I was getting ready to go to work. Patrick had gone in early to monitor a student lecture at our theatre. I had just finished an essay for a class, and had sent it to him for thoughts. I followed that email up with a second that included a post I found of ‘the 50 most romantic things’. It’s actually a really good list, and many of the ideas were so creative so I wanted to share and wrote a note with it.
I packed up my lunch. As I was going out the door, still no text saying, ‘aw, how cute’ or something like that. Not that I’d asked for a confirmation text, or personally needed him to join me in cuddliness – no instead I’d suddenly lighted on the idea that he might be dead.
In the street. Run over by the streetcar. Ambulance and police taking care of the crime scene/accident. Tape flapping in the heavy wind. By the time I got near work his body would be gone and I wouldn’t even know he was dead yet. I’d just sent him one of the more romantic messages I’d written in several months and he wouldn’t even see it because he was dead. I was off enjoying feeling close to him in my mind and being excited to share it with him and he was in the hospital. I should be in tears.
“Dear Christina,” interrupted my cognitive-behaviourally trained neocortex (my superego?). “What the eff. He’s probably fine. He’s 99.9% likely to be fine. You are being ridiculous. You know better.”
My sick drive popped in: but he could be dead.
Fine! I’ll just call him and check if he got the emails. He’s probably in a meeting. I’m leaving anyway.
“You’re not supposed to call him! Calling is giving into the anxiety! You know he’s fine!”
You don’t know anything. Give in. Giiiiivvee iiiiiiIIIiiinnn.
Shut up sick brain, what the hell is with the spooky voice.
I texted him, just saying “I’m coming into work now.” (I work part-time where Patrick works, as a reminder). Put on coat. No response. Ok, out the door. No response. Well, I’ll keep it in my pocket.
My resolve to wait lasted as long as it took to get to the bus stop. The idea of passing the accident spot in a TTC vehicle of doom was intolerable. Without any more effort on my part to resist my fucktard brain, I called him.
One ring, “Hi!” Ok, we’re all good now.
I might add, thank goodness I am entirely open with Patrick! Otherwise, what on earth would I say? Oh, I was just calling? No, I said the truth, that I was anxious and had to call to check that he wasn’t dead and cheerful as could be he responded, “Yep, no problem. Always good to call.”
No it isn’t good to call! Dammit! I’m going overseas in 8 months to another graduate school! What am I going to do when he’s late for a Skype call? How am I going to sleep? Agh!