There are so many things you miss about your mom once she is gone, that no one tells you about ahead of time. They aren't fancy things, or big things. They are mundane, everyday things. Like, seeing her name in your contact list on your cellphone. I kept my mom in my contact list for two years after it had been relegated as my daughter's play phone. I only got rid of it after I lost my cellphone, had to get a new one and re-enter (manually) all the numbers I had lost. I still have her e-mail address in my yahoo address book, and every e-mail she ever sent me is archived.
You miss talking to her about what you saw on the news this morning. Talking about the election and how awful the ads are. Her reminding you about the halloween parade 87 times. You miss sharing the latest family news with her and getting caught up on all the latest goings-on in with the relatives you don't see nearly enough. Talking to her about your little brothers, and assuring her that they are probably fine even if they haven't called all week. Coming down the basement stairs at church and finding her listening to music she wants the choir to sing next Sunday. Her corny jokes about how sopranos can't sing and count at the same time. Her letting you always sing the alto part in the duet even though she likes it more than the soprano part.
You miss shopping with her. Stopping at McDonald's to get breakfast and a Dr. Pepper on your way out to the mall with her. Picking out Christmas presents for your dad with her. Picking out presents for her with your dad. Telling you to slow down on 270 while stomping an invisible brake, even though you learned how to drive like a maniac from her. Telling you which exit to take even though you have driven to this mall 872 times by yourself.
You miss so many crazy things, you can't even remember them all when you sit down to. But they will pop up, now and again when you are doing something so boring you can't stand it. And then you will laugh a little, and cry a little, and thank God and pray they never quit popping up.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Negative, Negative, Negative
I started back to school in August. I had traded in my two bedroom apartment a block from campus and complete with two lovable roomates, for a one-bedroom apartment fifty minutes away, complete with a new husband and a puppy that wouldn't stop pissing all over the furniture and floor. But, I only had one more year before I would graduate with two degrees. I could DO this. Besides, Mike's current band practiced not more than four blocks away, and we were within a reasonable distance from both sets of our parents. The months droned on, cold and uneventful. Things were calming down, except for the compulsive pregnancy-testing that consumed my life every month. Everywhere I went, there were giant reminders of my failure. I couldn't even go to the mall without being bombarded...
"WOW! You look great! I heard the good news! Congratulations! How far along are you?"
My eyes went into that Deer-In-Headlights expression. Yay, this will be the eightieth time I get to say this for the week! I gave my former co-worker a weak smile. Of course we would run into her today, and of course she would have miraculously heard about the pregnancy by now, despite me living in a different county, and hoping to never cross paths with her ever again for two lifetimes.
I cleared my throat, "Um, actually I lost the baby." Stunned silence... followed by--
"Oh. Ohmigosh I am so sorry, I had no idea. Are you ok?" It was her turn to sport the Deer-In-Headlights look I was growing so accustomed to. I nodded unconvincingly. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Everything is fine. It's ok, I mean you didn't know. How could you know?" I quickly wrapped up the conversation and high-tailed my ass out of the department store. That was enough shopping for one day.
I couldn't get away from the awfulness no matter where I went. It was following me everywhere. At a family reunion, a distant relative who was still in high school came in with her newborn baby. We had to leave early because I quickly turned into a sobbing mess, and Mike insisted it would be a good time to leave. At Target every check-out lane was FULL of pregnant women. I had breakdown after breakdown. I left the store in tears on many occasions. I was sure that everyone was pregnant and that they had gotten pregnant just to spite me, and now they were also stalking me to remind me of how much of a failure I was. And as if that wasn't enough for one person to handle, there was my mother.
Now for those of you who did not have the distinct pleasure of knowing my mom, let me explain a little something. She knew absolutely. everyone. She was on the school board. She was my Girl Scout Troop's leader. She was PTA president. She was the choir and youth director at our church. If there was a job to do, she did it. Besides that, she had eight siblings and still had ties in her hometown, only a half-hour away from where we lived. So naturally, word got out quickly that she was sick, and naturally, it seemed like everyone in the free world wanted to talk about her sickness everytime we came into contact. On one hand, it is very comforting and somewhat a relief to know so many people care about someone close to you... and on the other hand it is overwhelming and terrifying. You can't go grocery shopping without someone who knows your mother asking you a billion and a half questions about how she is doing. You can't get away from it. Even on the days when everything feels pretty normal and you are just minding your own business at Shop'N'Save, you could end up coming out bawling your eyes out because the cashier heard your mother had a terminal illness and wanted you to recount the last six months of your family's life so she could update all her friends on your mother's progress. Nowhere was safe, now.
There was just one thing that might make it all seem a little brighter. If that damn stick would just sprout a second visible line in its little window... After all, it was November now. You didn't even MEAN to get pregant the first time. It wouldn't take that long to get pregnant again. SURELY you were pregnant by now.
I walked back into the bathroom to look at the all-knowing stick. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Picked it up... opened one eye to peer down at it...
Negative.
"WOW! You look great! I heard the good news! Congratulations! How far along are you?"
My eyes went into that Deer-In-Headlights expression. Yay, this will be the eightieth time I get to say this for the week! I gave my former co-worker a weak smile. Of course we would run into her today, and of course she would have miraculously heard about the pregnancy by now, despite me living in a different county, and hoping to never cross paths with her ever again for two lifetimes.
I cleared my throat, "Um, actually I lost the baby." Stunned silence... followed by--
"Oh. Ohmigosh I am so sorry, I had no idea. Are you ok?" It was her turn to sport the Deer-In-Headlights look I was growing so accustomed to. I nodded unconvincingly. "Oh, yeah. I'm fine. Everything is fine. It's ok, I mean you didn't know. How could you know?" I quickly wrapped up the conversation and high-tailed my ass out of the department store. That was enough shopping for one day.
I couldn't get away from the awfulness no matter where I went. It was following me everywhere. At a family reunion, a distant relative who was still in high school came in with her newborn baby. We had to leave early because I quickly turned into a sobbing mess, and Mike insisted it would be a good time to leave. At Target every check-out lane was FULL of pregnant women. I had breakdown after breakdown. I left the store in tears on many occasions. I was sure that everyone was pregnant and that they had gotten pregnant just to spite me, and now they were also stalking me to remind me of how much of a failure I was. And as if that wasn't enough for one person to handle, there was my mother.
Now for those of you who did not have the distinct pleasure of knowing my mom, let me explain a little something. She knew absolutely. everyone. She was on the school board. She was my Girl Scout Troop's leader. She was PTA president. She was the choir and youth director at our church. If there was a job to do, she did it. Besides that, she had eight siblings and still had ties in her hometown, only a half-hour away from where we lived. So naturally, word got out quickly that she was sick, and naturally, it seemed like everyone in the free world wanted to talk about her sickness everytime we came into contact. On one hand, it is very comforting and somewhat a relief to know so many people care about someone close to you... and on the other hand it is overwhelming and terrifying. You can't go grocery shopping without someone who knows your mother asking you a billion and a half questions about how she is doing. You can't get away from it. Even on the days when everything feels pretty normal and you are just minding your own business at Shop'N'Save, you could end up coming out bawling your eyes out because the cashier heard your mother had a terminal illness and wanted you to recount the last six months of your family's life so she could update all her friends on your mother's progress. Nowhere was safe, now.
There was just one thing that might make it all seem a little brighter. If that damn stick would just sprout a second visible line in its little window... After all, it was November now. You didn't even MEAN to get pregant the first time. It wouldn't take that long to get pregnant again. SURELY you were pregnant by now.
I walked back into the bathroom to look at the all-knowing stick. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Picked it up... opened one eye to peer down at it...
Negative.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
The Lucky Ones
The summer weeks wore on and on. My mind began practicing exercises in torture, as I like to refer to them. I would make myself think about what it was really going to be like once she was gone. I wouldn't do it for very long--I couldn't. But the thoughts would surface here and there. We would be at a party or some other joyous occasion. My Mom would say something funny or laugh her ridiculously loud laugh at something only she found funny and the thought would creep in, What's it going to be like when no one laughs at your brother making fun of the man he sat next to in the theater yesterday? What is it going to FEEL like when someone knocks on your door at nine o' clock at night and instead of it being your mom jumping out from behind the door and trying to scare you like she is a five year old, it is just some crack-head mistaking your house for the neighbor's? What will it be like when--STOP. Please put your pencils down and do not move on to the next test until the administrator gives you the go ahead.
It was truly an exercise. Just as a body-builder can only do so many repetitions before his body cries, "Stop!" the first time he tries, I could only imagine the world being devoid of my mother for so many milli-seconds before my mind would shut down and crawl back into the comforting shadow of the denial that had consumed my entire psychological schematic. The denial was a safe place. A stranger pulling over to offer you a ride home as you are walking alone in the rain. And here, have some candy and a pop while you sit next to me in the front seat. The entire time you are driving, you feel safe and thankful that the stranger saw you walking all by yourself and was nice enough to pull over. You feel safe and thankful until the car stops and you realize you aren't in front of the address you gave the man behind the wheel.
And so, I would find myself thinking about not having my mother around, and at the same time NOT thinking about it. And some days I would be very, very good at forgetting the exercises completely. There would be extremely good days, when she would be over her sickness from chemo the week before and we would have a few days before she had to go back in for more. We would go shopping or to the movies, or just have the whole family over to the house for pizza and rentals at home. And we could forget... for awhile. The exercises didn't seem so... relevant. She was ok! Look, she is even EATING. She hasn't done that in a couple days. Surely, the doctors were wrong and she has more time! And we could smack that little gnawing pest at the back of our skull and it would submit and go lay on the carpet in the corner of our minds for a little while and leave us alone.
I am sure you all can relate to that gnawing feeling of which I write, even if you haven't watched someone suffer through a terrible disease. It is similar to when you KNOW you have forgotten something at home while on your way to a beach for vacation. Or that feeling you get when you realize that the name of the person waving wildly and running up to you has completely escaped your memory. That feeling that something isn't quite right, but you can't put your finger on it yet. That feeling you get when you are out having a great time with some friends, when you really should be somewhere else. You just made up some lame excuse so you could hang out with your friends. Recall that feeling and multiply it a few times. THAT is very similar to the feeling of having a great time with someone you love, and then suddenly remembering that they are not going to be ok.
But that feeling is really reserved for us lucky ones, isn't it? At least we KNEW in advance that everything was not ok. We had time to prepare, time to say good-byes... right? After all, no one's time here on earth is guaranteed. Any one could go at anytime. We were lucky to have at least that awareness of what was happening, as hard as it may be to deal with. We had been given the time to refocus our energies on spending time with those of us we loved. Our perspectives had been forever altered. It was like being given a super-power you didn't want. You could suddenly see everything that was truly important, and cast away all the things that weren't. Too many people around us were losing loved ones unexpectedly with no warning. That had to be worse... didn't it?
It was truly an exercise. Just as a body-builder can only do so many repetitions before his body cries, "Stop!" the first time he tries, I could only imagine the world being devoid of my mother for so many milli-seconds before my mind would shut down and crawl back into the comforting shadow of the denial that had consumed my entire psychological schematic. The denial was a safe place. A stranger pulling over to offer you a ride home as you are walking alone in the rain. And here, have some candy and a pop while you sit next to me in the front seat. The entire time you are driving, you feel safe and thankful that the stranger saw you walking all by yourself and was nice enough to pull over. You feel safe and thankful until the car stops and you realize you aren't in front of the address you gave the man behind the wheel.
And so, I would find myself thinking about not having my mother around, and at the same time NOT thinking about it. And some days I would be very, very good at forgetting the exercises completely. There would be extremely good days, when she would be over her sickness from chemo the week before and we would have a few days before she had to go back in for more. We would go shopping or to the movies, or just have the whole family over to the house for pizza and rentals at home. And we could forget... for awhile. The exercises didn't seem so... relevant. She was ok! Look, she is even EATING. She hasn't done that in a couple days. Surely, the doctors were wrong and she has more time! And we could smack that little gnawing pest at the back of our skull and it would submit and go lay on the carpet in the corner of our minds for a little while and leave us alone.
I am sure you all can relate to that gnawing feeling of which I write, even if you haven't watched someone suffer through a terrible disease. It is similar to when you KNOW you have forgotten something at home while on your way to a beach for vacation. Or that feeling you get when you realize that the name of the person waving wildly and running up to you has completely escaped your memory. That feeling that something isn't quite right, but you can't put your finger on it yet. That feeling you get when you are out having a great time with some friends, when you really should be somewhere else. You just made up some lame excuse so you could hang out with your friends. Recall that feeling and multiply it a few times. THAT is very similar to the feeling of having a great time with someone you love, and then suddenly remembering that they are not going to be ok.
But that feeling is really reserved for us lucky ones, isn't it? At least we KNEW in advance that everything was not ok. We had time to prepare, time to say good-byes... right? After all, no one's time here on earth is guaranteed. Any one could go at anytime. We were lucky to have at least that awareness of what was happening, as hard as it may be to deal with. We had been given the time to refocus our energies on spending time with those of us we loved. Our perspectives had been forever altered. It was like being given a super-power you didn't want. You could suddenly see everything that was truly important, and cast away all the things that weren't. Too many people around us were losing loved ones unexpectedly with no warning. That had to be worse... didn't it?
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Home
Mike and I settled into married life. Well, I don't know if "settle" is the right word, but we definitely made a go of it. We had stupid arguments about where to put the wet towels and how to arrange the cabinets, but eventually we figured it out. I laugh now about being brought to tears over the first argument we had as a married couple. Literally, the fight was about where wet towels should go!
I had a few more weeks until my senior year of college began. I had just one more year to finish before I would be a proud graduate. The 2004 Olympics were on, and I spent most of my time laying on the couch feeling sorry for myself and watching the U.S. team win medal after medal. When a boring sport was on I would find myself watching Ellen or Finding Nemo, which would ultimately depress me since we had been calling the tiny little bundle of cells growing in my tummy Nemo for three months. It seems so silly now, but at the time I would just lie on the couch and cry and think of all the wonderful things we were going to miss out on now that I had miscarried. I would cry so long my eyes would turn red and puffy. I had no energy. I had no desire to get up and do anything. I thought to myself, "This must be what depression feels like... Wow it really does suck as much as the commercials say it does."
After lying around like that for most of the day, I would get a burst of energy around 3:00pm and try to scurry around the apartment, cleaning and organizing as I went before Mike got home from his new job. I would start dinner around 4:00pm so it would be hot and ready by the time he got home. He had staples in his diet I tried to accomodate, and I had certain things I would NOT eat under any circumstance that he learned to work around as well. He was definitely the better cook of the two of us, but I couldn't expect him to work forty hours a week, come home to a weeping wife, cook AND clean, too... could I? Well, no of course not. That wouldn't do at all. So, I tried my best to domesticate myself. The nights we were invited over to my parents or his parents for dinner were the best! My mom said she couldn't get used to cooking for a smaller family anyway, so we may as well come over and help them eat so there wouldn't be as many left-overs. It was a welcome invitation. Who knew how many family dinners we had left, anyway? While thinking this, my mind would suddenly flash back to the waiting room at the hospital where mom had her surgery...
"It will be ok," my cousin stroked my shoulder. She was doing her best not to fall apart herself. I kept thinking the tears would start falling from her almond colored eyes at any minute, but they never did. They just glazed over as she spoke. I stared at her, unblinking. Unthinking. I urged my mind to think. I urged it to try and process the events of the day, but it refused. I shifted my gaze back to the double swinging doors the surgeons had just gone back through. Two or three years. That is what they said. They had left the surgery earlier than expected and they had said, "There is less than a 1% chance of her beating this... she has two or three years left. That's it. Sorry." They were so robotic. I felt hatred and pity for them all at once. I wanted to slap them and hug them. Can you imagine having to tell an entire family that their matriarch was dying? I felt my knees give way and my limbs start to tingle. I hung on to my father as if he were a flotation device keeping me from becoming lost at sea. I don't remember how the chair appeared underneath me, all I know is that I was sitting in it out in the middle of the hallway when Amber was talking to me. Everyone else was gone. I don't know where they went. I just know that I was sitting in the chair, and Amber was kneeling in front of me, wearing a worrisome expression. It couldn't have been easy for her. But she looked so strong and sure that I almost believed her, "It will be ok. She's going to be ok. Bec--are you all right?" I couldn't even cry. I just sat there motionless and unresponsive. There was nothing to say...
"Could you set the table, Bec?" my mom called from the living room.
"Sure. Which plates? Strawberries?" I would ask, knowing full-well that we would use the twenty-four year old stoneware strawberry plates.
"Yes, that will be fine. Dinner will be done in a few minutes."
"Ok."
And I would set the table. I would wait for dinner. I would understand that I would always feel at home in my parents' house no matter how long I had been married. I would find out that it doesn't matter what you fight about-- it matters how you handle the fight and what happens afterwards. I would realize that it isn't about how much time you spend IN a house that makes it home-- it is WHO you spend that time with, and how you adapt that makes a house or apartment or condo or box on the corner a REAL home.
I had a few more weeks until my senior year of college began. I had just one more year to finish before I would be a proud graduate. The 2004 Olympics were on, and I spent most of my time laying on the couch feeling sorry for myself and watching the U.S. team win medal after medal. When a boring sport was on I would find myself watching Ellen or Finding Nemo, which would ultimately depress me since we had been calling the tiny little bundle of cells growing in my tummy Nemo for three months. It seems so silly now, but at the time I would just lie on the couch and cry and think of all the wonderful things we were going to miss out on now that I had miscarried. I would cry so long my eyes would turn red and puffy. I had no energy. I had no desire to get up and do anything. I thought to myself, "This must be what depression feels like... Wow it really does suck as much as the commercials say it does."
After lying around like that for most of the day, I would get a burst of energy around 3:00pm and try to scurry around the apartment, cleaning and organizing as I went before Mike got home from his new job. I would start dinner around 4:00pm so it would be hot and ready by the time he got home. He had staples in his diet I tried to accomodate, and I had certain things I would NOT eat under any circumstance that he learned to work around as well. He was definitely the better cook of the two of us, but I couldn't expect him to work forty hours a week, come home to a weeping wife, cook AND clean, too... could I? Well, no of course not. That wouldn't do at all. So, I tried my best to domesticate myself. The nights we were invited over to my parents or his parents for dinner were the best! My mom said she couldn't get used to cooking for a smaller family anyway, so we may as well come over and help them eat so there wouldn't be as many left-overs. It was a welcome invitation. Who knew how many family dinners we had left, anyway? While thinking this, my mind would suddenly flash back to the waiting room at the hospital where mom had her surgery...
"It will be ok," my cousin stroked my shoulder. She was doing her best not to fall apart herself. I kept thinking the tears would start falling from her almond colored eyes at any minute, but they never did. They just glazed over as she spoke. I stared at her, unblinking. Unthinking. I urged my mind to think. I urged it to try and process the events of the day, but it refused. I shifted my gaze back to the double swinging doors the surgeons had just gone back through. Two or three years. That is what they said. They had left the surgery earlier than expected and they had said, "There is less than a 1% chance of her beating this... she has two or three years left. That's it. Sorry." They were so robotic. I felt hatred and pity for them all at once. I wanted to slap them and hug them. Can you imagine having to tell an entire family that their matriarch was dying? I felt my knees give way and my limbs start to tingle. I hung on to my father as if he were a flotation device keeping me from becoming lost at sea. I don't remember how the chair appeared underneath me, all I know is that I was sitting in it out in the middle of the hallway when Amber was talking to me. Everyone else was gone. I don't know where they went. I just know that I was sitting in the chair, and Amber was kneeling in front of me, wearing a worrisome expression. It couldn't have been easy for her. But she looked so strong and sure that I almost believed her, "It will be ok. She's going to be ok. Bec--are you all right?" I couldn't even cry. I just sat there motionless and unresponsive. There was nothing to say...
"Could you set the table, Bec?" my mom called from the living room.
"Sure. Which plates? Strawberries?" I would ask, knowing full-well that we would use the twenty-four year old stoneware strawberry plates.
"Yes, that will be fine. Dinner will be done in a few minutes."
"Ok."
And I would set the table. I would wait for dinner. I would understand that I would always feel at home in my parents' house no matter how long I had been married. I would find out that it doesn't matter what you fight about-- it matters how you handle the fight and what happens afterwards. I would realize that it isn't about how much time you spend IN a house that makes it home-- it is WHO you spend that time with, and how you adapt that makes a house or apartment or condo or box on the corner a REAL home.
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Back Out to Sea
I laid there still for a long, long time. My eyes fixed on nothing. My mind racing and shuddering like an engine that is about 10,000 miles overdue for an oil change. I did not want to leave this place. I did not want to return to the world that awaited me 450 miles northeast of here. I wanted time to stop. I wanted it to be possible for Mike and I to live out the rest of our days drinking expensive wine and tequila, fishing for our dinner in the Taneycomo, and watching the sun come up over rolling, tree-covered hills as far as the eye could see. Maybe we would even pick up a funny accent and learn how to play the banjo so we could star in our own country show on the strip. We could become natives and laugh at the tourists taking pictures of things we saw everyday. Yes, I thought. Let's do that. Let's stay here. If we stay here, time will stand still.
Of course, most newly-weds are a little disheartened on the last day of their honeymoon-- even if they could only afford to go to Branson, Missouri. But for us, it wasn't just the end of a wonderful memory. It wasn't just time for us to "grow up." For us, it meant setting back out into that damned black water. It meant giving up the rafts and sailing away from the lights onshore. There was nothing to look forward to. There was nothing to keep our mind off the inevitable. There was just... nothing. And it was all hitting me as I curled into the plush comforter of the king-size bed. That stupid voice was coming back. She is going to die... and now you aren't even pregnant. What if you can't even HAVE kids. What then? You have to deal with it now. There is nothing else to deal with. No happy interjections to get caught up in, no baby showers or homecomings to prepare for... You have to go back to your life. And guess what? Your life really fucking sucks.
I wiped at the tears. This was becoming all too common. How many pillow cases was I going to ruin with mascara stains? Better build that into the monthly budget. Or learn how to get mascara stains out of pillow cases. Yes, that would probably be a much better option. We packed up our belongings, threw them in the car and headed away from our tiny oasis. It was time to go back to our problems. It was time to quit pretending that everything was fine. The honeymoon was literally over. It was time to begin dealing with everything that had happened in the last three and a half months. Sink or swim, we were going back out into the water.
Of course, most newly-weds are a little disheartened on the last day of their honeymoon-- even if they could only afford to go to Branson, Missouri. But for us, it wasn't just the end of a wonderful memory. It wasn't just time for us to "grow up." For us, it meant setting back out into that damned black water. It meant giving up the rafts and sailing away from the lights onshore. There was nothing to look forward to. There was nothing to keep our mind off the inevitable. There was just... nothing. And it was all hitting me as I curled into the plush comforter of the king-size bed. That stupid voice was coming back. She is going to die... and now you aren't even pregnant. What if you can't even HAVE kids. What then? You have to deal with it now. There is nothing else to deal with. No happy interjections to get caught up in, no baby showers or homecomings to prepare for... You have to go back to your life. And guess what? Your life really fucking sucks.
I wiped at the tears. This was becoming all too common. How many pillow cases was I going to ruin with mascara stains? Better build that into the monthly budget. Or learn how to get mascara stains out of pillow cases. Yes, that would probably be a much better option. We packed up our belongings, threw them in the car and headed away from our tiny oasis. It was time to go back to our problems. It was time to quit pretending that everything was fine. The honeymoon was literally over. It was time to begin dealing with everything that had happened in the last three and a half months. Sink or swim, we were going back out into the water.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
The Journals
Recently, someone asked me how I remember all that was going on during one of the most stressful times of my life. "Do you have journals?" Yes, I have journals. But I don't look at them. I have unfinished novels based on the illusion that was my life before April 2004, and I have unfinished novels based on everything that happened after. But the settings for these are mostly my mind, so I don't feel they will be of much interest to many people. And besides, I am a perfectionist as well as a procrastinator, which means I will never actually finish anything in life that I set out to do.
But to answer the original question, these memories are just burned into my being. I think things over and over, until they are bored into the files and vaults that have taken up shop in the twisty, winding tunnels of my memory. It is almost an obsession. Could I have done that differently? A better response would have been...blah blah blah. If I could take that one conversation and erase it, or make it better the outcome could have been so much different. Basically, I'm a freak. But I don't remember everything. No one can remember everything.
And so I blog about the things I do remember-- the things that stick out in my mind, the scenarios I have played over and over again on the front screen of my mind. The gaps? Well, the gaps are composed now of bits of feelings that I remember... a phrase here, a nostalgic glance here. I weave them together to get myself to recall the moment. There is some ad-libbing, but it is not fiction. The outcome of each and every instance is real. And there ARE the journals, which hold the real memories, vaulted away as soon as they came into being.
One day I decided to look in one of my journals, to see if I could conjour a new feeling, or a new understanding of a painful memory that was hiding just beneath the surface of my conscious awareness... but I couldn't force myself to finish reading it. I got physically ill going back to that place. The place I was in when I first wrote it. It was frantic, sprawling script that looked as if it belonged to a mad-woman. It did not have the bubbling half print, half cursive font most of my letters possess. In fact, I didn't recognize it at all, but of course it was mine.
I began to read the journal entry of this possessed mad-woman who had been me just three short years ago, and I began to sob and shake. This woman was so tortured and alone. She wrote of helplessness and depression. She wrote of wanting to be happy and at the same time not deserving it. I slammed the leather-bound book shut. It was too painful. It was too real. I would stick to writing about the things I was ready to deal with. I will not open the journals again, maybe forever. Maybe I will throw them in a fire and watch them burn. Maybe I will bury them until I am strong enough to confront the raw emotion attached to each and every page. Maybe I will begin a new chapter in a new journal and tell of all the things for which I am thankful each and every day. And maybe eventually, these chapters will cancel out the old.
But to answer the original question, these memories are just burned into my being. I think things over and over, until they are bored into the files and vaults that have taken up shop in the twisty, winding tunnels of my memory. It is almost an obsession. Could I have done that differently? A better response would have been...blah blah blah. If I could take that one conversation and erase it, or make it better the outcome could have been so much different. Basically, I'm a freak. But I don't remember everything. No one can remember everything.
And so I blog about the things I do remember-- the things that stick out in my mind, the scenarios I have played over and over again on the front screen of my mind. The gaps? Well, the gaps are composed now of bits of feelings that I remember... a phrase here, a nostalgic glance here. I weave them together to get myself to recall the moment. There is some ad-libbing, but it is not fiction. The outcome of each and every instance is real. And there ARE the journals, which hold the real memories, vaulted away as soon as they came into being.
One day I decided to look in one of my journals, to see if I could conjour a new feeling, or a new understanding of a painful memory that was hiding just beneath the surface of my conscious awareness... but I couldn't force myself to finish reading it. I got physically ill going back to that place. The place I was in when I first wrote it. It was frantic, sprawling script that looked as if it belonged to a mad-woman. It did not have the bubbling half print, half cursive font most of my letters possess. In fact, I didn't recognize it at all, but of course it was mine.
I began to read the journal entry of this possessed mad-woman who had been me just three short years ago, and I began to sob and shake. This woman was so tortured and alone. She wrote of helplessness and depression. She wrote of wanting to be happy and at the same time not deserving it. I slammed the leather-bound book shut. It was too painful. It was too real. I would stick to writing about the things I was ready to deal with. I will not open the journals again, maybe forever. Maybe I will throw them in a fire and watch them burn. Maybe I will bury them until I am strong enough to confront the raw emotion attached to each and every page. Maybe I will begin a new chapter in a new journal and tell of all the things for which I am thankful each and every day. And maybe eventually, these chapters will cancel out the old.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The Lighthouse: Part Two
Here we go... We're walking down the aisle. My daddy is going to give me away in just a few minutes. Just got to get down these stairs made of--SNAG, TRIP (a little) and RECOVER-- pointy rocks, around the fountain and into the gazebo. This is going to be short, sweet, and to the point. If my bridesmaids start crying I am going to have to shoot them... deep breath, walk, walk, walk...
As we walked down the aisle in the 80 degree sun, I looked around at everyone standing in the midst of row after row of blooming roses. My cousin was playing beautiful, whimsical music on her piano. I had told her to pick whatever she thought would sound best, as long as it wasn't too traditional. And now she was playing, and we were walking, and people were standing (why were they standing? I specifically said I didn't want anyone to stand while I walked down the aisle. Ugh, oh well) and soon we would be up front at the gazebo, saying our vows.
The bridesmaids were gorgeous. The groomsmen were handsome (and hot--it was eighty degrees and we were outside). The ceremony was short and to the point (which was excellent, because it was eighty degrees). The highlight was my mother singing The Lord's Prayer unexpectedly. She didn't tell anyone except Uncle Howard since he was officiating. She didn't even tell my dad. She said she didn't want to commit to doing it in case she didn't feel well that day and wouldn't be up to it. But, she stood up after the blessing and started singing. Immediately I could hear someone start crying. Elissha. It has to be Elissha. Well, I will shoot her later, I thought. Then I heard another sniffle. And another. Soon my entire row of strong supporters was sniffling and wiping away tears. Oh, hell. Then I was sniffling and wiping away tears. Thank God for water-proof mascara.
The vows were recited. Uncle Howard told Mike that he could slip in the omitted, "obey" phrase for fifty dollars. Luckily, Mike decided not to take him up on that offer. We kissed. We smiled. We were pelted with what felt like twenty pounds of bird seed. We took picture after picture after picture. And it was wonderful. Wonderful because we were now together, wonderful because so many of our friends and family were there to help us celebrate, and wonderful because for a little while we could pretend like we were all going to live happily ever after. And it really felt like that could be true on July 31, 2004.
As we walked down the aisle in the 80 degree sun, I looked around at everyone standing in the midst of row after row of blooming roses. My cousin was playing beautiful, whimsical music on her piano. I had told her to pick whatever she thought would sound best, as long as it wasn't too traditional. And now she was playing, and we were walking, and people were standing (why were they standing? I specifically said I didn't want anyone to stand while I walked down the aisle. Ugh, oh well) and soon we would be up front at the gazebo, saying our vows.
The bridesmaids were gorgeous. The groomsmen were handsome (and hot--it was eighty degrees and we were outside). The ceremony was short and to the point (which was excellent, because it was eighty degrees). The highlight was my mother singing The Lord's Prayer unexpectedly. She didn't tell anyone except Uncle Howard since he was officiating. She didn't even tell my dad. She said she didn't want to commit to doing it in case she didn't feel well that day and wouldn't be up to it. But, she stood up after the blessing and started singing. Immediately I could hear someone start crying. Elissha. It has to be Elissha. Well, I will shoot her later, I thought. Then I heard another sniffle. And another. Soon my entire row of strong supporters was sniffling and wiping away tears. Oh, hell. Then I was sniffling and wiping away tears. Thank God for water-proof mascara.
The vows were recited. Uncle Howard told Mike that he could slip in the omitted, "obey" phrase for fifty dollars. Luckily, Mike decided not to take him up on that offer. We kissed. We smiled. We were pelted with what felt like twenty pounds of bird seed. We took picture after picture after picture. And it was wonderful. Wonderful because we were now together, wonderful because so many of our friends and family were there to help us celebrate, and wonderful because for a little while we could pretend like we were all going to live happily ever after. And it really felt like that could be true on July 31, 2004.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
The Lighthouse: Part One
Despite 2004 being one of the worst years ever for my family, it wasn't all bad. There were bright spots, little beacons we could see from our place on the shiftless dark waters that tried to swallow us up everytime we let our eyelids get a little heavy. There were lighthouses here and there, waving us out of our misery and letting us know that life was still going to march forward and we needed to wade ashore to join in. The biggest of these lighthouses that year? The wedding, of course.
The wedding was happening. We had planned and planned and planned. Ok, my cousins Amber and Lauren, my mother and mother-in-law had planned and planned and planned. I was never much of a wedding-type girl. I had not been planning my wedding since the day I first watched a Disney movie. I did not care what color my flowers were, or that there even were flowers. I had no idea what the centerpieces should look like, though I thought something edible seemed like a good idea. Yes, something edible and probably chocolate. My mother and Amber would press me relentlessly, "There isn't much time left, you NEED to make this decision soon. Which DJ? Which hall? The church or somewhere outdoors? What colors? Which caterer? Which, which, which?" My reply almost always, much to the chagrin of my entourage, was something to the effect of, "I don't know...? What do you think?" I truly did not care. My biggest requests were that I wanted the wedding outdoors, and I wanted everyone I truly cared about to be able to join in the celebration.
Somehow (and I still consider this a miracle of biblical proportions) the wedding had been planned. All of the required elements of the western wedding paradigm were in place. We had a DJ (who apparently could not read, because she kept insisting on smoking inside right in front of the giant NO SMOKING INSIDE sign), we had an outdoor nuptial location (a beautiful rose garden in full bloom), we had officiants (my uncle who is a Methodist minister, and my aunt who was in school to become a Methodist minister). We had a hall for the reception, we had bouquets, we had edible favors and decorations, we had free food, beer, and wine. I had a dress. My bridesmaids and flower girls had dresses. The groomsmen and ring-bearer had tuxes. We had photographers, cake-bakers, rings and did I mention free beer? We were done.
I could not have asked for a more perfect weekend than that weekend. All of my bridesmaids spent the night with me the night before the wedding. We stayed up doing our nails, drinking cocktails and exchanging hilarious stories. What a perfect night. Still to this day I think about the last night I got to spend with my two best friends from high school, my two best friends and loyal roommates from college, and three of my closest cousins. My support group had gathered around to make this last night of singlehood special. For me. In the morning my cousins woke up early and made everyone pancakes for breakfast. Then we set off for the hair salon to become intoxicated on hair-spray and mimosas.
My hair stylist (long-time hairdresser and friend) told me she had never had a bride so calm. I was not nervous at all. I had no doubt about anything that was going to happen that day. What was there to be nervous about? I remember thinking about the night we decided to move the wedding up to that summer. Initially we were going to wait until I was done with college. There were no concrete plans or dates set...
I was sitting in the room I shared with Whitney, my roommate on a wintry night in 2003. I adored my life away at college. I had great friends. I loved school. I had wonderful professors and great grades. One of the professors even mentioned that I could go to graduate school. In fact, it wasn't so much a "could go," as a "would go." Me. No teacher had ever had that much faith in me, before. I was doing so well here...
But, something was missing like it always was. I was just tired of being away from Mike. I was tired of having to plan visits to see him weeks in advance. I was tired of saying good night to him over the phone every night. I had just finished a phone conversation with him, in fact. He was pushing the issue of moving the wedding up again or maybe just moving in together. I thought of all the reasons it didn't make sense. No, no, no. We had a plan. Just stick to the plan! But even as I fought for the plan, something tugged at the back of my grey matter and told me to let the plan go. Just let it go.
After I had hung up the phone with Mike, I was crying just thinking about my future. What did it look like? I knew it started with Mike, but how soon did it begin? How was feeling this lonely good for me? Was I going to get a sign about what I should do? It seemed like God always sent me a sign when I needed help with a major decision--
knock knock!
"What?" I yelled, wiping my eyes hurriedly. Who the hell was it, now? For some reason I was the only one home that night. My roommates were working, or studying, or something. Before I could gather my thoughts, a burst of energy bounded into our living room, through the hall way and into my bedroom. I immediately recognized the bounding as belonging to our friend and neighbor Jeremiah.
"Hey! Where's Whitney? Hey... You're crying. Why are you crying?" I could already tell that this visit was not going to be helpful to my situation. I loved my friend Miah to death, but he was far from serious a majority of the time.
"She's at work. She'll be back later." I responded, annoyed that my last minute tear-wiping had not hidden the fact that I had been crying like a moron a few minutes earlier. He looked at me and sat down on the edge of my bed, something I had not expected him to do. He was much closer to Whitney than he ever was to me.
"Well, what's wrong? Are you ok?" I rolled my eyes up at him. Was he really trying to help? Well, no one else was around. I might as well let it out to someone...
"Yeah, I'm fine." Whew. That was hard.
"But, you're crying."
"Yeah, I'm ok."
"Oh, then why are you crying?"
I sighed. This was going nowhere. "I just got off the phone with Mike."
"Ew... did you guys break up?"
"NO!" I shook my head vigorously and sighed.
"No. It's just... we want to get married NOW, but we don't know if we should. I mean, we are just tired of being apart. That's all. It's just-- hard. And I am tired of sitting here all alone while everyone is always gone, and I just don't think my parents will understand-- but we really just want to get married now, ya know? I just feel alone here sometimes. I'm tired of it!"
Miah leaned over and searched my face for a moment. I remember his gaze being so sincere, looking at me with the most serious face he has ever given me to this day. He waited a minute, but not too long before he said,
"If you guys love each other THAT much, you will make it work. Just make it work. It will work. Just tell your parents how you feel. It will all work out." He gave me a big bear hug and went back next door to his own apartment. It was such a simple, sweet, short conversation that he probably doesn't even remember-- but it gave me the strength I needed to move the wedding up.
On the day of the wedding the only thing I feared was tripping over my dress or falling headlong into the wedding cake. Other than that, I was ready for the party to begin. I was ready for the marriage--not the WEDDING-- but the actual MARRIAGE. Too many people get caught up on that ONE DAY. It's only one day. It isn't going to define your whole life. It is just the gate through which you will be ushered before forming a meaninful, life-long (hopefully) commitment to this one person. It should be fun. It shouldn't matter if bridesmaid number three bought the wrong shoes, or the color of the roses were bisque insteand of bone. It shouldn't matter if the toasts are long and tearful, or short and hilarious. All that matters is that you are ready to spend your life with one person, and that everyone you love is there to spend that lifetime with you.
We were ready to be married. Yes, we were young. Yes, we were stupid. And yes, we were doing the right thing. I was sure of it.
The wedding was happening. We had planned and planned and planned. Ok, my cousins Amber and Lauren, my mother and mother-in-law had planned and planned and planned. I was never much of a wedding-type girl. I had not been planning my wedding since the day I first watched a Disney movie. I did not care what color my flowers were, or that there even were flowers. I had no idea what the centerpieces should look like, though I thought something edible seemed like a good idea. Yes, something edible and probably chocolate. My mother and Amber would press me relentlessly, "There isn't much time left, you NEED to make this decision soon. Which DJ? Which hall? The church or somewhere outdoors? What colors? Which caterer? Which, which, which?" My reply almost always, much to the chagrin of my entourage, was something to the effect of, "I don't know...? What do you think?" I truly did not care. My biggest requests were that I wanted the wedding outdoors, and I wanted everyone I truly cared about to be able to join in the celebration.
Somehow (and I still consider this a miracle of biblical proportions) the wedding had been planned. All of the required elements of the western wedding paradigm were in place. We had a DJ (who apparently could not read, because she kept insisting on smoking inside right in front of the giant NO SMOKING INSIDE sign), we had an outdoor nuptial location (a beautiful rose garden in full bloom), we had officiants (my uncle who is a Methodist minister, and my aunt who was in school to become a Methodist minister). We had a hall for the reception, we had bouquets, we had edible favors and decorations, we had free food, beer, and wine. I had a dress. My bridesmaids and flower girls had dresses. The groomsmen and ring-bearer had tuxes. We had photographers, cake-bakers, rings and did I mention free beer? We were done.
I could not have asked for a more perfect weekend than that weekend. All of my bridesmaids spent the night with me the night before the wedding. We stayed up doing our nails, drinking cocktails and exchanging hilarious stories. What a perfect night. Still to this day I think about the last night I got to spend with my two best friends from high school, my two best friends and loyal roommates from college, and three of my closest cousins. My support group had gathered around to make this last night of singlehood special. For me. In the morning my cousins woke up early and made everyone pancakes for breakfast. Then we set off for the hair salon to become intoxicated on hair-spray and mimosas.
My hair stylist (long-time hairdresser and friend) told me she had never had a bride so calm. I was not nervous at all. I had no doubt about anything that was going to happen that day. What was there to be nervous about? I remember thinking about the night we decided to move the wedding up to that summer. Initially we were going to wait until I was done with college. There were no concrete plans or dates set...
I was sitting in the room I shared with Whitney, my roommate on a wintry night in 2003. I adored my life away at college. I had great friends. I loved school. I had wonderful professors and great grades. One of the professors even mentioned that I could go to graduate school. In fact, it wasn't so much a "could go," as a "would go." Me. No teacher had ever had that much faith in me, before. I was doing so well here...
But, something was missing like it always was. I was just tired of being away from Mike. I was tired of having to plan visits to see him weeks in advance. I was tired of saying good night to him over the phone every night. I had just finished a phone conversation with him, in fact. He was pushing the issue of moving the wedding up again or maybe just moving in together. I thought of all the reasons it didn't make sense. No, no, no. We had a plan. Just stick to the plan! But even as I fought for the plan, something tugged at the back of my grey matter and told me to let the plan go. Just let it go.
After I had hung up the phone with Mike, I was crying just thinking about my future. What did it look like? I knew it started with Mike, but how soon did it begin? How was feeling this lonely good for me? Was I going to get a sign about what I should do? It seemed like God always sent me a sign when I needed help with a major decision--
knock knock!
"What?" I yelled, wiping my eyes hurriedly. Who the hell was it, now? For some reason I was the only one home that night. My roommates were working, or studying, or something. Before I could gather my thoughts, a burst of energy bounded into our living room, through the hall way and into my bedroom. I immediately recognized the bounding as belonging to our friend and neighbor Jeremiah.
"Hey! Where's Whitney? Hey... You're crying. Why are you crying?" I could already tell that this visit was not going to be helpful to my situation. I loved my friend Miah to death, but he was far from serious a majority of the time.
"She's at work. She'll be back later." I responded, annoyed that my last minute tear-wiping had not hidden the fact that I had been crying like a moron a few minutes earlier. He looked at me and sat down on the edge of my bed, something I had not expected him to do. He was much closer to Whitney than he ever was to me.
"Well, what's wrong? Are you ok?" I rolled my eyes up at him. Was he really trying to help? Well, no one else was around. I might as well let it out to someone...
"Yeah, I'm fine." Whew. That was hard.
"But, you're crying."
"Yeah, I'm ok."
"Oh, then why are you crying?"
I sighed. This was going nowhere. "I just got off the phone with Mike."
"Ew... did you guys break up?"
"NO!" I shook my head vigorously and sighed.
"No. It's just... we want to get married NOW, but we don't know if we should. I mean, we are just tired of being apart. That's all. It's just-- hard. And I am tired of sitting here all alone while everyone is always gone, and I just don't think my parents will understand-- but we really just want to get married now, ya know? I just feel alone here sometimes. I'm tired of it!"
Miah leaned over and searched my face for a moment. I remember his gaze being so sincere, looking at me with the most serious face he has ever given me to this day. He waited a minute, but not too long before he said,
"If you guys love each other THAT much, you will make it work. Just make it work. It will work. Just tell your parents how you feel. It will all work out." He gave me a big bear hug and went back next door to his own apartment. It was such a simple, sweet, short conversation that he probably doesn't even remember-- but it gave me the strength I needed to move the wedding up.
On the day of the wedding the only thing I feared was tripping over my dress or falling headlong into the wedding cake. Other than that, I was ready for the party to begin. I was ready for the marriage--not the WEDDING-- but the actual MARRIAGE. Too many people get caught up on that ONE DAY. It's only one day. It isn't going to define your whole life. It is just the gate through which you will be ushered before forming a meaninful, life-long (hopefully) commitment to this one person. It should be fun. It shouldn't matter if bridesmaid number three bought the wrong shoes, or the color of the roses were bisque insteand of bone. It shouldn't matter if the toasts are long and tearful, or short and hilarious. All that matters is that you are ready to spend your life with one person, and that everyone you love is there to spend that lifetime with you.
We were ready to be married. Yes, we were young. Yes, we were stupid. And yes, we were doing the right thing. I was sure of it.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
"...and other duties as assigned."
The wedding was quickly approaching. I found myself getting more excited about it, but also wondering more and more, "Why does Mike still want to do this?"
I found myself pondering all of these irrational thoughts, but at the same time knowing full-well that Mike was probably not pondering them himself. He was still signing on. He was still going through with it all. He wasn't regretting the proposal one bit. Everything that was happening to me was happening just as much to him. He was already living the "in sickness... and for worse," parts of his upcoming nuptial vows. He didn't have to, but he was.
A co-worker who was recently re-reading her job description told me that 80% of her daily activities fell under the umbrella of the catch-all phrase found hidden at the very bottom of most job descriptions, "and other duties as assigned." How many of us really look at that phrase and prepare for all that may entail? Most of us gloss over that part of our contract (and that phrase haunts most of those I have encountered). We optimistically assume that MOST of our daily work routine will consist of using the skills and education and experiences pertinent to the title of our job and we whine and complain when outside tasks are assigned to us. "How can my boss ask me to cover the front desk today? Doesn't she know I have to take care of my case-load right now, too? Besides, I didn't go to school to become a secretary! I graduated Magna Cum Laude, for crying out loud I can't be ANSWERING PHONES ALL DAY!"
This catch-all phrase is hidden in most of the descriptions we are assigned in life. It is even hidden in the marital jargon most of us use on our wedding days. "For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse." In other words, you will be required to be a friend, soul-mate, lover, partner, confidante, banker, life-goals coach, audience, inspiration, cheer leader, pillar of strength... and other duties as assigned. Yes, you expect to be a loving spouse. You expect to pick out throw rugs, curtains, and bedroom furniture. You expect to be present at the birth of your children, you expect to have to give hugs, kisses and cuddles at the appropriate times. You assume that you will be expected to be supportive and helpful around the house, and you expect that you will have to remember important dates like birthdays, anniversaries, and all holidays. But what about the rest? What about the other duties you will be assigned in the future? That's where it all falls apart for some people, isn't it? That's where the mess is.
Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on how you look at it) I was learning upfront that my fiance was in it for the long haul. He had had a glimpse of the worst and the sickness and he was still there. He wasn't going anywhere. We were going to be married, and no matter what else life was getting ready to throw at us, at least I knew I wouldn't be alone with the fall-out. It may not be the Happily Ever After story we thought it would be. And it was definitely going to be messier than we had originally bargained for, but sometimes you find that your area of expertise, or the role you were meant to play is buried on the side-lines. You wouldn't have found it had it not been for those "other duties as assigned."
He had signed up for the easy job. He had proposed with the expectation that our lives would be long, healthy, and normal. Happily Ever After. Isn't that what everyone expects? He had signed on to be the husband of a mentally stable, strong-willed, smart-ass. Instead, four months before the wedding he had found out that his wife-to-be had a 50% chance of developing the same disease that was going to kill her mother prematurely. On top of that, he wanted kids, and his wife-to-be had just lost her very first pregnancy... what if she couldn't have kids at all? What would he think, then? Mental stability? Gone. She was prone to melt-downs at every turn. This was NOT the same woman he had asked to marry him. This was NOT the pre-wedding anxiety he was expecting. This was NOT the way Happily Ever After stories begin. Why didn't he leave? Why was he still here? He was always there. He was still madly in love with her.
I found myself pondering all of these irrational thoughts, but at the same time knowing full-well that Mike was probably not pondering them himself. He was still signing on. He was still going through with it all. He wasn't regretting the proposal one bit. Everything that was happening to me was happening just as much to him. He was already living the "in sickness... and for worse," parts of his upcoming nuptial vows. He didn't have to, but he was.
A co-worker who was recently re-reading her job description told me that 80% of her daily activities fell under the umbrella of the catch-all phrase found hidden at the very bottom of most job descriptions, "and other duties as assigned." How many of us really look at that phrase and prepare for all that may entail? Most of us gloss over that part of our contract (and that phrase haunts most of those I have encountered). We optimistically assume that MOST of our daily work routine will consist of using the skills and education and experiences pertinent to the title of our job and we whine and complain when outside tasks are assigned to us. "How can my boss ask me to cover the front desk today? Doesn't she know I have to take care of my case-load right now, too? Besides, I didn't go to school to become a secretary! I graduated Magna Cum Laude, for crying out loud I can't be ANSWERING PHONES ALL DAY!"
This catch-all phrase is hidden in most of the descriptions we are assigned in life. It is even hidden in the marital jargon most of us use on our wedding days. "For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, for better or for worse." In other words, you will be required to be a friend, soul-mate, lover, partner, confidante, banker, life-goals coach, audience, inspiration, cheer leader, pillar of strength... and other duties as assigned. Yes, you expect to be a loving spouse. You expect to pick out throw rugs, curtains, and bedroom furniture. You expect to be present at the birth of your children, you expect to have to give hugs, kisses and cuddles at the appropriate times. You assume that you will be expected to be supportive and helpful around the house, and you expect that you will have to remember important dates like birthdays, anniversaries, and all holidays. But what about the rest? What about the other duties you will be assigned in the future? That's where it all falls apart for some people, isn't it? That's where the mess is.
Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on how you look at it) I was learning upfront that my fiance was in it for the long haul. He had had a glimpse of the worst and the sickness and he was still there. He wasn't going anywhere. We were going to be married, and no matter what else life was getting ready to throw at us, at least I knew I wouldn't be alone with the fall-out. It may not be the Happily Ever After story we thought it would be. And it was definitely going to be messier than we had originally bargained for, but sometimes you find that your area of expertise, or the role you were meant to play is buried on the side-lines. You wouldn't have found it had it not been for those "other duties as assigned."
Saturday, April 24, 2010
The Puppy Substitute
After the miscarriage (in fact, the very next day) I got a new puppy. I didn't start out the day thinking I would get a dog that day, but things just sort of progressed in that direction. I remember that it was July 6, 2004. It was the first business day after Fourth of July, and I had an appointment with my obstetrician to discuss the weekend's events. My mom had her own doctor's appointment to attend to that day, Mike had a brand new job he was starting, my Dad of course had to work... so my Grandma went with me to the doctor.
"Well, it sounds like everything passed on it's own. I don't think surgery is warranted," my OB assured me. I nodded, speechlessly. Hadn't I just been here less than a week ago? Hadn't I been here so excited about the upcoming birth of my baby?
The OB looked at me, worriedly.
"You know, I lost a baby while I was in med. school... even though I had read all the studies, I still blamed myself for losing that baby, but it wasn't my fault," she paused for a moment and looked me square in the eyes, "and this is not your fault, either. These things just happen." I nodded again even though I really didn't feel like it. Of course it was my fault. Wasn't everything? Surely I had done something in the past to warrant the shame and guilt I now felt.
My grandmother took me back to her house. I just couldn't bear to be myself, and I don't think she could bear to leave me. Besides, after finding out I was pregnant, Mike and I decided to take my grandparents up on their offer to let us live at their house for a while after the wedding. They owned a gigantic Victorian duplex and there was a cute little apartment sitting empty on one side of the house. We could live there for a year or so and save money to buy our own place. It seemed like a perfect fit. After the miscarriage, we continued with our plans. So, I went back with Grandma. My grandpa was there and I casually asked him, "So grandpa... what would you think if we had a pet? Would that be ok?" My grandpa looked at me, "Like what? Like a dog? Do you want a dog?" My sweet Gramps... always jumping the gun and trying to make all of us grandkids happy--"Well, I mean, you know, maybe--someday. I was just wondering if it would be ok to have a dog over there... I don't want to get one if you don't want us to," I stammered.
"Why? Do you want to get a dog? You can have a dog. That's fine. Do you want a dog?" he asked. I sat and really thought about it for a moment. I had had a dog my entire life. Once I moved out of my parents' house, I wouldn't really have a dog of my own. That was a fine thought while I was pregnant, but now that I had lost the baby...
"Yes, I do want a dog. Not now, but maybe someday. I mean, is it ok to have one in the apartment if we find one we want?"
Not an hour later my grandfather had driven me to the pound to look at the dogs. A litter of yellow lab/golden retriever mixes had just been brought in. They were just little yellow fluff-balls, corralled into a temporary plastic fence.
"Do you see one that you would like?" Grandpa asked. I looked over the fencing. All of the dogs were jumping up at me to get my attention... all but one. One of them was sitting as far back as possible and looking up at me with his giant brown eyes. He looked almost as sad as I felt. I bent over to pick him up. I just couldn't help myself.
"This one is cute, " I said. He was the runt of the litter. My grandpa looked him over. "He's not very sociable... but he sure is darling, ain't he?" I looked at the dog. He had slung his head over my shoulder and was lounging comfortably while his brothers and sisters jumped against the fencing and yelped at me relentlessly. He nuzzled into my neck. I immediately fell in love.
"Yep, Grandpa... this is the one." My grandpa smiled and patted the tiny little puppy on my shoulder. "Ok. Let's go see what we have to do to take this little guy home."
The puppies had just come in and were in need of worming. We were told to come back in a few hours to pick up my new dog. I wondered what my parents would say. After all, I would be living there (with my new puppy) for a few more weeks. What would Mike say? He was a dog person and he loved retrievers... I hoped he would fall in love with this puppy the way I did. How could he not? He was so loveable and fluffy! I couldn't stop thinking about him!
The hours passed and Grandpa and I went back to claim my new pup. I couldn't believe it-- this morning I had been sitting in my OB's office ready to bawl my eyes out, and now I had this new little being to take care of! I took him back to my parents' house. Everyone fell in love with him. Mike came home from his first day at his new job and instantly loved the puppy! He was a Godsend... the only thing left to do was to name him!
"What should we name this little runt?" I asked Mike. He shrugged. It took three days to name him! Finally we settled on the name "Chase." He chased everything he saw. He chased birds, he chased babies, he chased people ten times his size... Chase was the perfect name. And he is still the perfect dog to this day (even though he still freaks out during thunderstorms)! I don't know what I would have done between the time I lost Baby Nemo and the time I got pregnant with Liv if it hadn't been for my runt-puppy--Chase.
"Well, it sounds like everything passed on it's own. I don't think surgery is warranted," my OB assured me. I nodded, speechlessly. Hadn't I just been here less than a week ago? Hadn't I been here so excited about the upcoming birth of my baby?
The OB looked at me, worriedly.
"You know, I lost a baby while I was in med. school... even though I had read all the studies, I still blamed myself for losing that baby, but it wasn't my fault," she paused for a moment and looked me square in the eyes, "and this is not your fault, either. These things just happen." I nodded again even though I really didn't feel like it. Of course it was my fault. Wasn't everything? Surely I had done something in the past to warrant the shame and guilt I now felt.
My grandmother took me back to her house. I just couldn't bear to be myself, and I don't think she could bear to leave me. Besides, after finding out I was pregnant, Mike and I decided to take my grandparents up on their offer to let us live at their house for a while after the wedding. They owned a gigantic Victorian duplex and there was a cute little apartment sitting empty on one side of the house. We could live there for a year or so and save money to buy our own place. It seemed like a perfect fit. After the miscarriage, we continued with our plans. So, I went back with Grandma. My grandpa was there and I casually asked him, "So grandpa... what would you think if we had a pet? Would that be ok?" My grandpa looked at me, "Like what? Like a dog? Do you want a dog?" My sweet Gramps... always jumping the gun and trying to make all of us grandkids happy--"Well, I mean, you know, maybe--someday. I was just wondering if it would be ok to have a dog over there... I don't want to get one if you don't want us to," I stammered.
"Why? Do you want to get a dog? You can have a dog. That's fine. Do you want a dog?" he asked. I sat and really thought about it for a moment. I had had a dog my entire life. Once I moved out of my parents' house, I wouldn't really have a dog of my own. That was a fine thought while I was pregnant, but now that I had lost the baby...
"Yes, I do want a dog. Not now, but maybe someday. I mean, is it ok to have one in the apartment if we find one we want?"
Not an hour later my grandfather had driven me to the pound to look at the dogs. A litter of yellow lab/golden retriever mixes had just been brought in. They were just little yellow fluff-balls, corralled into a temporary plastic fence.
"Do you see one that you would like?" Grandpa asked. I looked over the fencing. All of the dogs were jumping up at me to get my attention... all but one. One of them was sitting as far back as possible and looking up at me with his giant brown eyes. He looked almost as sad as I felt. I bent over to pick him up. I just couldn't help myself.
"This one is cute, " I said. He was the runt of the litter. My grandpa looked him over. "He's not very sociable... but he sure is darling, ain't he?" I looked at the dog. He had slung his head over my shoulder and was lounging comfortably while his brothers and sisters jumped against the fencing and yelped at me relentlessly. He nuzzled into my neck. I immediately fell in love.
"Yep, Grandpa... this is the one." My grandpa smiled and patted the tiny little puppy on my shoulder. "Ok. Let's go see what we have to do to take this little guy home."
The puppies had just come in and were in need of worming. We were told to come back in a few hours to pick up my new dog. I wondered what my parents would say. After all, I would be living there (with my new puppy) for a few more weeks. What would Mike say? He was a dog person and he loved retrievers... I hoped he would fall in love with this puppy the way I did. How could he not? He was so loveable and fluffy! I couldn't stop thinking about him!
The hours passed and Grandpa and I went back to claim my new pup. I couldn't believe it-- this morning I had been sitting in my OB's office ready to bawl my eyes out, and now I had this new little being to take care of! I took him back to my parents' house. Everyone fell in love with him. Mike came home from his first day at his new job and instantly loved the puppy! He was a Godsend... the only thing left to do was to name him!
"What should we name this little runt?" I asked Mike. He shrugged. It took three days to name him! Finally we settled on the name "Chase." He chased everything he saw. He chased birds, he chased babies, he chased people ten times his size... Chase was the perfect name. And he is still the perfect dog to this day (even though he still freaks out during thunderstorms)! I don't know what I would have done between the time I lost Baby Nemo and the time I got pregnant with Liv if it hadn't been for my runt-puppy--Chase.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Baby Nemo
"It looks like a fish," she said. "Yeah. A little alien fish!" I agreed as I looked up at my cousin.
"But the doctor said everything looks perfect. Perfect heart rate, perfect measurements... Perfect." I put the picture of the sonogram down. My young silly cousin said we should call the baby Nemo until we found out the gender. I laughed. Yes, I was 21 and I still loved watching kid movies and Finding Nemo was currently my favorite. That Ellen cracked me up. "Nemo it is."
I was only 7.5 weeks pregnant, but I had gotten in to see the my obstetrician a little early. With all the stress and anxiety around me, I had begun to worry and I had some spotting. The doctor had me come in immediately and she ordered an ultrasound. Everything looked "perfect." Those were her words, not mine. Mike and I were excited... it was starting to feel more real. I started having those panicky moments that every mom has, "Holy shit there really is a tiny little person in there (or some kind of fish...it was still too early to be sure) and eventually she is going to come out and I am going to be expected to know what to do with her!" We began informing everyone around us that we were expecting. A storm of questions from every direction ensued:
"Is that why you're getting married?" Yes, we got engaged two years ago and have had the date set for the last six months because we knew we would get pregnant four months before the wedding.
"Are you going to finish school?" No, I thought it would be fun to drop out when I only have a year left. It would be great to start paying back all those student loans a year early... especially since I won't have a degree to show for it!
"What does Mike think? Is he freaking out?" Ok, I actually didn't have a smart-ass remark for this one. He was handling it all better than I was. Why wasn't anyone asking if *I* was freaking out? I was FREAKING OUT! Do you KNOW where babies come out from?!?
But the weeks went on. The morning sickness subdued earlier than expected. All the tell-tale signs of being in that early stage of pregnancy had abruptly disappeared. I was growing pretty fond of little Nemo. The excitement radiated out of Mike, my mom, and his mom... and it was starting to rub off on me. I was getting used to this "Mom" idea. I had been taking my walks and watching what I ate. I had given up caffeine totally and was drinking enough water... all the things the books tell you to do. I was going to do this right. By the time I reached my 12 week check-up I was feeling fantastic and I hadn't even gained any weight, yet. Mike accompanied me to the appointment. That was the day we were going to hear Baby Nemo's heartbeat for the first time.
"Hmmm... I can't seem to find it. How far along are you?" the physician's assistant asked while shoving the doppler monitor as far into my stomach without giving me a puncture wound as she could.
"Ummm... like 11.5 weeks?" I answered. She put the doppler away and looked at my chart. She smiled assuringly, "Well, ok. You aren't quite 12 weeks yet. Sometimes we can't find the little guy's beat for another week, or two. It looks like you had an ultrasound last time? And everything was fine? I wouldn't worry about it, but if you want to come back next week we will try again." Mike and I shrugged. I had read somewhere (and the P.A. assured us) that the chance of losing a baby after seeing the heartbeat was pretty low, so I decided we didn't need to make the extra appointment. We thanked her and left. I was heading into the second trimester and I didn't even care about not fitting into my wedding dress anymore, or the fact that I was going to have to have a dry bachelorette party and drink grape juice during the maid-of-honor's toast. I didn't even feel moody and hormonal anymore.
A few days later I woke up and went yard-saling with Mom. It was a Saturday. By the time we got done with our scavenging we were ravenous and decided to bring lunch home for my dad and the boys. I had just finished eating when I started feeling odd. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly. I didn't feel sick, but I didn't feel well either. I thought maybe the sandwich I had eaten was bad, but then it happened: some cramping followed by bright red blood. My mom called Mike at work to tell him she was taking me to the hospital.
An ultrasound in the ER confirmed our fears: no brain activity, no heart beat. I had seen the ultrasound as the technician performed it, but when I asked if anything was wrong I was told that the doctor would have to talk to me about it. They can't tell you anything and you always have to wait for the doctor to come in to confirm what the tech already knows. So we sat in my room-- Mike, my mom, and I-- just waiting for the doctor to come in. It seemed like it took hours, but that was all right with me. I wanted to wait as long as possible. As long as we were waiting, I could pretend that everything was still all right. As long as the doctor had not come in yet I had no reason to believe I wasn't really pregnant anymore. I could deny, deny, deny that flat-line I had seen on the monitor.
But of course the doctor did finally come in and tell us what I already knew. The baby was dead. She was still in there, but had probably been dead for four weeks. In fact, she had probably died just a few days after the "perfect" ultrasound. I had been carrying around a dead fetus for a month. I guess my body was just as good at being in denial as my mind was. It just didn't want to let go. It strung me along, letting me get comfortable with the idea of motherhood, letting me want something I never knew I wanted, and letting me get ready for a baby that wasn't going to come.
The only thoughts I remember from that ER room are as follows: Crack-heads and fifteen year olds have healthy kids every single day. I know moms who smoked and drank throughout their pregnancies. I know moms who didn't even want their kids. I know moms who got pregnant from one-night stands... all resulted in healthy pregnancies and babies. Why was this happening to us? I am such a failure. I can't even do what dogs and cats and prostitutes can do: MAKE A BABY! What is my husband-to-be thinking? Will he cut and run? I can't blame him if he does. Oh, God why did I consent to this catheter? It was highly unnecessary and extremely painful! Do I have to have surgery to get Nemo out of me now? What is going to happen?
They decided against a D&C (the surgery sometimes performed after a miscarriage). At the time I thought that was wonderful news and looking back, it was the best decision... but a few hours after I got home from the ER I really wanted to permanently maim whoever decided I could miscarry naturally. I was having actual, timeable contractions. Painful, painful contractions. Looking back now after giving birth twice naturally I can honestly say that my miscarriage was the most painful of any of the experiences. Maybe it was because I was so stressed out. Maybe it was because I had refused to eat or drink since we had gotten the bad news. Maybe I should've gone back to the ER and strangled the nurses who had sent me home with a sheet of paper indicating that I should be prepared for "minor cramping." Whatever the reason, it was awful and it lasted for two and a half days.
Luckily (for me), my mother knew what I was going through. She had been where I was... she had a miscarriage about a decade earlier. She could relate and for that I am forever grateful. She never left my side and she knew what to say, and what not to say (which is sometimes the more important of the two). I try to find the reasoning behind everything that happens in life and the selfish part of me likes to think that my mom had her miscarriage so she would be prepared to help me with mine. It brought us closer... and I remember thinking, "Well this is a shitty way to feel closer to someone, God. Couldn't you have just let us win a trip to Maui or something?"
But, no. This was just one more brick in the path we had to walk together that year. One more test. One more hurdle. One more notch in my Shitty-Things-I-Have-Had-To-Endure-Through-No-Fault-Of-My-Own belt. But everyone has one of those belts, right? To get through this I had to start thinking a certain way... I had to start thinking, "I am not the anomoly. The people with the perfect un-fucked up lives are the anomolies. I am going through what many people before me have gone through. And I will be ok. I have to be Ok. Everything will be ok...?" I had to put on my big-girl panties and realize that this free-ride was over. Life would be hard from here on out.
"But the doctor said everything looks perfect. Perfect heart rate, perfect measurements... Perfect." I put the picture of the sonogram down. My young silly cousin said we should call the baby Nemo until we found out the gender. I laughed. Yes, I was 21 and I still loved watching kid movies and Finding Nemo was currently my favorite. That Ellen cracked me up. "Nemo it is."
I was only 7.5 weeks pregnant, but I had gotten in to see the my obstetrician a little early. With all the stress and anxiety around me, I had begun to worry and I had some spotting. The doctor had me come in immediately and she ordered an ultrasound. Everything looked "perfect." Those were her words, not mine. Mike and I were excited... it was starting to feel more real. I started having those panicky moments that every mom has, "Holy shit there really is a tiny little person in there (or some kind of fish...it was still too early to be sure) and eventually she is going to come out and I am going to be expected to know what to do with her!" We began informing everyone around us that we were expecting. A storm of questions from every direction ensued:
"Is that why you're getting married?" Yes, we got engaged two years ago and have had the date set for the last six months because we knew we would get pregnant four months before the wedding.
"Are you going to finish school?" No, I thought it would be fun to drop out when I only have a year left. It would be great to start paying back all those student loans a year early... especially since I won't have a degree to show for it!
"What does Mike think? Is he freaking out?" Ok, I actually didn't have a smart-ass remark for this one. He was handling it all better than I was. Why wasn't anyone asking if *I* was freaking out? I was FREAKING OUT! Do you KNOW where babies come out from?!?
But the weeks went on. The morning sickness subdued earlier than expected. All the tell-tale signs of being in that early stage of pregnancy had abruptly disappeared. I was growing pretty fond of little Nemo. The excitement radiated out of Mike, my mom, and his mom... and it was starting to rub off on me. I was getting used to this "Mom" idea. I had been taking my walks and watching what I ate. I had given up caffeine totally and was drinking enough water... all the things the books tell you to do. I was going to do this right. By the time I reached my 12 week check-up I was feeling fantastic and I hadn't even gained any weight, yet. Mike accompanied me to the appointment. That was the day we were going to hear Baby Nemo's heartbeat for the first time.
"Hmmm... I can't seem to find it. How far along are you?" the physician's assistant asked while shoving the doppler monitor as far into my stomach without giving me a puncture wound as she could.
"Ummm... like 11.5 weeks?" I answered. She put the doppler away and looked at my chart. She smiled assuringly, "Well, ok. You aren't quite 12 weeks yet. Sometimes we can't find the little guy's beat for another week, or two. It looks like you had an ultrasound last time? And everything was fine? I wouldn't worry about it, but if you want to come back next week we will try again." Mike and I shrugged. I had read somewhere (and the P.A. assured us) that the chance of losing a baby after seeing the heartbeat was pretty low, so I decided we didn't need to make the extra appointment. We thanked her and left. I was heading into the second trimester and I didn't even care about not fitting into my wedding dress anymore, or the fact that I was going to have to have a dry bachelorette party and drink grape juice during the maid-of-honor's toast. I didn't even feel moody and hormonal anymore.
A few days later I woke up and went yard-saling with Mom. It was a Saturday. By the time we got done with our scavenging we were ravenous and decided to bring lunch home for my dad and the boys. I had just finished eating when I started feeling odd. I couldn't put my finger on it exactly. I didn't feel sick, but I didn't feel well either. I thought maybe the sandwich I had eaten was bad, but then it happened: some cramping followed by bright red blood. My mom called Mike at work to tell him she was taking me to the hospital.
An ultrasound in the ER confirmed our fears: no brain activity, no heart beat. I had seen the ultrasound as the technician performed it, but when I asked if anything was wrong I was told that the doctor would have to talk to me about it. They can't tell you anything and you always have to wait for the doctor to come in to confirm what the tech already knows. So we sat in my room-- Mike, my mom, and I-- just waiting for the doctor to come in. It seemed like it took hours, but that was all right with me. I wanted to wait as long as possible. As long as we were waiting, I could pretend that everything was still all right. As long as the doctor had not come in yet I had no reason to believe I wasn't really pregnant anymore. I could deny, deny, deny that flat-line I had seen on the monitor.
But of course the doctor did finally come in and tell us what I already knew. The baby was dead. She was still in there, but had probably been dead for four weeks. In fact, she had probably died just a few days after the "perfect" ultrasound. I had been carrying around a dead fetus for a month. I guess my body was just as good at being in denial as my mind was. It just didn't want to let go. It strung me along, letting me get comfortable with the idea of motherhood, letting me want something I never knew I wanted, and letting me get ready for a baby that wasn't going to come.
The only thoughts I remember from that ER room are as follows: Crack-heads and fifteen year olds have healthy kids every single day. I know moms who smoked and drank throughout their pregnancies. I know moms who didn't even want their kids. I know moms who got pregnant from one-night stands... all resulted in healthy pregnancies and babies. Why was this happening to us? I am such a failure. I can't even do what dogs and cats and prostitutes can do: MAKE A BABY! What is my husband-to-be thinking? Will he cut and run? I can't blame him if he does. Oh, God why did I consent to this catheter? It was highly unnecessary and extremely painful! Do I have to have surgery to get Nemo out of me now? What is going to happen?
They decided against a D&C (the surgery sometimes performed after a miscarriage). At the time I thought that was wonderful news and looking back, it was the best decision... but a few hours after I got home from the ER I really wanted to permanently maim whoever decided I could miscarry naturally. I was having actual, timeable contractions. Painful, painful contractions. Looking back now after giving birth twice naturally I can honestly say that my miscarriage was the most painful of any of the experiences. Maybe it was because I was so stressed out. Maybe it was because I had refused to eat or drink since we had gotten the bad news. Maybe I should've gone back to the ER and strangled the nurses who had sent me home with a sheet of paper indicating that I should be prepared for "minor cramping." Whatever the reason, it was awful and it lasted for two and a half days.
Luckily (for me), my mother knew what I was going through. She had been where I was... she had a miscarriage about a decade earlier. She could relate and for that I am forever grateful. She never left my side and she knew what to say, and what not to say (which is sometimes the more important of the two). I try to find the reasoning behind everything that happens in life and the selfish part of me likes to think that my mom had her miscarriage so she would be prepared to help me with mine. It brought us closer... and I remember thinking, "Well this is a shitty way to feel closer to someone, God. Couldn't you have just let us win a trip to Maui or something?"
But, no. This was just one more brick in the path we had to walk together that year. One more test. One more hurdle. One more notch in my Shitty-Things-I-Have-Had-To-Endure-Through-No-Fault-Of-My-Own belt. But everyone has one of those belts, right? To get through this I had to start thinking a certain way... I had to start thinking, "I am not the anomoly. The people with the perfect un-fucked up lives are the anomolies. I am going through what many people before me have gone through. And I will be ok. I have to be Ok. Everything will be ok...?" I had to put on my big-girl panties and realize that this free-ride was over. Life would be hard from here on out.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Not Today
Step One: Denial
The realness fades away after the surgeries are over, the chemo has begun and Mom gets used to her new self. We are home. We are looking ahead. We are all closer than ever and we are in denial. Well, at least I am in denial. Denial is what I do best. Ask anyone. Besides, I am getting married in a few months. I don't have the time or energy to deal with anything deeper than, "What color will your flowers be?" I am busy and about to get busier. I am about to become a wife and there are many things to do to get ready and only three months to do them.
Oh, and did I mention? Three weeks after mom gets home from her surgery I pee on a stick and a big pink plus sign appears. Two days after my finals, one day after I had gone out drinking for my best friend's birthday. Yep. I'm going to be a mom, too. I'm going to be a fat bride who can't have the wine at her own toast.
I am less than thrilled. My husband-to-be is MORE than thrilled, and my mom is in that boat with him. She gets to be a grandma after all which is the only thought that kept me from bursting into tears at the thought of it all. I knew mom wanted to be a grandma more than anything. I remember her talking about "When SHE has grandkids they will come over every Christmas and bake cookies." She had the aprons picked out and everything (and it was before Mike and I were ever engaged, so it was a little weird to me at the time)! So, I start believing that this pregnancy is a good thing. The doctors say Mom might last two or three years. So, maybe this baby will actually remember her a little. I start to cheer up. Mom and I start scourging the neighborhoods every Saturday for yard sales and gender-neutral baby clothes and toys and furniture and carseats and strollers and all the glorious things you buy when you are expecting.
We go on walks, and we take naps together in the afternoon, falling asleep watching Dharma & Greg re-runs. My semester is over and I am at home everyday and making a baby is exhausting. Mom is on a weak form of chemo at the moment and is feeling ok but just tired. I am starting to let myself be happy even though the voices in my head kept creeping in during those quiet moments, "She is going to die. Your mom is going to die." And I would hush them immediately, "Yes...but not today." And that is the secret for a while. That is the mantra that gets me through: Not today. She will be taken way too soon. But not today. Today we are going to go have lunch at TR's and come home and watch Roseanne re-runs and fall asleep--me on the couch and Mom in her recliner. We will wake up and have dinner with the boys and everything will be fine... for today.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Is it time? I think it's time...
I'm not serious most days. I don't know what it is about today, but I feel that today it might be time. It may be because today is the sixth anniversary of my mom being diagnosed with colon cancer--I remember the date so well because I can still vividly hear the GI doctor coming into her recovery room and telling my dad and me, "It's really bad," and for some stupid reason my mind started thinking, "Of course it's bad. This day is bad. It is tax day and the day the Titanic sunk... and now it is the day my entire world fell to pieces." I may feel like writing this entry today because a very dear friend of mine is going through the same agonizing experience with her mother as I type this and it has stirred feelings within me that I need to let go. Whatever the reason is, I have decided that right now I need to get back to life, or at the very least, make a valiant effort to do so. This means two things need to happen. Ok definitely more than two things. But we will start with these two:
1) I need to start scrapbooking again. Sounds weird, doesn't it? My mother and I loved to scrapbook together. Especially after Liv was born. God, my mom couldn't scrapbook fast enough! I have all of her scrapbooking stuff... papers, stickers, scissors, punch-outs, die-cuts, you name it! After Mom died, I didn't just quit scrapbooking-- I quit taking pictures altogether. I didn't want to remember it. I didn't WANT to remember a life without my mom. I didn't want to have to look at a family picture from some holiday and think, "Wow. What an empty hole."
A whole year. I missed out on recording an entire year of my daughter's life because I couldn't bear to let myself label any event as *important* without my mom around. I still have a hard time, but I'm getting better. I have started taking numerous pictures again. Of everything. And it's finally time to start putting them all back together again. It's time to take my memories and decorate them, put them into neat little boxes, journal about them and make them into something my kids will one day look at over and over and over... My mom would've wanted that. She would tell me that I am being crazy and that I should record each and every moment with my kids before it is too late. And she would tell me to use up all the Christmas stickers because she bought way too damn many, and why did I let her do that? And she would say that I should make sure to get just as many pictures of Sam as I did of Olivia, because poor Jake never had a proper album!
2) I'm going to start watching Cardinals Baseball again. Ok, this one is even crazier than the scrapbooking thing--I know! It is really odd what your mind and emotions do during the grieving process. But my mom died during the 2006 World Series, which we won, of course. My mom was barely lucid, but I remember her asking repeatedly, "Is the game on, yet?" And my dad and I telling her repeatedly, "No, not yet. Not til later," and then looking at each other like we couldn't believe that she was on her deathbed but still asking about the God-Damned Cardinals! And I can hear the sound of all my uncles and aunts and cousins, who came over to be supportive and see their sister/aunt one last time, cheering for the Cardinals as my mom lay in her hospital bed in our living room. They weren't cheering to be heartless. They were cheering because they just couldn't think about that. They just couldn't think about my dad and me sitting on the staircase crying uncontrollably as everyone cheered their Cards to victory. And I can't blame them. And I don't blame them... but, I haven't been able to watch the Cardinals since. I think this is the season, though. This is the season I watch them again and I can almost hear my mom (and possibly that alto voice up there that belongs to my Grandma Bell) saying, "Well, it's about time!" Oh, my kids are so far behind... will I ever explain to them the Bell loyalty to the Cardinals at this late date? Liv is almost five. I have a lot of catching up to do... but I will do it.
I will do it all. We will go to Cardinals games and I will take a million pictures and scrapbook every single damn one of them.
1) I need to start scrapbooking again. Sounds weird, doesn't it? My mother and I loved to scrapbook together. Especially after Liv was born. God, my mom couldn't scrapbook fast enough! I have all of her scrapbooking stuff... papers, stickers, scissors, punch-outs, die-cuts, you name it! After Mom died, I didn't just quit scrapbooking-- I quit taking pictures altogether. I didn't want to remember it. I didn't WANT to remember a life without my mom. I didn't want to have to look at a family picture from some holiday and think, "Wow. What an empty hole."
A whole year. I missed out on recording an entire year of my daughter's life because I couldn't bear to let myself label any event as *important* without my mom around. I still have a hard time, but I'm getting better. I have started taking numerous pictures again. Of everything. And it's finally time to start putting them all back together again. It's time to take my memories and decorate them, put them into neat little boxes, journal about them and make them into something my kids will one day look at over and over and over... My mom would've wanted that. She would tell me that I am being crazy and that I should record each and every moment with my kids before it is too late. And she would tell me to use up all the Christmas stickers because she bought way too damn many, and why did I let her do that? And she would say that I should make sure to get just as many pictures of Sam as I did of Olivia, because poor Jake never had a proper album!
2) I'm going to start watching Cardinals Baseball again. Ok, this one is even crazier than the scrapbooking thing--I know! It is really odd what your mind and emotions do during the grieving process. But my mom died during the 2006 World Series, which we won, of course. My mom was barely lucid, but I remember her asking repeatedly, "Is the game on, yet?" And my dad and I telling her repeatedly, "No, not yet. Not til later," and then looking at each other like we couldn't believe that she was on her deathbed but still asking about the God-Damned Cardinals! And I can hear the sound of all my uncles and aunts and cousins, who came over to be supportive and see their sister/aunt one last time, cheering for the Cardinals as my mom lay in her hospital bed in our living room. They weren't cheering to be heartless. They were cheering because they just couldn't think about that. They just couldn't think about my dad and me sitting on the staircase crying uncontrollably as everyone cheered their Cards to victory. And I can't blame them. And I don't blame them... but, I haven't been able to watch the Cardinals since. I think this is the season, though. This is the season I watch them again and I can almost hear my mom (and possibly that alto voice up there that belongs to my Grandma Bell) saying, "Well, it's about time!" Oh, my kids are so far behind... will I ever explain to them the Bell loyalty to the Cardinals at this late date? Liv is almost five. I have a lot of catching up to do... but I will do it.
I will do it all. We will go to Cardinals games and I will take a million pictures and scrapbook every single damn one of them.
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