A.D.I.D.A.B.U. (or All Day I Dream About Breaking Up.)

There will come a time in most girls' lives when a boy will break up with her for the first time. It will never be fun, and it will never be pretty. It will often leave her heartbroken with residual feelings of inadequacy and insecurity. Obviously, at one time in my life, this happened to me.

And, obviously, here's the story.

When I was fifteen years old, I had a free period in my day which I spent as an office aide. I filed paperwork and answered phones and wrote passes - and, most importantly, I delivered memos and messages to different classrooms throughout the school. Oftentimes I would find myself making deliveries in the cafeteria, or having to walk through it to reach classrooms on the other side. Early in the semester, I realized that my good friend Denny ate lunch at that time, so I would sometimes stop by and chat for a minute or two before carrying on with my business. Denny ate lunch with a group of people I did not know, but I started to become friendly with them as time went on. A cute boy at the table caught my eye from day one, but I was shy and had a hard time showing my interest. Thankfully, he was outspoken enough for the both of us, and we were good friends in no time. His name, for the sake of this story, will be Jean-Claude. Because that is an awesome name.

Jean-Claude was the dreamiest thing I'd ever set my eyes on in New Hampshire. Sure, I'd had my share of love affairs in middle school, but those were just boys. It was clear to me that Jean-Claude was a man. From the way his backpack was covered in cool patches to the way he made jokes about sex a lot, I knew he was the man of my dreams. Eventually, I was making excuses to find my way to the cafeteria during my free period, and I was staying longer than I should have just to flirt and laugh with this charming gentleman. As the semester went on, I started to be more forward with my feelings - small hints at first, eventually making way for blatant admissions of interest. More often than not he would just laugh me off; lightly though, and without malice. But the flirting continued, and eventually I worked up the courage to ask him to come with me to my best friend's formal sweet sixteen. I explained fervidly that it would not be a date, and he agreed to join me without hesitation.

The day of the party came, and I went out of my way to look gorgeous. I wore a long, slinky dress, I did my makeup, I wore my hair down. I did absolutely everything I could think of to make myself look like a beautiful woman, and not like the goofy, jeans-wearing, lunchbox carrying tomboy that Jean-Claude was used to seeing every day in the cafeteria. Once we arrived, I started to make the rounds with him, introducing him to everyone he did not know. Some sort of courage had come over me, like nothing I had ever experience before, so in no time I was saying, "So-and-so, this is my date Jean-Claude. He is not my boyfriend, but don't you think he should be?" I laughed, he laughed, everyone laughed at how cute I was - until, with one introduction, he interjected and said, "Well... would you like me to be?" Oh, I thought my heart would explode! Yes, yes Jean-Claude! Not one thing in the wide, wide world would make me happier than for you to be my boyfriend!

And so it was. We spent the rest of the night dancing, and during the last song, he held me close and kissed me. It was everything I could ever have hoped for, and it was happening to me right then and there on the dance floor. I knew at that moment that I had found the love of my life, the man I would marry, the father of my children, the piece of my soul that I hadn't known was missing until suddenly I'd found it. Eventually, the party ended, and a few of us relocated to the house of an aunt so the night would not have to end. Jean-Claude and I sat outside in the dark in each others' arms, talking and kissing and being young and in love.

Over the course of the next few weeks, we became somewhat inseparable. I spent every moment with him that was possibly allowed. He often came to my house after school where we talked and napped and kissed and behaved in other inappropriate teenage ways. I continued to visit him in the cafeteria during school, eventually being asked to step down from my aide position for spending too much time out of the office. But it was worth it. He made me happier than I'd ever known I could be, and it was one of the best times of my life.

After we'd been dating for a month or two, my parents informed me that we'd be spending April school vacation in South Carolina with my grandparents. That meant I'd be away from Jean-Claude for a whole week, and I was devastated. He told me that he would miss me and he gave me his favorite cardigan sweater to bring with me on the trip. We said our goodbyes and I reluctantly left with my family.

I thought of him endlessly while I was away. I wore the sweater twenty-four hours a day in sticky, humid South Carolina heat. I wrote him a post card. I called him from a payphone in the middle of an amusement park, since it was the only place I'd been allowed any privacy - but it was so loud there that I could not hear him. I counted the hours, minutes, seconds until I would be back at home, and suddenly, the day was here. We pulled off the highway back into town sometime in the evening. We stopped at the supermarket before finally heading home to pick up a cake for my sister, because it was her birthday - but I could not wait any longer. I got out of the van and ran to a payphone and called him immediately.

He answered the phone, but he did not sound excited. In fact, he sounded sad. Sort of distant? I could sense that something was wrong, but I was terrifed to ask what it might be. I thought that maybe, if I just ignored the fact that he wasn't himself, whatever it was would go away and I would see him the next day and everything would be fine. I tried to say goodbye and that I would see him soon, but he cut me off and said the worst thing a girl in love can ever hear:

"I think we should stop seeing each other."

I was crushed. I physically felt my heart brake inside of my chest. I was certain at that moment that I would never love again. I don't even know if I tried to fight it, or if I just knew that it was done. All I remember is hanging up the phone and standing in front of the supermarket, all alone, crying. I sobbed as though someone close to me had died, or maybe even harder than that. Eventually, I realized that I was standing in the middle of a busy shopping center having a breakdown and that I would need to get back to the car. And eventually I must have, although the rest of that day is a blur. I remember being teased by my big brother, being consoled by my mother, and not much of anything else.

That was May 2nd, 1998. And that's the end.

One day last year though, I received a text message from Jean-Claude. When I opened it, there was a photograph of a contract, which I'd handwritten. It said:

I, Cynthia Elizabeth Walker, hereby declare that you, [Jean-Claude Etc] are THE funniest person I know as of now, 8:00pm, August 17th, 1998. SIGNED: Cynthia Elizabeth Walker. WITNESS: Jean-Claude. PS - Oh yeah, and you're my best friend!

So maybe we weren't meant to be soulmates. Did I die when he broke up with me? No. Did I move on? Of course. I was fifteen. To have felt so strongly about such thing at such a young age is obviously silly now, but that doesn't mean it hurt less at the time. But I picked up the pieces and I kept moving. And I've been lucky enough to keep Jean-Claude as a friend. To this day, I still love him with all of my heart, because he is one of the best people I've ever known.

And I know now that a broken heart doesn't mean the end of the world. And I know now that I'm stronger than anything life can throw at me. And I know that I am amazing and I have nothing to worrry about. And for all of that, I thank him a lot.

Thanks, Jean-Claude. ;)

The Boy Who Almost Didn't Live

Sometimes I would just rather sleep than go to work.

That doesn't mean I don't like my job. It doesn't mean that I have a bad work ethic - it just means that I really, really like to sleep.

Once when I was about twenty-two, I was feeling especially adamant about this particular sentiment. I called work and requested to take the day off - and I was denied. "No no, we'll have none of that, please come get here at your earliest convenience." Oh, alright. So instead, I stated that I would be late, and I curled up and planned to take another few moments of sleep before finally heading in.

I had just started dozing off again when the phone started to ring. I wanted to so badly to ignore it, but instead I did the first responsible thing of the day, and I answered.

"Hello?"
"Yes hello, Cindy, it's person from work. People are calling for you and they say it is important. Here is a number you need to call. Thank you goodbye."

Oh, yes, okay, let's do that. So I called the number I had been given without any sort of knowledge as to who I was calling or why.

"Nurse's office."
"Uh. What. Hello?"
"Can I help you?"
"I have.. uh. No idea. What? Someone from work just called and told me to call you?"
"Is this Cindy Walker?"
"Uh. Yes?"
"Hello we have your brother here, bleeding from the head. Please come retrieve him."

Oh alright, let's do that too. Ben was in school at the time and had apparently injured himself somehow. Since my mother was in California visiting relatives and my father lived forty minutes away, my brother had suggested to the nurse that she call me. He also had assumed I'd be at work (since technically I certainly should have been) and had recommended that she call me there.

So I got up and got dressed and called my boss to let him know that I would be going to pick up my brother at school and that he was broken and I would be needing to see to it that he was repaired. It did not go over well, as I had already tried to take the day off without success, but I said "too bad so sad" and went to save Ben's life.

I arrived at the school and went into the front office where I recognized the receptionist. We made quick small talk, but I knew that time was likely a factor, so I cut right to the chase and asked if I might be able to head to the nurse's office to find my brother. The woman looked at me sideways and sad,

"Cindy, your brother has not gone to this school in many years. This is the elementary school, and he must surely be in high school now."

Oh right, that. I am an idiot. I mumbled some sort of feckless, illogical excuse and went on my way to pick up my brother at the appropriate school. Like I should have done the first time.

When I finally arrived at the nurse's office, I was received with scorn and diappointment - from the nurse. She explained to me that it was imperative that Ben get medical attention immediately, and that the numbers that we had as his emergency contact were clearly out of date, and what if this had been life-threatening, and don't I know the importance of updated records, and wait a second lady I thought time was a factor. Shut up. Give me my brother.

When we were finally alone and on our way to the car, I asked my brother to show me his wound. Apparently he had been shoved into the corner of a bleacher while playing matball, the world's safest gym class game in which large groups of people round bases in unison, and have a tendency to careen into one another while trying not to overshoot third, which in this case was the bleachers, which in this case had very sharp corners.

He slowly removed the damp, maroon-tinged cloth from his forehead and revealed a thick flap of skin hanging precariously above his eyebrow, bleeding violently everywhere for forever. I immediately had him cover it again and tried to stop thinking about it long enough to drive to the hospital.

When we arrived at the emergency room, there was a short line. We waited patiently for our turn, and eventually were able to make our way to speak to someone. The woman asked me what the issue was. I made Ben show her his head. She asked if I was his mother. I said no, I am 22, I am not the mother of a fourteen year old. She asked if I was his guardian. I said no, and I explained that my mother was out of town. She asked if there was a guardian who was not in California. I said that I would contact my father. She said good, and made us go back to the waiting room. They would not clean him up. They would not fix him. They would not even look at him until there was a guardian in the building. (They did, however, give us a paper towel. Oh hey thanks!)

My father eventually showed up after nearly an hour (since he needed to get out of work and drive forty minutes to where we were) and they finally let us into a room. We sat waiting in the room for another long, drawn out period of time, but eventually a doctor came to see what all the commotion was about. He cleaned the wound and stated that it would indeed need stitches, and asked me if I wanted to see it now that it was not swimming in a pool of grossness. I said yes and then OH HEY BEN'S SKULL. I mean, oh, right, Ben's skull. That's normal.

I watched the doctor inject my brother's forehead with novocaine out of the hugest needle I've ever seen in my life, and then I listened to them talk about baseball while he sewed medical thread into Ben's face. I did not watch that part. Eventually, it was done. The doctor bandaged the wound and it was time to leave.

We said goodbye to my father in the parking lot and I drove Ben home. We laughed about how he would have his very own lightning-shaped scar on his forehead when all was said and done.

And then I went to work.