I have never liked Valentine's Day. Not because I'm a man. I dislike derogatory and labeling sexual stereotypes, and it doesn't apply to me. Broadly speaking, Valentine's Day is either unnecessary or fake. If there is romance in the relationship then one day is a meaningless, Hallmark-driven acknowledgment of a living reality. If there is no romance, then it is a fake celebration of a non-emotion.
I don't like it because it makes me feel bad. My strongest memory of it is from first grade, of all things. I was not a popular boy, being abstracted and shy, and we were all supposed to make valentines for our parents and our classmates. I knew no one wanted to make one for me, and I don't recall feeling that anyone really wanted one from me, at school or at home. My other strong memory is from medical school, while house-sitting for a family with two small children. I was practicing one of my compositions on their piano when their young son (about 5 ) came up to me. I recall growling at him to let me keep playing, and he was plainly hurt, and I looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and concern, which turned into an abiding and terrible guilt when he said 'I only wanted to give you this'. It was a valentine. I had become that which I hated.
The adult paradigm of Valentine's Day is one of present-giving. I feel bad not because I don't feel a sense of romance and love in my marriage, but because I feel I have neither earned nor deserved romantic recognition. I am a moody, difficult man, and I am acutely aware of, to quote the Episcopalian Prayer Book, my manifold sins and wickednesses. I have never really felt lovable. Valentine's Day cannot be a celebration of love, but closer to Yom Kippur, the bringing of a sin offering, in hope of atonement, expiation and another year's stay of deserved emotional excommunication.
As the years have passed, I have run out of presents. I have given my wife pearls, sapphires, emeralds, eclectic jewelry, trips, and other items. She makes her own jewelry, makes many of her clothes, buys her own shoes, uses no nightgowns, has a lifetime supply of chocolate in the pantry, makes and decorates cakes. We need no more heavy, elaborate meals, know each other's bodies and tastes too well to make a sexual celebration. I have nothing left to give except that which is so completely inadequate, myself.
I put myself on call tonight but, in a three way call trade, find myself at home while my wife took a planned a trip to see the Knoxville Jazz Orchestra. I do not begrudge her this; she expected me to be on call, and she loves hearing them. I came home to find a card and a nice winter sweater and matching socks. She got from me a card, in which I put one of my favorite pictures of us. On it I wrote 'an offering of Cain'.
I spent all day in the operating room, a place I once loved to be. I was a respected, successful surgeon, considered one of the best in every place I have ever worked, even as a resident and a fellow. Until I got here, where I am disliked, considered too demanding, too fussy, obscene, profane, excitable. No one is eager to work with me, people don't light up when they see me, whereas in Knoxville I was always hugged and greeted with a smile. No one is grateful for my teaching. No one ever says 'good job'. My evaluations tell me I am much disliked, and it has become a standing form of introduction. 'Hi, I'm Ted tsaltas, everybody hates me', or 'Hi my name is pronounced SOB', or 'you will not like working with me'. I make it into a joke, and set the expectation, but it hurts, like Wolverine's claws, every time.
And so today has been passed moving from a place of sterility, both literally and emotionally, to an evening of solitude and a reminder of my sense of personal inadequacy.
Tomorrow is February 15.
Ted
I don't like it because it makes me feel bad. My strongest memory of it is from first grade, of all things. I was not a popular boy, being abstracted and shy, and we were all supposed to make valentines for our parents and our classmates. I knew no one wanted to make one for me, and I don't recall feeling that anyone really wanted one from me, at school or at home. My other strong memory is from medical school, while house-sitting for a family with two small children. I was practicing one of my compositions on their piano when their young son (about 5 ) came up to me. I recall growling at him to let me keep playing, and he was plainly hurt, and I looked at him with a mixture of exasperation and concern, which turned into an abiding and terrible guilt when he said 'I only wanted to give you this'. It was a valentine. I had become that which I hated.
The adult paradigm of Valentine's Day is one of present-giving. I feel bad not because I don't feel a sense of romance and love in my marriage, but because I feel I have neither earned nor deserved romantic recognition. I am a moody, difficult man, and I am acutely aware of, to quote the Episcopalian Prayer Book, my manifold sins and wickednesses. I have never really felt lovable. Valentine's Day cannot be a celebration of love, but closer to Yom Kippur, the bringing of a sin offering, in hope of atonement, expiation and another year's stay of deserved emotional excommunication.
As the years have passed, I have run out of presents. I have given my wife pearls, sapphires, emeralds, eclectic jewelry, trips, and other items. She makes her own jewelry, makes many of her clothes, buys her own shoes, uses no nightgowns, has a lifetime supply of chocolate in the pantry, makes and decorates cakes. We need no more heavy, elaborate meals, know each other's bodies and tastes too well to make a sexual celebration. I have nothing left to give except that which is so completely inadequate, myself.
I put myself on call tonight but, in a three way call trade, find myself at home while my wife took a planned a trip to see the Knoxville Jazz Orchestra. I do not begrudge her this; she expected me to be on call, and she loves hearing them. I came home to find a card and a nice winter sweater and matching socks. She got from me a card, in which I put one of my favorite pictures of us. On it I wrote 'an offering of Cain'.
I spent all day in the operating room, a place I once loved to be. I was a respected, successful surgeon, considered one of the best in every place I have ever worked, even as a resident and a fellow. Until I got here, where I am disliked, considered too demanding, too fussy, obscene, profane, excitable. No one is eager to work with me, people don't light up when they see me, whereas in Knoxville I was always hugged and greeted with a smile. No one is grateful for my teaching. No one ever says 'good job'. My evaluations tell me I am much disliked, and it has become a standing form of introduction. 'Hi, I'm Ted tsaltas, everybody hates me', or 'Hi my name is pronounced SOB', or 'you will not like working with me'. I make it into a joke, and set the expectation, but it hurts, like Wolverine's claws, every time.
And so today has been passed moving from a place of sterility, both literally and emotionally, to an evening of solitude and a reminder of my sense of personal inadequacy.
Tomorrow is February 15.
Ted
Now that is a'low' post. Much love and sympathy to you and look forward to being together tomorrow 😘
ReplyDelete"Broadly speaking, Valentine's Day is either unnecessary or fake. If there is romance in the relationship then one day is a meaningless, Hallmark-driven acknowledgment of a living reality. If there is no romance, then it is a fake celebration of a non-emotion."
ReplyDeleteI do not share these sentiments. Using this line of thinking, why not get rid of birthdays? "We know you're alive, so this day is meaningless, a Hallmark-driven acknowledgement of a living reality."
But what if we keep extending this line of thinking? Do we get rid of all ceremonial behavior? Do we really need to have any ceremony in church where we confess our sins, sing praises to God, read from the Prayer Book, or declare our beliefs in a creed? Since Yom Kippur was mentioned, why bring a sin offering? Everyone already knows that we are all sinners.
Why do the Brits insist on celebrating the queen's coronation day? Why do Americans celebrate July 4th (especially since John Adams predicted that it would be July 2nd that would be the most famous date for future Americans)? Why celebrate Christmas (since people know that in all likelihood Jesus was not born on December 25th)?
Human beings are quirky combinations of the rational and irrational, and we like ceremonies and moments in our lives when we can say that yes, this day is different from the rest - for this reason______. If all days are alike and nothing in our lives is worth any ceremonial recognition, then God help us, for that is the boring existence of a wildebeest, a fish, or grasshopper...
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This is indeed a 'low' post. Memories of bad experiences in childhood or young adulthood and a barrage of negative feedback from work, coupled with time to stew over them while alone seem to have not had a felicitous effect.
In reading this blog, I couldn't help but think of a letter that C.S. Lewis wrote to Owen Barfield in 1947, in which he noted that "things were never worse" in his home and his professional burdens were wearing him down. He then quoted Milton, "Sleep hath forsook and giv'n me o'er." (Full quote from Milton's Samson Agonistes: "Sleep hath forsook and giv'n me o'er, to death's benumming opium as my only cure.") But after Barfield wrote back, Lewis replied, "I already regret my last letter except in so far as it has produced such a valuable one from you. It was 2/3 temper and melodrama. Thus 'Sleep has forsook and given me o'er,' meant 'I have had one or two bad nights lately,' plus 'Isn't Samson Agonistes fine?'"
You feel your inadequacies keenly, but your love, friendship, and professional skills are deeply appreciated by your fellow flawed human beings whose lives you positively affect as a husband, father, friend, colleague and (as legions of your patients will testify) physician.
-D-
P.S. As a reader, this was a fun blog to read, for who does not relish the misery of others? (LOL)
...thus schadenfreude, "German for 'happiness at the misfortune of others'" (from the musical Avenue Q)