Over it all

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Yesterday, I had lunch with a friend who unfortunately will not be able to make it to our wedding. He was planning to come, but then he got scheduled for a work project in Ghana and Kenya for over a month around the time of our wedding, so he let me know that he wouldn’t be able to make it in the end. It’s understandable, I said to him then and now.

“I’m really, really sorry I won’t be there for your wedding,” he said to me. He seemed so sad that he wouldn’t be able to make it, and expressed gratitude for the invitation at all.

After so many people, especially on Chris’s side, have declined, and after a very intense planning weekend this past week in Orange County, I realize more and more that I can’t stress or get sad or mad that anyone is not coming anymore. I’m kind of resigned to just not have any feelings anymore about attendance or lack thereof and have really not felt that disappointed about anyone not coming since probably the first week of January. I’m over it.

And as my friend said… though I’m not sure I’m fully in agreement.. if they don’t come to my wedding, I guess that means I don’t have to make the effort to go to theirs if they choose to get married?

“Don’t cry”

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Ed knows I’m here. He can see and feel me here the way I can feel his presence all over this house, and even throughout the Richmond district where I walk. He doesn’t normally visit me in dreams when I am here, but he did last night.

In my dream, I walked into a wide hallway in a nondescript building, and I see him standing there, facing me with a straight face, a slight spark of surprise in his eyes. And like clockwork, I immediately run up to him, grab his neck, hug him, and burst into tears. I tell him how happy I am to see him again and how much I’ve missed him. All of this is becoming like a broken record in my dreams. He puts his arms around me and pats me on my back.

“Yvonne,” he says sternly. “You have to stop this. You do this every time you see me. You have to stop crying. Don’t cry. This just isn’t healthy.”

“I can’t help it,” I respond through my sobs. “I just really, really miss you. And I just really wish you were really here.”

“I am here,” he says calmly while rubbing my back. “I’m here.”

But you aren’t, I think to myself. After these fleeting yet deeply cherished moments that my subconscious has conjured up, you will drift away from me, and I will drift off and eventually wake up. And in my bed in our old bedroom, I will awaken and turn to my right and see an empty bed next to me, the one you used to sleep in, sometimes soundly, sometimes tormented.

And that’s exactly what happened. At 3:30am this morning, I abruptly woke up and started coughing lightly, and I turned to my right and saw your empty bed…. your empty, empty bed.

 

Home again: the same home, but not

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This happens every time I’ve come home since Ed passed away: I walk in, anticipating him to either be sitting at his desk, hoping someone will swivel his chair around and that this someone would be him. He’ll run up to me to give me a hug, and then help me bring in my luggage. If he’s not there, which he obviously has not been since July 2013, then my body is expecting him to be there when I open my bedroom door.

I say my body expects him to be there because my brain clearly knows he is not. It’s like the tiniest hope that runs through my veins that I will see him and be able to touch him again. He is gone from this earth, but my body expects his energy and self to be somewhere in that house, and maybe if I am lucky, I can sense and feel exactly where he is and physically feel him again. I expect him to be sitting and reading on his bed, or lying down and taking a nap. I walked into the house yesterday night, and he wasn’t at his desk. I walked further into the house and opened my bedroom door dramatically, and there was nothing. No trace of him — just his energy permeating the entire space.

I walked up to his old dresser, where that large framed photo of him from his funeral sits next to a koala, an orchid plant, and the funeral program. I ran my fingers over the top of the dresser and noticed it had recently been dusted clean.

“Hi, Ed,” I said quietly to his photo. “I’m home, but you don’t seem to be.”

The first hour or so back home is always the worst for me. I’m never going to get over this. I can try, but I know I will fail. In this one case in my life, failure is inevitable.

Cousins reunited

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Yesterday, Chris and I met up with my dad’s younger sister’s son, who is estranged from his mother and whom I have not seen in almost nine years since another cousin’s wedding in the summer of 2007. He’s my cousin, likely my most normal, rational cousin. We didn’t grow up close because his mother, my aunt, wanted to shield him from our side of the family, but since his dad passed away in 2012 and my Ed passed in 2013, we’ve communicated a lot over e-mail and text, and we’ve gotten to know each other quite a bit. We’ve bonded over our familial dysfunction, our relationships with our respective mothers, and the loss of his father and my brother. We share a lot of despondency and a lot of confusion and anger regarding the family life we’ve experienced. It was refreshing to be having lunch with a cousin who isn’t selfish, can speak for himself and have his own opinions, and does not purposely ignore all the very real and raw problems our family causes and continues to face.

I felt sad when we left him, his wife, and his baby son at the end and drove off. He’s the person I wish I had access to growing up, who I wish Ed and I had the opportunity to get to know and get close to. This cousin is real. He’s normal, he has thoughts and frustrations that are just like Ed’s and mine.. or just like mine now that Ed is sadly gone. he doesn’t ignore the blatant issues in the family. He doesn’t make everything about himself and his own needs. I felt so sad when he told me that he may not stay for our entire wedding due to not wanting to cause a scene with his mother when she finally sees him after years of no contact of any sort. We both know she’s very capable of causing a big scene and making the event all about her instead of our marriage.

I feel so torn. My family always makes things harder for me, even at my own wedding.

Photo shooting

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Chris and I never wanted to do an engagement shoot. Well, let’s put it another way: we never wanted to pay for an engagement shoot. The wedding photographer we chose completely got that, so to “manipulate” us into having one, he threw it into our package and said the cost would be the same with or without the engagement shoot. So what do you think we chose to do?

I loved the session on Friday. I loved our photographer and his personality and the way he gave direction. He was just as personable as I remembered him during our Skype interview, and just as much fun as his e-mail correspondence throughout the last year (we exchanged a LOT of e-mails leading up to this meeting and photo shoot). I enjoyed the assistant he brought with us, who made it even more full of laughs and lightness. He even provided background music when Chris joked about it. I like that he calls his flash filter a “boob,” even if that’s not its technical name. I also realized how weird it is to have a camera constantly following me around and taking photos of me when I least expect it, and how weird it is when that creepy camera is not Chris’s. I think anyone who is not used to being in front of the camera all the time should consider an engagement shoot to get ready for a wedding, not just to get comfortable with the camera, but also with your photographer. As corny as it sounded, we felt like friends at the end and ended the early evening session with drinks and dinner. It was a great ending to an appointment-packed day.

We already saw a sneak peek, too, and this is exactly what we wanted: a lot of art, creativity, and intense colors.

 

“Special”

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In the last 24 hours, Chris and I have been inundated with food. When our catering manager told me months before to come hungry, she really meant it. We had so much food that it really would have been fitting to have added two or three more people to our tasting session (but we weren’t… Since it would have cost $50 extra per person, so… Pass). We had samplings of all our canapes we selected and asked for customizations on, as well as our food stations and potential desserts. And since we barely scraped the surface of our food, we ended up getting two massive bags of food plus branded water to take back to our hotel with us. And then to add to this, we had our rehearsal dinner tasting for lunch, as well as two cake and dessert tastings. It was like a non-stop eating fest. It was also a non-stop “what do you think?” and “what would you like changed or modified?” session.

I can see how planning a wedding can brainwash you into thinking that you are so special, that you can have anything and everything you want at your beck and call… Well, if you are willing to pay for it. It can really go to your head, all those little tiny accommodations that people in this industry are willing to make for you two, the bride and groom, just because you are getting married, and your wedding day should be the happiest, most perfect day of your life.

So this is what wedding planning really is — self indulgence, and a lot of money going outbound everywhere.

 

Makeup to get made up

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This morning, Chris dropped me off at the design studio for my hair and makeup trial, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it because I’ve never had professional makeup done on my face that I was really happy with. But maybe this time will be different.

I spent 2.5 hours at the studio, showed my artist a bunch of inspirational photos that I liked a lot, and then she began her work. The end result was about 50 percent like and 50 percent hate. I hate blush, I hate heavy foundation application, and because I am Asian, I really don’t want my eyes to appear any smaller. I walked out feeling like I had too much on my face and that maybe I’m just not a big makeup person after all, even if it’s done for me.

I rubbed a lot of the blush off before our engagement shoot that afternoon because I couldn’t handle looking at my face. My artist kept telling me not to make any snap judgments, to let myself “get used to” seeing myself in the mirror, and then to provide feedback via email. “This will photograph well,” she said. Maybe, I thought afterwards. But I still want to recognize myself and feel like myself in real life. Well, I ended up providing a lot of feedback, which ended up as a bit of an essay separated out by face section and hair section due to the length. I don’t mean to be rude, just honest about how I want to look. I still want to look like myself and recognize myself on my wedding day, and I really, really hope not to scare Chris when he sees me. He got scared when he saw how long my fake eyelashes were today. It’s not a good sign when your fiance sees you after your wedding makeup trial, frowns, and looks a little disappointed to see you.

Lingering pertussis

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When we came back from Australia and Hong Kong at the beginning of January, I thought that hopefully by the time we left for Los Angeles for wedding planning errands that my bruised ribs and lingering cough and other cold-related symptoms would be gone, but I wasn’t so lucky. Three weeks into January, and I haven’t been able to do a proper gym workout even once, still have bruised ribs, phlegm and a cough. My voice still breaks when I speak, and I still sound like I am getting choked up when I speak. My goal is to sound and feel better before I see my parents on Monday night… because sure, I can really control these things.

I’m hoping that the Southern California air, despite how polluted it is, will help with my breathing. It will be warmer than New York, which has a scheduled snow storm that will hit shortly after we leave. I’m so happy to leave the snow storm that is New York, even if I am heading into what will be a wedding planning storm.

Therapist thoughts

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I originally was supposed to meet with my therapist this week, but given that my cough seems to have gotten worse and my ribs are still in a lot of pain, I decided to cancel. I let her know over text that I wasn’t able to come two days in advance and the reason was due to my whooping cough. No response. I thought that maybe the text didn’t go through for some reason, so I proceeded to write her an email with the same message. She simply responds that she received my text and my email and to feel better. No response regarding the whooping cough or my pain – just a matter of fact confirmation of receipt and a generic “get well soon” message. I’ll be honest. I was annoyed.

I’ve been seeing her for over two years. For about the first six months, I was seeing her for free as part of the program she was in at the hospital I was referred to. Each session was an hour. Then, when she started at her private practice, she gave me a 50 percent discount given our prior relationship, so I had to start paying to see her, which was understandable. Yet somehow, my sessions got shortened to 50 minutes, which I could sense based on how she’d speed up the sessions and end them a bit more abruptly than before. And it got confirmed on my pay statements.

Now, I’m recovering from whooping cough in the midst of all my phlegm build up and my bruised ribs, and I get zero sympathy from her or even a response to my text messages. This is what they say about therapists in New York. They have the guise of caring, but maybe they really don’t at all and are simply more motivated by money. If I were to die tomorrow, would she care? Well, she wouldn’t have to because if I die, she doesn’t get any more payments from me. I thought that maybe after two years that she’d develop some sort of human feeling for me and actually care about me, but it certainly doesn’t seem so. So this just goes back to my original cynicism about the world: you can’t even pay people to care about you because even then, they still won’t. And if they try to show they do care, they will put in the minimal amount of effort and leave it at that.

Monsters

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Last night, I dreamt that Chris was outside the apartment fighting monsters. Yes, they were real monsters, like the type of over sized green monsters you imagine from old fairy tales from your youth that have fangs, huge claws, and scaly skin. He fought them, beat them up, and killed them.

Then, he came back into the apartment to report back his accomplishments. I was at the counter cutting vegetables, and I was completely unfazed by what he had said. Meh, I thought. It’s not a big deal. He got really angry and said I didn’t value him enough and that he questioned my devotion to our relationship. I told him he was overreacting and being too sensitive. “Monsters are monsters,” I said. “What is the big deal? There are all kinds of issues out there to face in the world, and you want to fight monsters?”