Yesterday The Sweetie had surgery on his spine, something called microlumbar decompression surgery. He had been on a waiting list for surgery, got a call on Monday and by Wednesday he was on the operating table. He had not been able to sit for over eight months, which, needless to say, was limiting. We have been lounging on the floor, taking modest walks around the neighbourhood and fantasizing about going out for dinner or seeing a movie. He has been very stoic. As much as I make fun of his dramatics when he has a cold, he has been unbelievably patient and positive throughout this ordeal. It was unanimous among everyone who knows us that as horrible as it was for The Sweetie to be suffering, it was better that it was him and not me because I would not have been as brave. Everyone would have been suffering along with me, I would have made sure of that. I would have had a breakdown by day two.

It was very hard to see The Sweetie looking vulnerable in his hospital gown and paper slippers when he was getting prepped for surgery. He came out of the change area looking like a little boy with the hospital paper shower cap on his head.

“Hey hon?” one of the nurses called out to him,“You don’t need to wear the paper hat yet unless you really like that look.”

We had to wait a long time for the doctor and anesthesiologist to arrive.

“Want to do the crossword with me?” I asked. “Want to play dirty hangman? Want to read about dog facts? Want to plan a trip to Portugal?”

“Actually I just want to pace,” The Sweetie replied.

As he paced all I could think about is how few things there are that truly matter. Love, health, connection. That’s it. If that is gone there is nothing else. All the things that I get stressed out about, all the things that I think are a big deals mean absolutely nothing.

“I think you should go now,” The Sweetie said when he had finished pacing and was lying under a blanket the nurse had brought him.

“I’m not going before they wheel you away,” I answered.

“I think I need some time on my own just to zone out and stay mellow and if I have to say good bye to you and you get all emotional I won’t be in the right frame of mind.”

“I won’t get emotional,” I said, starting to cry.

“Really, you should go.You’re going to have to wait around forever while I’m in recovery anyway.”

The Sweetie closed his eyes and then opened them again.“You’re still here,” he said. “You should really go.”

I unwrapped a throat lozenge.

“God, you’re like an unmovable force.”

Eventually the anesthesiologist came, a quirky Nordic fellow with a cute accent and soft hands. I kept it together and watched as they wheeled The Sweetie away and then burst into tears on the elevator. I baked cookies and washed dishes in a daze and waited for the surgeon to call me after the surgery. It’s funny how you always watch the world from outside of yourself when things feel stressful. Things felt slightly removed from reality, like I was sleepwalking through a dream.

I came to the recovery room to find him enjoying a glass of apple juice and nibbling on a tea biscuit. His nurse Svetlana seemed to be a little overly attentive and looked disappointed to see me. “You’re girlfriend?” She asked The Sweetie. “His wife”, I said and tried to drape myself over the bed, the metal rails digging painfully into my side.

Everything is fine, The Sweetie is home and is enjoying painkillers and soup. The cat is keeping a faithful vigil by his side. We have been taking tentative walks around the block and have been outpaced by a toddler. There is nothing I would rather be doing.

I was very sad to hear that Adam Yauch of the Beastie Boys died of cancer yesterday at the age of forty-seven. MCA was always my favourite Beastie. I loved his hangdog face and how he always seemed satisfied to hover in the background.

The Beastie Boys provided many a soundtrack to my hazy twenties. Initially they struck me as slobbering frat boys, screeching anthems for beer swilling neanderthals. Eventually, however, I fell hard for their exuberant, irreverent music. It wasn’t just for frat boys after all. Back in the nineties they played at the Concert Hall in Toronto and although I am uneasy in crowds with an overload of testosterone I gamely went with my boyfriend and his band of glassy-eyed cronies. Although I was a little anxious, feeling like a prim Holly Hobby out of her element, I was memorized. They were silly and uninhibited, something I wish my self conscious twenty-something self could have embraced more fully. I will always cheer for those who are unafraid to look like fools. Those who aren’t concerned with looking like cool guys are always the coolest. The unabashed goofs will always have my heart.

I really shouldn’t complain. This winter was the mildest that I can remember. I feel like I had a guardian angel considering that The Sweetie was unable to sit all winter, eliminating our chances of going on a beach vacation. Nor could he shovel snow. If ever there was a winter that I needed it to be mild and snow free this was it. The past month, however, spring has been dragging its heels in getting here. The wind is raw, the days have been chilly and I just heard on the radio that parts of the city are getting snow flurries. I just looked out the window and saw little bit of white stuff blowing around. I am trying not to panic. I know it won’t last, I’m taking deep breaths but a small choking gasp escaped from my throat.

Luckily I found some solace when I discovered this Pinterest the other day (here).

It always feels like a miracle when I emerge from my winter fog and no longer feel like a zombie. It is quite a transformation to go from feeling unspeakable rage toward anyone who is walking too slowly, talking too much or generally breathing, to finding everyone adorable and a potential bosom friend. The only drawback is that the spring awakening starts off a little on the manic side. I have a tendency to wake up at 3 AM nearly breathless because I feel an urgent need to polish my non-existent silverware or dig a trench. Unfortunately this unbridled energy does not translate into doing anything productive. Instead, I am completely scattered and catch myself talking too loudly and too quickly. I know this frenzy will pass and I will soon settle into mellow summer mode when all is bright blue skies, chirping birds, and contentment. In the meantime I would love to sit here musing a little longer but I must resume running laps around the house for no particular reason.

I keep being reminded that I have one of those faces that looks familiar to everyone. Apparently I have a lot of doppelgangers floating around. This is a bit of a blow to my ego. I think we all want to believe that we are completely one of a kind and irreplaceable. I’d like to think that I am striking in some way but I am constantly stopped on the street or the subway because someone thinks that I was in their grade four class or that I resemble their dental hygienist.

On a recent trip to Mexico I noticed that a man kept staring at me on the beach. “I must be looking pretty hot,” I thought to myself. One day he approached me and said, “I’m sure you must have noticed that I keep staring at you.” “This is where he is going to pull a business card from his Speedo and tell me that he is a talent agent,” I thought to myself. I began to imagine the stories I’d tell of how I was discovered by a model scout for middle-aged, soft bodied women.

“It’s uncanny. You look exactly like my accountant in Australia,” the non-talent scout told me.

My dreams of photo shoots and easy money came to an abrupt end. I looked like someone else again. An accountant. Not exactly an image that conjures up exotic beauty and glamour.

“I get that all the time,” I sighed, “I have one of those faces.”

I’d like to think that if I have a double she would be doing something a little more exciting than me, that the other me would be doing all the things I am afraid of doing. I don’t imagine my parallel life as a bean counter. Now I can’t risk going to Australia for fear of running into my accountant doppelganger. I hear that if you meet your doppelganger one of you will spontaneously combust.

Today I was once again mistaken for someone else. Lately I have changed where I go for coffee because they kept calling me ma’am. Recently when I was feeling particularly grumpy with winter angst I stopped in for a coffee and was momentarily cheered when I saw they were serving my favourite blend. I ordered a large, thinking that the day could be salvageable after all.  “I’m sorry ma’am, we just ran out,” the barista said. That was it. Each of us has a defining moment when we realize that it is time to take a stand. This was mine. I stormed off, vowing never to return. At last I had something I could stand by, an unshakeable conviction and unwavering stance.

Since my ban of the coffee shop I have been frequenting a new place where no one calls me ma’am. Today one of the baristas lit up like a firefly when he saw me.

“Oh my God! It’s been so long! Where did you disappear to?” He exclaimed.

“I think you’re mistaking me for someone else,” I said. “I have that face.”

“No you don’t,” he assured me. “You have a very distinctive face. I totally remember you. It’s been ages.”

“I was here yesterday. I swear, it is my face.”

“Well I didn’t serve you yesterday I guess,” he answered, still convinced that I was his long-lost customer.

“Actually you did. You gave me a sample of your maple coffee.”

“You’re not the girl who used to come in every morning for a latte?” he asked wistfully.

“I just look like her. And I probably look like her high school geography teacher too,” I sighed.

“I’m so embarrassed,” he said.

“Well you have a great face,” he added as an afterthought and handed me my coffee.

My face is so great that apparently there are a million of them floating around. So much for being that special snowflake. We all want to think that we are all special in some way, that we aren’t a dime a dozen and that something sets us apart. Instead, I am reminded on a regular basis that as much as I want to think that I am unique, I’m pretty much like everyone else. As humbling as that can be, perhaps it is teaching me a valuable lesson. Maybe I am meant to recognize that we are all unified and connected somehow. Thanks to my it-is-so-interchangeable-it-is-remarkable face I might have more empathy and patience. Except for those who call me ma’am.