As evidenced by my prolonged absence, it has been a rough semester! I wrote 65 pages of final papers, and I just submitted my very last assignment–actually, not a paper, but a comic. I made this for a seminar on “graphic medicine,” a field that studies comics about health and medical experiences. Check out the Graphic Medicine website for more information. Hope you enjoy this creation! (You should be able to click on each image for a closer look.)

What better time to recount a pleasant vacation than when it is a fond memory of a month past–the balmy days of mid-December?

The Statue of Liberty with Ellis Island in the middle-ground and the Manhattan skyline in the background.

As a belated celebration of our first wedding anniversary and Sergey’s thirtieth birthday, we went on a trip to Philadelphia and New York City, and afterward went to Wisconsin. Our itinerary was packed. In Philly, we visited Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, the National Constitution Center, the Museum of Art, the Independence Seaport Museum (first time on a submarine), Eyes Gallery (where I found more Mexican ceramic birds to add to my collection), the Reading Terminal and Italian Markets (where we sampled cheesesteaks). And we attended the Nutcracker Ballet where we sampled sugarplums (figuratively).

William Penn stands atop the Philadelphia City Hall.

Perhaps the most momentous occasion was our room service breakfast, Sergey’s first and my second, paid for by our neighbor’s dogs. We were surprised to hear yapping on the other side of our room’s wall when we arrived. I didn’t recall ever staying in a hotel that permitted canine residents, but apparently Philadelphia is also Philadogia. Optimistically, we figured that since the dogs had barked the whole afternoon and evening, they would exhaust themselves, fall asleep at night, and leave us to snooze in peace. We were incorrect, and the next day raised the issue with the front desk staff, who apologized—we were apparently not on a dog-friendly floor—and gave us credit for breakfast. And that is how yappy dogs financed the pastries and coffee delivered to our door.

Statue of Diana at the Philadelphia Museum of Art

In New York, we spent seven days in the thick of the madding holiday crowds. I had not expected so many tourists to be hardy enough to confront the city in the dead of winter, but sure enough—our first day there, the coldest of our visit, our ferry to the Statue of Libery was packed with fellow tourists despite our faces being whipped numb by the harbor’s icy winds. It was a reminder of the difficulty of the transatlantic voyage many European immigrants made, passing through Ellis Island, where we walked through the great hall where thousands of new arrivals had been processed. How different that scene was from Sergey’s arrival in an airport the previous month!

The processing hall at Ellis Island

Over our remaining days, we visited the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the City Museum, the Museo del Barrio, the Intrepid Air and Space Museum (second time on a submarine), the Empire State Building observation deck, and Ulysses S. Grant’s tomb (we were actually looking for a coffee shop). And we went to a Broadway show, the Phantom of the Opera! We wandered the streets of areas like Little Italy, Chinatown, Morningside Heights, Greenwich Village, Soho, and Chelsea. We were also able to meet up with two of my friends from Mount Holyoke. One of them suggested we visit the highline, an old elevated train track recently renovated into a city park. That day, Christmas Eve, the temperature had reached an uncanny seventy degrees, and on the highline above Chelsea we found trees in bloom and bees pollinating them. It was strange, perhaps a glimpse into the northern state’s future as our climate changes.

Blossoms and a bee on Christmas Eve.

Of course, some places still conform to December norms….

Sergey partakes in a traditional Wisconsin hobby.

The other day, I was organizing the bedroom closet to make space for Sergey’s clothes. In the course of digging through the piles of clothes that have accumulated over the past few months, I rediscovered my flannel pajamas and my sweatpants. Needless to say, fashionista that I am, these are among my favorite clothes, and since it’s break, the next morning I donned my pajamas and donned my fuzzy pink fleece pullover on top, which makes me look like a cousin of Elmo or Grover. Later in the day, I decided to switch from pajama pants to sweatpants…you know, to feel more professional. It turned out to be a fortuitous decision, because I felt mildly less ridiculous when I had to answer the door. It was the mailman, a very friendly man, who had Sergey’s giant box of possessions sent from Israel. That box seems to weigh about sixty pounds. At first, I asked the mailman to set the box inside my door, but then discovered I couldn’t close the door, and with my scholarly (feeble) physique, there was no way I could get the box upstairs into my apartment by myself. So, I asked the mailman if he could please carry the box up, and he assented, remarking jovially, “Now I don’t have to go the gym tonight!”

I’m grateful to the friendly mailman who went beyond the call of duty to help out a frail Muppet. Living alone is hard for multiple reasons related to muscles—especially that one muscle, my heart. Like many Americans, I’ve been thinking about gratitude this Thanksgiving season—and also ingratitude. Feeling debased by the immigration process, I found myself turning bitter. For instance, I’ve been resenting every couple who crosses my path. I see happy couples and I think, “They don’t know how lucky they are to never think about words like ‘CR-1’ and ‘NVC.’” I see grumpy couples and I think, “Why should they have the right to live side by side when they don’t even appreciate it?”

There’s an aphorism that used to confuse me: count your blessings. It befuddled me because I conflated it with a similar aphorism: don’t count your chickens before they hatch. Don’t count your blessings before they hatch?

Well, there is something to be said for counting blessings, even those that are only semi-hatched, or even still devloping in the egg. I read an article called, “Choose to Be Grateful. It Will Make You Happier” by Arthur Brooks, which I would recommend. Brooks inspired me to do an exercise: counting my blessings. Let’s start with friendly mailmen, flannel pajamas, and sweatpants. And add…

1. The fact that our separation has been so painful is due to my good fortune in finding a wonderful husband whom I want to spend all my time with.
2. My family. Without my parents, I wouldn’t have even had a shot at getting Sergey a visa.
3. All the people who invited me over for Thanksgiving. Thanks to them, I know I have a community here to support me. I chose to spend the day alone to prepare for Sergey’s expected arrival…tonight!
4. Penn State. They pay me to…take classes? How is that even possible? This gives me a super flexible schedule, which I can take advantage of with Sergey to spend time with him, e.g., doing our driving lessons—and while my current school break has been admittedly miserable, winter break will give me time to take Sergey on a special vacation and to visit my family.
5. Material comfort, American conveniences. After returning from Israel, I was amazed at timesaving technologies like dishwashers and laundry machines right in my apartment! Thanks to my experience needing to lug my laundry on a bus just to wash it, I fully appreciate the ease of simply walking ten feet from hamper to machine. And the luxury of not needing to spend hours doing the dishes after cooking a meal is also a godsend.

Soon, Sergey will be here. I am cooking Thanksgiving foods—the green bean casserole, stuffing (Mommy’s recipe, of course), and butternut squash soup. Soon I will be doing a joyful thanksgiving, counting the blessings right in front of me, so clear,

no more pixilation to disguise

every eyelash around his eyes

every line on his palms

every whisker on his chin.

My favorite tricenarian

I haven’t been able to touch Sergey’s hands for four months. But I can picture them: strong, gentle, scarred. The thick scars run down the fingers of one hand, the result of a woodcutting accident at work when he was a teenager.

Sergey’s hands are gentle despite the wound. They delicately peel mangoes and pomelos for us to share. They write loving messages. They hold my hands, keeping them warm, keeping me steady.

Over the thirty years of his life, Sergey has sustained many wounds deeper than the cuts on his hand: the adversities that have beset him from infancy. I marvel at his strength, his early maturity. Photos of Sergey from his teenage years show a mature man with a set jaw and prominent cheekbones, as though in his desire to support his family, he skipped boyish adolescence to grow up faster.

When Sergey finished high school, he started working full-time and attending university, where he graduated at the top of his class. Besides working constantly, he also made time to serve his community. At age twenty-six, he was elected to the national administrative body of the Bahá’ís of Moldova—and later that year, he started his term of service at the Bahá’í World Centre, to which he has dedicated three years. (He also met and married me, but that’s another story.)

My Siryojka has transcended mere perseverance. He has taken his afflictions, and instead of letting them scar him with bitterness, he has transmuted them into compassion, kindness, and commitment. There is a line in the Bahá’í prayer for husbands that says, “make him one of Thy angels whose feet walk upon this earth even as their souls are soaring through the high heavens.” If you ask me, I think my earthbound angel’s soul is already soaring pretty high.

Today, Sergey is in the midst of his latest test, the immigration process, which relegates him to “alien spouse” status and has forced us to live thousands of miles apart. But, in his typically selfless manner, he takes on the role of the comforter, reassuring me in our daily calls that it is just a matter of time.

How I wish I could envelop my beloved husband in a warm hug today, when he enters a new decade of his life, a hug that would tell him how much I value him, how abysmally painful every day of separation has been. How I know we’ll be together in all the worlds of God, for all eternity, but how badly I want to be with him right now.

Since I cannot hug him, I offer this story, a small birthday gift to remind him of what he has accomplished, and who he has become: a gentle, loving man purified through adversity.

To my husband, my partner, my soulmate—happy birthday, and congratulations on all you have achieved in your first three decades! I look forward to seeing what we can do together in the years to come. But most of all, I (desperately) look forward to seeing you!