That Time I Got Married Pt.1

You’d think that if I once bothered to write up a whole fantasy version of my wedding, I’d be itching to tell the story of my actual one. As usual, you’d be wrong. The wedding is in my Top 2 mental blockers that have kept me from writing much in the past couple of years, tied neck-and-neck with the Citizenship Saga. Both are somehow incredibly simple and impossibly complicated at the same time. I can’t tell if that’s reality or just my brain over-engineering it.

But fine, let’s start with the marriage part, because it sort of Kool-Aid-Man’d its way into the scene in a most unexpected way.

Before we go further, know this: I have close to zero chill. My Vitamin Chill levels are critically low. Duncan supplies about 97% of this relationship’s chill. If I look calm, it’s because I’ve already burned through a solid unchill phase in private. Keep that in mind at all times. Ready? Let’s go.

First a quick recap on how this allll got started:

I slid up in Duncan's LinkedIn DMs back in December 2014. We had our first date in January 2015.

...and it kind of went like this from there..

Fast forward to the backend of 2015 ->

Duncan and I had been together maybe six months. I was “technically” living in my own place still but was, in reality, relocating into his apartment one backpack of laundry at a time. I spent far more time at his than mine.

For the first time in forever, I felt completely at ease. We could talk for hours or sit in silence doing our own things without any awkwardness. No pressure to figure out where “we” were going to go or what “we” were going to do. Or even that “we” had to do every single thing together. It was so comfortable. Like, “finally put down the 40 lb. backpack of social anxiety you didn’t realize you were carrying” comfortable. Or “finally get to take off your bra after a long day × 1,000” comfortable. If you know, you know.

So, of course, one afterglow-y evening in bed, the following words tumbled out of my mouth: 

“I wanna marry the shit out of you.”

Because that’s a thing that a normal human person says, right? I’m immediately mortified and Duncan didn’t even say anything. He just chuckled, gave my arm a little squeeze and a pat, and we both drifted off to sleep. 

The next morning (still mortified) I tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. We walked to the train station in uncharacteristic silence until:

“Hey, so…about what you said last night.” 

Cue internal screaming.

“I feel like we’ve been together forever. We don’t need a piece of paper, but if you want one, we can do that too.”

Pretty chill, right? I know. 

I clarified that I wasn’t proposing immediate action, just acknowledging that the idea was there and a truthful expression of what I felt…but way down the priority list. That was basically the moment we decided to officially move in together. Our vague plan: I move in (ASAP) → start the naturalization process (eventually) → maybe get hitched at some point (TBD).

Fast Forward to 2016/2017 -> 

We’d been living together almost a year. Trump loomed on the political horizon (ha… sigh). I started the Citizenship Saga.

Once again, you can read all about that bureaucratic fever dream starting here…it’s a whole years-long thing.

In 2017, I even flew my sister over to sign an affidavit confirming that my mother—whose surname appears differently on multiple official documents—was indeed one singular human being. Just another totally normal step in the process of attempting to renounce a citizenship I never knew I had.

Portal jump to 2018 ->

One winter weekend in early 2018, Duncan and I had arranged to visit some friends who lived southeast bumblefuck Hamburg (aka Bergedorf). As a childfree couple, we usually travel to the child-havers. It’s just easier that way. But that trip is at least an hour each way: bus → train → train → another bus.

I was already annoyed on the first bus because Duncan was engaging in an activity that I internally refer to as “bus surfing”—which is standing up in the bus without holding on to any poles or grips to keep your balance. I was silently convinced that he’d get flung across the bus and seriously injure himself. But also he’s an adult man who is allowed to live his life how he pleases… and to be honest, I had also just woken up from a nap so I was kind of cranky pants anyway. I said nothing.

We made it to the first train station without event, but we had to switch trains at another station (Berliner Tor), which is like the third most annoying labyrinth of a station in Hamburg with regards to switching trains. We had a short amount of time to catch the next S21 going to Bergedorf or else we would have to wait 20 minutes for the next one. 

It was just the right set of circumstances to make me break my number one public-transport rule: never run for a bus or train. Sprinting up the steps as the next train pulled in, I was nearly at the doors when I heard a crash and a “FUCKING SHIT!” behind me.

I whipped around.

Duncan was on the ground. He’d smashed his elbow? Maybe his head? I didn’t really see.

We managed to get on to the train and sit down. Duncan appeared to be in a lot of pain and I could already tell that his hand and arm were starting to swell. The train arrived at the next station and I contemplated getting out, but we didn’t.  As the train pulled away again, I saw Duncan’s eyes roll back in his head and he looked like he was about to lose consciousness. I called out his name, tapped him on the face and started to panic.

A kind fellow passenger offered to call the emergency services and offered us a bottle of water (🎶 when a hero comes aloooong 🎶). We got off at the next stop to meet the ambulance. Out in the cold air, Duncan perked up slightly, but was still in a considerable amount of pain.

Side note: here’s the thing about tall men that I don’t think people are thinking about that much (but I do):

Sure, they’ve got these long-ass arms that can envelope you in just the most gorgeous hugs (100/10 do highly recommend). But it’s also like they are like a torso balanced precariously atop two Jenga towers. Sudden and subtle changes of elevation or, like, a strong breeze across their ankles? 

Good luck keeping those mofos upright… and it’s a long way to the ground.

Still, my brain decided I had somehow manifested this accident WITH MY MIND by thinking it back on the bus. Telepathy apparently activated. So I went into overdrive trying to assuage this misplaced guilt.

And, here’s a thing about me, that people don’t think about (I think?)

I fucking detest hospitals. It’s funny (not funny “ha ha”), because I sure have been to them a lot in the past 20 years for what turned out to be anxiety attacks. They set me on edge every time. But when I care about someone, I can pull myself together for their sake and get myself through it. We still ended up bouncing between doctors for about a week:

GP: “No surgery needed… trust me, I used to be an orthopedist.”

Orthopedic surgeon: “You need surgery in the hospital ASAP. LOL why did you wait?”

Hospital surgical department: “We can fit you in…in a month.”

That’s when I broke. Full-on ugly-crying at the nurse. This time, Duncan stepped up to translate for me, explaining in very broken German, “She’s afraid of hospitals.”

Instant tone shift. The nurse melted and managed “magically” to schedule surgery for later that week.

Team Awesome : 1. German healthcare bureaucracy: 0.

BUT WHAT, PRAY TELL, DOES THIS HAVE TO DO WITH GETTING MARRIED?!

Glad you asked.

In the middle of all this chaos, two moments flipped my priorities upside down:

1. Duncan didn’t want to tell his family (especially his mother) about the surgery until after it was over. He didn’t want them to worry, didn’t think it was necessary. Me? Surgery = risk. Surgical risk = potential death. #heyitsmezerochillgirl And I didn’t want him to die and have to be the one to break the news to his mother like, “¡Qué sorpresa!"  I eventually agreed not to tell her… but I did tell his two closest Hamburg friends (aka the Master of Evil and the Dwarven Lady…welcome to the blog). Because at that point, I could not do this alone anymore.
   
   
2. The morning of the surgery, some hospital staffer assured me they’d call as soon as Duncan was out of the operating room. Once they rolled him away, I double-checked that they had my number… only to be told, “Oh, we won’t be calling you. You’re basically just some rando.” (Not an actual quote, but close enough)

At that point, I was too wrecked from…everything…to argue. I just left. Walked from AK St. Georg hospital towards my office. Bought a coffee and sat down and cried at Gänsemarkt. Pulled my shit together and got on with my day.

Fortunately, when Duncan woke up, he insisted they call me first thing and they did. He stayed in the hospital for nearly a week. I visited (and cried) daily.

His hospital stay overlapped with a visit from my childhood best friend, Vijita. We had planned to go to Berlin. I wanted to cancel, but Duncan pushed me to go. He was right; it was a great reset. We met up with Supa D, we saw a special showing of Black Panther at the IMAX at Potsdamer Platz and had a great time. 

When I got back, Duncan and I had a heart-to-heart: we’re both living far away from our families. If something serious (even more serious) happened, we needed to be able to take care of each other properly. We also trusted each other enough to do so. And the fastest way to make that happen wasn’t through my German citizenship dreams—it was marriage.

So: fuck a German passport (for the time being)…we needed to get married forthwith. To the Batmobile!

To be continued…