A conversation with Susan

Greetings,

She wanted to know my age.

“I am 2000 years old,” I said.

We played a game. I never told her my true age, afraid to tell her the truth knowing it didn’t matter to one of us. I sent her a photo revealing the truth. Susan just didn’t see it. She was hard and driven and desperately tried to pin me down to a true age. I practiced well rehearsed verbal dancing steps. She was a practical no nonsense person and I was a romantic dreamer.

We talked about everything but mostly I listened to her pain. We shared emotions and feelings and she was surprised at my openness. Our reality and distant security increased emotional truth and trust. We spent hours on the phone in conversations full of laughter, insight, confronting grief and loss and discovering ourselves. Our communication bills were staggering.

We were lost, looking, open and honest.

We talked about our dysfunctional families, about the absence of love in our respective families, her brothers and the sexual humiliations they faced. She talked about the stress of working in an operating room during heart surgeries, how some of the ancient surgeons were inept with chauvinist attitudes, how she was uncomfortable working with her ex-boyfriend, how she was not handling their breakup very well and her desire to find a new job.

Susan said she enjoyed attending a neighborhood church service because of the piano player, small crowds and the joy of shaking the priest’s hand. I was another small confessional box in her life.

She wanted out of Chicago to be near friends. A new professional environment where she wouldn’t be training students how to keep blood flowing correctly during complicated operations while the next-of-kin waited for reassuring words about life and death.

I listened patiently with empathy. I told her about her my job, travels, and old healthy and unhealthy relationships. We discussed films and books. She was reading “The Unfinished Woman.”

“I don’t want to finish it,” she said.
“How far to go?" I asked. Many times.
“Seven pages.”

Peace.