by Carre Otis
One evening Matthew and I lay clothed on his bed. I was staring up at the ceiling, thinking of what to do. I wanted him. I couldn’t be with him. I wished he would kiss me. I was terrified he might. I was such a nervous wreck, filled with contradictory wants and fears, that I burst into tears. I was completely blindsided by the emotions that were welling up in me, horrified to be so unable to control myself next to this man with whom I was so clearly falling in love.
“Talk to me,” he gently suggested as I lay there racked by my sobs.
“I . . . I can’t. I mean . . .” I couldn’t figure out how to say what it was I wanted. I wasn’t even sure. Matthew knew how much he was up against. But by now we both knew that we loved each other. He was ready to work.
“Let me ask you this: Would you be willing to see my therapist with me?”
I sighed. It sounded like a good idea. This trying to figure things out on my own wasn’t working out so well. And we both wanted so badly for it to work.
“Yes.” I nodded, burying my face in his chest and crying all the more.
Matthew held me like that for hours and then kissed me and nodded toward the door. “I know you need to go, Carré. It’s okay.” He was tremendously sensitive. He knew that pushing or pressuring me would only backfire. He genuinely cared. And through those months the trust that was built by his loving patience became the solid foundation for our relationship.
We met at his therapist’s office in Greenbrae. I got there first and sat in the waiting room. Matthew arrived a moment later, straight from work and still dressed in a suit and tie. As he walked in, I was reminded of how much I loved everything about him, the suits included. He was such a lovely, handsome, striking man. We sat silently until a door opened and a gray-haired and bespectacled man emerged, a smile on his face and one hand outstretched in a warm introduction.
“Hi. You must be Carré. I’m Michael. Please, come in and make yourself comfortable,” he said, and stepped aside to let us into his office. An amazing view of the sparkling bay lay before me. I found a single chair and sat back, taking a deep breath to calm my nerves. What if Matthew had brought me here because he wanted to break up with me? But were we even officially dating? A million thoughts went through my mind, and I placed a hand over my mouth as I tried to clear my throat. I needed to get something out.
“Okay. Can I just jump in and tell you about myself? Where I’m at?” I looked Michael in the eye and then over to Matthew. Both nodded in agreement, and Matthew smiled encouragingly at me. I took a deep breath and said a prayer for the clarity to be able to articulate my wants and fears.
“So, to be clear, I want this relationship. I want love. Matthew, I want to be with you. I’m also scared. I’m not sure anymore, after such a long time of being on my own, just how to do that. Not because of you, but because of my past and all the pain. When you and I move toward intimacy, I become overwhelmed with fear. It stirs in me like an aversion. I can’t imagine having sex again. It’s as if, to be that vulnerable, I have to be with all that has happened. . . . I have to let go. And that has never been a safe thing for me to do before.”
I began to cry. But there was relief in my tears. Relief to be letting out what I’d been keeping inside. I gathered myself and pressed on.
“I want to be free. Free of the fear. I want to be free sexually. Free to explore, to be passionate, to have an orgasm. I want that with you, Matthew. I honestly just don’t know how to get from here, where I am, to where I want to be. And I don’t want my fear to be what fucks this up.”
I looked at Matthew and the therapist, my eyes pleading for a solution. I couldn’t even begin to express my gratitude that Matthew was willing to go through this with me. They looked back at me with kind and inviting eyes. I took a deep breath and continued.
“I realize that by most standards we should be having sex. I just don’t want the typical things that make a relationship ‘right’ and ‘okay’ to be what dictates how or when we’re intimate. I know, Matthew, that for you as a man there must be certain things that happen that either confirm or deny our love. But for me, I need to redefine that as well. I want there to be room on a day-to-day basis for me to either want or not want to be close, and I want that to be all right. I’ve never had the room in a relationship to even get in touch with that. . . . I’ve never been able to be the one to initiate or deny sex. I’ve just always done what’s expected of me,” I continued. I was hoping I was making sense. And finally I admitted my whole truth: “I’ve never had an orgasm with a man. And I don’t want to feel that I need to fake it ever again. So I guess I’m asking that if—I mean, when we do make love, that if that doesn’t happen, I just don’t want you to be angry or have you get your ego wrapped up in it. I mean, I’ve never just made love without feeling as if I have to perform. I don’t even know what that’s like. I want to linger and feel, without agenda or expectation. Is that even possible?”
I was crying even harder as I finished. Part of me felt like a silly kid instead of a woman of thirty-six years; another part of me was ecstatic. I was revealing myself, and although it was uncomfortable, it was tremendously liberating.
When I looked at Matthew again, he had tears in his eyes. He was enormously relieved as well to at last be able to better understand me. He had needed to hear that it wasn’t about him.
Before we left our session, Michael gave us what he called homework. We were to schedule our homework and time it. It was basic and simple.
“Twenty minutes,” Michael said. “Lie down together for twenty minutes and just hold each other. Nothing more. But you must be together for the entire twenty minutes, and whatever comes up is okay. Talk about it. Let it be. Don’t make love yet. Just hold each other.” Matthew and I both started laughing nervously. It sounded ridiculous, but it also sounded doable. “Do you think you can do that, Carré?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
And with that, Matthew and I left, headed to his house on the hill, agreeing that our first homework session would start right away.
I have to admit I felt like a twelve-year-old. But the beauty in it all was that I was able to go to someplace so pure and simple and sweet, someplace I’d never had the chance to experience. We visited Michael for several more sessions, and each time he added to our assignment so that soon we were lying naked with each other for twenty minutes at a time. And so it progressed. Each time we would begin like shy kids, and each time progress was made. We were again and again able to return to the structured shelter of a set task that was pushing us in the direction we both so wanted. What we desired was to be together, free of our pasts, free from expectation and society’s labels of what it was we were supposed to do as a man and a woman in a sexual relationship.
The time and care we put into building mutual trust and friendship fueled the passion we felt for each other. And at last we made love. For the first time in my life, I was fully present with a partner. I was able to let go of an agenda, let go of the need to perform, let go of the idea that there was anything to achieve. I was rewarded with an earth-shattering orgasm, the first I’d ever had in the presence of another human being. As that thunder rolled through me, I felt that everything that had ever happened, everything that had wounded, wronged, and harmed me, was healed. In the profound silence that followed, I finally understood what true sexual healing meant. No woman can have an orgasm without being able to let go. And no woman can let go unless she knows she is safe. Safety cannot be found through “trying” or “doing.” It is found, or rather it is built, through trust, through the willingness to be present in the stillness.
Most of us are so busy trying to “get” somewhere to “get off.” That’s true of many aspects of our lives, especially in the bedroom. And the wonderful truth that I finally found was that if we can just slow it down, slow it all down, the bliss is right there for the taking.
Matthew proposed to me in October of that same year on the island of Maui. Two months later, on December 17, 2005, we were
married in a wonderfully intimate ceremony at my father’s house in Mill Valley. My closest friends and entire family were present, able to witness and rejoice in my life’s coming perfectly full circle.
SURGERY, PREGNANCY, JADE
During the months we courted, Matthew and I had discussed having children, so once we were married, we decided to see a fertility specialist to better understand how my still-absent menstrual cycle might factor into our plans. The consensus of the specialist and his colleagues was that I would be unable to conceive without artificial means. The doctors walked us through various procedures and options, none of which came with a guarantee that I would conceive. And although a part of my heart felt heavy and let down, I truly felt that if Matthew and I wanted to have a child, we could just as easily adopt. Matthew’s warm hand on mine was reassuring, reminding me that we were doing this together, no matter what. We both felt that although we were older than typical first-time parents, we were not in a rush. We both had absolute faith in the perfect unfolding of a divine plan.
In that last week of December 2005, we got word that my teacher would be able to get out of Tibet and lead a retreat in Texas starting January 1. This was another auspicious sign and an amazing blessing. Matthew and I agreed that we would rather be in Houston with our lama than honeymooning in a typical fashion. Due to the political situation in Tibet, we never really knew for certain if or when our teacher would be able to get out, so we jumped at the chance to spend the first weeks of the New Year in his presence. Our time in Houston was wonderful; Matthew and I were able to sit and practice together, solidifying our vows, as well as receive a formal blessing from our teacher.
Back in Marin, winter had set in, and with it one of the biggest storms of the year. The winds howled, shaking our house on the hill, trees came down around us, and much of Mill Valley lost electricity. Matthew and I would sit by our fire, cozied up, reading or practicing. At that time I had a dedicated home yoga practice, and Matthew would watch in awe as I would drop into backbends or stand on my head for long spells. But there was a problem that just didn’t seem to quit: I’d been afflicted with back issues for years, and no matter what I did—Pilates, massage, yoga, acupuncture—I was in pain.
I refused to take medication and for the most part had simply resigned myself to the fact that I would be someone who simply had to tolerate a certain amount of pain in my life. But the truth of the matter was, it was agonizing. The pain extended to my right hip and leg. Sometimes it was so bad that my toes would curl involuntarily and my foot would turn ice cold, as though the blood or energy just didn’t flow through that channel anymore. Muscles on my right side had begun to visibly waste away.
I had been diagnosed almost a decade before with foraminal stenosis and had been told I would eventually need surgery. But what the doctors had shown me at the time had dissuaded me. I did not like the idea of having hardware in my body. I was a yogini. Metal rods didn’t belong in me.
But that week, as Matthew and I were housebound, we discussed the matter at some length. It was clear that at least for the time being we were not going to focus on starting a family. I was young and healthy enough to recover from a surgery. We both agreed that I ought to get it over with, as my quality of life really depended on it.
By the end of January, I’d met with one of the Bay Area’s best orthopedic surgeons, Dr. Robert Byers. After an initial consultation, Dr. Byers scheduled me for a spinal fusion on March 6.
Oddly enough, on February 1, 2006, shortly following that first meeting with the orthopedist, and after nearly seven years of having no menstrual cycle, I got my period. I looked at it as proof of the blessings and healings that were occurring in my life and body. I had rediscovered a liberating, sensual life. I had married an incredible man. I had just seen my lama. The timing of it all was perfect.
But the operation was far more intense than I could ever have imagined. I spent eight hours under anesthesia and emerged with four four-inch titanium rods in my lower back. I was wheeled into a post-op room where my beloved husband anxiously awaited me. I was scared. While I was under, I felt certain I had died. I could feel myself hovering near my body, watching the doctors and nurses work on me. What’s more, I felt as if I wasn’t alone. I sensed that someone else was watching with me.
As I came crashing back into my body and into some semblance of awareness, I knew that a great deal of trauma had occurred. I understood the physical part but wasn’t prepared for the psychic impact of such major surgery. It was terrifying.
“Carré, how does your leg feel? Can you wiggle your toes for me?” Dr. Byers asked.
I looked down at my pale feet and did just that, wiggled my toes, and noticed that the nagging pain was definitely not there.
“I hurt everywhere else but my toes!” I cried, still under heavy pain medication.
“That’s what I want to hear. That’s great.” He smiled at me encouragingly. Then added to Matthew, “Oh, by the way, I was really glad I got you on the phone. Can’t believe we almost missed that.” He patted Matt’s back and exited the room.
“What?” I asked sleepily.
“Oh, Dr. Byers called me while you were under. They weren’t sure if you had decided to have your bone grafted or if you wanted to use some synthetic material that hasn’t been proven safe in pregnancy,” Matthew replied.
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
“To use your own bone.” And that was all I heard before falling back into a deep slumber.
I stayed in the hospital for several days, each day meeting the unbelievably painful challenges my physical therapist pushed me to get through. My first steps were shaky. As I learned to walk again, I felt as if my body was made of lead. But I progressed slowly and in time was able to return home with a walking cane and a back brace.
As Matthew continued his schedule of getting up early to beat the traffic as he commuted to his office in the East Bay, I would bundle up in warm layers and a raincoat and walk along the small dirt path on the crest of the mountain, looking out at the gray skies and the ocean below. Winter lingered, the rains hadn’t ceased, the wind was still howling, but nothing could deter me from fully recovering. Although my life felt as if it had been put on hold, an old motto came in handy: “When in doubt, wait it out.” I didn’t press to go back to work. I knew that a time would come when I would either decide to return to modeling or move into some other as-yet-unknown new career. I just let myself be, wandering the mountain and regaining my strength.
One late morning as I was heading out on my hike, I felt an intense burning sensation in my nipples. I’d never experienced anything like it before. It was so painful that it brought me to tears. I cupped my hands under my shirt, trying to soothe myself. It didn’t seem to help. It made no sense, and so I chalked it up to a possible side effect of my medication. I decided that when I returned from my walk, I would switch to Tylenol. Anything was better than burning nipples.
But the next day and the next, the same pain returned, and finally, on the third day, I broke off the hike to go home and call my doctor.
“I can’t imagine that having anything to do with either the medication or your surgery, Carré,” Dr. Byers said. “Call your OB. That sounds more hormonal.” And so I did. As I explained my symptoms over the phone, I could practically hear my obstetrician scratching his head.
“Well, that does sound hormonal. I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you come down to the lab and we’ll run a full-panel pregnancy test,” he said.
“A what?” I asked, baffled. “You told me I couldn’t get pregnant,” I reminded him in shock.
“It’s a long shot, but it might tell us what’s going on.”
I called Matthew on my way down, and he laughed off the notion. It seemed preposterous.
I went into the lab, came home, and waited for the call. My symptoms remained, painful and debilitating. I was incredibly irritated that something like searing breast pain could halt my efforts at rehab and hiking. I just
wanted someone to tell me how to get rid of it. The next evening, with Matthew home from work, I stood half naked in the kitchen while my husband sponge-bathed my back and re-dressed my incision.
Just as he was finishing, the phone rang.
“I got it,” I said, leaning over and answering. “Hello?”
It was my OB in San Francisco. “Carré. Hi.”
“Hi?” I replied, waiting. There was a long pause.
“I have . . . some big news,” he said. I looked at Matthew. Matthew looked at me. He mouthed, What? while I just waited, silently.
“I’m calling to tell you that you’re pregnant.” My heart jumped. I was stunned. And then elated. And then terrified.
“What?” I asked again excitedly. It couldn’t be. Matthew’s eyes locked on mine, and in an instant I knew he knew. His eyes welled with tears. I didn’t know what to say.
“Now, let’s not get too excited. Let’s get you in tomorrow for an ultrasound and see what we have. Don’t get me wrong—this is an absolute miracle, and I’m thrilled for you. . . .” The doctor’s voice trailed off. And I jumped in.
