I wake up most mornings with a song stuck in my head. Most of the time, the lyrics offer a parable into my subconscious mind. If I give it voice beyond the melody, I may chance hearing God speak.
This morning, grudgingly waking to a new day after the fast-paced demands of a hospital chaplain working on Ash Wednesday, feeling more like a member of The Walking Dead than a giddy child at Christmas, the adorably silly holiday anthem, I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas, relentlessly replayed over and over again in my head.
During my prayer time, I discussed my temporary amnesia with God, asking for some little hint into my musings of the day before. I remembered having some deep personal thoughts and insights during my morning drive to work, but my current brain fatigue left me clueless. What was it that seemed so important yesterday?
This song, this silly nonsensical song, slowly unraveled my previous thoughts, combined them with the highlight of my Ash Wednesday adventures, and morphed them into a new understanding and appreciation of myself.
Wednesday – a bizarre day when Valentine’s Day and Ash Wednesday fell on the same day – celebrating love and death. In a Christian sense, it totally makes sense. In a merely humanist sense, it seems a bit peculiar.
I, never a fan of Valentine’s Day, but a big fan of the unusual, embraced this day. In addition to providing ashes for staff and patients, I came armed with small buckets of chocolate kisses for the staff on my units. The paradox of the day made me actually look forward to celebrating Valentine’s Day.
Which led me to consider why I am not a fan of Valentine’s Day . . . and a new question, am I a romantic? Since I haven’t dated since divorce and cancer, I really have no idea.
Which brings me back to the hippopotamus song and the rabbit trail which led to my answer.
The hippopotamus song was Brad’s favorite Christmas song. It is one of the only (if not the only) memories I have of him that makes me simply happy. There is nothing deep or thought provoking or bitter or sad about it. I hear it, think of Brad, and feel glad.
Brad.
I was a vastly different person back then. He often (nonjudgmentally) accused me of not having a single romantic bone in my body. I would have to agree. The me back then was what I have referred to as an emotional stump. I would have been incapable of feeling romance because I refused to allow myself to feel anything. Period.
With a ton of therapy and even more hard work, I am a new person, capable of feeling . . . but is that last paragraph completely true?
A friend once asked me why I referred to my previous self as an emotional stump. It was a term she had never heard before. I have no idea if I picked up that phrase from someone or somewhere else or if I made it up, but it fit. I explained that, unlike a rock or any of the other inanimate objects people have used to describe the same thing, a stump, if well rooted, has the potential to grow again. My roots (Jesus) ran deep and my desire to grow watered those roots. I did the work (with the help of my therapist) to garden the ground around me and the reward is that there is new life sprouting from that stump.
Hence . . . emotional stump.
When I consider Brad and romance, I think of two specific instances:
There was that time he sent flowers to my office. My reaction to his gesture is how people got the idea that I was romantically dead. I rolled my eyes and gave them to the office manager. The staff who witnessed my reaction got a good laugh out of it. I went along with everyone’s idea of me because I lacked the self-insight to fully understand and appreciate my own reaction. I held onto their label . . . well . . . until this morning.
The truth of the matter was that I hated the flowers for two reasons, one of which does make me seem unromantic.
First of all, I have never been a fan of flowers, nor jewelry for that matter. Let me rephrase that. I love flowers, but only in their natural habitat. I find no joy in picked flowers destined to die in a few days. I would expect my husband to know me better than that.
Second, Brad and I were separated at the time. He was in one of his manic stages and I interpreted the flowers as a symbol of his love for himself rather than his love for me, a way of getting back into my good graces without having to do the hard work of actually communicating with me. His gesture confused me, and I refused to accept whatever it was he was offering because I knew it was nothing more than spit on an open wound.
However, there was that time when we first started dating. He hand-delivered a balloon and a hand-written letter to my place of employment. I still have that balloon and letter in my fireproof lockbox. Would a merely dogmatic pragmatist go to such lengths to protect something that sentimental even after such a tumultuous end of the marriage?
There must have been some sense of romance buried in the stump that was me.
I remembered the time Brad demonstrated his ability to be unselfishly nurturing and strong – the day my grandpa V. died.
Grandma asked me to speak at his funeral, a moment I immortalized through my character, Teddy, in my novel, Life Before Me. In preparing for my talk, I learned that my grandpa was a romantic at heart. Every Valentine’s Day, grandma’s saint’s day, he gave her a large bouquet of flowers. Even though Valentine’s Day meant little to me, my grandpa meant the world. I vowed to make amends to him by keeping his tradition going for as long as grandma lived.
I kept my vow.
The last time I saw my grandma was the last time I got to bring her flowers – the last Valentine’s Day before the pandemic infected the world and her nursing home barred their doors.
I have thought about her – and about my promise to my grandpa – every Valentine’s Day since then – that is, until yesterday. In the chaos and excitement of the day, I forgot to remember her.
But . . . my reason for forgetting is a rather remarkable story.
The pastoral care team went all out to make sure any staff member or patient who wanted it received ashes, which meant our phones dinged consistently with requests.
One patient I was asked to visit was not permitted to attend mass in the chapel because of his condition. Words fail to adequately describe the devastation that this devout Catholic felt. His sorrow only intensified when I, a non-Catholic, offered to administer the ashes.
A group of nurses and other hospital staff gathered around the nurse’s station, wishing they could have done something. Then, one of the nurse’s had a bold idea.
There was another patient in the hospital who just so happens to be a Priest, and he just so happens to be just down the hall. Would it be possible???
I loved the idea and offered my vial of ashes if the nurse managed to be able to work out the details.
Long story short, the Priest agreed, and arrangements were made between the two units to safely see it through.
Our hospital mission statement is “serving humanity to honor God.” As I stood in the corner of that room and watched everything that was taking place between the two patients and the staff, my heart gave way to tears of pure joy and pride and wonder.
Here was one patient who felt invisible and tossed aside now standing a little taller because someone saw him and cared this much.
There was the other patient who had resigned himself to the fact that his time of service was finished, now coming back to life, realizing that even though he could no longer stand in front of a congregation, someone still needed him. He still had value.
And there were the staff members – Catholics asking for a blessing, others, such as myself, simply standing in awe of the transformation taking place right before our eyes – this miracle in the making.
Me, watching like a proud parent, this group of individuals going above and beyond their job duties to truly and wholeheartedly demonstrate love in action.
Today, as I walked by nurses involved in yesterday’s shenanigans, it is outwardly business as usual, but in our look and smile, we know we were a part of something grand. And I smile as I overheard one of the observers tell another of the amazing thing that happened the day before.
I think grandma would be okay with the reason why I forgot to think about her yesterday.
Now I wonder, would my Valentine’s Day ritual with my grandma or involvement with the nurse’s scheme classify me as a romantic or pragmatist?
All this led me to think about what I would consider the ideal date. I am not dating, nor do I have any desire to do so, but if I were, what would I prefer to the traditional things one thinks about when thinking about a romantic Valentine’s Date?
Two dates come to mind, and one technically was never a date . . . and both happened during my senior year of high school.
I remember talking to friends about what I hated about high school dating – dinner and a movie. One, it wasn’t very imaginative and two, neither provided space to truly get to know one another. During dinner, you are too busy eating. During a movie, you are staring at a screen and totally ignoring each other . . . or making out and that is not getting to know someone, not on any real level.
A male friend overheard this conversation and asked me out for that weekend. He took me rock climbing. It was awesome for so many reasons. First of all, since we were doing something physical, I didn’t have to worry about what I looked like. No fuss about my hair or clothes or makeup. My attire for the day consisted of no makeup, hair in a ponytail, and gym clothes. Second, the place we were going was over an hour away which meant sitting in his truck and talking during the drive there and back. Third, no concern about what to order for a first date meal. We brought trail mix and other snacks. And best of all, although I had never done it before, it was something he thought I would enjoy because I loved nature – which means he listened well. And he was right. I loved it!
It does not count as a real date because I think he was simply out to show me that not all boys are boring dates, but it did set the bar pretty high.
The second example is a bit the same. There is a backstory here, but the bottom line is that he knew me well enough to not do the same ole’ thing. He took me to dinner, but after dinner, we simply walked around the park. We ended up sitting on swings for hours just talking. Simple. Cost very little. But it sticks in my memory as a great first date.
Putting all the pieces together – Brad, Valentine’s Day, grandpa and grandma, Ash Wednesday, and remembering my own favorite dates, I came to realize that I simply do not care if one labels me romantic or not.
If flowers and jewelry, a fancy dinner wearing fancy clothes constitutes romance, then I will gladly take on the title of pragmatist. If, however, romance means something more – perhaps it’s about the little things that bring two people closer together – enjoying each other’s company, doing things that uplift them, make them feel seen and loved and valued, taking the time to get to know them, just having fun together instead of trying to impress each other or spend money on each other – then maybe romance has blossomed from my stump.
Or perhaps it was always there buried in my roots.
TRA.Perspective 
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