Last weekend, he boarded a plane for an overnight trip to the Sandia valley. We carefully packed his suitcase together: clean socks, a new suit, a bundle of nerves, and plenty of reading for the plane. He called about a hundred times, telling me how beautiful it was, how this could change everything. We had been talking about possibilities like that. He returned home to a job offer that was better than what we had anticipated. We talked about it a lot, and decided that yes, we are ready to go. A feeling of hope like the brief release of swingset chains at the top of the arch when you ask yourself, “Is this when I get to start flying?”

Then a week of corporate games. And stress. And illness. And a never-ending stream of calls from his mother. More corporate games. Another offer on the table. And really, we know nothing for sure at this point. The swing pendulums back downward with a snap that rattles my teeth.

I hate this. I am a planner. I am a planner because I worry too much. I play out every possible scenario in my head (the ugliest ones first, of course), and will spend my days agonizing over them. I need to know what is going to happen, and what needs to be done. Even if that in itself is daunting, I can handle it, because I can make and execute a plan. I have no idea where this need for information comes from, but it’s just the way I work. And I’ll admit that I approach these things differently than he; I lost too many things in the past because I was afraid to take a risk. He has only lost by risking things. It makes us a less than efficient team in times like these, but at least we are a balanced one.

So now, I have resigned myself to a lack of control. I’m just waiting here for an answer. And frankly, even when I know what’s going to happen, I may not trust that. He is sitting on the sofa with the dog, making lists.


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