Day After Valentine's

H. is worried about my attempts to repair that pipe that froze and burst in my basement. "You're not allowed to die," she writes, "because if you die then I'd really be all alone and you and my mom are the only people in this world who understand me." I reassure her that's it's not dangerous, I am just trying to cap a 1/2 inch pipe that used to be connected to the basement sink. It's giving me some trouble because the edges are too rough for the rubber gasket to seal properly so I tried smoothing them with a wire brush, but the jagged part is too big for that, so tomorrow I am going to try a deburring tool. "You need to live forever," she says. I keep my response light, but in my head I"m doing the math. I'm ten years older than her and have more than my share of health issues, but she has serious heart disease. More than that, what's really bothering me about this is that I'm not always sure I want to be alive. At sunday dinner, we hang up strings of hearts and red and white tablecloths. Michaela's mother sent homemade brownies and bags of valentine's candy. Everyone's in a party mood, chatting and laughing. D. sits next to me at the front desk. She has fetal alcohol syndrome, and seems much younger than her actual age, often carrying around a doll. I haven't seen her in a few weeks, so I ask what's been going on. She tells me she's back at the housing program she hates. "I was at my Dad's, but he did something to me and I can't stay there any more." I don't know exactly what she means, so I tell her I'm sorry to hear it. "I filed a police report," she says. "I have a lot of police reports about him." I still don't know what we're talking about, but I can tell it's pretty bad. "Bronxcare did a rape kit," she tells me and I have to work hard not to let my anger at this man erupt on my face. "They lost the one from 2019," she tells me, "but they just found it and tomorrow I have to talk to a detective from Special Victims." People have an idealized image of Special Victims from the TV show, but in reality they're not like that. She tells me her worker from another program is going with her, and I am glad she won't be alone. I have just turned off the lights on the fish tank and am about to head to bed when my phone rings. It's my Very Anxious client. "I"m freaking out about the political situation," he says. "do you think Trump will declare martial law in November to stop the elections?" he asks. Not having a crystal ball, I can't exactly answer this. "So far his attempts to undermine the election are not going well," I say, pointing out that his redistricting scheme was undermined by democratic states. "I just worry that the world will fall apart before I get my life together," he says. "There are definitely things that are falling apart," I tell him, "but not the whole world. Things are being destroyed, but eventually it will be time to rebuild, and maybe we can build things back more like we would want to see them."

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