A Double Headed Coin

My friend tells me that everything happens in threes.

Truth is, I learn a lot from my friends. Wisdom can be found on tree trunks and tarot cards, in philosophy and philanthropy. But it always seems to have more impact coming from friends. More meaning. More accuracy. "Real friends will tell you when your face is dirty," my friend says. Tree trunks won't tell you that.

It's a difficult thing to do, to tell a friend that their face is dirty or their fly is down. Personally, I always feel awkward telling a friend that they have something in their teeth. There is something about revealing bad news to good people that is difficult. It doesn't seem to matter that not revealing that news will only make it worse. Somehow, it doesn't empower us to know that if we say nothing, the poor shmuck will have something in their teeth all day. We just feel awkward about being the bearer of bad news. It's because we know that there is a part of every person's soul that hates a good mirror with a bad reflection. No one wants to be the one to hold that mirror. That's why it takes a real friend.

My friend told me that they felt tragedy in the air. She told me that she thought large-scale, deep tragedy would soon occur to her friends. She felt it. She didn't know what it would be, or where or who it would be. She had no idea when it would be. But she felt like it was lingering on the horizon: tragedy. And she was afraid.

We are prophets. Like lightning, tragedy struck.

Exactly three weeks before my scheduled open heart surgery, I lost my job. It was lost in the most emotionally trying of ways. It was unexpectedly and sudden. 2 years of earnest service - not a lot of time in the business world, but an eternity in the world of an internet company - dissolved over a weekend. Though the financial loss was (and due to surgery, still is) palpable, this tragedy was rooted in its needlessness and its lasting emotional damage - a combination no person should ever have to endure.

The whole thing could have been solved with a simple conversation, if they had brought it up. It would have been that easy. Instead, fake smiles and laughter were delivered with one hand while formal complaints were made with the other. With no indication of wrong-doing, a man will willingly and unknowingly hang himself, and then be faulted for it. (And these accusers wonder why they are so often treated like children!) Further still, a management bent on finding proof and protection, rather than truth, finds itself ill equipped and uninterested in impartial inquiry or departmental improvement. (And it wonders why morale and loyalty buckle!) Final nails in a coffin never needed to be made: masked accusers appear. I had no known enemies, and so, these people must be people who smiled at me. Their accusations and identities are protected from me, (their well being an obvious priority over the accused's!) and I am to take the accuracy of their statements as true without capacity for verification or subsequent rebuttal. I am dismissed from my job, left with a garden that houses mystery snakes. Few recognize how lasting or far-reaching a sting it is to be entrenched in a community where some mystery persons within that community has caused you harm. Anonymity and secrecy, with good people, only ever causes suffering. It means that I have not only lost my job, but also my community. For what fool would return to possible mouths that bit him? And, whilst I am permanently alienated by the accusation, they will all be re-integrated by the graces of time and human will. Injustice is tragedy.

Open heart surgery is also tragedy. If it is thought otherwise, then you are mistaking it for a routine procedure. It is routine only for the doctors that perform it - but they go home healthy and happy at the end of the day. They go home and have a beer. And so, while it was planned, that did not make it an event of simplicity. Knowing I had no job behind me, and the volatility with which these things evaporate, another cancellation was constantly on my mind. And it almost occurred! Support, over the wait list months and false alarms, was still strong... but it is hard for it not to erode.

And while some things erode, some things do not. Memories remain. The valve replacement and repair part is easy. I just sleep with IV induced drugs. After I wake up, however, there is a gauntlet of trials that are placed under the convenient veil of "recovery". "Now all you have to do is get well," they say. And while the physical healing *is* the easy part, that does not make it easy. Drainage tubes being yanked, food not staying down, breathing tubes in your lungs during waking hours, terrible immobility, catheters, 3am sleeplessness, stabbing lung pains, uncertainty, endless drugs and scary reactions, an incapacity to make yourself supper, itching scars, constant bruising, not being able to lift more than 10 lbs, the list can go on. It is enough to show that this is an ordeal. They say that pain is something that, once finished, is the easiest to forget. And it's true, I don't remember exactly how the drainage tubes felt coming out. But I remember it. I was there. I was drugged, but I was awake and I watched it. That, just like long sleepless nights, stays with you. And of course, the mental lingers as well. Time passes slowly, and passion vanishes as soon as it has reappeared. Our former talents and skills can seem wasted on the wind. No matter how many well wishes or visitors one receives, rehabilitation is a lonely and frustrating endeavour.

Something is frustrating when it is out of your control, but you feel it shouldn't be by rights. I returned to my hometown, where recovery was to occur, leaving my apartment in the city under the care of my roommate. Shortly after my arrival, however, I got a text message. It was my roommate: he was moving out. In a couple of days. He had no intention of leaving more notice. He had no interest or capacity to leave more rent.

Losing a roommate on such short notice, next to the previous two things, seems a minor setback rather than a third tragedy. But it is in tandem with the previous paragraphs that we see what vices make this particularly problematic. I am stuck an hour and a half's drive away, during the recovery from my surgery. This makes looking for, interviewing, and showing potential roommates my place very, very difficult. I am unable to move more than 10 lbs, which makes it impossible for me to consider moving without significant assistance. I have no job, which means every dollar that disappears is one that is not replenished. This includes dollars lost paying for a 2 bdrm place by myself. In a phrase, this is incredibly bad timing and an awkward burden on a mind already recovering and trying to figure out what it will do with itself.

Given these tragedies, how can a person not be optimistic?

It sounds like sarcasm, but it's not. Given all this immense change, these new social revelations and physical repairs, I find it difficult at times not to grin like the Cheshire cat himself.

I have another friend who says that there are always two sides to the story. She says that the truth can always be found somewhere in the middle. But, in this, I don't agree with her. I don't think that two people, or two entities, or two perspectives, by virtue of the fact that they have had a disagreement must then "meet in the middle" for truth. One should never think that another perspective - simply by existing - invalidates the truth of a former perspective. Sometimes one side works harder to get an accurate account of things. Sometimes, one party is simply wrong. Sometimes both are right and equally (or unequally!) meaningful. People are capable of objective assessment. We should work towards that. Our judgements should be based on truth and ethics, not the middle ground.

But my friend is right in one capacity, there is another way to read my tragic stories of the past month and a half. It is a way that does not make them invalid, but does help to see where my optimism bubbles from.

Let me tell you, then. But let you not forget the former reading, for while the optimism is genuine, it was borne from genuine tragedy.

As a preface, it should be mentioned that I am free. I have no debt. No family dependents or other financial obligations. I'm 25 - young enough for fresh starts, but old enough to know the difficulty of what I attempt. I'm not a genius, but I am smart. Smart enough to be able to attempt any of the traditionally "difficult" career paths: lawyer, dentist, doctor, professor. I have built up a very select few friends and family that I know will never let me down. I've learned that sometimes I may need to ask, but those same friends and family will always be there for me. I have a 4 year degree from a very reputable Canadian university. I am humble enough to realize that that does not guarantee me anything. My ambition is not yet sapped. I'm finally getting skilled at recognizing what makes me happy. I enjoy helping others succeed. I believe in mutual success; in everyone winning.

I don't like leaving my job on terms that I will struggle to explain to future employers. I don't like not knowing who it was that accused me. I don't like the obvious degradation of values in a company that I once loved. These are things that will haunt me. But I do like the freedom. I do like knowing that I can write whatever I want, and I don't have to worry about censorship or the stereotype of a big gigantic company stealing my intellectual property. I feel free to connect myself with the open page, and put my imagination down on paper. "What dreams may come."

And I feel free from the social obligations of wanting to be well liked. It is a particular vice of mine that pops up anytime I am trapped in a room with likable people. I want to be invited to parties and get togethers. I want to be known positively by everyone around me. It is a vanity that I am not proud of, and that I try to suppress whenever I notice it, but it slips in. And in my old job, there were a lot of very likable people. But now I'm not trapped in that room. I will miss those people. I will miss the social interaction, and being a part of a team with a joint mission. But in exchange I have back my capacity to be my own person, and to only make plans when I want to.

I don't like recovery. I don't like that it hurts when I breathe deeply, or that I am stuck in a place with limited guests and limited things to do. I don't like the idea of more blood tests, or the memories of troubled sleep. But I do like the forced freedom. If I am not even allowed to use my hands to help me off the couch, then I certainly can't worry about finding a job. I don't have to worry about it. I'm free to relax, and to dream about the future. I'm given time for a video game vacation, and a time for reflection where no one is expecting results. No one will think less of me for taking the time to wait for passion, because I must also wait for physical repair. My future was once trapped by sloth. Not only has my future now been forced to fend for itself, it's been given the privilege of doing so at its own pace.

I have a new heart valve, and a repaired one. It was successful. How can one not be excited about the prospect of a working heart?

Roommate weaknesses cost money, but that's all. Money and a bit of time. I'm sad that my roommate decided to choose when he did to move out. I don't like that I have to deal with the additional concerns of moving out or moving someone else in during a trying time. But I am excited about the prospect of moving. Of having fresh blood in my living space.

It also reminds me that I am geographically free. That I could move to Toronto tomorrow if I wanted to. Not only am I able to relax, look at my options, decide on a career path that I would like and follow it with zeal, but I can do so anywhere I want. My living arrangements are temporary and without obligation. As the cliché goes, the world is my oyster.

What is the world, if the worst it has to offer me is this? I can go anywhere, I can do anything. Not only am I free to, but I am also capable of doing it. I have cleared my calendar, my obligations, my social network, my physical ties, and my mental worries.

By my tragedies, I have leave to fly.

My friend says that things happen in threes. I believe her. It's poetic and beautiful and something completely worth smiling over.

How can I not?
- Z