Bring Me To Life

I knew, when I saw him, that he had given up… Actually, that’s not the entire truth. I knew from the first words he wrote to me in our first online chat. As we “talked” the connection i had always had with him in the past thrummed through my body, picking up strength with every word. By the time we stopped talking some two hours later I was overwhelmed with feelings I thought I had long ago managed to lock away. I was glad we were writing and not face-to-face or even on the phone because I was crying most of the time, and I was afraid that he would misunderstand my tears. They were tears of joy: he was still alive, he didn’t hate me, he had thought of me often. They were tears of pain: so many wasted years, so much stupidity on both our parts. Primarily, though, they were tears of anguish: he was dying; and even worse, he WANTED to die.

No more time for lies, baby girl, he had written as he began to tell me of his illness. My instant reply, written before I could even think about it, was to ask if he would see me if I came to him. There was a silence and then he replied simply, Yes.

The urge to fly to him right then was incredible, never had I felt so strongly about anything – except, perhaps, my love for him. Relax, Rose. what makes you think you can help? Every time you get involved with him it causes him problems far greater than any benefit. Well, if he’s going to die, I can’t make things much worse, now can I?

I argued back and forth with myself, but the point was moot. I knew I would go see him. I had to. I could not let him depart this world without saying good-bye in person; had to see him one more time. I had no illusions, knew he was still married, knew nothing would come of it – except, I hoped, a little bit of peace for both of us after more than thirty years of wondering “what if?”. Besides, I needed to know if what I had believed for most of my life – that he was the other half of me – was really true or just a place I went to hide when romantic disappointment came my way. I thought it might help him, too, to finally know. Is it live or is it Memorex? That’s what I wanted – no needed – to know.

So, one month to the day later, I stood in a hotel parking lot and watched as he drove up, my heart pounding, my hands shaking. I saw his beautiful face – crooked smile, oft-broken nose, and insanely intense blue/grey eyes – saw the pain, despair, and defeat so clearly written there. All I could do was open my arms to him and smile. He came to me, still in shock (as was I) that we were actually together.

He whispered, “You’re here, you’re real!”

His raspy, emotion-filled voice echoed all I had seen in his face, and I was overcome with the need to take away all the pain I could feel within him. I smiled at him and kissed him. I didn’t think about it at all, I just did it. I kissed him like I did when we were teenagers. I am home at last, floated through my mind, and I felt that my heart would stop. For a moment, I thought I was the only one trembling.

That weekend was a great revelation to me. Everything I had believed about us was true: he is the other half of me and I am less than nothing without him. Only he fills my heart and touches my soul. Every romantic relationship I ever engaged in failed because my ideal of love was defined by this man when I was fourteen, and no one else ever, ever, ever “did it right”. I knew that weekend what I had known thirty some odd years ago: he is the man with whom I was meant to spend my life. It also clearly defined the path for the rest of my life: do whatever it takes to bring him back to life. He is – and always has been – a source of joy, love, laughter and life to me and I want to be the same for him.

I want him to understand that he is the man men want to be: brave; noble; strong; protective; gentle; kind; determined; opinionated yet open-minded; intelligent; firm, without being overbearing.

He is the lover women dream of: romantic; passionate; considerate; hungry; always knowing just what to say and when to say it to make you feel beautiful, desirable, precious and treasured.

He is the friend friends hope to be and have: funny; sarcastic; witty; loyal; generous; forgiving; trustworthy; interested in all you have to say, in all things that are meaningful to you.

He is the teacher you always wished you had in school: he knows his subject and shares it with you rather than cram it down your throat; he cares about you and you know it; he is patient when explaining a new concept (no matter how many times he has to repeat it!); he is fair.

Lest you think I am blinded by my absolute love for him, let me also say that he can be more stubborn, more pig-headed, than anyone I have ever known (though it is usually because he believes he is doing what is best for you). His wit and sarcasm can also be used as a lethal weapon. He is easily ruled by guilt. He doesn’t think much of himself and often puts himself down. He is fussy. He is bossy. He doesn’t take care of himself enough because he is too busy taking care of others. He is talented: a wonderful, insightful writer, a musician, an artist; but he thinks he is mediocre at best. He can be really and truly and tremendously dense sometimes.

In short, he is perfect but flawed; he is human.

Over the past few months there has definitely been some progress with his health and I cannot say how happy that makes me. It’s just possible that he is no longer in such a rush to depart this world, that he realizes that he still has a great deal to offer it. I am so glad. The world would be a much darker place without him.

And for me, there would be nothing.

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