See? I Wasn't Even Kidding - Day 14

Day 14 - a non-fictional book that is meaningful to you since your loss.

Elizabeth McCracken is the easy answer here. An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination is the "OMG. Holy shit. I am NOT crazy!" book. The "what happened to us WAS/IS and forever will be fucked up and it is OK that I was not in my right mind every moment of the way" story. As beautifully written as any horrible story could be, McCracken, man. She speaks to me.

So, how's about a not-so-expected answer now?

There was one book that I read, cover to cover, when I still couldn't see straight. One that I picked up throughout the day and then used to pummel M with facts and information that I had gleaned from it every night when he came home from work.

"Hey, M! Guess what? Did you know the Hardy Boyz made their own trampoline wrestling ring in their back yard when they were kids?"

"Hey, M! Did you know their mom died when they were young? That's sad."

"Hey, sweetie..." [WHAAAAAAAT? Tell me, m. just what did you learn about Matt and Jeff today? I'm just dying to know.]

I can't explain it. I went for a walk most days. One day found me at the library. I saw this book. I picked it up. And good goddess, it became my security blanket. I couldn't get enough of the Hardy Boyz and their trials and tribulations in the WWE. It was simple. It was straightforward. It probably dropped my reading level down several grades. But whatever. It entertained me and g*ddammit I wanted to be entertained.

It did the trick.

Unlike me, trying to replicate a super-sweet wrestling move on M. a few months ago. Yep. Scar is still there.

Two-A-Days - Back on Track with the Meme. Day 13

I started late. I'm a slacker. And much like Audrey, I get defiant when I feel obligated. Regardless of whether or not I imposed that obligation on myself.

All of this to explain why you are reading a "day 13" post on the 26th day of the month.

Day 13 - a fictional book that is meaningful to you since your loss

The short answer to this is: none. Sure I've read a few books that I've liked, some that I've set aside. I just haven't been drawn to a fictional piece since our loss. Haven't found that book that's made me go, OMG, how did I miss this one?

I do, however, have immense gratitude for Carl Hiaasen. You know, the dude that wrote Striptease, and dozens of other books, all set in south or central Florida, all having more or less the same plot (corrupt land developer or business owner, quirky middle-aged characters with family issues but good hearts, hijinks, good guys winning). Hiaasen is what I read this year and the year before on our summer vacations down to the Gulf Coast of Florida. Both times felt like a reprieve, like a pause in life where M and I could just grab a trashy novel, a beach towel and enjoy each other's company for a while. And Hiassen was our go-to guy. Nothing too taxing. Nothing too stressful. Just a decent story and a couple of laughs and lots of down on their luck souls getting some breaks here and there.

Hiaasen makes me think of Bonita Springs which makes me think of happy.

**

And so many thanks, by the way, for your comments and emails yesterday. The storm seems to have faded. Life resumes, as it always does, after some tense moments, a shaky day, some hugs, some tears and some love. Thank you for giving me the strength to walk in the door with a smile on my face to try to shift the scene. It eventually worked.

Up and Then Down

Plans for this morning were to post my perfect moments from the week, which consisted of a great weekend topped off with a concert by a beloved icon from my past. I was going to count the ways which the evening rocked and then bang out some more 30-days MEME posts since I am, yet, again, falling behind. That was the plan.

But M. woke this morning when my pilates alarm went off (I chose snooze. sorry. legs still sore) and continued to toss and turn until he finally got up, sighing the whole way in and out of the shower. Somber morning, the kind where I quietly can't wait for him to leave since the weight of the air is oppressive. Is it about work? Was it the alarm? Did I say something last night to start this funk? what was the trigger? How can I make it better? Can I make it better?

On the way out it felt like he was trying to pick a fight over some earphones and finally I was like, dude. What? What is this about?

"I just can't find a reason to get up in the morning. That's all. I just don't see the point."

And with that he leaves. And here I sit. Reminded that no matter how fine things appear on the surface, That is always there.

**

Sometimes I wonder how different things would be if I just never got pregnant. If nothing worked and the grieving was for something else. Not two real, actual little girls that never got a chance to get mad as us, make us crazy, make us proud. I wonder if the sting would be any less if we knew there was NO chance, as opposed to one chance, and oh you blew it, and now you have none. That feels terribly cruel, don't you think?

But where does the anger go? Who to be mad at? Sure there are the usual suspects, but inevitably it turns inward or to each other, or to The World in general, and leads to mornings like this. Ones where I text until he answers me so I am sure he at least made it to work safely (he is). One were all my best laid plans are shot to hell and I still have a day of work ahead of me. Of other obligations, other expectations that have nothing to do with this.

This dead babies/infertility/sad husband/crazy family business (which I am not even getting into here)...It's really doing a job on me this morning. And the rest of the day awaits.

Race Results

30:47 (unofficial time) for this morning's 5k.

Yeeeeeahhh!

Super big shout out to my running mate A.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.2

Inspiration

My day began at 4 am today when I got up to catch my 4:30 cab to get my 5 am train to an 8 am event in Philadelphia.

And it’s been worth every lost minute of sleep. And you know my deep affection for sleep.

Spent the morning commute catching up on blogs and personal emails, treated myself to a caramel macchiato when I arrived at my destination, found myself seated with some of my favorite colleagues, listened to some amazing poetry courtesy of the Philly Youth Poetry Movement and remembered that spoken word isn’t just for intellectual blowhards at indie coffee joints. It can be real. It can be powerful. It can break your heart with its truths.

Not that intellectual blowhards don’t have their own truths.

Next up was Anne Mahlum who founded an organization called Back on My Feet which engages the homeless population in running. Yes, running. Why?

“Running is one of the most empowering activities there is because there is no end. There is always another mile, another road, another right turn. There is no buzzer and there is no referee. It has taught me so much about life, especially the simple notion that to get anywhere, you have to take it one step at a time."

Go check out their website and blog to read Anne’s story and the events that led her to lace up her shoes, and then get others to join her on the journey. She’s a terrific speaker. I hung on her every word. Probably because I felt like she was speaking to me. Directly to me. Especially when she said running made her “feel like [she] could fly” and that starting the nonprofit “made her life make sense.” She talked about how running doesn’t discriminate, and is so easy to start – “all you have to do is show up.” And for just showing up, folks that participate in her program earn points towards grants they can use to get themselves back on their feet.

And she’s so young! And has great hair. Tangent. Sorry.

Of course I found her after the event and thanked her personally, told her just a smidge about me – My babies died. I started to run. I kept running. It changed me. It heals me. It forces me to rely on my body again. And focus my mind. It has nothing to do with being physically fit, but everything mentally. I am pretty sure it saved me. Thank you. Thank you for everything you said and for what you do, and for encouraging others down this path.

How’s that for an elevator speech?

So, yeah, I basically spent the whole morning hugging people, tearing up, hoping no one turned the lights back on while my eyeballs were full, and wondering to myself, what is MY life mission? What is the thing that is going to make my life make sense? Make me feel like I am in love?

I don’t know yet.

But I do feel like there are some pieces that are coming together and some people coming back into my life that are reawakening some long-dormant urges. Urges to, you know, like help people and shit.

For the longest time, the very notion of volunteering made me cringe, because working for a nonprofit often makes one feel like you’re donating time all day. Especially when you see your paycheck. This, after years of pre-adolescent and teen years being a pretty vocal and active spokeskid for various charities and events, had been my prevalent train of thought. What I do during the day is enough. I don’t need to cut into my happy hours and Gossip Girl watching time. The concept appealed to me even less after our loss. When the therapist suggested we do something to help other people, both M and I held back snorts. Why the fuck would we want to do THAT? Aren’t we here to talk about US? C’mon lady. Focus.

But, hmm, I don’t know. I feel like there’s something brewing. Something ready to maybe make itself known. I’m not withholding information or burying the lede on you here. I honestly don’t know what that something is. But…

Side note: is there anything cooler than Galaxie 500 covering Joy Division? Wow, Pandora. You know me. You really know me.

Can my day getting any better?

Day 12 - Obsessions

Day 12 - something you are OCD about

I'm kind of with Angie on this one. I don't like to drop terms like OCD around too lightly. But that's the title of today's topic, so let's talk about some habits, perhaps some repetitious habits that I may feel a little silly admitting.

Reading through the other ladies playing along, its pretty clear we're all a little hung up on lists of all shapes and sizes. I prefer mine with little empty boxes drawn next to my to dos that I can fill in when they're done. Silly, yes. Satisfying, yes. But I also seem to find a bizarre comfort/discomfort in stacks.

Like when my dear pal S. came into my dorm room in the midst of mid-terms freshman year to find me quietly crying and stacking my books and notes in piles around me.

“Dude, I think if you just opened one and started studying, you might feel a little less stressed.”

Well, yes. Probably. But I just have this desire to physically see a representation of the tasks ahead of me. That stack – manageable. That one – no way. That one over there – I’m going to pretend it’s not really there but I will keep it there so I don’t completely forget that there is something big that I am avoiding.

15+ years later (dammit!) I look around my desk and I see these same patterns. This stack – personal. That stack – work-related. That stack – stuff I should get to sooner than later. It’s all stacks and piles that would probably be thinner if I spent less time stacking and more time doing.

I can’t tell if this is how I get my head around things, or how I unnecessarily add to my anxieties. The stacking helps compartmentalize but it’s not like I create one and stop. Ok, here are tasks I can reasonably address today. One step at a time. No. That would be sensible. I need to know I am in the weeds. In over my head and I need the piles as evidence.

My penchant for stacking is not unnoticed. It is M’s scapegoat for all things missing (aka things he’s misplaced) in the apartment. Sometimes it is the culprit (have you seen the last New Yorker magazine? What about my library book?) Oftentimes not. (honey, where’s my toothbrush?) But anyone who has lived with me for a time can attest that when I talk about piling it on, it’s not even figurative.

Day 11 - Recent Photo

Day 11 - a photo of you recently and how it makes you feel seeing it now.

Is a year ago recent? I think it should be. What if I look exactly the same? That should count, right?

This is me, and two other gorgeous women, who also had children that aren't with us today. Bonus points if you can guess who they are.


I look at this photo and remember the kind older gentlemen who took it for it when he saw us struggling to get that outstretched arm, aim and hope for the best self-portrait. He said, "look at those smiles. You must be really good friends."

And the truth was, it had only been hours since we met. It was, but it wasn't. We had been writing and reading and consoling and grieving with each other for months and months.

It is true that real hugs feel even better than virtual ones.

I look at this photo and I know there is life after loss. Because we are living it.