Low tide

I am in my place. That I find comfort, beauty and solace. The place that, as a child, I could just wash away with the tide, when no one noticed me. Sea creatures became my companions. Tidal pools my never land. Sand bars my comfortable, old chairs.

The sun beating down, my sunburned skin blotched with freckles. I'd cast my eyes towards the straw landscape, lined with weathered dunes, watched over by cedar shingled cottages, dotted with old scratchy boats, anchored and stranded. White barnacles and a thick red stripe. Seagulls crying for crab. My hair salty and damp, whipping across my cheeks in the rippling wind, pulling it from the corners of my lips.

It is the first place. The first place where I felt one with my maker.

I unearth. I collect. I distance myself from every other soul. I center. I feel loved by the weather around me. I lift my arms out to the side, tilt my face to the sun, I close my eyes and I breathe in and out. Deliberately. Problematically. I steady. I absorb. I grow thicker skin. I continue on.

I return to this place, year after year. Struggling, arguing, plotting, saving, planning my reunion. Nothing ever seems to be easy about getting here, but it is worth it. I wash, I dry. I explain, I pack and I pack, even though I know I will better resemble a naked silhouette. I buy food. Too much food. I am not hungry. I unpack, I sweep the sand out of the corners. And off the porch. And then I walk. Up the sandy road lined with bamboo and beach plum. Indigo hydrangeas and beach peas. I reach the walkway, newly replaced and at once almost lose my footing on its new, slippery, smooth blond planks, replacing the weathered, reliable ashen ones. I descend the stairs and then I see. The almost waterless beach with the sand bar and tidal pool repetition that stretches towards the horizon. The air is mist. The floor is gritty powder. The sky is gray. I don't mind the lack of baby blue with fluffy white clouds, for that will come. For now, I welcome neutral ground.

As I move through this place and become one with it again, we reacquaint. I kick off my flip flops at the boulders piled up against the ravaged dunes, and say a silent prayer for them. I head out in a crooked line and feel the temperature of the low water with my toes, cool at first, and as I make it past each new pool, warming up to the perfect bath water. The sound of the distant conversations that beach goers think are private, a wind chime above the dune from some crackled old porch, the taste of sea salt and the smell of pink beach roses that make me light headed. Careful notice is paid to the intricacies in the sands beneath me. The oblong curves and raises and water marks in perfect design that make every tide it's very own. Pronged sandpiper's foot prints. The mark of a razor clam. The abandoned scallop shell. Scattered seaweed. This place welcomes me back, like an old sea captain. Steady and sure, unchanged. Wrinkled, yet childlike.

My days pass in steps. Centering. Loosening. Letting go. A dichotomy. I commemorate some of life's moments.  The ups and downs. I mourn for lost love. For missed opportunities. For the existence of anxiety. For the flawed moments. For the friendships that carelessly fade. For the dreams that I let die. And at the same time, I celebrate the beauty. The progress. The growth. The achievements. The challenges overcome. The aging. The grace. The evolving being, who is morphing into something new.

I watch other people move through this place and take what they will. This place is giving. They come here for relief. They come for a family vacation. To make memories. They come here for peace and tranquility. They come here to love and be loved. They even come here to die. Every face tells a different story. Every soul searching for what is all at once the same desire, yet different, the captain of our own ship, maybe lost at sea.

I run. I run with tears and sweat. I circle around and around relentlessly pushing myself past what I thought would be the line. I talk myself through what feels like the impossible and remind myself that I can do anything I set my mind to. My body will forgive me if I don't quit. My thoughts won't if I do. Step after step, closer to the finish, the ocean. The water runs through me. It spits at me, and I don't mind. I let the wind push me back a little. I then push past it, forcing it out of my way. To my left and to my right, empty beach. Quiet and solemn. Congratulatory.

With my toes circling in the sand, and a comfortable old sweatshirt, I watch the sunset. A spectacle that brings with it the passion of star fire and the coolness of relief. Shades of orange, yellow, violet and soft pink. Sometimes crimson red and charcoal. The kite with long tails pushing towards the heavens without a prayer. As night creeps in, fireflies twinkle around me in my rocking chair. A reminder that somewhere out there, someone is dancing. Voices, happy children, fireworks, celebration of sweet life.

When each new morning arrives the sands are renewed, twice over. The mourning doves nest and call out. The ocean breeze brush the damp towels off the railings. The sand settles into the cracks. The skin cools. The salt heals.

Some things will stay the same. The three sisters. The three friends. The mother and child connection and conflict. The wife, enveloped. The woman in transition. The evolving.

When I leave here a few days from now, the sun, the sand, the forgiveness and the irreconcilable will move forward with me. I will carry it all in a little sea shell. The days will be bright. The days will be dark. The definition will change. The tide will ebb and flow. The sun will rise and set. The sand will form and reform, but never in the same design.  My thoughts, my heart, my soul will come back here often, waiting to come back and hoping there is and will always be, a next time.

Take The Long Way Home

I wanted to title this post 'Why Dr. Gorman is a Mutha Fu#$%er" but I decided that would be too negative. Too harsh. Too Un-Zen like.  

My friend, Shannon, gave me the idea to use this as similar title in reference to Mr. Dwyer, my daughter's teacher, in my blog titled: "For Some Reason I Can't Find a Title For This One". But as funny as it is and as much as I felt it at the time, I realized that wasn't really fair. But I still thought Mr. Dwyer was a mutha fu#$%er. For about 2 minutes or so. Hey, when you lose someone's kid, let's face it, you are one. 

As for Dr. Gorman, he definitely fits the bill. Here's why: 

In August 1999, when I was 7 1/2 months pregnant with my daughter, who is my youngest, I went to a cookout as most of us do in the summer. I don't know if it was because we arrived late, and I ended up eating later than everyone else, or if it was what my doctor would later describe as the 'perfect hormonal, genealogical and bacterial storm', but after leaving the cookout, hours later, I became violently ill. 

Violently. ill.  

So ill, I had broken blood vessels in the whites of my eyes and in the skin under the heights of my cheekbones. It was fast, but furious. I remember checking a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I wiped my face and barely recognizing myself. I looked a little Linda Blair-esque, from 'The Exorcist". On her worst day. I saw the concern on my husband's face as I opened the bathroom door. After an appointment with my doctor, we determined it was food poisoning. More than likely, the kind that you get from contaminated mayonnaise, as I did have potato salad that day. 

Within 4 weeks, I was experiencing what I thought was normal 'almost-9 months-pregnant- swelling'. Heel pain, ankle pain, swelling in my lower extremities, Knees the size of navel oranges. I mentioned it at a routine check with my OB/GYN and of course he dismissed it as, well, being pregnant. 

I gave birth. Miraculous, lovely, hellfire in a handbag, birth. And weeks later, as in 6 to 7 weeks later, the swelling was worse. Sometimes I had trouble getting up out of bed the pain was so bad. The swelling had migrated to the rest of my body, attacking my joints, and at times my husband would have help me hold my daughter to my chest while I nursed her because it became so hard to do so on my own. I knew things had reached a level that I could no longer ignore, when my mother came to visit one day and upon the sight of me, she started to cry. I looked like a blowfish. A blowfish who happened to be lactating.  

I phoned my PCP and made an appointment. After her examination, and some shotty blood work results that revealed a high ANA titer, I was off to my first rheumatologist. My first of five rheumatologists. 

1) Dr. Crotchety (not his real name) started with a blood work review, an examination and then a slew of health history and present history questions. A ton of them. At the end of my appointment he recommended that I treat with ibuprofen. He was going on an extended vacation for 3 weeks and wanted me to return for a visit after I medicated with ibuprofen regularly during that time period. While Dr. Crotchety was sunbathing his frail, pale, little self, I had to have multiple joints aspirated (the fluid sucked out with a needle. A very long needle.) And multiple times. Five times actually between my PCP's office and the Emergency Room of my local hospital. After I told him what happened while he was gone, he seemed less than concerned. I decided it was best for Dr. Crotchety and me to part ways. I truly believe that Dr. Crotchety thought I had "Stay at home Mom's disease." Dr. Crotchety, you suck. 

2) Dr. John Gorman. Ah, Dr. Gorman. The almost title of this particular blog post. Dr. Gorman had NO bed side manner. Nothing at all. He was flat and stoic and had big, thick glasses, apparently very poor eyesight. He didn't smile and he certainly did not seem to have any interest in me other than looking at me like I was another medical chart. He, too, reviewed me and my blood work and my history. He then took another history, long and extensive, filled with all kinds of questions. He left the room for 15 minutes or so and when he reentered, from the furthest corner of the room, as I sat on the squishy table with that stupid flimsy piece of white paper under me, his arms folded across his chest, looking sheepish, he said: "You have Ankylosing Spondylitis." He proceeded to tell me all of the awful things that were about to happen to me: spinal fusion, possible heart and lung issues, incapacitation, just to name a few. When I, on the verge of tears, asked him how long all of this would take to happen to me, he responded flatly with: "You will more than likely be collecting a disability check by the time you reach the age of 40." I was 31. With 2 kids under the age of 5. 

As all of this swirled around inside my head, and I repeated words that scared the shit out of me over and over, cruelly inside my head, Dr. Gorman offered to aspirate my knees right there while I was in the office, as they were beyond swollen. I nodded my head in agreement. I took my jeans off and lay under another stupid flimsy piece of white paper, while he left to prepare for the sucking of my knees. When he returned alone, and started towards me with the needle, I requested a nurse. You see, holding a hand during aspiration really helps, I had explained. He rolled his eyes at me. HE ROLLED HIS EYES AT ME. Yes, most definitely, an EYEROLL, and then he left the room without one word, almost in a huff, as if I had majorly inconvenienced him. While he retrieved a nurse, or a secretary or a patient from another room, for all I know, I calmly put my jeans back on, balled up the two oversized sheets of flimsy white paper and threw them in the trash and as I was exiting his exam room, he came back in with a woman in scrubs. To his surprise, I was no longer sandwiched between the two pieces of ridiculously uncomfortable flimsy white paper and as he began to speak, clearly irritated, I put my juicy finger up to my lips as if to say "hush" and said quietly: "There is no fu%$*ng way that I am going to let an a$$hole like you stick a needle into me." He looked horrified and I could have sworn I heard the lady in scrubs giggle under her breath, and more laughter ensued when I announced to Dr. Gorman's entire waiting room full of patients, just what I thought of him, highlighted with my favorite four letter words. Arrivederci, Dr. Gorman.  

3) Dr. Elizabeth Clark and I met in late 2000. I was part of a study at The Brigham and Women's hospital in Boston. I was one of 2 women that she had ever treated with what would now became her diagnosis: Reiter's Syndrome. I was put on a cocktail of drugs that helped, but required my blood to be tested every 3 months due to host of adverse effects: bone marrow toxicity and kidney failure, being the two of most concern. She was wonderful, and left shortly after I became her patient, to stay home with her children. I hope she ended up practicing again. She really was a great lady. She made me feel like a person, not just a patient. 

4) Dr. Libbey picked up where she left off. She thought my diagnosis was a little more complex. She feared I had a gene called HBLA-27. Not a nice gene to have. She recommended I not test for the gene, because it became difficult to get life insurance once you tested positive for HBLA-27. I decided to assume that I had the gene, as a number of my distant family members on my mother's side had various spondylitises and other related diseases such as Crohn's. 

5) In 2003, I tested positive for Lyme disease, and saw ‘THE LYME GUY’ on the east coast, Dr. Sam Donta. He felt that I was a classic, chronic, long term Lyme Disease sufferer and believed that I was infected in 1999, did not actually have an episode of food poisoning, must have had a tick encounter, and had now had Lyme for over 4 years. Dr. Libbey vehemently disagreed, and she and Dr. Donta proceeded to write nasty letters to one another asserting their opinion, leaving me to wonder what the hell I had. And I asked myself repeatedly "Am I crazy?" 

Throughout this time I would flare, go on massive doses of steroids to calm myself down and as a result, my medication list just grew. I ended up taking medications to combat medications, a vicious cycle. Methotrexate, Sulfasalazine, Indomethacin, Prednisone...blah, blah, blah. I developed a moon face (a widened face) and a slight bulge on my upper back (both results of mega, long term steroid use) and every time I would go on steroids I would gain between 10-20 pounds within the first 30 days.

By the end of 2004, I was sick of being sick. My body was attacking its own connective tissue. My body literally thought that my joints and all that was contained within them and around them was some kind of enemy invader. I would get such significant inflammation in my eyes that my ophthalmologist instructed his staff, that if I called with symptoms (of iritis) I was to be immediately fit into his schedule. I would get it every 3 months or so. If left untreated, iritis can cause vision loss. 

In 2005, I had had it. Dr. Libbey and I did not see eye to eye on my treatment, I found my voice and my inner strength and I decided that I needed to remove all related medications to my disease(s) from my life. I decided instead to stick with regular full body massage, changes to my diet, visualization techniques, positivity, and grinning and bearing it. Consequently, Dr. Libbey thinks I am an ignorant buffoon. I think that after knowing Dr. Libbey for a decade, it's time for her to get a new hairstyle. Seriously, Doc.

In 2006, I was diagnosed with atypical trigeminal neuralgia. More than likely unrelated. Probably a result of a softball injury when I was 14 years old that required reconstructive surgery on my face. ATN causes unbelievably agonizing nerve pain that attacks the left side of my face. Again, probably not related to the rest, but it just seems to be the cherry on top. And I despise cherries, even on my hot fudge sundae. But I love nuts. What's a sundae without nuts? 

Think I am a hypochondriac yet? I sure did. My employer sure did. I am sure there were friends and family that thought for sure I was. There were days that work, life, eating, thinking, etc. were just not possible. There were weeks spent in bed. My husband wanted me fixed. My children would act up in school when I was at my worst. They were scared and sad. Hypochondria was the least of my worries. 

So why do I write all of this you wonder? It's certainly not because I like to talk about it. For years, when I was in a flare, if I was going out with friends, I would call them the night before or the morning of to let them know I was having trouble getting around, if I would go at all. I would ask them to just ignore it, and if I winced in pain, to please just smile. Pity was annoying, and made things worse. They obliged. Thank you all. I am not sure if I ever thanked them for that. 

So again why do I write this? I do not need praise. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me or think of me as someone with a long list of issues. The truth is, I still generally flare every 2 1/2 to 3 years. I am due in January 2014. It can happen anytime, if stress levels get high and my body reawakens to the indication that it has to fight my own tissue, it will happen again. 

AGAIN, why write THIS. The reason I write this all down is I am now a runner. I actually wrote that last sentence a few times. First I tried it as "I now run". Then I typed it as "I have now taken up running." But you know what? I am a runner. I have been so hesitant to call myself that, I don't know why, but I have.  

I am a runner. 

Something I never, ever thought I would be. I tried it a few years ago and back in college I tried to run and I couldn't do it. I always thought that, Jesus, if I couldn't be a runner at a healthy 21 years old, how could I ever accomplish it as I age. And as a sick person, to boot. Not happening. I had been labeled and relabeled and relabeled again and again and again. Labeling blows. It really does. Some call it diagnosing. If it's not a sure fire thing, then I call it labeling. In my not-so-professional-opinion, the medical world is filled with medically educated guessing. Doctors are not Gods to us all, they are human, and it took me a long time to realize that I was not going to label myself as 'sick'. No matter what I actually had.  

Most of you already know that, from my incessant posting of my mileage accomplishments on Facebook, that I am running. I post for myself to keep me motivated and in check but I also do it for that somebody else. That somebody who spends more time on the couch feeling old and tired, who is stuck in a rut (I know my way around a rut) or is in the clutches of a crushing depression (been there). That certain somebody that gets winded going up a flight of stairs to kiss their kids goodnight (as I did). That person who thinks they can't run to the house next door, let alone a few miles (that was me). I thought runners we selfish, egomaniac health nuts and I used to joke that I "would only run when chased."  

I got motivated to try running by someone else, so I feel it part of the process to keep it going. 

Here are a few things that I must share if you want to be a runner and you are lazy like me, I don't like that I am making recommendations, but bare with me: 

1) The Couch to 5K program (C25K) is perfect for us. This is what it does for me: It tells me when to run and it tells me when to stop. It's a smart phone app that I downloaded to my iPhone and I can run with it and listen to my music at the same time. I like running on the track at our High School, early in the morning. Some runners like trails, some like the treadmill. Do what you like. But start with a program that outlines everything for you if you need structure.  

2) Another app that you can download is the 'Charity Miles' app. You can raise money for your favorite charity with every step you take. Giving back always helps and adds to the motivational factor. You can walk, run or bike. You can run both of these apps at the same time and still listen to your music. I choose to raise money for Autism Speaks. Our autistic community gets the art of labeling, too. Boy, do they get it.

3) Align yourself with other runners. I found 'Run Luau Run' on Facebook. Like his page if you wish. That crazy bastard is going to run a 100 mile race next month. If not him, or if you are not on Facebook, find a runners forum of some kind. Preferably one that makes you smile and knows that you are a runner, too. Even if you don't think so. It matters. Thanks Luau. Seriously. And I really don't think you are a crazy bastard. Anymore. 

4) Find friends or others that support you. Some will choose to just not acknowledge that you are changing your life for the better, and that is OK. But for every person that ‘likes’ your Facebook status, or congratulates you or sends you a note or message or mails you a cute runners’ t-shirt (my friend Robin actually did that!) or signs up for a 5K Mud Run with you (happening in July people!), well, soak them in. Accept their support. They really care about you. Let them. 

So now, to make a long story even longer, next week I will start week 8 in the C25K program. At the end of that week I will run 3.1 miles. Yes, that's 5K. I won't be able to run it in the time recommended but I don't care. Because you see, I am running it at my pace. I am running it period. Just period.

And just so you know, Dr. Gorman, I am 44 years old and I have only moderate signs of spinal fusion. I have my two legs beneath me, decent posture, the wind in my face, a new pair of kick ass running shoes in my sights and not a single disability check in my pocket.  

If you happen to see that I ran my first 5K distance within a few weeks give me a HOLLA! I would have told you 6 months ago that it was never going to be possible. Being wrong is good. 

So maybe Dr. Gorman isn’t a m*!ha f&cker after all.

 

 

The Human Race

My facebook post this morning: "For some reason, going out for my little run today, takes on a whole new meaning."

I have always wanted to be a runner. Not just any kind of runner, but a marathon runner. I tried in college, but my ankles just don't seem strong enough. No really, I have weak ankles. I am currently in the crawling stages of finding my runners stride. I run every other day, trying to build stamina. But it is not easy.

I have always wanted to be a good mother. More than anything that was my goal. To make sure I raised decent kids into adults, a very important job. I always thought that I was pretty good. Lately I feel like I am falling down. Not enough patience. I yell and apologize. I don't always pay attention. I may not say what I need to say, or more likely, in the way I should say it, to show my kids the respect they deserve.

At my job, I just do not connect. I am more rigid instead of accessible with employees. I am not sure if ultimately, I am doing what I am meant to do be doing. I don't always give 100%. For the first time ever, I look towards retirement as an escape and not the 'old farty way out' it used to feel like.

As a wife. I don't know, I just don't know. I am not the putting forth the effort needed I am sure, as sometimes, regretfully, it's just last on the list.

Socially, in the past, I was always a star. I was great at planning fun events, get-togethers, outings, etc.  I was warm and loving and friendly. Lately, my anxiety towards the world around me has taken over. I have pushed some people away. I can't bother with some of the different personalities that used to be in my life, despite the fact that I feel love for those people. I suffer from a type of anxiety that has never plagued me before. It is frustrating, as it feels like the death of someone that I truly am, as a new, less desirable version emerges.

My hometown, a suburb of Boston, was always a source of great pride for me. If you grew up there, you got it. The feeling of brother and sisterhood, like nothing I have ever felt before. I instinctively knew, through my upbringing, just how proud I should be of being where I was from. It was something that rippled out, like a stone sunk in a pond, from the city itself. Bostonians in general have an air about them. If you don't know one, then you don't get it. We are all at once, tough, in your face, ballsy, hard working people, while still being warm, loyal and vulnerable. Our tough accent sets us apart. It can actually make me laugh, living in a bordering New England state, as how crass it can actually sound at times. However, give me a few beers at the local pub, and my own Boston accent  accelerates right back out again, like a dump truck. When you move away from Boston, and you come back, there are dozens of people always in 'the neighborhood' to welcome you home. I miss that.

On Monday April 15th, things began to change for me. Marathon Monday, my nearby hometown capital of Boston, was under a vicious, senseless attack. Athletes, their family members, spectators, volunteers, police, first responders, college students, store owners all in the presence of an extreme evil and in terrible danger. Runners were running for their lives. Those crazy resilient marathon runners, those that I had determined held qualities that were unattainable for myself, were unable to attain the dream of finishing their marathon. And more devastating, was and is the loss of life and the lives changed forever by unfathomable injury and just in seeing what they saw.

In the five days that followed, we relentlessly pursued. Our local, state wide and federal law enforcement are all our heroes, as they always have been. And the public, we Bostonians, stayed vigilant, whether in our homes or out on the streets. Communication and conversation at a high point. Tears, anguish, hurt, hopes, dreams, love, all of it washed over all of us. I believe all people were affected in this country by what took place in Boston. Just as we have been affected by tragedy before.

Today I wake up to a new kind of world, for the transformation that began in me, and in many of us, today is like a culmination, a celebration, a rebirth, so to speak, of emotions, and desires for the future.

It may not be like some quick fix, but the old, dusty, ragged me, knows that whatever "it" is, it is something that I can no longer live without. I can't be here, pretending that others will just get out of my way. I can't rely on the select few that I feel get who I am as a person, I need to open myself up more, similar to how I was as a child, open hearted, fun loving, spontaneous, proud of who I am and who I may be becoming. No matter how uncomfortable or stressful life can get, I can't just slip into a cool, damp, dark cave.

I don't have to love everybody and include them in my day to day life, but if I truly want to embody what I feel right now, I must love and protect our mankindedness (yup, I think I made that up). The love and respect for each person to, well, just be alive. To pursue their happiness, alongside me while I am pursuing mine.

So...I swill down the last of my cold coffee, grab my iPhone, lace up my running shoes and get ready to run the best and most challenging race of my life.

London Calling

I am staring at it. It’s smoky gray with bold black letters in Times New Roman font. The block on my work computer reminding the staff in my office that I leave early today in order to take my son to the shuttle that will take him to the airport for his trip to London.

With the recent horrific attack at the Boston Marathon, so close to home, the thought of travel right now for me is not comfortable. Who am I kidding? I haven’t been on an airplane in 18 years. So it’s never comfortable.

But there is something in me that is keeping my basket case like tendencies at bay. Last night I got a good night sleep. Something rare for me lately. The night before my 16 year old son leaves to put the first ever stamp in his passport to boot? Go figure. The London Marathon is Sunday. And I got a full 7 hours of sleep last night when I have been averaging 4 or 5 per night.

The temperature of the world we live in might not always be warm. It might be scary and unkind and unforgiving. Despite this, my desire for my children to get the most out of life’s experiences is stronger than ever. I want for them to be worldly. To have high tea, to see the Eiffel tower, to travel to multiple continents if they so choose. Something I have never done and quite frankly have feelings of apprehension about. I refuse to pass on any quirky fears I have to them. I hope they live a year abroad. Learn a different language and celebrate the cultures of others. I would love for them to hop on a plane like it is second nature. Plan an African Safari or stand on a volcano.

When he leaves my sight, a deep breath of excitement laced with a tinge of anxiety will leave my body. I know it will, because it’s the same breath I am holding in right now and I can feel it growing inside my chest.

A part of me will be in London for the next week, because where he goes, I go in a way. My heart follows him around, not matter where his is. Waiting for the moment when we reconnect again.

When I leave him today, I will hug him dearly, with all I’ve got. His big broad shoulders just a little bigger than they were at Christmas. I will inhale and exhale as I always do, taking him in and smelling all of the little nuances of him. And I will keep that smell and that feeling inside of my soul until I get to do it again.

I am proud of him. I am nostalgic. I am emotional and slightly sad because I will miss his presence in our family. But most of all I am excited and so thrilled for him. He is lucky enough to have the first of many of his life changing experiences.

My tendency is to shelter. To tuck him under my wing and make sure no harm comes to him. But I am bucking the system. I will not harbor him and keep him from discovering the world around him.

The ‘world around him’ use to mean such things as flowers and trees, birds and animals, books and poetry, music and faith. Today it actually means the world.

To my boy: The world is your oyster kiddo. Go get it. Soak it in, internalize and learn from it. Be tolerant of others, be kind and treat others as you would want to be treated. Love hard, sing loud, walk with confidence and live with passion. Until you return, a little piece of me will be with you and when you come back, my whole heart will welcome you home.

Dear Coward

Dear Coward:

I would have expected by now to have seen your face and know who you are. For the love of your God, your country, your cause, your hatred, or your delusion. For isn’t that why you did what you did? Your utter detest for us must run deep. I am sure this is your ultimate redemption. You must be in between modes of celebration and righteousness. So where are you?

You and I may have walked the same sidewalk, just 48 hours before you did what you did. As I was celebrating, with my family, the talents of my cousin and her classmates at Boston University on Saturday night, and before that, dinner with some dear friends in the North End. We laughed and joked and loved being in each other's company. Where you there? Did I see you? Did I ask you for change for a dollar in quarters for the parking meter?

For years, my mother took my daughter into Boston, from a suburb 12 miles away on the train, to see the Boston Marathon. They stood exactly where you stood. In the same spot, in the same place as those you ripped apart.

But aren’t you proud? Where is your face, your name and your cause?

What you may not know or care about is that Boston has seen blood on it’s streets before in the name of your cause, or one just like it. And we don’t take it lightly, nor do we bow down to it. We are a city and a nation of people who may forget from time to time to outwardly show our love for each other, but fiercely fight for one another when harmed or threatened. We, here, are smack dab in the birthplace of patriotism. That’s what we were honoring yesterday, something that can’t be taken away by a bomb, or words, or actions or even prayer.

What you did was not fight for your cause, but unite in numbers and in concrete form what already exists. Our pure pride for our land and our fellow man, woman, and child. You have no idea how fiercely we will protect our freedom to walk our streets, play with our kids, love our neighbor.

Did you see? Are you watching? There were so many people running into the havoc you caused to help someone. To comfort them, show compassion, cry with them, and bandage them. There are people now, uniting in social media, on street corners, in neighborhoods and across dining room tables to wipe away your evil. We will mourn for the loss of life and help those that have to live what you did to them. We will rebuild our storefronts. And soon what you did won’t be seen any longer, but will continue to be felt, and it will fuel the strength that we pour into our lives and our loves and our world. We will fight against you.

So why not show us who you are? You are certainly now part of our history. We need to know your name, I guess, to add to the books, magazines and certainly Wikipedia. You are now apart of a long history of those that tried to take us down and failed. There are more of us than there are of you and there always will be.

Those that cheered on the sidelines for the ones that ran the ultimate race, show support that you will never truly feel. Those that ran, they ran for lost love, the fight, their ill children, their love of a strong body, mind and spirit. They are already unbeatable. You may have brought them to their knees, temporarily. But this is why we run and cheer and share our lives with one another. This is why we support one another.

Once again, there are more of us than there are of you and there always will be.

So by next week I suspect we will all know who you are as we drag into the spotlight and dissect all of your thoughts, your parents, your religion, your history or your every step. But the week after, you will prove to make us begin to be stronger than ever before.

So why not let us see who you really are?

The Law of the Land

“For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction” Newton’s Law

Half laying, half sitting on the couch. It has become a paralyzing yet satisfying position for me. One that I enjoy without a significant level of guilt/self absorbtion. Call it what you want. Call me a couch potato. I don’t care. I also relish, yet loathe, having quiet coffee and my thoughts to myself. Wrapping a soft crimson blanket around my rounded shoulders at the end of a long winter day, while hiding my face and rubbing my tired eyes. The smell of cinnamon and sweet baked something-or-other still lingering in the air. Walking through fresh grass, pointing out every new flower that beckons spring, as the newly revived, fat bumble bees dart in and out, back and forth. Rocking on the porch as the summer crawls in, waiting for yellow fireflies as night falls and bluebirds with fluttering wings as dawn arrives. Stalking hummingbirds. Noticing the simple changes in the autumn leaves and forming my mouth around a pretend cigarette, blowing rings, just to see my own breath, in the crisp fall air.

I still run a busy house. I still feel like I am the Captain of the Enterprise that is my home, my house, my life. However, at this stage of the game, the ship almost runs itself. The crew is older. The decades old engine still runs, even though there are newer versions with more horse power. My loyal crew is also more self sufficient and experienced. They have been trained and they have earned their seniority. So I sit at the helm, like James T. Kirk. I am soave. I am self confident. I am cute. I can comfortably say that I am still responsible for the health and well being off the crew, but now, I am more at ease. For the crew now gets it. Almost like clockwork.

I have run around, mentally and physically and emotionally for a while now. We all have. From the day my first child was born. My now 16 year old son, who is a just about to topple over into being known as a man. A strong, confident, hairy man. He has such soft brown eyes, just like one of the deer that linger on the outskirts of our property at purple dusk.

As a brand new mom, his introduction into this world was a marathon of body, mind and soul. My baby boy was born 6 weeks early, a healthy 5lbs even. My water broke 7 weeks before his due date in what was supposed to be April. It was a bitterly cold February. Except for the day that he was born, it was an unseasonably 70 degrees, in Boston. Just like a warm spring day, in the middle of winter. A respite, from a chill.

For each of those 6 days while I was hospitalized before he was born, I was told that every day mattered. We were told that his lungs were not fully developed and that 2 rounds of steroid shots would hopefully help, a set of shots that had to be 24 hours apart. My husband did not shower. He did not eat much. My husband slept beside my hospital bed in a cot made for a much smaller person. I went in and out of labor for 5 days. I became irrational amidst my longing, desperately wanting to see my baby. To physically lay eyes on him. Because I was being told repeatedly “One more day. For the welfare of your baby. Give it one more day.” By the time he was born, and those days came and went, I was reduced to toast with crazy jelly spread all over it. On the morning of his birth, my husband wept tears of joy.

By day 3 into our journey, I had abandoned all modesty. If you wanted to see my butt now, I would probably show it to you, from the residual effects of this experience. An entire medical school graduating class from one of the top medical schools on the planet (hey, only the best!), has seen my butt, too.  I was so used to everyone in the room seeing my bottom, there is a secret exhibitionist living inside of me. One that I keep successfully at bay. My labor was induced on day 6. Within 30 minutes of being given the medication, as it dripped into my veins, my son splurted out, after 6 pushes. At my first glimpse of him, my heart burst wide open, in addition to other things, and I couldn’t help but think at the sight of him that he was searching for something to hold onto. Both skinny arms outstretched, his torso wide open. His arms twitched to both sides as his little body tried to find balance. An equal and opposite reaction.

My second child, my daughter, came 2 years and 8 months later. 10 days early and a meatier, 7lbs 5 oz. Sweet and angelic. She seemed to come into the world in a much calmer fashion. Only 4 hours of labor from start to finish, one out of body experience on my part, and the “firing” of one labor and delivery nurse, in the middle of the second quarter (don’t mess with me, during labor). We polished it off with another 6 primal pushes, some scratches on the top of her peach fuzzy head and a broken clavicle (poor thing!) and then there was a second round of tears from my husband (he only cries when I give birth), patting his cheeks with his sleeve to soak up the tears, looking at his hands in an unfamiliar fashion, wondering where the moisture was coming from. My beautiful daughter, who today has the sun in her sweet smelling hair, no matter what time of year it is.

I often refer to my daughter as the grazer when she eats. My little bird, because from the get go, the poor thing has been unaware of what it feels like to have a complete meal. My son, my copper-headed fiery toddler, my buzzing bee, always chose when I sat down to nurse her, as the time to push my buttons. He became the little master. The charade was all his. The jester of the court to the unwilling queen.

We were always on the run.  Filling our days up with nonsense and fun, books, messes and stuffy noses. I can see it still, through a sticky, smeared, crystal pathway, somewhere in my brain. Play groups, Mommy and Me classes. Cute little giggles and songs. Lego’s. Naps. Diapers. Crackers and juice. Walmart escapades. Down right silliness. Leaving a grocery cart full of groceries and apologizing to the store manager. My daughter telling everyone in line at the deli counter that her penis hurt. The whole usual, thing. And, of course, melt downs. For both the kids and the adults.

This gave way, to tae kwon do. Violin. Best friends and enemies. Poor bathroom habits. Dance recitals. Horseback riding. Chores. Football. Smelly Football Equipment. Trampolines. Overnight trips and sleepovers. Popcorn and movies. Make up. And secrets, that only the truest of confidants would know.

Sometimes, the tooth fairy didn’t come for days. A lesson in patience, I rationalized. Sometimes, dinner was ‘eat what you can find’ instead of a home cooked meal. Sometimes, my husband and I barely spoke to each other. Sometimes, my children hated each other. Sometimes, when my son and daughter laugh together alone in the kitchen, my eyes fill with tears. I can see the adults they will become soon in little nuances and facial expressions and body language. And I am truly happy.

Now, we need less and take less. The crew have their own agenda when they are off the clock. We often go our seperate ways, finding solace in our seperate sacred spaces. Coming together at the quiet times to say I love you and give a hug and a kiss. I hold on tighter. I smell them more. As if I have to store the smell in the corners of my soul, for safe keeping. The mail is full of college bound material. The days are danced through with texting and guitar riffs and thuds as the lacrosse ball hits the side of the house followed by the yell from the yard "I'm sorry!"

So I walk around and take it all in. The smell of wood burning from my neighbor's chimney. The creak of the rocking chair from the sudden gust of breeze. The hint of red on the hawks tail flying overhead and above the evergreen. Gray becomes a predominant hue on the color wheel. I give up my chair and let others sit there. I release my grip on the controls of the ship and wait for the equal and opposite reaction.

Here

For the first time since I became a mother, I cried after a phone call with one of my children yesterday. Not an eye well. Not an “I am so proud” type of tear, either. It was a holy hell kind of tear. The one that is the result of the ghostly punch in the gut. Not that I haven’t felt the punch in the gut before. But this one hit me at my most weakened state of motherhood, so therefore, I cried.

I have good kids. Really, really good kids. They do make me proud, and often. They make me laugh. They make me think. They, just being, make me feel vulnerable to the world around me. A world that while beautiful and satisfying, can also add anxiety, just in the mundane to even the King and Queen of laid back parents. And I am not a laid back parent. At all. I wish I could be.

As soon as I hung up the phone I started to cry while in the parking lot at Starbucks. I started to bawl, my tears stinging my winter laced cheeks. My daughter, who was sitting behind me in the back seat of the car, promptly unbuckled her seat belt and jumped onto the center console wrapping her arms around me and tilting her head towards mine she whispered “he’s going to be okay.”

What a God send that she was there. What an ass I am. For it is not very often that I find myself needing comfort. Especially from my 13 year old, as I unravel, latte in hand. I am so thankful that she was there. She made it easier to handle.

My son’s best friend, a few months older than him, got his driver’s license last week. My son slept over his house last night and they planned on going out for pizza and driving to a mutual friend’s house today. Yesterday he called to ask for my permission to do all of those things, including being in the passenger seat of a car of a newly licensed driver. A control freak’s biggest fear.

The mack daddy.

Now in April, he will be going to London. He will be flying in a plane for the first time. I have entrusted my boy’s welfare to others’ many times before, of course, and have gotten used to the fact that he is bordering on an adult and will, in the blink of an eye, be leaving our home to make his own life. But for some reason, none of this compares in the fear factor department to the act of driving with his peers. Not the bus trip to DC. Not the theater workshop in New York. Having him away for a solid week from his family and his home is a piece of cake on my end. Having him spend the weekend with friends, going on vacations with his best buddy, etc, etc.

This feels different. Boy does it feel different. I now must rely on one of his friends for his safety. And what dawned on me in the parking lot of Starbucks, NO, what smacked me in the face, is that there is no turning back. This is it. We have arrived.

I have entered the zone of waiting for him to get home at night and not being able to sleep until he does safely, to answering my phone that much quicker, to wondering if I don’t get the confirmation text back, if everything is okay…or not. To facing front and center the fears that become overwhelmingly, mind numbing.

How crazy am I?

I know.

I could say “No” to all of these things. “Nope, stay home with meeeeee…..”.  It’s tempting.

Why can’t I be the Mom that doesn’t think twice about it? Why can’t I be the one that starts taking the photography class I have always wanted to take? The one that takes place in the late afternoon, that thus far happens right smack dab in the shuffling part of our day, where my kids need to be at other places. Why not let my son be driven around by his buddies wherever he needs to go? In a few months, when my son gets his driver’s license, will he be toting my daughter back and forth to Lacrosse or to her friends’ houses while I catch a movie, have dinner with friends, a drink with my husband? Shouldn’t I be excited about the prospect of hanging up my chauffer’s hat?

Almost the whole of this last paragraph makes me sick to my stomach, my furrow lines just got a little deeper, and the distance between me and my son feels like it just got a little wider.

So, to counteract, we have developed a checking in system, a quick text that says ‘here’ when he reaches his destination. Does this make anybody cringe? Is this a little tidbit for the helicopter mother handbook? Perhaps. Does it make me feel better?

Not really.

What I know instinctively is that I trust him. As much as I can trust any teenager. Especially knowing what history says about teenagers like me. And it feels like pay back time. I didn’t get it. I wanted out and away from my parents as soon as I could. I would  drive around with my friends often, almost biting it a few times. And by biting it I mean careless, dangerously careless. I never, ever knew just how careless I was. I had no clue.

I have to ask myself this: Am I/we the new breed of parents that hover, no BLANKET, our kids? Not just hovering, but COVERING over them with thick, heavy wool as they try to exercise their independence?  I may just be the President of the Covering and Smothering Parents Association. I am surely, at least, the Vice President.

(Big run on sentence time…)

So, when he called me today, after I called him, because I didn’t get my ‘here’ text in the time I had allotted in my own head for him to get from point A to point B and my heart started pounding and I figured I would just call the whole thing off, no more driving with anyone, he immediately called me to put me at ease and we talked about how important the text ‘here’ was.

Here.

I am here.

My son is responsible and he is smart. He is my world as sappy as it is. So this is what I have left:

May fate and destiny and all of the universal mystical crazy things that exist and those that have passed on to the other side (if there is such a thing) protect my boy and his genuine heart and his young body and his sharp mind. Please just do it.

I will bite my lip. I will turn away when I well up. I will run screaming throught the center of town in my dreams.

But I will not turn away from here.