At Last: The Story Too Good Not to Share - Part 3!

The Story Too Good Not to Share – Part III
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And so, at the end of November 2004, I arrived back home in the UK (for wherever Jamie is, there – and only there, am I home), and as the sheer relief of being in each others physical embrace again washed over us, it became increasingly apparent in the days that came that there was practical living stuff to be done: getting a National Insurance Number for me (more paperwork and hassle), finding a job (terrifying), and putting up with the annoying fact that we didn’t have our own place and space (we didn’t live alone and it didn’t look like we would for sometime; which ended up being the case).
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I really didn’t start seriously looking for a job until the first of the year. I needed time just to be with Jamie and to get my bearings. And, I wanted to be able to enjoy my second Christmas with Jamie (and first Christmas in the UK and our first Christmas married) without having to focus on the stress of getting and handling and keeping a job.
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With the pretty big exception of Jamie losing his Dad to cancer in December – and the expected sadness that went with that, Christmas and New Year came and went and they were good. But then it was time to get serious. I started putting my CV out all over the place, and back came the torrent of rejection letters pouring through the mail slot. It wasn’t until February that I finally landed something: a part time retail position in a health food shop in Loughborough. Since we were sharing that house in Barrow, it meant getting the bus in and back, which distressed me no end until I got used to it. Public transportation is big over here, but it wasn’t something I was used to as an American gal from a place where public transportation is seen as somewhat of an oddity and – on top of that – it just isn’t available (after all, it wasn’t like I came from New York).
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Then it was settling into job hours, and a routine. Ugh, I hate that word: routine. It’s nearly as bad as mundane, but not quite (I believe in being as extraordinary as one can be…but, I digress, and we’ll get to that point later). Jamie’s love made even routine bearable, along with helping me through my body’s revolt at the new pressure being put upon it: I hadn’t done hard, physical, stand-on-your-feet-all-day-long labour in a long time. Oh, I of course had looked for an office position, but couldn’t even get an interview – not at that time, anyway. So, it was the hell of retail. I found I could endure it, however…well, for a time, anyway - but I’m getting ahead of myself again; Jamie’s love and belief have amazing sustaining powers.
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That’s what we do for each other; it’s part of that interdependence I talk about so frequently: there are wondrous things that neither one of us would have ever been able to experience without the other, along with – and in addition – to this, we make it possible for each other to better handle and bear the frustrations and life-struggles that were beyond our individual power to endure. It makes a life out of a mere existence. Interdependence is a powerful thing. As assertiveness is the positive balance to the negative passive/aggressive, interdependence is the correct balance to dependency and independence. Not to be confused with or mistaken for co-dependency. Co-dependency is the counterfeit; it is destructive and harmful – it enables weakness. Interdependence brings wholeness, encourages strength. Some, who haven’t seen this type of relationship in action, think it is all a bunch of semantics, but there is definitely a difference between the two. The main difference? One is extremely wrong (dysfunctional), and the other is very right (it works)! But, whether you, personally, can see or understand it, I am just extremely grateful that it is what Jamie and I have.
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It was also in February that the six-month lease on the house was up. The person who we had been renting with decided to leave us in the lurch, informing us, quite abruptly, that she was moving out, giving us no time to look for someone else. Since Jamie and I couldn’t afford the rent on a three bedroomed house on our own, we couldn’t renew the lease and we had to find somewhere else to stay quick.
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That was the beginning of a tough time. We endured some pretty dire living arrangements until we finally found a place that was, first and foremost, a place of our own, on top of being decent and affordable. The first shared house we tried moving into, after two weeks we discovered the landlord (who lived on-site) was some kind of whacked-out maniac druggie, who seemed to be into a sort of vampirism (well, at least, so the distinct puncture marks on his neck would suggest)…scary. We got out of there as soon as we could. So, we went into yet another shared house. This one was minus the creepy landlord, but it had considerably worse housemates. We endured having to share a kitchen and a bathroom with some of the grossest people (I use the term “people” lightly) imaginable. Not having the finances to afford a place of our own - and, believe me, that was the only reason we found ourselves in such a horrible situation, we lived in this house with three of the worst housemates from hell ever! One of them repeatedly urinated on the carpeted floors (I kid you not; Jamie took pictures to show the council (of the result, obviously, not of the bloke in the act) – we have photographic, government documented evidence), one of them chained smoked throughout the public areas of the house (he was only supposed to smoke in his room or outside), and the other one would come down to the kitchen (which was right by our room) to talk – extra loudly – on his mobile phone at all hours of the day and night! Not only was it disgusting, the smoke and the piss made it unsanitary and unhealthy. As a result of all this, as one would expect, we didn’t feel safe or comfortable in the slightest. It really brought us down, and anyone who dares to doubt that we have the real thing needs to carefully consider the fact that anything less than the real thing wouldn’t have survived those conditions. Those months, from the end of February to the end of June…well, the only times longer than those months were the times Jamie and I had to endure being an ocean apart from each other! They were so bad that, as I said, we got the council involved because we could take living there no more. However, just a day before the council moved on our situation (they contacted us pretty quickly once they saw the photos of the urine and other filth), I spotted a one bedroomed, self-contained, ground floor flat in the newspaper and pleaded with Jamie to call about it. He didn’t take much convincing, but we both doubted how decent the place would be just because of the price: it was actually something we could just afford! But, we were desperate. So, we went to take a look at the place.
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That’s how we found the place we now – proudly – call home!
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A terraced house, which had belonged to the landlord’s mother, had been converted into two pretty little flats. It had all recently been done up since the last tenants had been there; everything was clean, and fresh and new. When Jamie and I walked into the place and looked around we knew, this was it: after over a year of never really ever having a place to ourselves, we were finally to have a place all our own. We couldn’t believe that they were asking as little for it as they were. I looked at him; he looked at me; we looked at them, and exclaimed, “We’ll take it!”
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To say we were relieved would be quite a major understatement. We were elated. With glee we moved out of the hole, and celebrated with every box we packed up. Now I even had a place to put the piano that Jamie’s Aunt Sheila had given me.
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Our whole story is one of “progressive arriving” (my term; just made it up, actually), and here we had arrived, again.
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We breathed deep of privacy. We touched and held with renewed delight; celebrating our love in every room of our house (a very, very, very fine house), and gleefully walked – nearly dancing - naked from bedroom to kitchen to bathroom and back again. Oh, what glorious luxury!
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Routine came again, but now it was even more bearable - a comfortable, easy, settled feeling. The peripherals that weren’t perfect (like neither of us having a great job or doing what we wanted to do career-wise - which for me means singing and performing music and for Jamie means photography or writing) weren’t important – or paramount - because Jamie and I – the paramount thing – were not only together, but we were together in our own place.
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And July 2005 came with her cruel heat to remind me of another year of my life gone by, to whisper with hot breath, “You’re not so much a spring chicken anymore, Chick-a-Dee.” And I felt a bit more tired than usual; I was achy and nauseas, and I guess I knew from the beginning…
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And, I was scared…afraid because we had just gotten settled into our place that had room for two but no more. Afraid because of what it meant financially. Afraid because I was more than a year from getting my ILR…and what if I didn’t get it?
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And, I was overjoyed. His smile reflected in little eyes, his touch echoed in little fingers. To give him what she had promised and broken. To give him what she had denied him. My heart danced.
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And, I told him.
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And, he already knew.
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And, he was scared, afraid because we had just “arrived”; we hadn’t been here long enough even to catch our breath yet. Afraid because of what it meant financially. Afraid because…what would we do if – just if – I didn’t get ILR?
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And, his heart leapt – I saw it in his eyes: my smile reflected in newborn wonder, my caress echoed in a baby’s breath. To be Daddy…so long denied, so long a dream, at last nearly reality…nearly.
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I’ve been pregnant and carried three healthy babies to term before. Two are mine, and one I carried for my sister. I had never felt like I felt this time; I chalked it up to being older and to being with another partner for this one. I tried not to think what I already knew.
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When I stood up to go to the bathroom on the Sunday night of August 21st, I didn’t even feel a twinge to signal the flood to come. I didn’t know until I stood up from the toilet and saw it full of blood. Shock came first. Denial tried to surface but then the cramps came to wrack me with reality. Then, I heard her laughter. I heard her mocking, and there was no more denying.
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I walked out of the bathroom. I must have been white by then. He was waiting to press the “PLAY” button; the DVD player was set up for us to watch Conspiracy Theory. I softly said, “Jamie, I’m bleeding.” He responded with one word before we both dissolved into tears together: ‘no’. It was a plea. It was a prayer.
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I would be granted one grace before the tears and grief had to be put on hold so as to get me to the hospital because I was haemorrhaging: a vision of my grandfather holding his arms out to a baby, and calling the little one “Buddy” like he had called me. August 21st had been my grandfather’s birthday.
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It was Sunday, so we had to go to the walk-in clinic. Jamie’s mum came to take us there because we had no car at the time. The doctor on-call there could not stop the bleeding and was very concerned by the amount of blood I was rapidly losing. The cramps were very bad by this point and I was feeling increasingly weak. Jamie looked small and frightened. The doctor said I must go to the hospital immediately. The ambulance was called and I was taken straightaway.
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I was given gas and air and, at the time, would have loved to live on it, because in that no-where state there was no pain of any kind.
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I was admitted to the hospital and seen by a young doctor – brand new, just out of med school – who attempted to stop the bleeding.
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Jamie stayed with me all night; he never left my side.
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After I bled all night and well into the morning the young doctor knew this was a job beyond her experience and skill. Another doctor was called in and I caught the look on her face when she examined me. I was quickly prepped and rushed to surgery.
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After surgery I was sent to recovery. Hah, recovery. I may never. I fought waking up…I didn’t want to wake up. I think, were it not for Jamie’s willing me to wake up, I wouldn’t have.
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Don’t you dare tell me to get over it! You haven’t been there and you don’t know. Come back and speak to me when you’ve lost not only flesh of your flesh but also the most precious gift you could ever give to your partner. You will have a right to speak to me then, but not until. Until then, go to hell…there you may find the pain I write of!
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Nothing was easy about the weeks that followed. I was told not to work for two weeks and ordered bed rest. I was told it would take months for my hormones to right themselves and to generally expect to feel shitty for quite some time. As for my heart…well, no one had any remedies for that.
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The tears – for Jamie and me both – came in waves. And, because he was being strong for me, I will never know how many tears he shed away from my eyes but I feel their weight in the ocean of my heart, nonetheless.
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When it was time for me to go back to work at the shop, I had nothing in me – physically, mentally, or emotionally - that would allow me to handle the workload.
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To make matters worse, the manageress that I liked and got along so well with was leaving – can’t blame her – for a better-paid job, leaving loads of unknowns and general upheaval. I was at the edge of breakdown.
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Jamie held me together. He was determined not to lose me, too. Again – as he had done in the past – he willed me to live – to live with him.
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A lot of the job stuff – and how that was eventually resolved – I tell about in A Voice’s Journey to be Heard, where I recount the tale of how I became the lead singer of The Chairs; so I won’t go into that here. It is sufficient to say that it all worked out well in the end to the glory of God and to the testament of interdependent love!
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We are still living in our fine little flat. Not a day goes by that I don’t remember where we came from and breathe an earnest thank-you. This place must be like The Doctor’s TARDIS…it looks far too small on the outside to be able to contain all the love and joy we daily fill it with.
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Autumn and Jamie. Jamie and Autumn. Entwined. One. This is a story of “progressive arriving”. We go from strength to strength. Could I truly convey it in words, I would. Could I show you – so you would really see – I would. Could I pull the scales from your eyes… all I have is the truth. And, that I will continue to write.
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To be continued…