feel I haven’t done. There are a handful of very difficult experiences that I wish I had not had, and a handful of lovely experiences and some states that I wish I had the pleasure of dwelling in longer, but I feel mostly at peace either way. Looking back over my life, I see that I’ve worked through adversity and tragedy, and I’ve known deep joy and happiness. Key story arcs have completed, and I realize that right now I am doing all of the things I wanted to do when I grew up: living pretty free; enjoying a community rich in friends and family; watching my daughter take off in her life; adventuring in and exploring the world; writing. What more I do want is to see how it all plays out – and that simply requires more time.

I’ve been very lucky to make it to midlife and to feel this way. And I decide, if I don’t have cancer, then in this next part of my life, I will use the rest of me all up.

And how will you do that? I ask myself and I begin to find that that thought intrigues me.

VII.
Breasts and sex. Divine. Breasts and pregnancy and childbearing. Miraculous. My breasts grew even larger when I was pregnant, quite overwhelming me. I didn’t know that they even made cup sizes that big. But my breasts dazzled me as well, when nine months later, they let me nurse a baby. I felt like such a mammal. A big, soft, milk-producing, life-giving mammal animal.

Childbearing, weight gain, weight loss and gravity all did their part over the years, and a couple of decades later, I considered having a breast reduction operation. At the plastic surgeon’s for an evaluation, I found myself feeling protective of and almost indignant for my breasts when he said, after having a look at them, “I could give you prettier ones.”

I leafed through a portfolio of his work and discovered that even breast beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

VIII.
Testing day is the day after the day after Mare leaves, and I stay busy cleaning and exercising and writing. I check in with Sydney and Libby and Chris, who has me in tears, laughing, when she reminds me of her own recent lump scare and the doctor’s cheery pronouncement that it was nothing, “merely calcifications due to the fact that [her] breasts were atrophying as all women’s do in menopause.” “Great,” I say. “Maybe I’m merely atrophying.”

The evening before testing day, Kate checks in and confirms that she’ll meet me in radiology, and Kate and Jake and I go to dinner. George comes by and we watch a movie. At the very end of the day, Horst calls and reminds me that 80 to 90 percent of lumps are benign. I tell him I’ll call as soon as I have results.

At work the morning of testing day, I stop by and say hi to Colleen. She tells me she’s been thinking of me and feels all will be well. Doc checks in by email, and I have lunch with Chaika, who entertains me with her observations of people and recommendations of good reads. “I’ll be thinking of you then,” she says, when I tell her my appointment time. Rose stops by with roses and a hug. I tell her she will be the first person I call once I know – just as she was the first person I called when we found the lump.

I know that everyone’s thoughts are with me, and I leave work for my appointment feeling strong.

IX.
I have had lovers who loved my breasts and others who preferred that I keep a top and maybe even a bra on, as they were disappointed with the way my breasts looked when they were not, as one said, “all trussed up.” Doc endeared himself to me the first time we were in bed together and he practically serenaded them.

“Tops off,” he said.

I hesitated. “I’m feeling self-conscious.”

“Okay. Let’s get this over with, once and for all,” he said, with mock exasperation. “Let’s have a look.” He removed my shirt and bra and moved my arms away from my chest and gazed at my breasts, as I watched his face in the candlelight.

“Why, they’re wonderful!,” he said, after a few moments. “Just look at them. They’re the breasts of a woman who has been pregnant and nursed a baby, a woman who’s now in midlife, who’s experienced gravity just like the rest of us. Breasts come in all shapes and sizes; yours are soft, and pendulous, and they’re just fine.” He spoke tenderly and earnestly.

I laughed at Doc’s speech and welcomed him happily.

X.
Kate’s is the first face I see when I walk into the radiology waiting room. She is sitting, calmly knitting. I fill out paperwork with her at my side, and then we talk. She tells me about her knitting project and I find it very intriguing, as it’s about making sweaters for orphans. She smiles at my questions and, when I start at the sound of my name being called a good 10 minutes later, says, “I just wanted to distract you. It worked, didn’t it?” Kate gives me a big hug before I walk through the double doors for my tests.

I take off my shirt and bra and don a gown, open in the front. The radiologist takes me to a mammography room, and takes several x-rays of both breasts. When she’s finished, she asks me to wait while the doctor reads the results.

It is a long wait. I thumb through two magazines, distractedly. And then I close them and sit quietly.

What will I do if I have cancer? I ask myself. And my answer is I will do what I can. I feel a sense of peace.

It seems like hours, but I’m sure it’s only a few minutes more before the radiologist returns. “Mammograms are clear,” she says. “We don’t see anything of concern.” I breathe deeply, with relief.

We do an ultrasound as well, and the verdict is “lumpy breasts” – calcification. Thankfully, no one uses the word “atrophy,” but I wouldn’t care if they did, if it’s the case that I don’t have cancer.

Dressed, I return to the waiting room, where my smile tells Kate the news. “I’m so happy,” she says, hugging me tightly. “What a relief.” She calls Jake; I hear his voice, glad, on the other end of the phone.

I call everyone – Rose, Mare, Horst, Chris, Doc, Libby, Cyn – everyone. The conversations are happy and sweet, the relief audible in everyone’s voices. I feel increasingly light, giddy almost, as the worry and anxiety I’ve been carrying, to an extent I didn’t realize, continue to lift.

XI.
At the end of the day, Kate and I regroup to take a celebratory walk out at the Baylands. The vista is magnificent, a cloudless evening sky with the mountains that ring the bay sharply visible. The air feels good, as does my body, as we stride along the levees.

“So what,” I say, “I have lumpy breasts that hang down to my knees. I don’t have cancer, and I have breasts!”

“And knees!” says Kate.

I laugh. And I thank Kate for being here for me through this experience.

“You are welcome,” she says. And then she asks, “So, now that you’ve been given this new life, what are you going to do with it?”

I think for a minute. “Great question. I don’t know the answer yet,” I say, “But I do know this: I’d like to listen better, show appreciation more, put my house in order, keep writing, and . . . just use me all up before it really is time to go.”

“Nice,” says Kate.

The relief, the fresh air, the exercise, the friendship all work their magic. And that night, when I get into bed, I feel happy, and I have not a single thought before I am deep asleep.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail

“Opensure”

It’s time to talk, Clare decided. And so she picked up the phone and dialed Ray.

“And what the hell comes next?” I ask aloud as I finish typing the line. I’m frustrated, because I can’t seem to bring this story to a neat and tidy conclusion, despite weeks of work and rework. And I’m only more irritated when my eye alights on the Rilke quote taped to my monitor, it once again reminding me to Learn to love the questions themselves.

“Enough with the questions! Let’s have some answers. I want closure here!”

Here’s the back story: My protagonist, writer Clare, and scientist Ray meet and fall madly into . . . something. Within a few short months, the relationship, despite its strong affinities and attractions, hits a wall of ambivalence with the question: “Where is this going?” Out of a need for decisive action, perhaps, and out of the blue, Ray dumps Clare by letter, telling her that while he cares for her very much, he’s met someone else and hopes that he and she can be friends. Clare, stunned, never responds.

Months pass, and as time mends Clare’s broken heart, she discovers that some key changes in her life have, in fact, been catalyzed by her brief but significant relationship with Ray. Channeling into her writing energies awakened by their playfulness, mental fireworks and hot sex, Clare finds her voice and an audience and growing success. Clare’s appreciation for the outcomes of good and growth, along with her preference for conciliatory if not happy endings (most of her exes, including her ex-husband, are friends), lead her increasingly to think of trying a friendship with Ray. Which creates her internal conflict: Can she reopen this connection and authentically show up as herself and as a friend to Ray? Or is it better for everyone, including Clare, to leave things alone?

Clare doesn’t know the answers to these questions. I don’t know the answers to these questions. And here I won’t lie: Some of the stories I’m writing borrow pretty heavily from my own experiences. Like this one, which is pretty much about me and Doc.

But I don’t have to have the answers at this moment; right now I’m saved by the bell. My alarm clock has gone off, and it’s time to meet Art for coffee (or, in Art’s case, tea or water). I figure I’ll run some thoughts by him, and Art will be the breath of fresh, pragmatic air to clear some of the confusion. Art’s a man of few – but well-considered – words. It will be good to talk.

I pull into the parking lot at my nearby Peet’s where Art is sitting in front of the cafe on a bench, self-contained and alert and looking sporty in his golf gear. He rises as I approach and gives me a hug. “How are ya, Wenchie?”

I hug him back. “Good.”

After procuring mugs of coffee and tea, we find a table.

“So,” I say, “I got news.”

“And?”

“I sold a story to The New Yorker.”

“Good job! Topic?”

“Love. Life. The usual.”

“Fact? Fiction?”

“Fiction. Although, obviously, all fiction is based on fact, since we writers write about what we know – or think we know – best,” I say.

“Keeping it real,” says Art. “Believable.”

“Yes,” I say. “And what’s new with you?”

“Gwen and I are engaged,” says Art.

“Wow! Art!” I’m surprised and delighted for him. “Talk about keeping it real! Congratulations!”

I know that Art and Gwen have been seeing each other seriously for a while, and I knew there was talk of marriage someday when the kids were grown. It seems that someday has come, and quickly.

“You’ve been together now, what, two or three years?” I ask.

“Eight,” says Art.

“Eight? Geez, I didn’t realize that. I guess I don’t really know the story of you and Gwen. I have questions. Do you mind?” Art shakes his head. “How did you meet? Was it love at first sight? And pardon me for sounding rude, but why did it take you guys eight years to get engaged?”

“Actually, it’s a pretty good story,” says Art.

“Go!” I say.

“Well. I first met Gwen on match.com. We emailed and spoke on the phone, and by the time I met her in person, I knew I liked her. But things were complicated.” Art looks a little sheepish. “I was kind of in a relationship; she was in a trial separation. We liked each other, and we had a few lunch dates over a few weeks, but then we decided that we each needed to take care of a few things. Put our respective houses in order.”

So two years passed. Gwen kept working at her marriage, and Art continued dating and had a couple more short-term relationships and a number of what he’s only willing to describe as “interesting” match.com experiences. “The Internet dating game is seductive,” he says. “There’s always another possibility, and you can distract yourself chasing after that, building up projections and fantasies and expectations. Pretty soon it almost doesn’t matter how great the real person is when you find her and have a connection – you keep thinking that there might be someone even better out there. It’s a common trap for guys.”

“Sheesh,” I say. “You men are sluts.”

“Not pretty but true, in my experience,” says Art. “And it’s something for you to be aware of, since I know you’re in the dating game these days.”

“Thanks. I’ll take it under advisement.”

During those two years, Art and Gwen kept in touch, and when Gwen officially separated, moving out of the family home, the two began dating again. They broke things off a second time when Gwen’s husband made a last stand and persuaded her to move back in and give things another shot. (Proving that the path to true love never did run smooth, I point out.) Art took himself out of the picture so that she could make her choice, free and clear. (“Hard?” I ask. “Yes, very,” Art answers.) After more marital issues surfaced, Gwen decided on divorce, and shortly thereafter, Art and Gwen got together. Three was the charm and this time it was for good.

“So that was about three years ago,” I count off fingers. “When did you know Gwen was The One? And how did you propose?”

“I knew I wanted to be with her for a long time after we’d spent a good year together – about four years after we first met,” says Art. “But I didn’t propose. Gwen proposed to me.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says. “I knew she was skittish and couldn’t begin to think in terms of marriage after all she’d been through. So, a couple of years ago, I gave her a diamond necklace and said, ‘Here you go. I want to marry you, and I know you’re not ready for me to ask you. So I’m giving you this diamond, and when you are ready, you ask me. Take the diamond, have a ring made with it, and then put it on your hand and let me know.’ ”

And so it was that one spring day in March of this year, eight years to the date after their first meeting, Gwen and Art met for lunch once again, at the same restaurant. They sat outside in the little courtyard, at the same table where they sat on their first date, and they lunched beneath the flowering pear trees, the white petals falling gently over them, carried on the warming breezes. They recalled their first meeting, reminiscing about one another as they were that day, and they spoke of the adventures and changes of the ensuing years, and of the history they now shared.

They talked and they laughed and they rested in companionable silences, and over coffee (and tea), Gwen reached across the table and took Art’s two hands in her own. And it was then that Art saw the flash of the diamond ring. He fell silent as Gwen’s eyes met his, and he leaned toward her to hear her ask him, softly, she quoting Rocky from one of Art’s favorite movies, “What do you think you’re doing for the next 40 or 50 years? ‘Cause I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind marrying me very much.” And Gwen held her breath until she heard Art say “I wouldn’t mind.”

Art and I sit in silence after he finishes his story. I sniff and he hands me a napkin. “It’s a good story, huh?” he smiles at me.

“It’s a GREAT story,” I say, blowing my nose. “A love story of patience and tenderness. A sweet story. Thank you for telling it.”

“It’s a story of what I call ‘opensure,’ “ says Art. “Different than closure. It’s about keeping doors open and letting things happen as they will.”

“Opensure,” I nod. “I like that.”

We linger a little longer, catching each other up on the kids and our jobs, and then we rise to clear our mugs and head back to work.

“Some thoughts for you,” Art says, patting my shoulder just before we part company. “In real life, you don’t have to have all the answers, Wenchie girl. And you can let things happen in their own time. Everyone has a story, and they’re all works in progress.”

I give Art a quick hug. “Thank you,” I say. “Very good things to remember.”

Later, back home at my keyboard, I still don’t know what the hell comes next. But it’s time to talk, I decide. And so I pick up the phone and dial Doc.

The Word Wench’s Weblog is a fictional memoir, and any resemblance to any person living or dead (you know who you are!) is purely coincidental. Please subscribe to weekly Sunday updates through RSS feed or by sending an email to TheWordWench@gmail