The flight to Toronto is the first time I ever see Rosie have a panic attack in public – and when I learn what her anxiety looks like when it's manifested itself into a public outcry. It's not like I've never seen her have one before; we do spend pretty much every waking minute of our lives together, so I definitely have.
But as anyone that's close to someone with severe anxiety can tell you – what goes on, on the inside versus the outside, can be worlds apart. Like when Rosie's hyperventilating at home because she's freaking out about something that even she can't put her finger on – but we're in the comfort of our own bedroom, so we have the privacy that she needs.
Whereas when we're stuck on a cramped airplane with crying babies, loud chewers, and people that drape their hair over the back of their seats, it's a little more difficult to have that same privacy feeling. In fact, the only way I know something's wrong, is because – like I said, I spend all my time with her, and whenever Rosie goes quiet, I know something's wrong.
Whether that's her having an anxiety attack, or being mad at me for something I did, is usually left for me to figure out.
"Rosie? Are you okay?" I ask her, noticing the way she's been cracking her knuckles like they're those groundhog heads that pop out at the arcade machine. She's deathly silent, her gaze fixated on the blank screen in front of us, for the last twenty minutes.
We were watching Jurassic Park, but then she wanted to stop the movie and I thought she was just tired and wanted to sleep. Now, I realize it's because she was never really watching the movie in the first place. Just trying to distract herself from the imminent danger that is feeling like she's about to lose her life.
"I'm fine." She snaps, to the average person sounding more like she's snapping because she's irritated with me, rather than being irritable because of her anxiety. It doesn't necessarily make it feel any better when you have someone you love acting like that, but it does make it easier to understand and accept.
She's usually always really apologetic after; and it's not like she says anything actually mean to me, she's just a little more moody than usual. But you didn't hear that last part from me.
"You sure?" I ask, studying her cautiously as I put my hand on her thigh. She's wearing these nice Lululemon leggings – and I say nice because they're, well, leggings. And as any man on the face of the planet – with full eyesight or not, will tell you, leggings are god's greatest gift to man.
And sex, but mostly leggings.
"I just...don't feel very well." She admits after a few minutes of me looking at her and her staring at the nothingness between us. She doesn't need to explain any more for me to know exactly what she means – or at least, have a pretty good idea.
All morning, it's been kind of crazy. Being at the airport on Christmas eve isn't exactly the best idea, but given that we played our last game before the holiday break yesterday, we didn't exactly have a choice. Thank you, National Hockey League.
"What can I do?" I ask, wanting for there to be some way I could make her feel better – and I do mean, any way. No, but seriously, One of the hardest things about loving someone that has an illness or condition – whatever you wanna call it, is not being able to do anything. I can't take Rosie's pain away; and honestly? That's what hurts me the most.
I'm used to being able to fix things, make them better. Whether it's put a smile on the face of a kid with cancer, pay off the tuition of a deserving student that's been working three jobs, or buy my grandparents a house, I'm used to being the one that can make everything wrong in the world, right. For a moment, anyway.
So, sometimes, when Rosie has her attacks, it's hard to not know how to make her feel better. Don't get me wrong, at the beginning I tried to guess; I've gone through phases of using different techniques to make her feel better. And yes, that does include trying that thing from Teen Wolf that everyone talks about – kissing it better. Yes, not so effective in real life.
"Talk to me." She requests, drumming her fingertips against my hand that's entwined with hers. I graze my thumb against her skin, feeling the smoothness of whatever hand cream she uses, and wishing that I could bring it with me whenever I go on the road.
Rosie. Not the hand cream.
"I'm excited for you to meet my nieces and nephews." I tell her, a smile spreading across my face whenever I think of them. I have five (so far) on my older brother's side; my younger brother doesn't have any – at least, that we know of. Seeing them is honestly the main reason why I even agreed to come home for the holidays, because the last thing I feel like doing right now, is dealing with the awkwardness of being around my parents.
"About something else." Rosie interjects, making it seem like me talking about her meeting my family is only making her more nervous. I get it in some ways; if I were to be meeting Rosie's parents, I would be sweating buckets. I hope I do get the chance to meet them – maybe not this time, but next time we're in Toronto.
She doesn't talk about them too much; the person she talks about most like they're blood-related is Mr. Fluffypants. And he doesn't speak much.
"Uh..." I trail off, not because I have nothing else to talk about with her; we always find something new in common, or that we're total opposites on. Her – sleeping with the fan on, me – not. So, we sleep with the fan on. I'm taking a moment to think about what I want to say, because the thing I want to tell her, I'm not sure how she'll take. Ok, I have a good idea of what she'll say, but I wish she would say something different. "I do kind of have something to tell you." I begin, clearing my throat awkwardly when a woman looks over at us.
Prying eyes? Another thing you do – or do not, get used to.
Or just grow to live with.
Rosie's quiet for a moment, my soon-to-be confession seeming to captivate her interest. And by captivate it, I mean make her spiral even more. "What?" She asks, studying me harder than a slacker the night before an exam in College.
I know that she's probably thinking something way worse than reality. Because that's just how she is; she always assumes the worst. I don't answer my phone, she assumes I died in a car accident. I take a hit on the ice, she assumes I have a concussion or that I won't get up. I don't text her back when I'm out with the team, she assumes I'm cheating on her.
At least, in the beginning she believed all those things. Some of them – like the me being dead because I didn't answer a phone call, linger. And others – like the one about me cheating on her, seem to have been subdued. Probably because she's finally realized that the only woman I want to be with for the rest of my life, is her.
"Okay. Well, you know that house we saw on Laurier?" I begin, sketching out the best way to deliver the news like it's a hockey play. She nods, furrowing her eyebrows together like a) why are you making such a big deal about a house we'll never see again b) okay, I can finally breathe again. "I may or may not have, put an offer in on it." I finally tell her, feeling a massive weight lifted off my chest as soon as the words come out of my mouth.
It's so hard to keep things from Rosie; I hate lying to her – or not telling the truth and lying by omission. Now there's only one more thing that I have to keep from her, and even that, she kind of knows about – i.e. that I plan to propose to her.
"What?" She seems just as confused as she was a minute ago – until her brain processes the information and then her anxiety turns to strong irritation. "What do you mean, you put an offer in on it, Erik?"
I know this makes me sound like a total dick, but she looks really fucking cute when she's mad. Kind of like an angry Panda that's seeking revenge. Except, sexual. Sorry, it's been like five hours since we left the apartment and Rosie hasn't let me kiss her since then; so, my blue balls are starting to take a serious turn for the worst.
"Listen, baby. I know you didn't wanna put an offer in on it because you're worried about the price, but there's no reason for you to worry about that. Okay? I got it." I tell her, talking fast in order to get everything I wanna say out before she starts coming up with reasons not to.
Why not to let me buy the place for us, why not to let me pay for dinner, why not to let me take care of her – take care of us. "You know I can't afford that place." She says, pulling her hand away from me to start cracking her knuckles again. I guess the ten minutes since she last cracked them, is over.
"But that's what I'm saying...just let me do it for us, Rosie." I beg? Plead? Whatever you wanna call it. It seems that I just so happened to be crazy in love with the one person on the planet that wouldn't want a house they could live in without having paid for it. But what can I say? My girlfriend's unique. And also a little stubborn, sometimes.
She presses her lips together, clearly still annoyed that I went behind her back and did it. But I knew if I told her about it beforehand, she would convince me not to. Somehow, she would convince me that she didn't want it, even if she did.
"I don't wanna live in a place that you own." She finally says, chewing on her lip far more aggressively than I wish I could be. My eyes are fixated on her mouth and she gives me a look when I don't respond – aka entertain this wild idea that somehow me being the one paying for things in our relationship is a bad thing.
"It would be our place, babe. Both of our names would be on the deed." I inform her, already having thought two steps ahead – at least, when it comes to that protest. Thinking two steps ahead when it comes to the best way to go about this conversation – aka, not when she was just having a panic attack, maybe not.
"That doesn't make any sense." She responds, lowering her voice slightly when she sees another person glance over at us. "Why would my name be on the deed when you're the one paying for it?" She questions, still maintaining this whole "I want to pay my own way" thing.
And I'm not saying that women wanting to do that is a bad thing; I think feminism and all that is great. I just, I don't know. I grew up to believe that the man is the one that should be taking care of the household; they're partner; and the family. Maybe that sounds backwards, but that's just what I believe. Plus, let's not try and pretend that we don't have a massive income disparity.
"Why can't you just let me do this for us?" I ask her, tugging my hand through my hair as I try and understand what other way, I can say this to her. I want to do this. I want to take care of us. I want to take care of you.
"Because it's weird, Erik. I'm not gonna- "She begins to say, but then is interrupted by the flight attendant – who eavesdropped on our conversation for a solid minute before actually going to interrupt us.
"Hi. So sorry to intrude. But we're expecting a little turbulence." She explains, it taking her gesturing to the fasten seatbelt sign to make me realize she's talking about the plane – and not Rosie and I's relationship.