Page 62 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

I was simply glad to have a job. A purpose.

In time, my worth and value would be accepted.

All I had to do was have faith. And refuse to be ignored.

It’ll Be the Death of Me

Our front room was decorated festively for Christmas. Peter and I had brought his large fake tree down from the attic and set it up in the corner of the room by the large picture window. Using box upon box of glass ornaments in reds, greens, silvers, and golds, we decorated the tree expertly. Garland and tinsel, white twinkle lights, and a light-up star completed the job. A giant snow globe depicting the nativity—another family heirloom, was placed in the middle of the coffee table. Pillows in shades to match the tree replaced the day-to-day pillows on the furniture.

The room was beautiful. Appropriate. Ready for any guests that stopped by over the holidays. It felt cold to me, though. Christmas was supposed to be warm and cozy. Familiar.

When Peter indicated that we weren’t done decorating, I was disappointed. I didn’t want to take any more decorations that meant nothing and dress up our home as a showpiece for the holidays. However, when he instructed me to dress warmly, and then took me to a tree farm to choose and saw down our own tree, my spirits were lifted. We drank hot coffees from a drive-through shop on our way home from the tree farm, laughing and singing along to carols on the radio.

Back at home, we took off our coats, scarves, gloves, and hats, and dragged the tree into the den. Working together, we positioned the live tree as perfectly as possible in a stand, laughing each time it nearly toppled on us. Then Peter showed me another box from the attic, full of Mica glass ornaments his grandmother had left him. All in a variety of colors, shapes, and sizes, we decorated the den tree with tinsel, bubble lights, and white lights, and the ornaments that meant so much to his family. When we were done, we waited to sweep up all of the pine needles so we could stand back and admire our work.

After cleaning up our messes, showering, and changing into pajamas, we curled up on the den sofa together and snuggled in front of a roaring fire. Under a shared blanket, we held each other in the room illuminated only by the tree’s lights. Stealing kisses and whispering sweet nothings, we welcomed the season in a way that had nothing to do with the appropriateness of the living room. And again, I was reminded that the den was my favorite room in our house.

My first American Christmas flew by, events swirling around me, as though I was stuck in the middle of a hurricane. Neighbors stopped by with tins of cookies, and I found that it was an expectation that Peter and I would have gifts for them as well. No one had informed me, so I spent time when I wasn’t working or taking care of the house baking treats for neighbors.

Peter’s parents came for a long weekend in the middle of the month since they would be traveling on the holiday itself. For four days I cooked and cleaned and cooked and cleaned some more. Peter’s mother and father, lovely as they were, were doted and doled over by Peter and I spent much of those days taking care of things behind the scenes. For the entire weekend, I felt ignored and taken advantage of, but I knew to be a good husband, sometimes partners had to work in tandem when guests were in their home. Peter entertained and I made sure things behind the scenes worked well.

Sometimes, especially around Christmas, I was happy to be out of the house at my job. Though I spent my days cleaning at work as well, it was a respite from the forced joy and frivolity of an American Christmas. The people I worked with, from the custodians, right up to Mr. Barton, were all wonderful people. Friendly and welcoming, my days at work, though physically strenuous, were a joy. Unlike any other place I’d worked, Source Language, Inc.’s culture was perfect. Everyone came in, did their jobs, were kind to each other, and then they went home. And even though I was merely a custodian, I felt I was paid well.

Mr. Barton ran the company with the expectation that everyone would work hard and do their jobs well, but he was fair and generous. He ran the company with a core belief that no one on the team was more important than anyone else. If you worked hard, had integrity, and did well, you had nothing to fear from the soft, yet well-spoken, older man. That December, even though I’d been with the company less than a month, I received a bonus. Just like everyone else. And it was incredibly generous.

All in all, my first Christmas in America wasn’t terrible, even if I felt I barely had time to breathe. The way that Americans went overboard with decorations, carols, shopping, gifts, meals, and treats was extraordinary. Even when it all became overwhelming, I couldn’t help but marvel at how the festivities went on, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day. Leading up to the finish line, which was the holiday itself.

On Christmas Eve, Peter and I opened one gift a piece. A gift he had bought each of us. Matching pajamas. And our first family tradition—that was ours—was born. The following day, we opened the remaining presents under the tree in the den as A Christmas Story played on repeat on the television. With my job, I’d been able to buy a few gifts for Peter with the money I had earned, which meant more to me than receiving any gifts.

The rest of the day, we stayed in our pajamas, taking our meals on the den sofa, taking naps, snuggling, and enjoying the peaceful solemnity such a day requires. It was my favorite part of my first American Christmas, that peace and quiet.

Christmas didn’t bring only gifts and season’s greetings, however. Between Christmas and New Year’s—which is the best time for it to be done—Peter’s health insurance informed us that they would no longer pay for the medication I took for my seizure disorder. It was no longer “a covered medication.”

Panic immediately set in when I received word. I couldn’t live without my medication—and though the insurance at Source Language, Inc. would have paid for my medication, I hadn’t been working there long enough to enroll in their health insurance program. They required all new employees work for them for a year before joining their insurance program. It was the one awful aspect of working for the company, but with Peter’s insurance, it hadn’t seemed so awful. Until Peter’s insurance pulled the rug out from under us. After a month of paying for my medication with our own money, Peter and I were able to schedule an appointment with an American neurologist.

I told the doctor numerous times during the appointment that I’d tried other medications, even the generic version of my medication, and none of them worked as well or consistently. Or they presented unpleasant side effects. Or they were not as safe as the medication I was on. I’d lived with my condition for a quarter of a century—I knew it better than anyone else. Even a doctor. I’d been poked and prodded and sliced and consulted by doctors in two other countries—and all of them agreed with me. The medication I was on was the best chance for me to continue living well with my condition. The generic medication had different inactive ingredients that did not agree with me as well as the brand name. However, the American neurologist insisted that unless I wanted to try new medications that might present side effects that were even worse, the best I could do was switch to the generic form of my medication.

Peter and I had to make a choice. Spend thousands of dollars of our own money so that I could continue receiving the medication that worked best for me…or take a chance. Peter insisted that I make that choice—and he would be happy with whatever I chose. After a lot of thought and consideration, I decided to switch to the generic medication. Having grown up poor, suffering a few side effects was not nearly as horrible as losing thousands of dollars simply because of an unjust and uncaring insurance company.

How bad could the side effects be anyway?

Leveling the Playing Field

“Could I see you in my office, Enzo?”

Having the CEO of the company you work for locate you in the men’s room, while you’re scrubbing toilets, and ask you for a meeting is never a good sign. Even if it’s someone as wonderful as Mr. Barton. I froze, the scrub brush in my hand frozen against the inside of the toilet, and looked up to find him standing in the doorway of the bathroom, holding the door wide. He looked pleasant enough, as usual, but it was still such an odd request, all things considered.

“Okay,” I finally managed to say.

Mr. Barton gave me a nod and exited the bathroom, letting the door swing shut behind him. For a moment, I stood there, hunched over the toilet, wondering if I had done something wrong. Was I going to be fired or reprimanded? I’d always done my best to do an exemplary job, be pleasant and professional, and do any task that was asked of me. I was never late or called in sick, even though I hadn’t felt well for months.

My new medication had provided me with months of nausea and intermittent pains throughout my body that seemed to come from nowhere. However, I was managing. I wasn’t having any seizures. That was all that mattered. However, the nausea had taken ten pounds from my already lithe frame. Though Peter said nothing—nor did anyone else—I knew that I looked nearly skeletal. I never mentioned the random pains to anyone except for my neurologist, and he seemed to think it was simply something I’d have to deal with if I wanted to not have seizures. So, I suffered in silence, even if there was physical proof in the form of my bony frame.

Other side effects were more difficult to deal with, however. Problems sleeping and staying asleep—which I’d dealt with my entire adult life—were exacerbated. My sex drive was diminished. My energy was reduced to such that I did all I could to conserve what little I had for work. I still managed to clean the house and cook dinners and keep up my hygiene—but asking much more of me was pointless. I was so tired and weak all of the time.

But I continued on, doing the best I could.

Peter did his best to be understanding, but I knew that the difficulties that had arisen from the debacle with his insurance company—and my medication—were making life difficult for him as well.