Lloyd: I have a letter from your daughter. I don’t know which version she sent.
Jim: “You can’t know the horrible disappointment I feel…”
Lloyd: I know this part, keep reading.
Jim: She can’t still be angry at this. It’s gotta get better.
Lloyd: It does, it does if it’s the version signed ‘I still can’t help loving you’. It gets better.
Jim: Just her name.
Lloyd: Just knowing a version like that exists, knowing that for a minute that she felt that and wrote ‘I still can’t help loving you’. That’s gotta be a good thing, right? That’s gotta be a good thing.
~Say Anything… (1989)
I’ve written about the idea of parallel universes before, and how it’s a comforting thought for me that somewhere in the multiverse there’s a version of me that has everything she’s ever wanted. Everything I’ve ever wanted. And is happy. Today, I’m a little jealous of this other version of myself.
We got some bad news yesterday. Yet another rejection letter, this one just two days past the application deadline. What the hell is going on? Hubby was a really good fit for this position. At least, he thought so. What are we doing wrong? And I say “we” because I feel a responsibility in this, too. I’ve helped Hubby edit every single cover letter he’s sent out. Maybe neither of us knows what the fuck we’re doing.
I hope you’re happy, other me. Because we’re struggling right now. Our options are dwindling, until the only thing left will be moving to Hubby’s home country without a job, simply because fertility treatments are cheaper there. And he has family there. I won’t be completely out of my element (just mostly), but it feels like a big step for so much uncertainty.
And that’s how everything feels right now. Uncertain. Hubby keeps assuring me that, no matter what, we’re moving in three months. We don’t know where. We don’t know if he’ll have a job. Three months isn’t very long. Not long enough for me to wrap my brain around all the possibilities, even the pleasant ones. The sooner we move, the sooner we can start IVF.
I wish I could pick up some sort of cosmic phone or send an interstellar email to alterna-me and ask her what exactly she did to get where she is now. Which choices she made that led her down the sunnier path. To know where she turned left when we turned right. Maybe our summer is still salvageable. I just wish I knew which steps to take to make everything better.
I heard this song on the radio today. It’s one I have a tendency to sink into when I’m in a funk. And I’m definitely there today. “I only wish my words could just convince myself that it just wasn’t real–but that’s not the way it feels.”