HEATHER HOPES: Trouble and a Soldier, Part II

By HEATHER CATHLEEN COX
Staff Writer
reporter@sbnewspaper.com 

Heather Cathleen Cox

This week’s Heather Hopes is a continuation of last week’s. If you haven’t read the first installment, please be invited to visit sbnewspaper.com. Just type in the keyword: Trouble and a Soldier.

For everyone else…

In the cold, sterile atmosphere of the Breckenridge Hospital emergency room, my phone rang. I answered and informed Soldier I had been involved in a serious car collision. Soldier had already driven nearly five hours, to Austin, where he was staying for the weekend. He immediately asked if he could visit me at the hospital.

Personal vanity wouldn’t allow Soldier to see my cushy manila neck brace, busted lip and the burns across my face and body. I wholeheartedly wanted to meet him, but not like that. Soldier graciously understood, but like a true gentleman, he offered to help in any way he could.

My dad drove me home to San Marcos and stayed that (Saturday) night and part of the next day. On Sunday, he drove back to his home in the Rio Grande Valley to check on my terminally ill mother before starting a week-long training in Corpus Christi for a new job, early Monday morning. Tragedies never transpire at an opportune time for anyone concerned, do they?

If life is a matter of sinking or swimming, at that time, I was drowning. Trouble wanted to help, so I let him. It was that simple. Our relationship was the kind some people explain by saying: Sometimes, love just isn’t enough. To be frank, Trouble and I could not get along. He lived his life one way, and I lived mine another.

Still, our discrepancies were pushed aside, and from approximately March’s end (I spent one week in Houston with a sweet cousin who saw me through part of my battle) throughout the month of April, Trouble took care of me. He brought me groceries, drove me to the doctor – and of course, he fought with me.

Depending on Trouble, needing him, was internally wearing on me. I was vulnerably at his mercy, and sometimes, he would lose his temper to the point of punching something or breaking something. This was not uncommon behavior for Trouble, but before, I had a way out. I could drive off or walk away. Now, I felt like a prisoner.

Even though my mind wouldn’t register this concept, per se, my spirit realized the potential demise of continuing to allow myself to rely on Trouble.

Never mind that I owned no vehicle, didn’t know how to navigate around a big city, didn’t own a professional camera and had a rental lease agreement pending in San Marcos – nearly an hour away – where I was technically enrolled in my senior year of college and avoiding final exams, I made the decision to adhere to a still small voice inside of me, which was directing me to uproot myself and move to San Antonio to pursue photography.

Trouble made it abundantly clear that he did not want me to leave town and accused me of making a huge mistake. He wasn’t alone. Absolutely everyone who knew my situation explained the potential difficulties I might incur by leaving school with no money, job, car or residence.

Comparatively, in that moment all I could see was that the Lord had spared my life. I knew I had to go.

For about a week, my life became a crazy whirlwind of transition. I was changing everything I’d spent four years to create, all while dodging the negativity of skeptics near and far. It was hard not to lose faith. I spent many hours in the Word and many hours sobbing on my face before the Lord.

Within a week of decidedly acting on faith, despite words of discouragement from others, God began to provide. A sweet cousin from Dallas gifted me a nice vehicle; with money I’d felt inclined to save, and not spend throughout my months of joblessness, I had exactly enough money to purchase a good camera, just in time to start my first day of work as a professional photographer.

I left San Marcos in good standing with my landlords, without incurring costs sometimes associated with breaking a lease, and I found an excellent short-term subletting arrangement in a good part of San Antonio. All-in-all, the situation resulted in my ability to cut monthly expenses by about a grand. I was also, instantaneously, happier, which was not because I fell in love with San Antonio, but because I had chosen to do the thing I thought was impossible: leave an unhealthy, unhappy situation, even though it looked impossible to everyone, including myself.

I now lived an hour away from Trouble, and our communication became increasingly toxic. When we spent time together, all he cared to discuss was how mad he was that I moved “so far away from him.”

One night, around 11:30 p.m., I had just arrived home from a double-shift as a souvenir photographer at a San Antonio tourist destination. Trouble had called several times but I hadn’t answered. After being on my feet, taking photos of screaming kids and persnickety grown-ups for over 12 hours, I absolutely felt too exhausted to fight, and by this point that’s all we did. I was just getting ready to go to sleep when I heard an unruly pounding. Trouble was calling my name in between using what sounded like both fists to beat on my front door.

I refused to open the door, at which time Trouble became furious. I’ll spare the next few details, but ultimately, what transpired led to our break-up. Again.

I began using my free time to write a lot, but I was working a lot as well. One afternoon, I was working a double, when Soldier sent me a text message. He and I picked up right where we left off, and he asked if he could visit me the following weekend.

To back-peddle a little, finding a steady photography gig in a big city ain’t easy, especially when you have no professional credentials. My job as a souvenir photographer with an international company was a blessing, but I had been keeping my eyes open for something more. To be specific, I applied to be a second-shooter with a high-end wedding photographer.

One Tuesday morning in sheeting down rain, my navigational skills failed me amidst the labyrinth commonly referred to as San Antonio highways, and I was at least 10 minutes late to my interview with the aforementioned wedding photographer. The rain had not let up by the time I found parking, across the street from the studio. When I entered the luxurious lobby of white leather couches, stiff architectural artwork and decadent portraits enclosed in expensive frames, I must have looked like I had just stepped out of a swimming pool. From my long hair to my blazer and leather shoes, I was drenched in rainwater.

The manager/photographer’s girlfriend/interviewer maintained an impressive poker face as she shot at me from a cannon of pre-meditated questions like: Do you own special photographic equipment or certain kinds of lenses; do you have certain photo editing experience, a portfolio or experience shooting weddings? To save time, the answer to all her questions was: no. I was basically “out of my photographic league.”

The woman mentioned that other candidates were being considered. I had internally noted at least two dry individuals holding portfolios, waiting in the lobby when I arrived and exited, respectively, so you can imagine my surprise the following week when I received a phone call asking if I could work a large wedding occurring the following Saturday and Sunday, 14-hour shifts each day. The weekend Soldier was slated to visit.

Well, looks like I’m all out of space again. If you’re still with me, I hope to see you back here next week for more of the story.

Read this story in the Dec. 9 edition of the San Benito News, or subscribe to our E-Edition by clicking here.