Lightning Always Striking Somewhere

This morning, I had some very minor oral surgery done.  I casually texted Lieu last night to tell him about it, mostly because it was happening very close to his office and I knew I might see him on the street.  He picked up the phone and called me immediately (a noticeable violation of our communication parameters–texts beget texts and emails elicit emails, etc. Phone calls are the least frequent medium.)

Was I okay, he wanted to know.  How long had I known about this surgery?  Was I sure it was no big deal?  Did I want him to come with me and keep me company in the waiting room?  No?  Was I sure? Maybe I should wait and decide in the morning; I might feel anxious then and change my mind.

To say that I have never been taken care of would be disingenuous and untrue; I have wonderful family and friends near and far, and we do nice things for each other all the time.  My sister is local, and she would drop everything to come fan my fevered brow if I needed her, and vice versa.

But to say that I have often felt like my needs weren’t being met…well, that implies that I have been admitting that I have such needs, and now whose therapist is so proud of her? I have been single forever and always, fundamentally.  No other man I’ve dated has ever (insert any positive action here.)  For all that the beginning was so rocky, and the future still very uncertain, Lieu is a good, good man.  And for all of the worrying and hand-wringing I’ve done (and reserve the right to begin doing again at any time), I am–we are–in a good place right now.

It’s not just him, of course; it’s summer, and I haven’t cried at work for a couple of weeks, and school keeps me distracted.  And as Philly Friend, newly in a relationship with a man who also does not seem to suck, observed, it may be no accident that this has happened for us when we are taking the right antidepressants in the proper amounts on a regular basis, and have been for a while now.  Or who knows; lightning is always striking somewhere.  Maybe, I said to her this weekend, it’s just an unaccustomed absence of crushing dread that I’m feeling, but I think I might be…happy. Even typing that, I had to compulsively spit to ward off the evil eye…and Irish-Catholics don’t even believe in that.

He came out of his office to see me after surgery.  I was feeling ever-so-slightly sorry for myself, with a sore and bleeding mouth.  Even though I am fairly certain that he would rather perform oral surgery on himself sans anesthetic than commit PDA anywhere near his workplace, he hugged me and let me hang on for an extra minute.  More, I said, when he started to pull away.  He chuckled and leaned in to me.

Man, I love that guy.