At this moment I am peering down the dark, smooth-bored double barrels of a sleepless night that will stretch endlessly until the sun dawns. I am on call this week and this particular night I have found myself at the mercy of the transplant surgeons. My hospital performs a large number of kidney and liver transplants, which is a good thing, a wonderful thing. Sometimes, however, those donated organs are somewhat questionable in their health and viability, a rather unsettling thing. That is where my department comes in. As pathologists, we freeze small needle biopsies of the organ in question, stain them up and squint at them with a microscope to assess just how healthy (or bad) they are.

This is not always a good thing. As organs are harvested as soon as they come available, this process can happen in the middle of the night. Like tonight. I will be looking at potential donor kidney biopsies with the Chairman of my entire department tonight!

Well, at least I get to play a small part in giving the gift of life to someone in need. But boy am I going to be exhausted tomorrow!

I am recuperating this evening, recovering from the post-vacation blues. I spent an enjoyable, whirlwind few days in Scottsdale. I was in for, among other things, my brother and soon-to-be sister-in-law’s engagement gala, as I have previously mentioned. It was a great evening. Both my mother and father were actually in the same room together and, after checking their edged weapons at the metal detector, they were even cordial toward one another. I am totally joking about the edged weapons part. My mother’s weapon of choice is a filigreed silver .22 she conceals in her bra. Ha. It was nice to see the two of them speak to each other and find mutual joy in their son’s special evening. I know they are proud of him and their newly-acquired daughter.

Abby, my brother’s fiancée, has a wonderful family. She is the middle child of 3 girls. Her mother and father are hilarious, warm, effusive people; I have come to like them very much. Her mother wants to adopt me! I know my parents think highly of them as well. They put out a great spread, too. The catering was by a local b-b-q place called El Paso, one of my favorites! Abby’s mom imported soft pretzels and Tastykakes from Philadelphia and, as if the afforementioned smorgasboard was not enough, there was a cake as large as my bed! I ate until I had to slip my belt 2 notches and drank half a case of Stella Artois. Ugh, I think I am swearing off food for a week. I am putting myself on a yogurt and tree-bark diet until I can see my feet again.

Summer has descended in my brief absence. Summer, like a suffocating wool blanket is smothering St. Louis and will continue to do so until fall. Back to showering 3 times a day; back to changing my shirt after a half-mile stroll around the corner. I am buying stock in the company that manufactures Certain-Dri. I think I can make a killing and retire early.  Thanks, Ameren UE for raising my electric rates just in time for air conditioning season!

This evening the heat broke in St. Louis and a comfortable breeze swirled through the streets. I sat outside, enjoying the cool, peaceful evening and watched the sun set, gracefully sliding below the thick stand of trees on the edge of Forest Park. As the setting sun painted the low-slung, diaphanous clouds deep orange and violet I reflected, yet again, on the recent absurdity that has become my life. There are no solutions, merely recriminations. My feet remained firmly rooted to the rough-hewn stone beneath, unmoved by the desperate cries of my heart to run to her, run until my breath gives out and my legs fail; to fly to her, wide-eyed and delirious, seeking respite, nepenthe, peace. I silently screamed at the stone beneath my feet, yet the obdurate stone was unmoved.

So I arose, cast one last gaze toward the west and, as the last liquid vestiges of sunset glimmered in the foliage, I held my head up and slowly began my walk home knowing that, as always, my eyes would be drawn, as of their own accord, up the street toward where she lives; the evening’s final, unconscious expression of hope.

I realize this is a self-evident, rhetorical, idiotic question, but why is it that romantic comedies always end so perfectly? Why do we so enjoy them when we can intuit the ending before the opening credits are even finished? Is it for brief respite from the sad realities of our lives? Is it to fill our hearts with hope? Or is it true, deep-seated desire to seek happiness that keeps us watching, raptly attentive?

I watched “Hitch” on TBS this weekend. I was flipping through the channels Saturday afternoon when it started and I figured that a movie with Will Smith and Kevin James had serious potential for hilarity. I was not wrong.

I loved the part when Albert (Kevin James), realizing he had just lost Allegra Cole, the love of his life, showed up at Hitch’s apartment with a huge box of Krispy Kreme donuts and says:

“I figured maybe if my heart stops beating, it wouldn’t hurt so much… Honestly I never knew I could feel like this. I swear I’m going out of my mind. I wanna throw myself off every building in New York. I see a cab and I wanna dive in front of it, because then I ‘ll stop thinking about her…”

Of course, Albert gets Allegra back, and Hitch gets Sara back; she forgives him.

Here is what the movie failed to teach me: what should I do when I have the exact same feelings voiced so perfectly by Albert but know that everything will not come together neatly and perfectly, packaged with a little bow, in 20 minutes, just in time for the closing credits to roll?

Pink was the color of the day today in St. Louis. Pink was the color of hope; the color of strength; the color of courage. On this day, pink descended in a wave and lifted us all in the tide of the indomitable human spirit because today tens of thousands of people joined together to honor a promise made 25 years ago.

Today, 3700 breast cancer survivors were joined by innumerable supporters for the annual Race For The Cure. Each and every woman, man, and child who showed up and lent their support on this hot, hazy Midwestern day had a smile on their face, love in their hearts, and words of hope voiced by their lips. Each and every one turned the fountains, streets, parks, and buildings of this city pink. There are not words that can express the soulful, perfect beauty of their endeavor as they celebrated each survivor and mourned each woman tragically felled by a disease they fervently hope will someday be stamped out.

37oo survivors; as numerous as the tears beading my lashes as I type. 3700 women, each placed in an extraordinary situation, each asking for something that comes so naturally to the rest of us: to be here in the morning to watch the sun dawn on a new day.

Nancy Brinker made a promise when she lost her sister, Susan. Honor that promise.

It is surprisingly difficult to come up with a post for this page every day. Who would’ve thought? A paragraph or two here, a witty thought there, throw in an exclamation point and, voila! Another marvel of creative writing.

Yeah, right. It probably takes me a good hour to turn out one of the shorter postings and the long ones can take half a day. But this one today is different. This one wrote itself! I am finishing this up at half-past 4, central time, and what I am about to say literally happened in the last 2 hours.

I had a rare day off from work today, but I had to stop by the office to pick up some medical records pertaining to a research project I have been laboring in vain to complete. I was in the car, listening to music on my awesome iPod shuffle Kim bought me during a happier time, listening to, of all things, “The First Cut Is The Deepest” by Cheryl Crow, crossing through an intersection where one of the local highways discharges its burden of daily commuters, when a certain silver car stopped at the light caught my eye. I turned my head to the right to look and, sure enough, the face through the windscreen was one I recognized very well. It is a face that haunts my memories, my dreams, my soul.

Yes. While listening to Kimberly’s iPod playing a love song about still wanting someone by my side I drove right by her.

It gets better. I got home a mere half-hour later and received a call from a woman who I met a few days ago and with whom I had dinner plans with this evening. In her very sweet voice she informed me that she had to break our night’s engagement because, she said, she has been trying to get back together with her last boyfriend and did not feel right about seeing me.

Holy shit. First I see Kim, then I am stood up by a woman who is attempting to patch things up with her ex. I am not making this up; I could never think of something this good!

Kim, you wrote me once and said that you did not know what the future would hold between us and that, if we were meant to be together than it would somehow work out.

How is that for a sign that we are meant to be together?

I only wish I were a good writer. Were I a talented writer, I would be able to properly sow the love encapsulated within my heart into this page and have it spring forth, like the most lovely, delicate blossoms, into riotous life and color. Were I a proper wordsmith, I could express the unfathomable loss I fight a brave, hopeless, losing battle with every single day in a manner that would bring solicitous tears to even the most hardened soul.

Sadly, I am not a good writer. I cannot write Kimberly back into my life; I cannot sway her resolve with mere words on a page. So each day I die a bit more inside, trapped between the bleak reality of my present-day life and the ephemeral hope for my future.

Shit, I wish I were Shakespeare.

If I hear one more word about the “Sopranos” season finale then I am going to take the hapless person’s head who uttered them and squeeze it until pus comes out! The inescapable fact is that there is no way that series could have come to a satisfactory conclusion; all of you fans should realize that true enjoyment lies not in the end itself, but in the journey.

And while I am thinking about it, why does every one of society’s fallen, cast-off dregs who manages to get their grubby hands on the cracked steering wheel of a dilapidated, rusted-out, beater of a pick-up truck try to run me down in the crosswalk around the corner from my apartment? Is there a sign on my head? I know it is prominent and shiny but, hey, I wash it like 3 times a day!

Always listen to the one who knows you best.

I’m 99 for a moment; dying for just another moment and I’m just dreaming; counting the ways to where you are… Hey 15, there’s never a wish better than this; when you only got 100 years to live.

-Five For Fighting

This morning dawned overcast and cool. June 10th, my 32nd birthday, had arrived with all the all the fanfare of a rubble pile sliding over the crest of a ridge. I lay awake and took inventory of my life to this point. Career? On track, for the most part, though a couple years behind. I certainly will not realize the joys of home ownership anytime soon. Health? My back hurts a little, nothing earth-shattering. I have dropped several pounds and an inch off my waist as of late. In fact, I really do not have much to gripe about. My 30’s have been kind and gentle so far.

I have received several cards, missives, and messages from family and friends, and all are very much appreciated. Over the past few weeks, many of those in my life have asked a similar question, “what do you want for your birthday?”

After a great deal of thought, here is my answer: What I want is very simple. It does not cost even one dollar, yet it is more valuable and priceless to me than any sum of money. It can be fragile and fleeting, yet if nurtured, it will endure for a lifetime. It is a thing that many, myself included, all too often take for granted, yet it has been the inspiration for some of the most wonderful works of music, art and literature ever conceived by man and woman. It is something that, a short time ago, was freely and unhesitatingly given to me, yet now there is nothing I would not to to win it back.

This gift of which I speak is the most precious gift of all. It is the gift of love. Kimberly’s love on my birthday is the only thing I wished for. Without it, everything else scarcely matters.

Last year Kim baked me a strawberry cheesecake. It was the most beautiful cheesecake I have ever seen. I could have published a photograph of it in “Vogue!” This was no cheesecake for mere mortals, either; this behemoth must have weighed 6 or 7 pounds. There was no way on earth I was going to polish it off by myself, but that did not stop me from trying. I think I ended up throwing out almost half of it, but I still enjoyed every single bite.

This year I am alone. Every woman I meet, every first date takes me that much farther away from her. To think that I have lost her forever, that she will never again be a part of my life is almost too much to bear; it makes me dizzy and light-headed when I try to wrap my mind around it. It pains me greatly to think that she is spending my birthday with someone else, happy and content with her life’s new routine.

Tomorrow is one whole month since my failed experiment, and it is hard for me to deny the ineluctable conclusion that she is likely torn from my life forever. She has spent several weeks with the knowledge that I am in love with her and longingly await her return to my life; even this has not been enough to stem the tide. She has closed the door on that room of her heart and scattered the shards of the key to the winds.

I am not going to give up yet, Kim. I will continue to bear the burden of this heartache. Your love is far too important to me. Sometimes, when we close our eyes and blow out the birthday candles, miracles happen. Please be my miracle.

Happy Birthday to me.

My life rushes by at stupefying speeds. Like a blender on ‘puree’, a food processor on ‘high’, a race car humming at 7000 rpm, even like photons streaming from the sun, it blazes onward, barreling headlong toward darkness and uncertainty. I push the button, but there is no stopping this train; this fucker is on “Max” and the brake handle is out of commission. I scream for help and, scarcely as they are formed, the words are snatched by the slipstream and shredded to unintelligible bits.

Every day I find myself another Astronomical Unit, 149 million kilometers, farther removed from her, hurtling through the utter blackness of space, desolate and alone. I am the Voyager spacecraft, racing beyond the cusp of her warmth, containing only a record of wonderful memories that were. I am ‘Spirit’ and ‘Opportunity’, abandoned on the barren surface of Mars, my usefulness eclipsed, my warranty void, left to decompose on an unfeeling, alien surface. I am an insignificant pale blue dot in a mote of sunlight in the farthest, dustiest corner of her universe.

In short, I am fucked. Happy Birthday to me.