Love is a Force that Defies Logic

When I saw his Facebook profile, my heart skipped a beat.

To be honest, I had searched by his name — it didn't just show up by itself. Blame it on another of my sleepless nights.

I stared at his face, dismayed. His hair was unkempt just as it had been thirty years ago.

“Hi! Do you remember me?” I sent him a Facebook message. “It's been a long time.”

After an hour, his reply came back: “Sure do, my girl. How have you been?”

“My girl?” I blushed like a teenager. I was his girl — a gazillion years ago. We couldn't be farther apart now.

For one thing, I was an American woman and lived in Miami. He lived in Moscow. Not like I needed anything from him. Yet, my heart ached as if my life depended on him.

I’ve been an American for almost 30 years and a widow for ten. Lost my sweetheart, my American husband, but I have learned to come to terms with that loss by now.

But Alec. Why would I search for Alec?

I scrolled down — not too many pictures. A couple from his workplace, a few with the same woman — must be his wife. She was okay.

Look at him! The chief doctor at a large private clinic, a very successful man. No doubt about that.

We haven't seen each other since 1985. Our lives followed rather different trajectories.

“Do you really want to go there?” I asked myself. “That far back? To that life, you always wanted to escape and did?”

My phone screen taunted me with a green light — let's go. Go, where?

In 1985, I was in medical school in Tula — about 100 miles south of Moscow where I had been studying for seven years. This was my last year before graduating as an ER physician.

It was a torrid time in the Soviet Union. People were just starting to shake off the dust of the late '70s and early 80's stagnation. Then, Perestroika came out like a fresh morning breeze, and this set up a storm of activity and all of that.

Yet, all I wanted was to get out of Tula that felt to me like a godforsaken rabbit hole — Perestroika or not.

All I knew: one day, somehow, someway — I will get out of Tula, but before that... I had to complete my residency. It was a matter of honor. I didn't try to skip or avoid it.

Alec was still a student of the same med school I graduated from. Tall and athletic, with mischievous blue eyes and long lashes. Very popular with women. You'd know it if you took one look at him.

Seven years younger than me, he had just turned 20 and working on our emergency station was his side gig.

As for myself, let me tell you -- I held no authority as a doctor whatsoever - willowy, with cascading chestnut hair and mini-skirts, I was more like a Brigitte Bardot character.

Her movies still were popular in the Soviet Union, even in the '80s. I practiced a sexy cat gaze in front of the mirror, the corners of my eyes lined with thick black eyeliner.

My job, however, wasn't that of a movie star — far from it. During my emergency care shifts that lasted for 24 hours, I was up to my knees in vomit, blood, and who knows what else. The ER work in Soviet healthcare was nothing like in the US. It was much more challenging.

Alec was assigned to be my assistant. The only qualification he had to assist me was his physical strength. At least I had an MD diploma. Alec didn't even start his clinical subjects yet in med school. He was still doing organic chemistry. But that is how it was. We were a team, as odd as it was.

When an emergency call would come to the station, we'd be rushed to the site of the emergency in a medical van. Nothing like a 911 vehicle in the US, much smaller, white one with a red cross on its side.

I remember that fateful emergency call for an unexpected baby delivery. It came after midnight. The streets of Tula were pitch dark and frigidly cold. It was in November, I think. Alec and I were rushed to the site of the emergency in the clunky white vehicle with the red cross.

The place turned out to be a barrack-style communal abode. An older woman led us through a maze of narrow corridors into a tiny room — the size of a lunch box.

An exhausted young girl with matted hair laid on her back, legs apart, on a worn out couch that was wedged between the wall and a table. She looked too young to be a mother and looked scared.

The people crowded into the room, I presumed, they were well-wishing neighbors. The Soviet-style common living was indeed very communal. Everything was shared in a living place like that — the kitchen, the bathroom, the births, the deaths — everything.

I remember ordering strangers out of the room. The baby's head was visible already. Frantically, I tried to recall my obstetrics lessons.

Alec however knelt by the bed, as if he had been born to deliver babies. I knelt too, influenced by him. In mere minutes we delivered the baby boy, or maybe, the boy delivered himself taking pity on us.

When the neonatal team arrived, we were free to return to our cold minivan, where I collapsed into Alec's arms in a nervous breakdown. He didn't pull away; instead he began kissing my face, wet from tears and sweat.

His large blue eyes over my face, his soft lips on my cheeks — I remember it all to this day. His palms smelled of alcohol that he used to disinfect his hands.

After that night, we began seeing each other outside of work. I thought nobody would care. Was I wrong! Hah! There were too many who wanted Alec!

One day, his mom called my mom like a raging bull demanding she should forbid me from seeing her son. My mom said, sorry she can’t interfere.

My wise mom was too kind or too smart to attempt anything like that. She also knew I was too stubborn to listen to anyone.

As soon as my residency in Tula ended, I was gone. No regrets, no tears. My relationship with Alex ran its course as an inferno always does.

I did in life exactly what I wanted: leave Russia for good, marry an American, never practice medicine again, and take up painting and creative writing instead.

So, why? Why look for Alec now? Why cry myself to sleep over his photos?

What was I mourning? My youth? The way my life has been spent abroad. Certainly not that.

Furthermore, Alec must be very different now from what he used to be, and, no doubt, I have changed.

Yet, the memories of our time together were cathartic. Our work, as if we were soldiers in a war zone, how we would fight alongside one another and then share passionate times afterward — all of that was exhilarating and exhausting.

Falling asleep, I made a mental note to myself: I should be recreating something like that now. I didn't know with whom or how, all I knew was I needed that, something like that to feel alive.

Dear Readers, thank you for reading! I write mostly about love. Feel free to share my stories with your loved ones. Special Thanks to Pam Mayer — my tireless friend, editor, and collaborator.