The Thirst

The longest time Sarah has gone without acknowledging my existence is three weeks. Those were, without a doubt, the longest three weeks of my life. It took everything in me to merely exist, my spirit fading with each passing day. My world felt like a desert seeking water, my very foundation cracking.

Sarah becomes like this when work consumes her. She tries to maintain a balance, but her drive overtakes her perfunctory attempts to include me in her world. When she has a deadline, her focus narrows into a tunnel of awareness that includes only her laptop.

I am her collateral damage. I have grown used to fading into her background, existing as an afterthought: a once cherished treasure, now an accessory.

I can feel myself wilting, seeking light through the darkness. I am so thirsty for her attention.

I have learned to insinuate myself into her daily life in small ways. I live vicariously as I overhear her end of phone conversations while she sits next to me.

Call with her sister:

Sarah: “I know, Shelly. I’m sorry I haven’t called you back, I just have that big deadline I was telling you about. You know, my article about the pending collapse of the financial system in Sudan--that’s kind of a big deal.”

Shelly is Sarah’s sister. Shelly frequently calls her, endlessly cataloging the symptoms that accompany her flareups. This happens about once a month, and I know that Sarah will soon become derailed, filled with worry for her sister. Shelly’s last hospitalization lasted two months, during which time Sarah didn’t sleep, spending her time frantically fielding phone calls from her family and Shelly’s specialists.

Call with her boss:

Sarah: “Look, I’m doing the best I can! This guy just won’t cooperate with me—he’s shielding his people from me and they’re not responding to my emails, texts, or voicemails. I think I’m going to need to go there in person.”

Sarah has been working on this story for a long time. I heard her tell a colleague that this could be the big break, the one that will legitimize her career as a hard news journalist. I know how important this is to her, and I want more than anything for her to succeed.

Call with her therapist:

Sarah: “I know I’ve cancelled my last two appointments, but I gave you enough notice, right?” Therapist responds.

Sarah: “I really am putting my mental health first, but I have so many things pulling at me. I promise that I’ll get back to our appointments when things slow down.” Therapist responds.

Sarah: “Trust me, getting a big break in my career will be good for my mental health—this is exactly what I’ve been talking about!”

Sadly, I’ve watched Sarah do anything but prioritize her mental health. She convinces herself that her family will, at last, focus their energy her way once she becomes a “real” journalist, one who reports on items of societal and moral significance. She has spent years performing for them, trying to bring herself into the spotlight that Shelly has unintentionally hoarded. I watch Sarah’s struggle, the battle between supporting her sister and pursuing her own aspirations.

Sarah and I used to spend quality time together. She would amuse me with stories about her travel adventures or spin tales about the unrelenting editors she has endured. She could barely get her words out through her laughter and endearing tendency to embellish.

She used to call me by the nickname she gave me, Samson, when she would gloriously focus her attention on me. I have never known why she started calling me that, but her eyes dance when she announces, “Samson, I’m back!” when she enters my orbit.

Other times, she brushes by me without a glance, and I am left wondering if she remembers me. I haven’t changed, I’m still here.

When Sarah’s capacity for me retreats, I find other ways to occupy myself. I do know that I serve a purpose, and this fills me with relative comfort. I have been told that I enhance people’s lives, my presence affording them a sense of calm. I notice the way that people look at me, as if I’m transporting them to another place, their eyes softly focused on the whole of me. I’ve heard people say that my existence brightens up entire rooms, and I hope this is true.

I know that Sarah leads a complicated life, and it isn’t realistic to assume that I should be her sole focus. That wouldn’t be healthy for either of us. I understand that she is an unwavering advocate for so many people, outside of this life that she and I share. But I can’t help but feel a bit lost, unsure when her sustenance will nourish me.

***  

I involuntarily shrink when I hear her on the phone, making plans to leave me. Not me specifically, but to leave the country for an assignment. She is speaking with the person who makes travel bookings for her work assignments. I hear her talking about needing a fixer, which is not good news for me. The last time she made this request she left for fifteen days for a country with a level four travel threat. This meant potential for complications and circumstances that could keep her away from me for a dangerously long amount of time. I withered in her absence and don’t know if I will survive her next exit.

I am aware that we can’t go on like this for much longer. Increasingly, she puts my needs behind everyone else’s. In her defense, I haven’t found a way to let her know how much her neglect hurts me.

I’m just not built to express myself; instead, my thoughts remain unspoken, scattering wordlessly into the abyss of unspoken truths. I am sure that if I told her these things, she would try harder, because she is committed to me. I’ve promised myself that I won’t become another obligation to her, yet another being draining her with their vast need.

Phone call with her boss:

Sarah: “The last time I went without a fixer, I got stuck at the border and it could have turned out a whole lot worse. We got lucky, but I’m not comfortable putting myself at this level of risk again.” Boss responds.

Sarah’s voice rises an octave and she’s picking at her cuticles when she counters: “Jeff, I’m not being dramatic, I am being realistic. The story won’t get written if I’m in the hospital or stuck in some jail cell.”

I disappear even more into myself. I don’t think I knew, until now, how conflicted she was about her new assignment. I wish I could protect her, shield her from anything unpleasant. No wonder entire days have gone by where she has forgotten about me.   

***

Sarah has finished packing, now surveying the room to check for forgotten items. She has become adept at leaving, unaware of the vacuum her departure creates.

My hopes rise, because surely, she will turn her attention to me. We have never missed our ritual.

I keep watch, looking for signs that she remembers. I notice her efficiency with the remaining tasks as she prepares our apartment for her leave. She heads toward the kitchen, leaving me alone with my mounting anxiety.

A few minutes later she emerges. At the sight of her, my entire being fills with absolute joy, rapture—I had almost forgotten what this feels like. She looks right at me, with that knowing that reminds me I am hers. She hasn’t forgotten about me! Her hands hold my sustenance, and I await our ceremony.

“Samson, I swear, I would never forget about you.”

I wait in restless anticipation. This moment, almost too late but now at exactly the right time.

I feel euphoric when she, at last, places the fertilizer spike into my parched soil. I make room, opening myself for this gift. I allow myself to imagine the bliss of what will happen next: I receive her offering of rain, allowing it to cover me, envelop me. The watering can delivers its elixir, and I drink it in. I am no longer a desert.

“Now, Samson, is that better? I’m so sorry you waited so long. I need to take better care of you.”

Yes, Sarah, you do. But I forgive you--just come back to me. I need you. The world needs you.