Soon after we met,
Ted asked me out to dinner.
I said “yes;”
he heard “no,”
and forever after he was convinced
that I was not interested in him romantically.
Maybe I wasn’t,
because we became just friends.
Good friends,
travelling companions,
confidants,
soulmates in a way,
but never lovers.
In some ways, I think he knew me better than I knew myself.
He would tell me that I was crushing on someone before I had any idea—
or was it rather that because he suggested a crush, I developed one? Hmm.
He was always generous in his gift-giving
(I remember the day, soon after moving into my new house,
arriving home from work and seeing
a gigantic Tiffany’s box on my patio).
Ted ate at fine restaurants, traveled first-class and generally lived large.
But he never forgot his working-class roots—
he claimed to be the first man in his family to wear a tie to work
(having been a lawyer before he opened his bookstore).
He supported numerous non-profits and schools, usually requesting anonymity.
“Don’t let your right hand…”
Ted was a fan of all things Hitchcock.
One time, we met up in San Francisco to recapture the scenes in Vertigo.
We visited all the sights and stayed at the hotel in the movie.
He thought because I am a Madeline,
I should pose for the Madeline shots
(like pretending I was going to jump into the water beneath the Golden Gate Bridge).
He would have been happy if I wore a blond wig for the picture,
but I drew the line.
He wanted me to move to southern Oregon
and work with him in his bookstore.
If that was a test, I failed.
Oregon?
Too far (three flights each way).
Still, we talked several times a week
until he got esophageal cancer,
and then we talked several times a day
until he had to get a trach
and talking was too difficult for him.
Then just I talked.
We only argued once in the thirty-two years I knew him.
Mostly, he made me laugh and helped me enjoy life.
He trusted me, and he loved me.
I loved him, too,
and I miss him every day.
Jim used to talk about my “arms waving,” and I knew just what he meant. Often, when I felt dismissed or wronged, the extent my arms flailed usually corresponded to my sense of indignation and self-righteousness—and to how deeply intransigent I was. The more my arms flailed, the deeper my heels were dug in.
With a great deal of patience on Jim’s part—and much practice on mine—I came to recognize my own intransigence more quickly and got to the place where I could identify that I was flailing my arms before Jim had to say anything.
Considering other perspectives does not diminish my own experiences or feelings. Nor does it require that I change my opinions or beliefs.
So often, I think I know why people do what they do—without even asking.
I kept coming back to this image, even though it was not what I had been seeking. But something in that heart was speaking to me, drawing me in. It was as if God was whispering to me, reveal your heart.
I have come to believe that most people who come to our center want to be heard as much as anything else. They want to talk about their fears and anxieties and hopes. They want to be acknowledged and affirmed.
Sometimes, things seem much clearer to me than they seem to be to the person sitting in front of me. A significant weight loss or a change in skin color can indicate something has changed, even though the person may be unaware or in denial. Is it my job to say what I notice? I wonder.
Madeline Bialecki 