On Smoking, Solitude, and Crunchy Peanut Butter

I spent a number of years in Albany living by myself, and was happy with it. As a matter of fact, prior to the departure of my housemate (and older brother, Mr. Slapdash), I looked forward to having full run of the place.
I had it all planned out in my head for months before he left. I'd move into the bigger bedroom, arrange the couches downstairs just how I wanted, (paying homage to the TV, of course) and most importantly, I'd get a pedastal ashtray like John Odorisio and properly abolish the smoking ban from the premesis with a good old fashioned beer-and-cigarettes get together.
Alas, just weeks before he left, I saw The Insider. As a result, I developed a sense of self preservation and quit smoking. Truth be told, the couch layout turned out to work best the way Osman had it originally, so it went back that way. At least I got the big bedroom.
Nonetheless, I began to enjoy the isolation. I grew accustomed to the conveniences that came with the absence of another person sharing my living space. Home became my own private sensory deprivation tank. Sweet silence. Solitude. Solace. I found myself having a shorter and shorter fuse when it came to human interaction. When I had to go to campus and ran into some random schmoe from a class, I'd rapidly come to the point where I'd be thinking, Damn it, I don't want to chat with you for another minute. They'd keep talking, and I'd start to just hear a test pattern in place of their voice. I can't wait to get home. Away from these people. . I was far more content to just explore my thoughts, uninterrupted.
The one exception to this aversion was Tahera. Through all my years living alone, the daily phone chatter was a constant. Sharing with her, a basic need. She was my other self, connected to me by hundreds of miles of telephone line. In fact, she had always, always been that. Even in the beginning, with her in High School, talking on a portable phone until the battery died.
Like one who finds themselves blind and heightens their other senses to compensate, we learned the subtle nuances of each others tone, inflection, and pause. I could hear it when her eyebrows were up. I could feel it through the static when she was pensive. The bond was so close, so pervasive that she wasn't like a virtual roommate, but rather a continual double-take for anything that I'd experience... Just me looking, and me looking again.
Our bond grew closer as the years went on and continued that steady course even after we were married. It wasn't as much of a transition as I'd expected when we began our married life under one roof. I was so incredibly comfortable with her; with her central place in my life. I didn't miss the quiet house. I didn't miss the autonomy. I accepted the change from one-alone to one-plus-one absolutely. Even when we'd argue (often) about dishes or her being the "cleanliness gestapo" or me the ever-aloof pig. Even when we stocked the shelves with herbals and natural foods. Even when Pepsi disappeared and a cache of 'pika's chocolate' emerged. Even when braces were donned and crunchy peanut-butter had to go. Even when acoustically optimal speaker arrangements had to be compromised. I never ever longed for those former years of isolation.
So now, I find myself 1 week into a 2 month odyssey through New England as part of my education. Back to being one-alone. This first week in Worcester has been one of unpacking, working and otherwise settling. I've gotten my bearings here in town and have developed as much of a routine as my ever-changing shift schedule will allow me. Necessities such as those must be taken care of before one can fully reflect on their situation. Now that I know the business of settling has been done, I can finally talk about this state I'm in.
This evening as I scurried through the ER witnessing people whose day-to-day lives have been interrupted by life itself, I found myself accompanied by Death Cab for Cutie singing about the hospital and the lives that end there. I thought of how alone patients (formerly just people) must feel when they're surrounded by us, the workers. We forget that the familiar department in which we spend the better part of each day is an alien world to those people confined to the beds. I kept hearing the song in my head, and I kept seeing patients; thinking about how this place must make them feel alone. Then I thought about how I'm alone right now.
It's a lot like it was in college. I go to work, and do my work thing. I then come home, settle in with the computer and do other work, check mail or just decompress. I haven't spoken to anyone for the last 4 hours and haven't even really noticed. I've let my mind wander and have had the time and absence of interruption to really let it go wherever it wants to. The only constraints are the ones I've put on myself by deciding I'm going to try and make a coherent blog entry.
It's 4 a.m. and I'm 4 days into a marathon streak of "swing shifts" which run from 4pm-12am. I've adjusted to the phase change as completely as I had when I was working in Albany to buy an engagement ring. I haven't had a friendly conversation with a single person who isn't somehow related to the hospital, school, and my grades.
Except of course, Tahera. Each day we find time to reconnect through that old familiar static. The phone conversations aren't how they used to be because of all the other things we both have to do. Her schedule and mine don't coincide well, so 10 minutes a day is about as well as we can fare. We haven't been "blind" like this since we've been married, and it's clear that we're still getting the rust off. I've said "I miss you" so much that it's officially become meaningless. I keep saying it.
I think we'll get back to how it was when I was in Albany. When that happens, she'll see how much I miss her right through the phone, and that picture's worth a whole thousand times saying it. Until then I'll just say I'm feeling sad music more than I have in years and the extra-crunchy Jiff I bought tonight after work hasn't made me feel any better.