Love is Something

Love is something if you give it away
You've got to give it away
Give it away
Love is something if you give it away
You'll end up having more


Love is like a lucky penny
Hold it tight and you won't have any
But, give it away
And you'll have plenty
They'll roll all over the floor

Oh!

Love is something if you give it away
You've got to give it away
Give it away
Love is something if you give it away
You'll end up having more


:::

I suppose I appreciated the part about tossing away the penny and the image of cold hard cash spilling over my kitchen floor -- accompanied by Bella making a motion with her fist and then her hands, as if to say, "Voila!" Never too early to teach children about the economics of the stimulus package, I say. Bravo. had Geithner gone out with Bella at his side last Tuesday, pasted on a big smile, and begun this song with his arms across his chest? Stock market up.

But the rest?

When Bella came home a week or two ago, singing this at top volume replete with arm motions, I had every intention of marching into her (wonderful, lovely, Oberlin-trained) music teacher and screaming,

What the FUCK are you doing?! What are you teaching my daughter? Don't you realize this is bullshit? No? This is what poets write to make themselves feel better, after their girlfriends have left their nerdy, depressive, introverted asses and they're curled up in their parent's basement, listening to Nirvana with a bottle of cheap whiskey. The idea that you could give it away and get more is a myth. Yeah, yeah, Sting as his tantric, "Free! Free!" can bite my pock-marked ass. I've given that love, more than I've ever known, and you know what I have in turn? Pieces. Splinters of me, wanna see? There is no return flow, no expansion of my heart. If anything, it almost compressed my muscle to the point of shutting down. I gave love away and they absconded with it in the middle of the night, and I ain't seen shit in return.

Please just shut the fuck up about these Keynesian polemics and stick to Wheels on the Bus, or Frere Jacques if you're feeling especially daring. Thank you.

:::

Valentine's Day was the worst day of the six. Beginning in the late afternoon of the 13th, but really coming to a climax circa 7 a.m. the morning of. I've never asked, but I think this was my husband's worst piece of it too. I called him at home with the news, just as he was getting ready to leave, and he once pointed to the exact spot on floor where he was standing when he was holding the phone. He remembers exactly the window he was looking out of, while listening to my voice come in what must have been broken, jumbled monotone heartbreak, and I can imagine the scene, with the wet snow rushing by the window, sideways.

It's horrible to say, but the nadir -- the moment of learning of Maddy's fate, was in it's split second, the most horrific news I've ever received coupled with a twinge of relief. And perhaps that twinge, that she wouldn't have to fight, that there would be an end to this supremely fucked up roller coaster ride, makes the moment that much worse. I remember being unable to think of how to phrase my question to the doctor; the only time I had ever discussed ending a life was in regard to a pet. Too tired to think of another vocabulary, and hoping I didn't sound too much "Dingo Ate My Baby," I managed to cough up something to the effect of when we knew how much interference was too much.

And though I can't remember my exact phrasing of the question, I remember his exact answer, verbatim. I remember his young, exhausted face framed by the ugly, gray sideways sliding storm outside my window. My leaking breasts falling out of my gown, the traffic news on mute casting a blue glow in my room.

"I think we're there now."

:::

I wasn't given a chance to decide whether to love Maddy or not, she was mine, I was hers, and frankly love her was all I could do. I couldn't bathe her, hold her, feed her, touch her. I could only exude love. It was in my mind the supreme example of unrequited love. I got nothing. Two years later, my heart still swells, and floats, and I still get bupkis. Definitely not more. (Geithner, take note.)

It only occurred to me this morning, slow as I am, waking up after a very late night at girl's night out bookclub, glancing at my clock and noting the painfully early hour, that Maddy's heart literally broke on Valentine's Day. And if that isn't some ironic epic fail, I'm not sure what is.

Oh, my mama loves, she loves me
Like she loves me like a rock
she rocks me like the rock of ages
and loves me.


There was a space, between finding out she was suffering from extreme brain damage, and the moment of clarity on Valentine's morning, where I was the saddest I ever was. Only loving. And shortly after this picture was taken, somewhere in the wee hours of Valentine's morning, as I had to succumb to my lids closing, she seized, and her heart stopped. There wouldn't be another picture like this, where you could see her face without a tube shoved down her throat. There wouldn't be another picture where we didn't know what was coming.

Love is something, ain't it.