So here I am laying in a hospital gown that is pretty ridiculous as it is so big I could wiggle through the neck opening like a street contortionist wiggles through a cardboard box. I am having my twelfth ECHO with my buddy James, and I am excited as its only taking five minutes. I suppose that is the service I get once you become a regular. He stops plugging in the numbers on the machine, looks down at the floor, and says, "Thank you for your outlook on life." I am thinking, What the heck was I rambling on about? Wasn't I whining about my kindergartner having a full blown tantrum on the way to school? No, we were talking about our seven year olds, we both have one, and their silly ways they innovated to jump off the diving board? Well, anyway, he proceeds to tell me that he has a genetic disorder with his heart and no one in his family has lived past 40. He is 35. Here is this father of three who is finding some sort of motivate attitude in my useless rambling. Yes, I know I ramble. So here we are crying. Wait, I think I was the only one crying. Maybe I never really stopped crying from the stress of carrying a 40 pound, biting, crying, screaming, boy I love so dearly to school so I can get his sister to school on time, ordeal. We are talking about the fact that it is highly likely we will both die in the next five years, and we are, like, okay with being dead. But, we fear how that makes those around us feel, especially our children. So here we are thanking each other for something hugely profound and taboo and all and all crappy to think about.
"We Humans have lost the art of dying well. That is all I ask. I want to live well to die well. And, I am so thankful I had kids before I jumped out of an airplane and had to decide whether I really would pull the parachute cord or not."
Yes, folks, we are all going to die. Some of us hear our time clocks clicking just a little too close to zero. So make the best of it. Stop complaining. Make a change. Teach, teach some more, and learn a ton so you can teach that too. Live it well. And know that THAT is exactly how I do it. Yes, you ask me all the time how I do it. That is it...I want to live it all all at the same time and do it well. That is how I coach soccer to five year olds in flip flops on damp grass for thirty minutes when the coach is so very, very late for his team. That is how I spontaneously turn a trip to Chick-Fil-A after soccer practice into girl's night out, and one guy, even when our kids are so tired they are stumbling and crying out the door. I want to be super-mom, uber-awesome-artist, and that funny girl you just met that still looks hot in boot cut jeans with her purple toe nails even though she has this constant rash on her face, her finger nails are nearly all ripped off, and has stretchmarks around her waist that is just a little flabby even though she can hula hoop longer then a seven year old. Yep, don't just sit on the side lines, join the game because your clock is ticking too. Live it, live it well, even when you feel like you are going to go insane. But, shhh..., here is the real secret: sleep. Don't forget to sleep well too because there will be tomorrow. Yes, there WILL.
James, I toast to your 40th birthday party, and it better be the biggest damn party anyone ever saw. I know mine will be (hint hint hint...and there better be dancing). Here's to freakin' living to forty. No fifty. Here is a toast to being grandparents and tossing out the bucket list so we can spend a little more energy being present in what is exactly right here at this very moment. Here is to the art of living well to die well. Just one day at a time. One day at a time. And, James, you betcha I will see you every three to four months for a super long time as I have a whole lot of lifetime still ahead. So do you.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Monday, September 19, 2011
Middle Spaces
Today there is a feeling which I can equate to a Saturday morning. Correction, let us make it Saturday, just past noon, you are seventeen and just waking up for the day. You are seventeen and not quite an adult and almost not a teen. You are sort of empty as you just broke up with your boyfriend and it is Saturday. Fridays are okay. You have the basketball or football game that you can talk your friends in to going with you to because you will drive. You can borrow your mom's minivan. They may drink and maybe even drag their stupid boyfriends with them. You might have to witness a noisy game of tonsil hockey in the rearview mirror. But, hey, you aren't home. And, you are not alone. If you are a lucky, the game will be an away game and will take up most of the night. On the way back into town, you will talk everyone into going to Chili's for some chow. They will order that onion thing that makes you want to gag. You know, the entire onion that is sliced, deep fried and smells like feet. But, that is okay because you aren't home and your BFF's stupid boyfriend's cousin that was visiting from out of town and came along to the game is sort of cute even though he isn't your boyfriend, I mean ex-boyfriend, and talks too much about his Camero.
No, it is not that Friday night. It is Saturday and your BFF will go out with her stupid boyfriend. So you are stuck with your parents for the night. Don't tell anyone that you sort of don't mind. So you run to the video store sometime during the afternoon. You go between lunch and dinner so you aren't seen there in the video store picking out a movie for your parents by any of those stupid couples from your high school who will probably miss half of whatever stupid movie they pick out together making out on the couch. So you a there looking at every movie reading all the labels so you don't pick out one with stupid teenagers drinking, having sex, or being vampires because you don't want your parents thinking all teenagers are drinking, having sex, and loving vampires because they are not. You won't rent that one so you are stuck with the new princess cartoon you would have loved to see like five years ago, the gross murder mystery crap your dad would probably like, the sappy love story where the best friend steals the groom, or the dramody about the middle-aged old dude freakin' out because his wife left him because he is a looser.
So there you are with your parents eating pizza your mom was nice enough to order knowing you are pissed off at boys. Later, she will pull out some chocolate mint ice-cream. You are eating your ice cream and watching the stupid dramody not feeling sorry for this looser who really didn't see the beautiful woman that was standing right in front of him until it was too late because he was being stupid and it is only eight o'clock pm. They are both on the couch cuddling, your parents. You're thinking about how Mr. Stupid Head used to touch your arm and give you goose pimples. Or, maybe how you used to try to get him to say your name because you liked how it sounded when he said it, but he never would. Or, maybe Mom is busy knitting or grading school papers on the couch while Dad is in the recliner snoring. You wonder if all men in their forties, nearly fifty, fall asleep five minutes into the movie, any movie excpet ones with car chases. How boring. Stupid boys. But, it is okay, because you aren't alone on this stupid Saturday just after a stupid boy decided to be really stupid.
Yep, that pretty much sums up how I feel this very moment. I feel like a seventeen year old who is alone on a Saturday night but not really allone on a Saturday night and okay with that. I feel like that teen who is neither here or there. There is something, some place, just somewhere in the middle, a middle space. That is where you will find me.
PS I am twice seventeen plus two years and didn't break up with a boyfriend. This is an analogy and should not be taken litterally beyond the essence of the moment of feeling sort of not here and not there and being okay with that.
No, it is not that Friday night. It is Saturday and your BFF will go out with her stupid boyfriend. So you are stuck with your parents for the night. Don't tell anyone that you sort of don't mind. So you run to the video store sometime during the afternoon. You go between lunch and dinner so you aren't seen there in the video store picking out a movie for your parents by any of those stupid couples from your high school who will probably miss half of whatever stupid movie they pick out together making out on the couch. So you a there looking at every movie reading all the labels so you don't pick out one with stupid teenagers drinking, having sex, or being vampires because you don't want your parents thinking all teenagers are drinking, having sex, and loving vampires because they are not. You won't rent that one so you are stuck with the new princess cartoon you would have loved to see like five years ago, the gross murder mystery crap your dad would probably like, the sappy love story where the best friend steals the groom, or the dramody about the middle-aged old dude freakin' out because his wife left him because he is a looser.
So there you are with your parents eating pizza your mom was nice enough to order knowing you are pissed off at boys. Later, she will pull out some chocolate mint ice-cream. You are eating your ice cream and watching the stupid dramody not feeling sorry for this looser who really didn't see the beautiful woman that was standing right in front of him until it was too late because he was being stupid and it is only eight o'clock pm. They are both on the couch cuddling, your parents. You're thinking about how Mr. Stupid Head used to touch your arm and give you goose pimples. Or, maybe how you used to try to get him to say your name because you liked how it sounded when he said it, but he never would. Or, maybe Mom is busy knitting or grading school papers on the couch while Dad is in the recliner snoring. You wonder if all men in their forties, nearly fifty, fall asleep five minutes into the movie, any movie excpet ones with car chases. How boring. Stupid boys. But, it is okay, because you aren't alone on this stupid Saturday just after a stupid boy decided to be really stupid.
Yep, that pretty much sums up how I feel this very moment. I feel like a seventeen year old who is alone on a Saturday night but not really allone on a Saturday night and okay with that. I feel like that teen who is neither here or there. There is something, some place, just somewhere in the middle, a middle space. That is where you will find me.
PS I am twice seventeen plus two years and didn't break up with a boyfriend. This is an analogy and should not be taken litterally beyond the essence of the moment of feeling sort of not here and not there and being okay with that.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Smilely Face to Grimmus
Each time I get a massage, I am asked what my pain level is going in and what it is going out. I sometimes find this bemusing. Like if I haven't gone from a 4 to a 2 in one hour, why am I here. This, of course, makes sense due to the fact I get my massage therapy at the Health Center of Integrated Therapies which is a branch of the Longmont United Hospital. Also, I am sure there is some pain assessment hula hoop to jump through as I get my therapies covered on my insurance.
Over the past three years, I have discovered a whole new world of pain. Previously, pain consisted of stubbing a toe on the cement step or my kid accidentally head butting me. If I was ever in a medical office and they held up that cute chart with the faces ranging from smiley to grimmus, I might even choose the level four, almost grimmus to identify the pain of getting a blood draw done.
However, now, a blood draw is routine and ranks at maybe a 2, not quite a smiley face, level. I tease my massage therapist, "Don't you knew, I don't have pain anymore. I only have discomfort." Now, I am not going to get into any bloody details of pain needing Oxycoton just to take the edge off such as I experienced during the two weeks after my bilateral mastectomy. Yes, the intesity of one surgery caused me to exclaim that an apendectomy recovery is nearly painless. No, I am going to talk about the day to day "discomfort." The body gets used to pain and raises the bar. Anyone with arthritis, MS, Lupus, fiber mialgia, or other similar disease can acclaim to this numbing of pain as the body shuts down its alert system so you can better enjoy your day to day life.
Today, I just didn't feel great. I went in and out of my errands and through lunch not too interested in food. I visited my mother in the hospital as she is recovering from a surgery. I had sat with her the night before when she was doing that great. She was nauseated as the leg anesthesia block wore off from the surgery. I spent much of the morning thinking through how I dealt with pain during my past six surgeries in three years. At lunch, she was doing okay, but not great. She still wasn't eating. I went home still thinking about how to make this better based on my experiences. Going about my business and running to get the kids from school, I began to think of the next hurtle in my day, dinner. I just didn't want to eat anything. Everything sounded gross. And, that is when I realized I was actually nauseous and took a Zofran. See, I had stubbed my toes blunt on last night coming home from the hospital to a dark house. Since I have Hand and Foot Syndrome, this action sends knife-like pains right up my leg to my groin. It makes my toe nail beds bleed and blisters form on the tips. All morning, I had been in pain from this. I had ignored it. Actually, my brain ignored it. I was nauseous from the pain and didn't even realize it until I started thinking about food.
So I figured it out. Nausea meds first. Then, pain meds and get it on a schedule. This evening during my chats with Mom and later the nurses, we ironed out that she was left off pain meds beyond the recommended dosing, went into a pain loop and then was unable to identify to difference as her body screamed for some help.
Well, Mom is doing better tonight as I left her dozing off to some good sleep after meds and a great back rub by her lucky daughter. I think the nurse finally had settled her on to a plan, a schedule of action with her medication with a slow tapper. Pain is a funny thing. It really is abstract and variable. Its totally subjective nature makes it difficult to manage. But one thing is for sure, when someone you love very much is in pain, your momma bear alert system rings out loud and clear. Well, good night Momma Bear from your Baby Bear. I sure hope tomorrow is more bearable. ;> XOXOX
Over the past three years, I have discovered a whole new world of pain. Previously, pain consisted of stubbing a toe on the cement step or my kid accidentally head butting me. If I was ever in a medical office and they held up that cute chart with the faces ranging from smiley to grimmus, I might even choose the level four, almost grimmus to identify the pain of getting a blood draw done.
However, now, a blood draw is routine and ranks at maybe a 2, not quite a smiley face, level. I tease my massage therapist, "Don't you knew, I don't have pain anymore. I only have discomfort." Now, I am not going to get into any bloody details of pain needing Oxycoton just to take the edge off such as I experienced during the two weeks after my bilateral mastectomy. Yes, the intesity of one surgery caused me to exclaim that an apendectomy recovery is nearly painless. No, I am going to talk about the day to day "discomfort." The body gets used to pain and raises the bar. Anyone with arthritis, MS, Lupus, fiber mialgia, or other similar disease can acclaim to this numbing of pain as the body shuts down its alert system so you can better enjoy your day to day life.
Today, I just didn't feel great. I went in and out of my errands and through lunch not too interested in food. I visited my mother in the hospital as she is recovering from a surgery. I had sat with her the night before when she was doing that great. She was nauseated as the leg anesthesia block wore off from the surgery. I spent much of the morning thinking through how I dealt with pain during my past six surgeries in three years. At lunch, she was doing okay, but not great. She still wasn't eating. I went home still thinking about how to make this better based on my experiences. Going about my business and running to get the kids from school, I began to think of the next hurtle in my day, dinner. I just didn't want to eat anything. Everything sounded gross. And, that is when I realized I was actually nauseous and took a Zofran. See, I had stubbed my toes blunt on last night coming home from the hospital to a dark house. Since I have Hand and Foot Syndrome, this action sends knife-like pains right up my leg to my groin. It makes my toe nail beds bleed and blisters form on the tips. All morning, I had been in pain from this. I had ignored it. Actually, my brain ignored it. I was nauseous from the pain and didn't even realize it until I started thinking about food.
So I figured it out. Nausea meds first. Then, pain meds and get it on a schedule. This evening during my chats with Mom and later the nurses, we ironed out that she was left off pain meds beyond the recommended dosing, went into a pain loop and then was unable to identify to difference as her body screamed for some help.
Well, Mom is doing better tonight as I left her dozing off to some good sleep after meds and a great back rub by her lucky daughter. I think the nurse finally had settled her on to a plan, a schedule of action with her medication with a slow tapper. Pain is a funny thing. It really is abstract and variable. Its totally subjective nature makes it difficult to manage. But one thing is for sure, when someone you love very much is in pain, your momma bear alert system rings out loud and clear. Well, good night Momma Bear from your Baby Bear. I sure hope tomorrow is more bearable. ;> XOXOX
Monday, September 12, 2011
Memories
My grandmother gave me a cake stand. I didn't really know why I needed it. I passed from one spot to another in my kitchen trying to find the best location to store the awkward box. Several times, it nearly made its home at the thrift store as my donation of useless items. Yet, I couldn't let it go. When we moved, it went into a stack of small heavy boxes needing special attention. I had a baby then, 6 months old.
That baby was going to turn one in a couple of days. So I pulled out that cake stand and dusted off the box. I slipped it out of its packaging and made a cake. Then, I remembered. "Every cake deserves a place of honor." The thing is, I just needed someone needing a cake to be honored.
Today, my second baby celebrated his six birthday. We had a casual potluck with a dozen families. He helped me make a cake in the morning, gluten and dairy free. We put the cake on the crystal cake stand and decorated the top with Star Wars action figures. We served the cake and my son beamed from ear to ear. I was so busy coordinating the goings on of the party that I never did get to taste the cake. But, dang, it sure looked honored up there on that crystal cake stand.
My grandmother is getting older. She isn't the same any more. I miss her already. I have a necklace that she gave my sister one time when she was downloading her stuff from her home that she still shares with my grandfather. It was too small for my sister so my sister gave it to me. I wear it nearly everyday. I spin the gold chain in my fingers when I get nervous. I remember.
Sometimes the memories aren't specific. They are moments in time as I grapple at my memories to figure out what grade in school I was when something happened. Then, there are memories that are much more specific. 9/11/01. Today is the tenth anniversary of the fateful day. Wait, day isn't quite right. The anniversary of that episodic moment in time.
People all around me remembered where they were ten years ago. I cried a bit reading or hearing each story. These are moments in time that don't need grappling for specifics. We remember. We remember sitting on the edge of our beds getting ready for work and being stunned, glued to the TV, unable to slip on our high heels. We remember teaching teenagers and children, hearing the news, and walking into our classrooms with the overwhelming burden to decide how to protect our children from something we don't fully understand, the big, bad wolf. How will we answer the questions about the bad guys? We will remember worrying about our friends and family who worked near the Towers or in Washington DC. We will remember checking our phones waiting for them to call. And, for too many, you will remember being there that day.
Ten years. Ten years have passed, and I remembered. I brought cookies to the neighborhood fire station with my MOMS Club for several of those years. I have ran through scenarios if that happened here in my home in the heart of America. What do I tell my children to teach them? I have no answer to why someone would do that.
When I passed the bag full of cookies to the firefighter today, I almost said, "Happy 9/11 Day." That sounded way wrong in my head. So I didn't say it. But, I wanted to reach out and tell him I knew that their heart just didn't sing quite as high as it is supposed to today on the tenth anniversary of September 11.
Yes, memories are vague and specific, sweet and bitter, and warm and frightening. We live our lives trying to be present in the moment. Sometimes we look over our shoulders. That looking is not always a good thing. Yet, it is our memories that teach us that we are vulnerable and strong all at the same time.
I just washed the crystal cake stand and put it back in its box with my memories of my grandmother. Someday, my children will look at a cake they have made sitting on a plain, boring plate. They will remember their birthdays with me and a crystal cake stand. I will probably get a phone call requesting they borrow the stand. It will be pulled out of its box which will be tattered and bronzed by then. The air will fill with memories. But, they aren't my memories of my grandmother telling me to use a cake stand because every cake needs a place of honor. No, their memories will have a life of their own.
That baby was going to turn one in a couple of days. So I pulled out that cake stand and dusted off the box. I slipped it out of its packaging and made a cake. Then, I remembered. "Every cake deserves a place of honor." The thing is, I just needed someone needing a cake to be honored.
Today, my second baby celebrated his six birthday. We had a casual potluck with a dozen families. He helped me make a cake in the morning, gluten and dairy free. We put the cake on the crystal cake stand and decorated the top with Star Wars action figures. We served the cake and my son beamed from ear to ear. I was so busy coordinating the goings on of the party that I never did get to taste the cake. But, dang, it sure looked honored up there on that crystal cake stand.
My grandmother is getting older. She isn't the same any more. I miss her already. I have a necklace that she gave my sister one time when she was downloading her stuff from her home that she still shares with my grandfather. It was too small for my sister so my sister gave it to me. I wear it nearly everyday. I spin the gold chain in my fingers when I get nervous. I remember.
Sometimes the memories aren't specific. They are moments in time as I grapple at my memories to figure out what grade in school I was when something happened. Then, there are memories that are much more specific. 9/11/01. Today is the tenth anniversary of the fateful day. Wait, day isn't quite right. The anniversary of that episodic moment in time.
People all around me remembered where they were ten years ago. I cried a bit reading or hearing each story. These are moments in time that don't need grappling for specifics. We remember. We remember sitting on the edge of our beds getting ready for work and being stunned, glued to the TV, unable to slip on our high heels. We remember teaching teenagers and children, hearing the news, and walking into our classrooms with the overwhelming burden to decide how to protect our children from something we don't fully understand, the big, bad wolf. How will we answer the questions about the bad guys? We will remember worrying about our friends and family who worked near the Towers or in Washington DC. We will remember checking our phones waiting for them to call. And, for too many, you will remember being there that day.
Ten years. Ten years have passed, and I remembered. I brought cookies to the neighborhood fire station with my MOMS Club for several of those years. I have ran through scenarios if that happened here in my home in the heart of America. What do I tell my children to teach them? I have no answer to why someone would do that.
When I passed the bag full of cookies to the firefighter today, I almost said, "Happy 9/11 Day." That sounded way wrong in my head. So I didn't say it. But, I wanted to reach out and tell him I knew that their heart just didn't sing quite as high as it is supposed to today on the tenth anniversary of September 11.
Yes, memories are vague and specific, sweet and bitter, and warm and frightening. We live our lives trying to be present in the moment. Sometimes we look over our shoulders. That looking is not always a good thing. Yet, it is our memories that teach us that we are vulnerable and strong all at the same time.
I just washed the crystal cake stand and put it back in its box with my memories of my grandmother. Someday, my children will look at a cake they have made sitting on a plain, boring plate. They will remember their birthdays with me and a crystal cake stand. I will probably get a phone call requesting they borrow the stand. It will be pulled out of its box which will be tattered and bronzed by then. The air will fill with memories. But, they aren't my memories of my grandmother telling me to use a cake stand because every cake needs a place of honor. No, their memories will have a life of their own.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)