Home isn't where my heart is. I hate being home. Not in my parent's house where I grew up, but in my house. My parent's house is what will always be known as "home" to me. No matter how far I go or how long passes before I visit, that is home to me, where I'm always welcomed. The house I bought a few years back as the "fixer-upper", that is my second home. It's where I reside as I write this. The house where I remodeled the kitchen, starting with the ceiling. The house where I remodeled the foyer, starting on my knees. Stripping hardwood floors and making them new again. Sanding, sealing, waxing and buffing. I was bringing the once vacant house back to life. The long days turned into nights and the muscles in my arms and shoulders eventually caved. Although I was growing weary and sore, I refused to cave. My reward - I could see my reflection beginning to appear between the knots in the wood. The knot in the wood led to a lump in my throat. I let out a heavy, happy, heartfelt sigh. Running my hand over each imperfection felt nothing short of exquisite to me. Gazing into that lustrous mirror-like shine was my first taste of the fruits of my labor. A sweet reward. The floors may of been finished, but I was not. Progression. I was truly seeing it. In my house. In my life. The days would turn into weeks and the weeks into months. An entire season had come and gone.
I was taught to measure twice and cut once. But at age 23, this first time home owner learned the hard way, thru trial and error. From one room to the next, I would tear down and build up. Even when I painted, each passing wall brought me a sense of accomplishment and a fresh outlook on my new budding life. It's remarkable what a coat of the right color paint will do for your attitude. It was hard work, but I wasn't going to stop. It had become my mission to own the perfect house. Correction, the perfect home. Warm and inviting. Modern and unique. It had it's own special charm and the hardwood floors would not only show the reflection of those that would walked upon them, but also show the reflection of the man who labored to create them. It would be the house that David built. Well maybe not "built", but redefined. It was a reflection of me. Who I was and where I wanted to be. If home is where the heart is, then my heart was radiating beyond every wall.
A mixture of paint, saw dust and sweat permutated the room when she entered. I had been working for nearly 12 hours that rainy Saturday when she stopped by. Lacquer on my hands, drywall bits scattered on my t-shirt, I didn't look my best. I hadn't shaved and was in need of a shower. It was second nature for me to great her at the door with a hug and kiss. But I was stinky and dirty. She was "prettied up", as always. She didn't have to try. She just was. Pretty. Naturally, by nature. It was one of the many things I loved about her. Before I could explain why I didn't want to give her a proper greeting, as if my pigpen appearance wasn't obvious, she dismissed the grit and grime by wrapping her arms tightly around me with an enthusiastic..."This looks amazing! I love you for doing all of this." She was pleased. And I was happy.
"My boots aren't going to nick or scuff the new floor, are they?" she nervously asked.
"No, you're fine. These floors are made for walking. (a dumb joke, the song - These Boots Are Made For Walking) Here, check this out..."
I went to the far end of room, kicked off my shoes and slid in my socks across the freshly polished floor. To her, my simple often child-like heart was one of my most endearing qualities. Although at 23, I knew what I wanted and I was achieving it. My goals were not just marks to shoot for, marks scribbled on some random piece of paper. My goals were plans set forth into action. I was living my dream and inviting her along for the journey. I had become a grown-up, but yet this little kid would pop out of me to play. To slide across the floor in his socks. Like a modern day "Risky Business" movie reenactment. After the 3rd time whooshing past her, she grabbed the front of my t-shirt. A firm handful. She held onto it tightly and pulled me in. "I love you." She said it serious. Like I didn't know. Like I was hearing it for the first time. She emphasized the "you". She wanted me to know that who I am is enough. Over the course of dating her, I had struggled in my head trying to figure out how I could maintain the lifestyle she was accustom to living. I wasn't able to give her all the fancy things she grewup on. She wanted to reinforce the fact that even though she loved the house, it was me she loved most. Just then my dog ran into the room, wiping out on the floor, of course. She quickly scooped up my little buddy and cuddled the furball. Her compassion, that was one of her most endearing qualities.
Today I could provide those fancy things, but it doesn't matter. It's just material possessions. I've learned real value can not be measured in dollars and cents. Real value you have a hard time replacing. Real value is sometimes invaluable and can't be replaced. My dog has since passed. My almost fiancée has since left. They are irreplaceable, but I keep trying. I miss the sound of 4 pattering paws and the click clock of her heals on my hardwood floors. I come home to a quiet house. Not even the hardwood floors squeak. The silence is deafening. It fucking sucks. I'm not bitter. Just awfully sad. I'm starting to despise these floors. I hate being home. And hate is a strong word. I hate being home.
(In case you were wondering, the hardwood floors will soon be for sale...they are going along with the house.)
In what has become an annual tradition, I addressed the second-year medical students at the University of Pennsylvania today. After sharing my medical history, with a particular focus on the nutritional and pulmonary issues that arose while I was in college, I answered questions from the students. 
