The opera season here is brief, just a few weeks long. However, it is acclaimed and always exceeds the expectations of critics both local and national. I wish to go. At this moment I have the ticket site open on my computer screen; I could purchase a ticket. One ticket, for a Saturday night performance. I wish to go.

I haven't gone to the opera in years, at least six, and I ache for it. I know little about the genre, but that doesn't prevent me from losing myself in it, romanticizing it, and reveling in every note, every step across the stage. The stories thrill me, offer a true escape, and stretch my mind to accept and sort out an art form that challenges me.

My spouse's illness prevents us from going together and therein sits the rub, the glitch, the chasm, the unending dilemma that I face.  I say "I" because my spouse no longer sees or comprehends this issue like I do. Perhaps this is due to the illness, the medications for the illness, both of those things, or something else. I don't know. I don't think 'why' matters anymore. It just is. Over the last few years this loss of comprehension, the inability to perceive much outside the day-in and day-out, required me to adjust and change my own life in response.

A night at the opera lures me. I think about the details. How I would prepare for the evening: dressing in my new black summer dress, black heels, styling my hair, choosing my favorite jewelry. I’d drink a glass of crisp white wine as I readied myself. At a restaurant downtown, I’d sit outside in the evening sun, order hors d’ oeuvres and watch the crowd as I relaxed and participated, even singularly, in the city’s nightlife. I’d take my seat in the theater, the program in my hands, sharing anticipation with the crowd around me.

But while I was gone, my spouse would be unable to unwind, to relax, to sleep. No matter how many times and the ways we’ve tried for me to be away for the evening, it never seems to be a good idea. My spouse rests more easily when I am here. That is a fact and denying it feels cruel. Whether I am needed to provide physical or emotional care or not, my presence in the house conveys tranquility and brings rest, sleep, and comfort. In many ways that is an honor. I recognize that.

A night at the opera would mean hours away; hours wherein I would enjoy, privately and without my spouse, the intense feeling, the passion, the artistry of the stage. My breath gasping at the fervor, my hands clenching at the high notes, a soft moan from me when the lovers finally touch, all experienced alone. The music would stun me, startle me, and ultimately, soothe me.

Scoring the balance between enjoying such an evening away and reconciling it with the next morning still eludes me. I would come home with the experience fresh in my mind, my senses heightened, and my desire re-awakened. Bringing those feelings into the house is not a good idea. The increased sensitivity, I’ve learned, makes the next days and weeks hurt more than necessary, more than either of us has the capacity with which to respond. Somehow amends must be made to myself, to the construct we have here, and I’ve not yet figured out how. 

The opera. I wish to go. 

 I apologize for the self-indulgent tone of this piece when so many here are struggling with much more.  I am very aware that this is a minor issue and that it too shall pass. I just needed to write this and get it out.