Spring Eternal

It's April.

I was born in April. So I just celebrated my birthday, which I am totally okay with. If you worry about looking, feeling and being older, you are going to spend ALOT of time, well, just worrying.

April is the first month, where we can see the actual signs of Spring. The air smells different, newer. More earthy. It's the first month of the school year that I can feel the end of it fast approaching. For families with kids it equals planning for dances, school trips, new sports seasons, the closing of the 3rd quarter and the beginning of the last. Report Cards. Planning next year's class schedule. Realizing that your kids are almost a new grade older.

We shake it off. Winter dust, frost, blues and doldrums. Especially if you live in our New England, as April can, in fact, still feel like winter. So any signs of the earth thawing out and coming to life again ignites passion and excitement. We've made it through another winter. Winters used to kill people. Rejoice.

This April feels a bit different. For I am very aware of the fact that, my very next April, my next birthday, my next Spring, I will be preparing for a kid to leave. The transition is markable, like pegs in a cribbage board, or pencil dashes on the door jam to mark a year's growth.

Last night, my son and I had dinner together at a restaurant down the street. My daughter is on a school trip to Washington DC and my husband is in New York on business. We talked, thank God, because sometimes we just pass each other and check in. "How are you, babe?" "Have you eaten?" "How was school?" "Where are you off to?"

We caught up, talked about the important things going on, laughed, he poked fun at me a little, talked about his social life, how he hopes to live in London for a year at some point. How he wants to bring his car to college if possible. He assured me that he is okay. In the world, his world, that I am certain that I know so much about but yet that is still so mysterious to me, he has convinced that he is all right. He is OK. And I have to believe.

It's odd. When children are born, they are these tiny little helpless creatures and you know it's out there. That day that they will leave home. Some days you can't wait for it to get here. But most days, it's just a day that's far away. What startles me the most is the intense, looming feeling of missing someone so much that you're used to seeing everyday, even if it's a morning grunt on the way to the bathroom. Someone who came from you. A part of your family. Someone who you love and live with, who will go live with someone else. And that someone else might just be more important than you. They, of course, will be. Natural, but startling. It's always been there, but it's closer to the surface of the skin. It runs through my veins now instead of just deep within. It's liquid, and I sweat it out.

I remember, hearing about older women having 'empty nest syndrome'. I was cold to it, because it didn't dawn on me that I would be one of them one day. Even when I had children, I thought for sure that I would be immune. Get out. Buh-bye. Don't come back unless you plan to pay rent.  Now I just want to grab all of those women (and men too, if you suffer) and wrap them in a big blanket of sisterhood with apologies and compassion and tears. Tears of both sadness and anticipation. Anticipation for the wonder of what will they become? Who will they love? Who will they hurt? What will they do when someone hurts them? Who will they change?

Dramatic. Pathetic. Boring. Cliché. Ridiculous. Utterly self absorbed and irrational. All of these things. And more. But there is no stopping the flood. Until it happens. And just like every other thing that has come along, it will pass. The crest of the wave will crash and then the cool water will rush and pool and soak into the ground where green will eventually poke and rise from the soil. The petals will unfold, the air will sweeten and I will find myself in the park under the tree he coaxed me to climb last year, reading a book about love and life.

When he goes, I hope he knows that I did my best. When he goes, I hope he feels loved, for that has always been, even on those days that I wished for today to come. When he goes, I hope he remembers to cover his mouth when he sneezes, because, that's obvious, it will reflect on me. When he goes, I hope he's not annoying. I hope he's courteous. I hope he's mindful. I hope he's healthy and strong and I hope he never appears to know too much. I want most for him to be a perpetual student of life.

And he has to face time me at least once a week. He had better face time me.



"No Winter lasts forever, no Spring skips it's turn." ~Hal Borland

Don't Let Me Be Lonely

So I read this the other day and I posted it and I shared it, and so did others. Please read if you have time and you haven't already, because it's great, whether you are lonely or not:


http://www.homesanctuary.com/rachelanne/2014/02/dear-lonely-mom-of-older-kids.html


And then, after I read it, I read it 3 more times. And then I decided, that I wasn't lonely. I'm really not. Displaced, maybe. Or chartering new waters perhaps, but I am not lonely. I am reflective, and anxious, and receiving reward and having fun and I am frustrated at times, but not lonely.

I sat down to write a half-assed, response/comment/explanation/story/blog about my take on this 'Lonely Mom of older kids thing'. Knowing it would be full of bad grammar, run on sentences, and incorrect and irritating punctuation, full of thoughts that run all over the place. But that is my life and maybe, in part, that is your life too.

Here is what I noted about this Mom of older kids in particular:

I do have a little more time to myself. My kids go off in different directions and seem to be creating some sort of new civilization within the confines of their room when they are at home, but it's not loneliness that I feel. I feel un-included in a necessary way. For what parent is actually invited into their teenager's room, and once there, really wants to stay?

The reflection part gushes in and out and almost always goes to: Where did I screw up and where did I succeed? Did I not take that romance seriously enough? Did I joke about something hurtful? Did I spend enough time with them? Did I laugh enough? Did they watch too much TV? Did I let one too many F bombs fly?

I fight the feeling more often now. It's that feeling of always wanting to make their lunches and put a napkin in with the words "I love you, kid, have a great day!" written in colorful sharpie. I reflect and re-live those important moments. The moment we took that turn in the road that made him be what he wants to be when he grows up. Sitting in my car, waiting for him to come out from play rehearsal, hearing him talk about how much the story has affected him. The music. How he became a singer. And a God-for-saken football player. She talks about genetics now, and epidemiology (way over my head). Her first season of basketball foreshadowed a not-so-athletic nature, which then exploded into let me play 3 sports and play them really well. And MVP's. And a captain of teams.

Now,

I wonder if they know about the times we had been driving along, me at the wheel, and my eyes would dart over to the other side of the road, watching for any motion or indication of drifting from an oncoming vehicle, so that I could quickly plan a way, in a split second, for me to take the impact, if someone was texting, or not paying attention, sparing them. Or if they know, while we were at the playground, and one of us Mom's got wind of some shady character lurking around, how, with a glance, we could quickly get all operatives into place to form a barrier of Momness around every child in the playground, not just our own.

New waters. The anxiety that surrounds them leaving. And not coming back to stay. It feels very natural, like I am fighting a current. A current of uncertainty, and not being able to see the expression on their faces, so I can figure things out. Not being able to breathe them in. Not being able to hear their voices bounce off the walls of my kitchen.

I plan a few things for my husband and I to do in my head, sans kids, that we haven't done since having children, like vacation alone together. However, I ask the universe, why?. Why now, when my heightened senses are spiked by my newly-licensed-drive of-a-son and my pretty-little-thing-of-a-daughter, that I would be full blown premenopausal? Does that seem fair? Or safe for others around me? I can't plan something without them, not yet. But I will. And maybe it will just have to be Iceland instead of St. John's. The cruelty.

Frustrated. So frustrated, because if I don't step back, my relationship with my two kids may crumble. It's such a balancing act. Knowing how much to be in, and how much to be out. Posting pictures of them on Facebook or Instagram and having them approve is the least of my worries. What pictures might they possibly be posting or looking at through some new fangled app or website, that we haven't even heard of yet? And part of me is really tense about it and the other part says they need to be worldly. And not sheltered. They need to cope and safely navigate, too. They know how we feel. We have taught them about consequences to their actions and their inner voice and now I need to let them listen to it. Or not listen to it.

Can you access or recall that feeling that you had when you watched your kid take a nasty little spill? The pit of your stomach, your heart skipping a little. It's fleeting, because the next mode is a quick jump to your feet and you're picking them up. And not to coddle, or smother them with kisses. But maybe to say "You are all right. Get up, it's not that bad." When my son leaves the house with car keys in hand, or I envision him leaving for college, that is the feeling. The pit of my stomach. My heart skips a beat. And it stays for a little longer than a second. And sometimes it wakes me out of a sound sleep.

The rewards are plentiful. "You have a great kid." Or, you watch them succeed and do well and be happy or handle a difficult situation in a way that makes you proud of them and for them. Or maybe they are chomping at the bit to get on with it. To get away from you or me and go live their life. That's the grand design. Go good luck, my child. But in reality you plan in detail for the date that they are going to come back home, without saying it or feeling it too much, or holding much stake in it.

The other day, while cleaning up the kitchen, my husband and I had a brief exchange about something minutely irritating in my son's tone. I mouthed to my husband: "He thinks I am a thorn in his side." My husband mouthed back: "It's YOU he is going to miss the most." I bit the corner of my lip just a little too hard. So I could focus on that, my lip, instead of the ache in my chest.  Part of me unsure, a piece of me thinking that maybe, just maybe he is right. Remembering a woman who once told me that they 'leave you at 16, they return around 22 or so.'

So loneliness, not quite. Not yet.

Realization, yes. I am where I am, and I don't think I would go back if I could. Because they are people, my two kids. Pretty cool people, that I got to live with every day and potty train, and carpool and bandage and laugh with and fill out forms for and cry over and worry about and love to the deepest depths of my soul. And for that, I will never feel lonely.

Thank You

I couldn't effectively get out of bed this morning. I don't know if it had something to do with Mother Nature introducing our first frost of the season, or if maybe I just woke up on the wrong side of the king size, but when I finally got into the steaming hot shower that is my usual salvation, I had to give myself a little pep talk. Getting dressed, blow drying, primping...it just felt like such a set of nearly impossible chores.

My daughter and I grunted at each other in the kitchen. She usually grunts, I try to jazz things up with a hearty "Good morning, babe." But not today. Grunting was it.

I decided, since my daughter had a particularly rough field hockey game the night before, that I would drive her to school today instead of her taking the bus. I just wanted to spend a little more time with her. My son drives himself to his high school, so we hugged and I patted him on the back and I wished him a good day and told him that I loved him. He told me the same.

So at 7:10 am, I dropped my daughter off at her middle school with a flurried kiss, and began my 30 minute drive to work. On my way, as I was listening to the radio, I heard the reports of a nearby local school system, that was shut down for the day and that there was police presence.

7:37 am I arrive at work. Yawn.

At sometime right before lunch, around 12:30 pm, I started to feel jittery. Jumping out of my skin kind of jittery. Like I couldn't sit still. Like I could run, no sprint. I almost did. It wasn't from the pumpkin spiced coffee (2), I swear. I drink that many every day. I am immune.

At my hour long lunch break, I picked up a bite to eat and went back to my office and decided to check up on the news that I had heard earlier in the car, just as officials were arraigning a teenager for allegedly killing a teacher. I just can't fathom it. I can't wrap my brain around any of it. It was heartbreaking.

At 3:15 pm, I punched out and headed to my car to make a quick stop at home to change out of my work clothes and then to meet my daughter at her friend's soccer game. At 3:17 pm, still sitting in my car at the parking lot at work, I got a call from my son's high school. It's a recorded message (our school system does this for alerts, snow days, important meetings, etc), but nonetheless, when you see your kids school on your caller ID, I hardly know a parent that lets it get to a second ring.

And the message went like this as our high school principal first announced himself: "There was an incident this afternoon, where a student brought a weapon to the high school. Two students became aware of the concern and alerted a teacher. The teacher immediately notified administration, who then contacted the police. A member of the administration and a counselor promptly went to the classroom where the student was located. They were soon thereafter joined by the police. The student was isolated and all others were cleared from the classroom and the surrounding hallways. When questioned, the student fully cooperated and admitted to having a weapon. The police took possession of the weapon and then the student was escorted by police to the police station. The police and school personnel are working cooperatively to assure the safety of all of our students. I am very proud of how our students and staff addressed this situation and also how they communicated with each other in order to resolve the situation without incident. Thank you very much and have a good day."

"Have a good day." I said outloud. "Have a good day." I said again outloud.

I put my car in reverse and backed out of my space.

At 3:29 pm I pullover at the recycling center entrance and sent this text my son: "Can you call me after football and before you go to play rehearsal?"

 I drove home and pulled into the driveway. I stopped at the bottom to collect the mail and the emotion welled up in my throat and in my eyes and in my heart, I felt fear. And relief. And gratitude. Sell-your-soul-to-the-devil-type-of-bargaining-followed-with-a-firm-fiery-handshake-kind-of-relief. My knees felt compromised. Through blurry vision, at 3:44 pm, I wrote the following email to our principal:

"B~

Two words: Thank you

It takes incredibly brave human beings to walk up to a classroom, knowing there is a weapon in it, surrounded by the souls of our children, that we all love so much.

What an incredible gift you and your staff of teachers and administrators are to all of our kids.

I am so proud of the students who took action. Wow!

Thank you, thank you, thank you,

~J & L's Mom"

His response, a mere 18 minutes later (I am sure he had more pressing things to tend to) at 4:04pm went like this:

"~Thank you L

I am proud of everyone involved. It took a team effort who acted immediately and within minutes all were safe and out of harms way. I am so proud of our school today.

~B"

I drove to my daughter's school, which is right next door to the high school, after changing into a pair of jeans and an old comfy sweatshirt that seemed medicinal, and I found myself speeding up and slowing down, over and over again. Foot heavy on the gas, foot gently on the brake.

As I walked across the field next to the soccer field, I spotted her from behind sitting with three of her friends. I stopped in my tracks just to stare at her. Just for being there. She has the most beautiful hair. I just stood there, until by some form of mysterious signaling, she turned around and saw me. She yelled my name and then got up and ran over to me. I wrapped my arms around her and gave her a big, long squeeze, buried my nose in her hair (to smell her deliciousness, it's just what I do) and asked her how her day was and what was the score of the game.

I convened with some friends and parents on the sidelines after leaving my daughter to do what teenagers do at a sporting event. We commiserated. We, I don't know, we stood in fear and gratitude together. Somewhat numb, I guess. Trying to live life as if it were just a normal, happy, peaceful world out there. Because, sometimes, that's what works best.

After the game ended, my daughter and I walked alone to the car. I asked: "Did you hear what happened at the high school today?" Wide eyed, she responded with a pronounced "Yes!" That's awful, why would someone bring a gun to school, Mom?"

Me: "I don't know. I just don't know. Are you OK?"

Her: "Yes, I am fine."

Me: "Are you hungry."

Her: "Yes."

Me: "Do you mind if we stop at the high school? I want to try to talk with your brother in between football practice and play rehearsal. I just need to see his face."

Her: "Sure, Mom."

We drive down the road, pulled into the parking lot and we happen to catch my son right before he gets into his car, with some of his friends. He looks so grown up. Handsome. He pulls his phone out of his bag and as he sees me pulling into a parking space across the aisle from his car I hear some kid yell "J, your Mom is here!"

I walk over to his friends, we say hello and chat, I notice the sweat soaked t-shirt and mud on his face and decide not to smell this one, and I ask my son if I can speak with him over near where I parked my car. He follows me, and I ask him how his day was and if he is OK."

"What an idiot." he says quietly and solemnly with his head down.

"Do you know him?" I ask.

"No, he's a freshmen. I don't really know who he is."

"How are you? Do you need to talk."

"No Mom, I think I am OK."

Can I buy you and your friends a couple of pizzas?" (Sorry, food is love)

And they love me.

I wish I could say that was all it takes. A Meat lover's pizza and a few sodas. But it's not. They will do what they do every day over and over again, but something tells me, they won't look at school or the world in general the same ever again, because now it has hit close to home. It's real. They are resilient, but we can't go back. We can't un-hear it. Or un-know it. We can't unscramble scrambled eggs.

So maybe there was a reason I couldn't get out of bed easily this morning. Maybe today was one of those days, better spent beneath the covers. But how can I? How could we? They need us. They need to see that we can feel some of the fear without letting it take control. That life, just doesn't stop. It keeps on going.

And all I can say, again, is two words without really choking up. Thank you.

10:24 pm: Thank you, B, thank you teachers, thank you administrators and students and kids and friends and parents. And Thank you God.

Rescue Breaths

** I tried to stay on task with this blog, but of course, my thoughts just don't stay in a single file line, and I no longer try to force them. So if you feel at times like you are bouncing of walls reading this, that's exactly how I feel...

~This morning, for the second time in a year, I was given a gentle nudge by the same dear friend. It's amazing how I don't talk to her for a couple of months and she somehow, somewhere, gets it. She prodded me to post a blog. It has been a while. And I just can't seem to focus long enough to sit down and give it a go. That's what I have been telling myself anyway. So here is my flailing attempt. Which feels lovely and threatening all at the same time.~

Ironically, last week, I started writing the obituary for this blog, because I was pretty convinced that the bitch needed to die.

She had served her purpose, but I had begun to feel that she was coming across as pretentious, preachy, under qualified and underwhelming. As in, I was coming across that way. And I probably am. And, I fantasized that her death should be fantastic.

I began the Domestic Hit Woman blog back in March 2011, shortly after my grandmother passed away. I found it to be a much needed outlet for me. Writing is therapy, for this self professed control junkie. Lately, I have been dealing with a lot more than my usual personality flaws that drive me and those closest to me bloody crazy. I now suffer from a form of anxiety that robs me of my sleep. Making me all that more gnarly (in a totally 80's kind of way). I certainly don't feel as comfortable socially as I used to and I am often on shaky ground with the level that anger and fear can creep up on me, from my blind side. I feel detached. Seeing a therapist is part of my life now. I need her to help me sort shit out. I will admit, those last two sentences, make me feel weak. And it shouldn't. But I am being as honest as I can be.

When I write, I live for sarcasm, bad grammar, and the constant drilling, questioning that I and most women (whether we mother someone or something or not) tend to put ourselves through. That a lot of people in general put themselves through, not just women. The perpetual "Am I doing it right?" "Am I good enough?" "How can I do it better?" So, with a blog, I get to put it all out there. And when I do, I get it back in spades. I get back that most of us, from time to time, feel this way and when we realize that we are not alone, we find comfort in it. At our weakest, I find we can gain strength just from that little ping that there are others out there, somewhere in the endless universe, that feel like we do.

 I find that regularly, the need that I have to express myself gets blocked by big meteor sized emotions that I don't know how to handle, connect with properly or express to others without hiding behind the ambiguity of the Internet. So a blog equals a perfect outlet for me. And I love anyone who reads the words that I write, because you give so much back to me. Just from reading. And maybe laughing. And doing that feeling like you are not the only one thingy. I love the strength in numbers feeling. I love the feeling of a feelings community. And I never used to.

10 years ago, I would have just stopped reading my own blog. The feeling of feelings community? That's syrupy.

But even writing has felt impossible. Not worthy, not good enough.

Yesterday, both of my children did something special. It wasn't a great grade on one of their tests or projects. He didn't get the lead in the school play and she didn't score the most points at her field hockey game. It was much more.

At lunch time, my daughter, her friend Kate and I, were on our way home from a road trip, We stopped to get lunch/dinner. After giving Kate the few extra bucks she needed to buy her Caesar Salad, my daughter said "You do so much for others, ya know that? You need to do something for yourself." and then she hugged me in public and kissed my cheek. Like a great big hug. She's thirteen, just shy of fourteen. Seems like a radical move on her part. And she captivated me. For Christ's sake kid, it was just a couple of bucks. But the eye contact from my daughter, the concern in her voice and my lack of true connection to the outside world and just feeling like I was going through the motions, while standing in line at Panera, caused me to pause. She is so mature and intuitive. It stopped me in my tracks. I am not the actress I think I am. I have been exposed as a fraud. Thank God.

The self doubter in me just got my reward. A caring and insightful kid. The mother in me, felt disheveled and revealed and successful all at once. It felt kind of awkward, the need to be called out. Getting called out by your own kid, and recognizing that it's warranted, is truly precious, if you are humble enough. I am not usually humble, but yesterday I was. A moment of true weakness. Good stuff. And part of me felt ashamed. And lucky. And more drained than ever.

Last night, my son, who I almost never see anymore because he is so busy, came home from work and I attempted to hit him hard with the old Parenting 101. Again, the motions. He is a junior in high school. We (Actually, its "I". I like to pretend my husband and I are both on his tail, but sadly, with my relentless worrying, it's just me) have been talking about the 11th grade since my son was in kindergarten. Of course the 11th grade, because its the year before the college application process. I am in close contact with the teacher of his Spanish 2 class (my son's most challenging class), Senor Sullivan (cracks me up every time I say it), and I had received and email from him earlier in the day, that my son was still missing some work from a few weeks ago. So after pleasantries were exchanged between my son and myself, I asked him to address the missing work before bed, even though it was late. My son, whose usual reaction would have been derived from aggravation with me, came up to me, hugged me ever so softly and said "Ma, you worry too much, you look exhausted, why must you worry so much about everyone else. I think you need to worry more about you."

Oh, this is bad, worse than I thought. Eye contact, concern in their voice and two genuine, unsolicited hugs (Is this a conspiracy!) from my two teenagers later (all in the same day) and...Voila...I got the message. In full. And not in black and white, in full Technicolor. I am in trouble. And they know.

Time for me to slow it down and get back to it. You too, if this fits. And don't pretend it doesn't fit, If it, in fact, does.

I recently saw an interview with a blogger/writer named Glennon Doyle Melton who writes the blog "Momastery". The heading on her blog page is "Truth Tellers and Hope Spreaders". Her and I both believe that blogging and truth make the best bed fellows.

So here is a few simple messages that we all know, but certainly need a reminder from time to time:

1)When we focus some time on ourselves, the people around us, who love and care for us, win. They win big. When you take care of yourself, your kids learn the importance of self love. Because, really, how else can you teach it. You can tell your child to love themselves and to do what makes them happy a zillion and a half times and if you don't practice it, you might as well be talking in Swahili.

2) Being truthful is not always easy, convenient or comfortable. Being truthful opens you up like a big old open wound and makes you vulnerable. But it also helps you heal and gain strength. And momentum to live life to it's absolute fullest.

3) If your only hobby is your kids, it's time to get an actual hobby. Or a massage. Or a hot bath in solitude with a glass of wine or...(See message #1)

4) If you need help get it. The mother lode. Asking for help is one of the toughest things I have ever done. If you see someone else struggling, ask them if they need your help, and then help them if they say yes. In fact, you may have to do it if they say no.

5) A special bonus message that has nothing to do with anything. (Yes, I told you, I am scattered): I post a lot of highlights of my life, like milestones and pictures, on Facebook. Hopefully not in a way that makes people think that my life is all sunshine and flowers, but because I think of it as my moving, long term scrapbook of sorts. I want my kids to look back and be proud of what I put out there, because it can never be truly erased once you put something in print of any kind or if you put something on the Internet. When my children are looking back on it on that day that they have off from work, with coffee in hand, just messing around on their laptop, I don't want them to see low lights, they already know what they are pretty much. I want them to see the highlights. The things I love and admire about them, myself and their Dad. They may be able to also see a beautifully needed cocktail I enjoyed or a tongue in cheek post, but they will never see negativity, smearing, hate, or me dancing on a table top after one too many (It never happened). I post things on Facebook for us, not so much for you. Sorry.

So, me and you should get back to something we love, or at least really, really like, if we have placed it on the back burner. Something that requires no stress, and brings happiness and contentment. If it causes you to go outside of your comfort zone, then that is DEFINITELY a sign that you should do it. Reach for it, nothing feels better than accomplishing something you were afraid of. Then, most importantly, don't forget to kick the guilt and self doubt and the negative head chatter to the curb, on your way there. You won't forget what really matters, either. Everyone will still be there when you get back. They just may be shocked that you were actually gone doing something for you. Let them be.

As for my prodder, she hit the nail on the head. Great timing, my friend. Per your usual. And thanks for pretending it was you that needed a blog post. Suave.

So, long live the Domestic Hit Woman. She was born to fix something that's broken and she ain't done yet. She has many friends and lost a few. Sometimes her family stops speaking to each other, or maybe it's just that they stop speaking to her (oh well). Not everybody gets her or likes her or can deal. She is mouthy and unfiltered at times. She never graduated from college and is not completely sure that deep down she isn't just plain lazy. But she feels deeply for you and what you think and feel. And she's just getting to the point now, half way through life, where she realizes just how much she really does care. She is a truth seeker. If you are honest with her, even if it's not pretty, she will be a loyal follower. And she will listen. She will be there for you in a firestorm even if you don't like her. Her husband and kids encircle her with love and laughs and pride and yes, frustration at times, and even though she finds herself struggling (don't worry, she's scrappy), her life, as much of a maelstrom as it is, is worth living every single day.

Or in bad grammar fashion: Every. Single. Day. (I can just digest it better that way, in bite sized pieces)

Oh, and by the way, thank you, kiddos. You are smarter than your old Ma. XO

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.