the hoes and the ca$h

Ivy League university offered nick a job on the east coast. i didn’t panic, not at first, but i started to methodically bite my nails as we approached Decision Day Tuesday.

what page of your choose-your-own-adventure novel did you turn to?  i text.
“the one where my zip code remains the same.”

he turned the offer down for a more competitive retention offer from current university: a pile of cash up front, a large raise, and a tenure hearing within the next year. he chose the cash and hoes.

but he’s still unsettled: anxious, barely sleeping. two months ago, he said “all of the options are good. some of them might be more sad than others…” but now he’s feeling the loss of a missed opportunity.

“two years ago, i made a list of the top five universities i’d work at if i ever left my current position. this school was at the very top of my list.”

i try to take away his stress by catering to him, doing dates at his house, bringing him takeout, listening.
i wish i could take some of that away from you, i say.
“not the hoes!” he cries.

one of my meds is doing bad things to my body: killing my neutrophils, raising my blood lipids, and making me gain weight. i asked my psychiatrist about maybe going off of that one, but he wanted me to repeat the labs; he didn’t want me to make changes with nick potentially moving away.

when nick decided to stay, i repeated my labs and quit my meds without waiting for the results or a consult.

i decide.

dr. k is my psychiatrist because he came to visit me when i was in a coma, so i didn’t pick him for his openmindedness towards queer politics and polyamory. he’s a neurologist and psychiatrist all rolled into one, so he was qualified to interpret my MRI results and treat me when i woke up. i’ve been seeing him for nearly two years and i still haven’t told him about my slutty heart, opting instead to talk about nathan and kristophe’s good “friends” and my seemingly random fits of jealousy.

sometimes i think i should just do it, but then i remember how badly i’ve been burned in the past. i’d rather be judged for my fake irrational jealousy than for my actual relationship choices.

i won my 5K last weekend, or at least i won the Coma-to-5K racing division. most of my cohorts were still trying to master walking with a cane when i left, but i finished 3 miles in a mere 46 minutes. no walk breaks.

my mom almost cried when i crossed the finish line.

we went for a hike afterwards (!) and talked about my recovery, how a month after my coma, it was still a challenge to walk down the block, how we tried to walk half a mile and she had to rescue me with the car because i couldn’t finish. but then, how i started walking with normal strides, how i covered five whole miles to get some ice cream and adventure, how i started running in physical therapy.

i got a lot of help from my mom and my professional care team, but i have, i’m going to admit, put in a lot of work to get to this place. i can be so determined that i don’t even see myself, but now i’m trying to give myself some credit.

i want to find my very first physical therapist, the one who got me to take my first steps, and thank him. i remember him being my favorite person in the hospital, and i want him to know how profoundly he changed my life.