July 31, 2009
I have made a decision. Yep. I'm gonna do it. I'm gonna run another marathon. In 2005 I ran the Chicago Marathon with my brother. I was thrilled to have accomplished the challenge, but always said I probably wouldn't run another marathon unless I had a really strong motivation to do so - and I really couldn't think of what that motivation would be - until now.
When Jeremy and I were in San Francisco last weekend, the San Francisco marathon took place. All day on Sunday we ran into people walking around wrapped mylar or wearing marathon t-shirts. Whenever I could, I congratulated the runners we encountered. They always smiled that exhausted, thrilled smile in return. I walked away with goose bumps up and down my arms recalling the sense of accomplishment, of community, and of relief I experienced the day I ran the marathon.
The day before my second surgery, October 16, 2008, I walked around the house wearing my marathon medal. It was my reminder to myself that I could physically endure the challenge that lay ahead of me. It was proof that I could mentally withstand the trial.
And so I got to thinking about running another marathon. I'm not a fast runner by any means. It's not about speed or numbers for me (or at least I have never wanted it to be). In fact, when it becomes about those things for me, I hate running. I have this memory of running with my brother that just cracks me up. We were both home from college for some type of break and he invited me to go running with him, so I did. I didn't understand anything about pacing yourself. I just took off running, full speed ahead. And of course, I couldn't maintain that for very long. I was out of breath and came to a halt while Jason went on ahead. He realized I had stopped and came back to me. "Come on, you can do it," he said as he stepped behind me and literally started pushing me from behind. I laughed. "I just can't do it J." (I'm sure I acted all dramatic too, out of breath, bending over, shaking my head!)
He remembered that exchange too. We talked about it during our 26.2 mile run together that cool day in Chicago in October of 2005.
So what is the motivation now? What's shifted? There are a few things. One is that when I had my ostomy, I felt like I couldn't run with that bag attached to me. Yes - this was a limitation I put on myself. There are plenty of people with ostomies who run. I was just too fearful to be one of them. And so now that I'm ostomy-free, I want to take full advantage of my body and my health. I really don't know what the future holds for me health-wise. I try not to focus too much on the possibilities, but I also don't want to ignore them because I don't want to be devastated if in the future I should need to live with an ostomy again. So Carpe Diem is one of my major reasons.
I honestly believe the mental preparation for running a marathon is harder than the physical part. And by golly, isn't that true of so many things? I fought so many demons during my training for the 2005 run: You're not an athlete. You won't finish the run. You'll fail. Do you seriously think you're strong enough to do this? Won't you be embarrassed when you have to tell people that you didn't finish? Won't you be embarrassed when you tell people how slow you are? Man there were a lot of demons. And when I crossed that finish line with my brother right there behind me (because he let me cross the finish line first), I stabbed every single one of those demons in the heart. Killed 'em dead.
I have some demons of a different sort in my head these days. I went to a yoga class after work last night. I needed it something awful. I needed the quiet. I needed the space to focus on the swirling that's been going on inside me. For those of you who haven't done yoga before, the whole purpose of yoga is to give your body a good workout, to really focus your attention, so that you can come to this place of quiet, focused peace and meditate. Oh that's why I love yoga SO much! And so when we got to the final relaxation part of the class last night, I laid there on my mat and closed my eyes. And all I could see was the past. I saw myself, pathetic, exhausted, empty womb, full of fluid, still bleeding from my colon, greasy hair, unable to move on my own. I wondered why when I close my eyes I still see that Abby? Why am I so focused on the past? Why can't I let go? And I started to cry (which is not unusual for me in a yoga class). The tears just started pouring out as I laid there. They rolled out of the corners of my eyes and collected behind my ears. I opened my eyes. With my eyes open I can stay in the present. But whenever I close my eyes, I end up in the past. I screamed in my mind, I want control of my mind! I felt so helpless to the memories. I know that training for another marathon will be the battle ground for these demons.
But more than that too, because I don't know what the future holds for me health-wise, I want another marathon medal. If another surgery should be needed, I want to wear two medals around my neck. I want to show myself how strong I am, both mentally and physically for whatever life marathons come my way.
Okay, and I don't want to leave out the part about the joys of running either! There is nothing like that moment when you know you've found your pace - when all the rhythms in your being match up with each other. The boom, boom of your heart matches the boom, boom of your feet and your mind rests in the beat. You feel like you can go forever! Oh it's wonderful.
So, all that being said, I have registered to run a marathon here in Tucson in December. And, yes, the icing on the cake: Jeremy has agreed to run it with me! No doubt you'll be hearing about my training runs from time to time.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Fact and fiction - or fiction and fact
July 29, 2009
I was back in college, but Jeremy and I were married too. And I was ill. I knew I couldn't keep up with my classes any more. I had missed so many already. But I didn't know what to do. I thought it was past the drop/add date, so if I dropped out, I would still have to pay the thousands of dollars I already owed. But what could I do? I had to drop out. So I made my way back to campus.
I couldn't find my dorm. The whole campus had changed. It was dark out. There were new buildings everywhere and the old ones were no longer in the right places. "Do you know where Edgren is?" I asked a young kid walking around. He pointed me in the direction, only the building didn't look familiar to me. What if they didn't recognize me? What if they didn't let me into my room? What if they wouldn't let me get my belongings?
As I entered the dorm I began a conversation with a Resident Assistant. She would not let me in the dorm. "Could I speak to your Resident Director?" I asked, feeling that I had trumped her answer with an unexpected question. She wasn't happy, but she got the RD for me.
"You don't understand!" I tried desperately to explain. I told him about losing Harper. There was a group forming to listen now, but I didn't care. Maybe the crowd would take my side and help me plead my case to the RD. "So you're saying you won't let me have my belongings?" I was crazed. After all I had been through, I just wanted my things. No one seemed to understand, but the crowd that had gathered wanted to hear more. As I went on explaining to them what had happened to me and why I was unable to complete my classes or come to the dorm, I realized that I couldn't even remember what belongings I was fighting so desperately to reclaim. I was sobbing as I told them, "And then I had my entire colon removed." I was about to explain to them what life with a colostomy was like when a young man entered the room and the bottom of his shirt flipped up just above his waist so I could see that he had both a colostomy and a urostomy. His entire midsection was covered with ostomy bags. I decided I didn't want to talk about how bad it was because I didn't want to discourage this young man.
All day the residual feelings have been with me.
I co-facilitated our parent education class for divorcing parents at work this morning (this part wasn't a dream). As my co-worker (and friend!) Tami talked, her words caught my attention: "As parents we . . ." I thought to myself, I don't think I could say those words comfortably in this class. Yes. I think of myself as a mother, but I couldn't relate to the challenges of parenting that these folks are faced with. And as I sat there, for a brief moment, I felt like Harper was alive. Like it would have been the most natural thing in the world for my almost one year old daughter to be sitting there on the floor playing while I kept an eye on her and taught class. I could picture her there with me. And then the reality that she wasn't there hit me. And it hurt.
All day I've been carrying this sadness with me.
I was back in college, but Jeremy and I were married too. And I was ill. I knew I couldn't keep up with my classes any more. I had missed so many already. But I didn't know what to do. I thought it was past the drop/add date, so if I dropped out, I would still have to pay the thousands of dollars I already owed. But what could I do? I had to drop out. So I made my way back to campus.
I couldn't find my dorm. The whole campus had changed. It was dark out. There were new buildings everywhere and the old ones were no longer in the right places. "Do you know where Edgren is?" I asked a young kid walking around. He pointed me in the direction, only the building didn't look familiar to me. What if they didn't recognize me? What if they didn't let me into my room? What if they wouldn't let me get my belongings?
As I entered the dorm I began a conversation with a Resident Assistant. She would not let me in the dorm. "Could I speak to your Resident Director?" I asked, feeling that I had trumped her answer with an unexpected question. She wasn't happy, but she got the RD for me.
"You don't understand!" I tried desperately to explain. I told him about losing Harper. There was a group forming to listen now, but I didn't care. Maybe the crowd would take my side and help me plead my case to the RD. "So you're saying you won't let me have my belongings?" I was crazed. After all I had been through, I just wanted my things. No one seemed to understand, but the crowd that had gathered wanted to hear more. As I went on explaining to them what had happened to me and why I was unable to complete my classes or come to the dorm, I realized that I couldn't even remember what belongings I was fighting so desperately to reclaim. I was sobbing as I told them, "And then I had my entire colon removed." I was about to explain to them what life with a colostomy was like when a young man entered the room and the bottom of his shirt flipped up just above his waist so I could see that he had both a colostomy and a urostomy. His entire midsection was covered with ostomy bags. I decided I didn't want to talk about how bad it was because I didn't want to discourage this young man.
All day the residual feelings have been with me.
I co-facilitated our parent education class for divorcing parents at work this morning (this part wasn't a dream). As my co-worker (and friend!) Tami talked, her words caught my attention: "As parents we . . ." I thought to myself, I don't think I could say those words comfortably in this class. Yes. I think of myself as a mother, but I couldn't relate to the challenges of parenting that these folks are faced with. And as I sat there, for a brief moment, I felt like Harper was alive. Like it would have been the most natural thing in the world for my almost one year old daughter to be sitting there on the floor playing while I kept an eye on her and taught class. I could picture her there with me. And then the reality that she wasn't there hit me. And it hurt.
All day I've been carrying this sadness with me.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Home from San Fran
July 27, 2009
I've started to blog today a couple of times about Jeremy and my trip to San Francisco this past weekend, but wasn't sure how interesting you would find all the details. So I scrapped that. Suffice it to say, we had a wonderful time. We ate great food, had a blast on the wine tour, enjoyed our ferry ride across the bay, got plenty of exercise, saw interesting sights, and Jeremy even scored some records at a record shop just a block away from our hotel. It doesn't get much better than that!
We had these moments throughout the weekend when we talked briefly about the trials we've survived in our not so distant past. I don't know how to explain it to you, other than the fact that we carry something with us now, wherever we go, whatever we do. It's this bittersweet thing. There is a solemnity, a secret, a knowing, a bond between us now. It won't be broken.
We talked about her at the end of the trip. We both got all choked up. One tear fell from my eye. Just one tear. One evening at dinner on Pier 39 there was a little girl sitting at the table across from us. She was about a year old. I commented on how cute she was. She was checking Jeremy out when we left. But I didn't say anything more. I guess I didn't need to. He said later he knows when I'm thinking about her. He thinks about her too. I told him Harper would have been that little girl's age. He knew.
I pointed out to him the hummingbirds I saw on the trip - twice, one on Friday and one on Saturday. I told him I was comforted. It was like she was there with us, just for a little bit. "Do you think that's corny?" He said he didn't. He said we're thirsty for it. He said people who are thirsty see mirages.
He can be grumpy. I can be irritable. He can play loud music and want to stay home because, to paraphrase the Lemonheads, what if something's on TV that he'll never see again? I can want to take weekend trips around the country and require silence in the mornings. He can eat meat. I can chose tofu. But none of that matters. You might think it does, but it doesn't. He has my heart. I don't know how else to say it. He has my heart.
Thank you dear friends for all your love and support that allowed us to enjoy each other's company so deeply this weekend. You just never know how far the kind things you do for others go. Thank you.
(P.S. Jeremy informed me it was Tom Morgan of Smudge who actually wrote that Lemonheads song.)
I've started to blog today a couple of times about Jeremy and my trip to San Francisco this past weekend, but wasn't sure how interesting you would find all the details. So I scrapped that. Suffice it to say, we had a wonderful time. We ate great food, had a blast on the wine tour, enjoyed our ferry ride across the bay, got plenty of exercise, saw interesting sights, and Jeremy even scored some records at a record shop just a block away from our hotel. It doesn't get much better than that!
We had these moments throughout the weekend when we talked briefly about the trials we've survived in our not so distant past. I don't know how to explain it to you, other than the fact that we carry something with us now, wherever we go, whatever we do. It's this bittersweet thing. There is a solemnity, a secret, a knowing, a bond between us now. It won't be broken.
We talked about her at the end of the trip. We both got all choked up. One tear fell from my eye. Just one tear. One evening at dinner on Pier 39 there was a little girl sitting at the table across from us. She was about a year old. I commented on how cute she was. She was checking Jeremy out when we left. But I didn't say anything more. I guess I didn't need to. He said later he knows when I'm thinking about her. He thinks about her too. I told him Harper would have been that little girl's age. He knew.
I pointed out to him the hummingbirds I saw on the trip - twice, one on Friday and one on Saturday. I told him I was comforted. It was like she was there with us, just for a little bit. "Do you think that's corny?" He said he didn't. He said we're thirsty for it. He said people who are thirsty see mirages.
He can be grumpy. I can be irritable. He can play loud music and want to stay home because, to paraphrase the Lemonheads, what if something's on TV that he'll never see again? I can want to take weekend trips around the country and require silence in the mornings. He can eat meat. I can chose tofu. But none of that matters. You might think it does, but it doesn't. He has my heart. I don't know how else to say it. He has my heart.
Thank you dear friends for all your love and support that allowed us to enjoy each other's company so deeply this weekend. You just never know how far the kind things you do for others go. Thank you.
(P.S. Jeremy informed me it was Tom Morgan of Smudge who actually wrote that Lemonheads song.)
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Better
July 21, 2009
He went to yoga with me last night for the first time. It was the fulfillment of a hospital room promise. "When you're all better, I'll go to yoga with you. We'll have a special day where we go out to eat at your favorite places. I'll even go with you to get a pedicure and a massage. We'll live it up." Those promises, those images, they kept me going. Probably more than he knew. But then again, maybe he did know. Maybe that's why he sat and talked in detail with me about which of my favorite restaurants I'd want to go to. He was guiding me to the place of "better," even though I know he doubted it's existence. It was a game we played. Sometimes all it did was provide entertainment for us. But other times, it was the passage to hope.
On the way home from yoga, the sun had set behind the Tucson Mountains and there was a remaining glow, a muted orange glow. The monsoons hung like heavy drapes across the sky. To my left the San Xavier Mission stood out in its whiteness against the navy storming sky. My heart welled up. Better. All better.
He went to yoga with me last night for the first time. It was the fulfillment of a hospital room promise. "When you're all better, I'll go to yoga with you. We'll have a special day where we go out to eat at your favorite places. I'll even go with you to get a pedicure and a massage. We'll live it up." Those promises, those images, they kept me going. Probably more than he knew. But then again, maybe he did know. Maybe that's why he sat and talked in detail with me about which of my favorite restaurants I'd want to go to. He was guiding me to the place of "better," even though I know he doubted it's existence. It was a game we played. Sometimes all it did was provide entertainment for us. But other times, it was the passage to hope.
On the way home from yoga, the sun had set behind the Tucson Mountains and there was a remaining glow, a muted orange glow. The monsoons hung like heavy drapes across the sky. To my left the San Xavier Mission stood out in its whiteness against the navy storming sky. My heart welled up. Better. All better.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
On this day
July 19, 2009
It has officially been a month since my last dilation! I can't believe it. That's the longest I've gone without needing one. I am so hopeful that the dilations are over and that surgery #4 and #5 will not be needed . . . please God. I think Jeremy is even allowing himself to hope now that the surgeries are over - at least for the immediate future. Because I still have some disease in my rectum, the risk of cancer developing in that portion down the road is considerably higher. But it isn't a given, right? And so for the time being I am going to enjoy my health and the state of my body. I'm even going to finally get rid of the ostomy supplies we've been holding on to for the next surgery. (By the way, if you are reading this blog and have an ostomy and could use some free supplies, please let me know - I'd be happy to mail them to you.)
Will you indulge me for a moment in reflecting back on today's date? Thirteen years ago today Jeremy and I went on our first date. Thirteen years ago! We went to the Freight House in Stillwater, MN for dinner, and then walked along the riverside and talked. My heart just wells up with all this love for him when I think back to that evening. And then I skip and jump through the years; the laughter, heartache, friendship, arguments, all of it - God it's been a gift.
What's around the corner? What lies ahead of us? I can't help but wonder . . . (I suspect some good things).
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
KXCI
July 14, 2009
Jason and I rode together in the Toyota Tacoma. Jeremy and I call it our green taco. Jeremy and John drove with all their gear in the Honda. I hadn't been to the KXCI studio before, but had a general idea of where it was. It was nothing like I imagined.
The sun had gone down and took the pounding heat with it, most of it anyway. We stepped into the two level old house and the smell of musty vinyl albums engulfed us. "Oh, smell that?" I asked Jason. I have always loved that musty scent. The wood floors creaked beneath our feet, which I thought was interesting since this was a radio studio. I guess I assumed everything would be quiet and muted, not creaky and cracky. It gave the place a sort of attitude in my mind. Like it was saying, the coolness of what we are doing here surpasses any little creaks you might catch in passing (which I learned don't get picked up in the studios anyway - duh Abby).
We walked up the stairs to the second level. Some of the heavy wooden doors were closed, some doors were open. The hallway was lined with shelves of vinyl albums. The ceilings were high, hallways wide. There was a second-story porch through the screen door at the end of the hall. You could hear the cicada. The guys started setting up their gear in the studio. "The air conditioners broke in the studio, so it's gonna be hot." They weren't kidding either. But this was radio, so the dripping sweat didn't really matter.
A shorter skinny man dressed in black, except for the brown belt that was pulled tightly around his waist with a long salt and pepper beard and long hair in the back walked from here to there with a CD or an album in his hands. He looked down the entire time, didn't make eye contact, and didn't catch my joke when I told him he owed me a dollar for holding the door open for him. He sat at a little desk in the hallway and put headphones on. "What's he doing?" I asked Michael. "He's logging all the incoming material."
There were smiles on all the faces, even though it was hot. They played loudly and with heart, sweat dripping off every single one of them. Jason read an excerpt and once again had me captivated by the origins of Walter. They kept the door to the studio open because the air conditioner was broken in there. Smart move. I stood in the entryway and felt the thick heat pulse out the doorway. I sat in the chair by the desk in the hallway when it was vacated. I felt cool for being there. But really, what had I done? Nothing but make sandwiches for the guys before the interview. But still, I felt cool just being a part of this. And then I started thinking about my ego. It was all about ego, and could I just let it go? Probably not. And then, God damn it, I started thinking about Harper. I imagined this experience if she were alive. Would we even be there? Probably not. I would probably be at home with her, putting her to bed because they didn't even start playing till 9 p.m.
But then I also imagined me holding her baby weight against my hip, pointing to her daddy and to her uncle Jason in the studio, clapping her hands together to the music, laying her down in her carrier so she could sleep while I listened, stepping out on the porch with her if she started to fuss. I thought about a conversation I had with my aunt Phoebe years ago. "You can take your kids with you anywhere," she had reassured me. You get to choose what kind of parent you will be. Your kids can be a part of your life too, it doesn't have to be that they call the lifestyle shots. I wondered if that's the kind of parent I would have been or not. Would Harper have gone to her daddy's gigs? God knows she would have to have gotten used to music and loud sounds. That was something Jeremy and I had talked about too. Naive? Maybe you're laughing because you have children and you know something we don't. But maybe we also would have parented our own way. Who knows?
But the evening was rich. It was rich as it was, just Jeremy and me with family and good friends. And I was thankful for that. And it made me wonder, would I want to give this up? Does it have to be either or? Was my ego holding on to how cool I felt because without that I would be pining for something else, something that hurt too much? Maybe. Or maybe I could just accept that this is my life now. This is my life now. No comparisons to what might have been or what might be. Right here and now is where I am. And I was thankful. And I guess that's a pretty good place to be, huh?
Jason and I rode together in the Toyota Tacoma. Jeremy and I call it our green taco. Jeremy and John drove with all their gear in the Honda. I hadn't been to the KXCI studio before, but had a general idea of where it was. It was nothing like I imagined.
The sun had gone down and took the pounding heat with it, most of it anyway. We stepped into the two level old house and the smell of musty vinyl albums engulfed us. "Oh, smell that?" I asked Jason. I have always loved that musty scent. The wood floors creaked beneath our feet, which I thought was interesting since this was a radio studio. I guess I assumed everything would be quiet and muted, not creaky and cracky. It gave the place a sort of attitude in my mind. Like it was saying, the coolness of what we are doing here surpasses any little creaks you might catch in passing (which I learned don't get picked up in the studios anyway - duh Abby).
We walked up the stairs to the second level. Some of the heavy wooden doors were closed, some doors were open. The hallway was lined with shelves of vinyl albums. The ceilings were high, hallways wide. There was a second-story porch through the screen door at the end of the hall. You could hear the cicada. The guys started setting up their gear in the studio. "The air conditioners broke in the studio, so it's gonna be hot." They weren't kidding either. But this was radio, so the dripping sweat didn't really matter.
A shorter skinny man dressed in black, except for the brown belt that was pulled tightly around his waist with a long salt and pepper beard and long hair in the back walked from here to there with a CD or an album in his hands. He looked down the entire time, didn't make eye contact, and didn't catch my joke when I told him he owed me a dollar for holding the door open for him. He sat at a little desk in the hallway and put headphones on. "What's he doing?" I asked Michael. "He's logging all the incoming material."
There were smiles on all the faces, even though it was hot. They played loudly and with heart, sweat dripping off every single one of them. Jason read an excerpt and once again had me captivated by the origins of Walter. They kept the door to the studio open because the air conditioner was broken in there. Smart move. I stood in the entryway and felt the thick heat pulse out the doorway. I sat in the chair by the desk in the hallway when it was vacated. I felt cool for being there. But really, what had I done? Nothing but make sandwiches for the guys before the interview. But still, I felt cool just being a part of this. And then I started thinking about my ego. It was all about ego, and could I just let it go? Probably not. And then, God damn it, I started thinking about Harper. I imagined this experience if she were alive. Would we even be there? Probably not. I would probably be at home with her, putting her to bed because they didn't even start playing till 9 p.m.
But then I also imagined me holding her baby weight against my hip, pointing to her daddy and to her uncle Jason in the studio, clapping her hands together to the music, laying her down in her carrier so she could sleep while I listened, stepping out on the porch with her if she started to fuss. I thought about a conversation I had with my aunt Phoebe years ago. "You can take your kids with you anywhere," she had reassured me. You get to choose what kind of parent you will be. Your kids can be a part of your life too, it doesn't have to be that they call the lifestyle shots. I wondered if that's the kind of parent I would have been or not. Would Harper have gone to her daddy's gigs? God knows she would have to have gotten used to music and loud sounds. That was something Jeremy and I had talked about too. Naive? Maybe you're laughing because you have children and you know something we don't. But maybe we also would have parented our own way. Who knows?
But the evening was rich. It was rich as it was, just Jeremy and me with family and good friends. And I was thankful for that. And it made me wonder, would I want to give this up? Does it have to be either or? Was my ego holding on to how cool I felt because without that I would be pining for something else, something that hurt too much? Maybe. Or maybe I could just accept that this is my life now. This is my life now. No comparisons to what might have been or what might be. Right here and now is where I am. And I was thankful. And I guess that's a pretty good place to be, huh?
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Twisting and turning
July 12, 2009
I went to yoga this morning. It's something I'm determined to more frequently now. It's one of those things I was afraid of doing when I had my ostomy, and so now that I'm ostomy-free again, I want to be sure I'm actually doing it.
So I laid there on my mat, thinking about my body; thinking about how I had been so afraid to try yoga with my ostomy bag attached to me. I tried to imagine what it would have been like, doing inverted poses and having my bag flop upside down with me, worrying that with every stretch the seal would break. That's why I didn't do it. And today in class, I felt regret. Why wasn't I brave enough? Why didn't I just try it? I felt like I let this huge opportunity for growth pass me by.
I was moving and following the instructions, twisting this way and that. And then the stretch in my, geez, I guess I don't even know what muscle it was that I was stretching and that was causing me so much pain. But the pain brought my mind back to my body. What had I just been doing? My mind was elsewhere. And where was it? It was in the past. And I was beating myself up for not doing something I was afraid of. My face came into close contact with my feet and I smiled. In fact I almost started laughing. Nothing like pain to bring your attention where it needs to be. Here. Now. I realized that I needed to let go of the guilt and the regret. I did the best I could in the past. And by focusing on the regret, I was cheating myself of some wonderful moments right now.
But I just want to say, I know there are folks out there with ostomies who do yoga and run marathons and all those things that I did not have the courage to do. I just want you to know, you are an inspiration to me. Thank you for your courage.
I went to yoga this morning. It's something I'm determined to more frequently now. It's one of those things I was afraid of doing when I had my ostomy, and so now that I'm ostomy-free again, I want to be sure I'm actually doing it.
So I laid there on my mat, thinking about my body; thinking about how I had been so afraid to try yoga with my ostomy bag attached to me. I tried to imagine what it would have been like, doing inverted poses and having my bag flop upside down with me, worrying that with every stretch the seal would break. That's why I didn't do it. And today in class, I felt regret. Why wasn't I brave enough? Why didn't I just try it? I felt like I let this huge opportunity for growth pass me by.
I was moving and following the instructions, twisting this way and that. And then the stretch in my, geez, I guess I don't even know what muscle it was that I was stretching and that was causing me so much pain. But the pain brought my mind back to my body. What had I just been doing? My mind was elsewhere. And where was it? It was in the past. And I was beating myself up for not doing something I was afraid of. My face came into close contact with my feet and I smiled. In fact I almost started laughing. Nothing like pain to bring your attention where it needs to be. Here. Now. I realized that I needed to let go of the guilt and the regret. I did the best I could in the past. And by focusing on the regret, I was cheating myself of some wonderful moments right now.
But I just want to say, I know there are folks out there with ostomies who do yoga and run marathons and all those things that I did not have the courage to do. I just want you to know, you are an inspiration to me. Thank you for your courage.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
In a mood
July 11, 2009
There are those days, those stinking, irritating days, where all we seem to do is just plain bug each other. Maybe it's the 100+ degree heat. Maybe it's that we hadn't spent any waking hours together in like a week, but whatever it was, it was frustrating me to no end.
"What's wrong?" he said with that concerned look on his face.
"It just seems that we're irritating each other a lot lately," I said a couple of days ago as we met in passing. We managed an obligatory kiss good-bye where we each turned our heads away quickly afterward. No extra long squeeze that brought Django to sit right in front of us and bark until we let go as sometimes happens (no joke).
And then yesterday: "I'm leaving for my doctor's appointment. Do you think you could be in a better mood when I get back?" I knew when I said it that it wasn't going to help improve his mood, but I felt the need to point out to him what was obvious to both of us, just to be a smart ass really. He half-sarcastically, half-seriously answered, "I'll try." And I was out the door without so much as a hand shake goodbye.
What is it that happens that shifts the energy? I really don't know. But it shifted for us. And I knew it would. It always does. Those aren't the majority of our moments. They are few and far between. But they're there nonetheless.
Maybe it was that we had the same expectations for the day ahead of us. Maybe it was our conversations from the previous night. I don't know. I offered to buy him a Starbucks as we went and ran errands this morning. As we waited in the drive-through to pick up our decaf iced mochas, he said, "I got a little weepy talking about you last night."
"Really?" I asked. I love knowing that he talks about me to other people. "What made you weepy?"
"I was with Michael and Danny last night and Michael was talking about what you have been through. He said every time he would get an e-mail update from us about something else that had gone wrong he would wonder how you could hold on. And then I read your blog about how shaky your hands were and it all came back to me." He got teary eyed as we talked about it.
"But I'm a fighter!" I said. I said it more to remind myself than to remind Jeremy. I didn't see myself as a fighter when I was in the midst of the tribulations, but now that I'm on the other side, I see how much of a fighter I was. And it's something I want to embrace and to acknowledge is true about me. I am a fighter. I've never thought of myself that way before. In fact, in the past I always thought that if I were faced with a tough situation, I would just give up. But I didn't. And it's reassuring for me to know that about myself. I'm a fighter.
He told me that reading my blog made him remember things that he had almost forgotten, but that there was a part of him that didn't want to forget. But we do forget. I think that's how we move on.
And then I started wondering, why didn't I die? Hm. I wonder if there's some reason. Some purpose for my life. I don't know . . . it just got me thinking though.
There are those days, those stinking, irritating days, where all we seem to do is just plain bug each other. Maybe it's the 100+ degree heat. Maybe it's that we hadn't spent any waking hours together in like a week, but whatever it was, it was frustrating me to no end.
"What's wrong?" he said with that concerned look on his face.
"It just seems that we're irritating each other a lot lately," I said a couple of days ago as we met in passing. We managed an obligatory kiss good-bye where we each turned our heads away quickly afterward. No extra long squeeze that brought Django to sit right in front of us and bark until we let go as sometimes happens (no joke).
And then yesterday: "I'm leaving for my doctor's appointment. Do you think you could be in a better mood when I get back?" I knew when I said it that it wasn't going to help improve his mood, but I felt the need to point out to him what was obvious to both of us, just to be a smart ass really. He half-sarcastically, half-seriously answered, "I'll try." And I was out the door without so much as a hand shake goodbye.
What is it that happens that shifts the energy? I really don't know. But it shifted for us. And I knew it would. It always does. Those aren't the majority of our moments. They are few and far between. But they're there nonetheless.
Maybe it was that we had the same expectations for the day ahead of us. Maybe it was our conversations from the previous night. I don't know. I offered to buy him a Starbucks as we went and ran errands this morning. As we waited in the drive-through to pick up our decaf iced mochas, he said, "I got a little weepy talking about you last night."
"Really?" I asked. I love knowing that he talks about me to other people. "What made you weepy?"
"I was with Michael and Danny last night and Michael was talking about what you have been through. He said every time he would get an e-mail update from us about something else that had gone wrong he would wonder how you could hold on. And then I read your blog about how shaky your hands were and it all came back to me." He got teary eyed as we talked about it.
"But I'm a fighter!" I said. I said it more to remind myself than to remind Jeremy. I didn't see myself as a fighter when I was in the midst of the tribulations, but now that I'm on the other side, I see how much of a fighter I was. And it's something I want to embrace and to acknowledge is true about me. I am a fighter. I've never thought of myself that way before. In fact, in the past I always thought that if I were faced with a tough situation, I would just give up. But I didn't. And it's reassuring for me to know that about myself. I'm a fighter.
He told me that reading my blog made him remember things that he had almost forgotten, but that there was a part of him that didn't want to forget. But we do forget. I think that's how we move on.
And then I started wondering, why didn't I die? Hm. I wonder if there's some reason. Some purpose for my life. I don't know . . . it just got me thinking though.
Friday, July 10, 2009
Thanks Regina
July 10, 2009
"No one laughs at God in a hospital." Oh Regina. Why did you have to go and say the "h" word, especially when I'm worn out and ready for bed? When I'm raw? And so here I go . . .
My sister would like this CD. My sister. The hospital. She came when I asked her to. "Do you want more ice chips Abby?" I wasn't allowed to eat. My PIC line pumped the milk-like food to my heart. If I could see a bag of TPN now, I would stab it with a knife and throw it across the room. I would kick it and tear it to shreds. But you get that it wasn't about the bag of TPN, right? I couldn't feed myself the ice chips. My fingers were too swollen. I couldn't hold on to anything. My hands were too shaky anyway.
That big chair that I lived in. I sat in that big green plastic chair draped with blankets because I wasn't strong enough to get myself and the 100 pounds of fluid I was carrying out of a laying position when I had to go to the bathroom. From the chair, someone could take hold of my hands and hoist me up.
The helplessness. Ugh. Thanks Regina. I had almost forgot.
"No one laughs at God in a hospital." Oh Regina. Why did you have to go and say the "h" word, especially when I'm worn out and ready for bed? When I'm raw? And so here I go . . .
My sister would like this CD. My sister. The hospital. She came when I asked her to. "Do you want more ice chips Abby?" I wasn't allowed to eat. My PIC line pumped the milk-like food to my heart. If I could see a bag of TPN now, I would stab it with a knife and throw it across the room. I would kick it and tear it to shreds. But you get that it wasn't about the bag of TPN, right? I couldn't feed myself the ice chips. My fingers were too swollen. I couldn't hold on to anything. My hands were too shaky anyway.
That big chair that I lived in. I sat in that big green plastic chair draped with blankets because I wasn't strong enough to get myself and the 100 pounds of fluid I was carrying out of a laying position when I had to go to the bathroom. From the chair, someone could take hold of my hands and hoist me up.
The helplessness. Ugh. Thanks Regina. I had almost forgot.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
It was all I could do
July 8, 2009
"Sweetie? I'm just calling to let you know I'm at home right now. I had to leave work because of a migraine," I said today, knowing he would panic a little; visions of me vomiting into whatever plastic container we could find as he drove me to the ER flashing through his mind (okay, and really not so much the vomiting part that panicked him, but probably the visions of me passing out from vomiting that panicked him). "I'm not throwing up or anything. It's just that I've been fighting it off all day and I just couldn't do it any more. Nothing seemed to help. I'm gonna try and sleep it off," I told him.
"Have you been drinking enough water Abby? With 106 degree heat, I really worry that you're going to dehydrate." I told him I wasn't dehydrated. I had been drinking plenty of water all day, and besides, I had been inside all day. When I reassured him that I wasn't vomiting, he seemed to be okay. So I spent the late afternoon babying myself.
I had sat at work all day long, the pain throbbing one minute and then easing up the next. Finally when the ringing in my ears started I asked myself, "Who are you being tough for?" I decided that it was better to take care of me than to prove anything to anyone at work about how tough I was! Haven't I learned this lesson? Yes. In fact I have. So I drove home (in excruciating pain because of the bright sunshine in my eyes - you migraine sufferers will understand that!), took a couple more Extra Strength Tylenol, turned the lights off, and found some relief! I'm thankful that I have an appointment on Friday with Dr. M so I can ask her about a different migraine medication as the one I have now doesn't do diddly-squat for me. Cross your fingers.
But this is nothing. Seriously. In fact I was telling myself that on my drive, "This is nothing compared to where I've been," and as my mind drifted, "or to where others are right now."
I have a friend from high school whose little boy (not even two years old) just died this past weekend, unexpectedly. I've been thinking about her constantly. She has been keeping a blog and writing about what she's going through to keep family and friends updated. And now here I am, on the other side. I'm no longer the one in need. I am the one who can give, and its frustrating because it feels like I can't do enough.
I was thinking this morning, "What can I do for her?" I want her not to feel alone. But I know that even with all the love and support of family and friends, there will be moments when she will feel completely alone. She was the only one who was his mother. I just wish I could take the pain away so she wouldn't have to feel it. But she will have to. That's the only way she'll heal. And that just sucks.
So I pled with God, "Please God, please let her family draw closer to each other during this time. Please let them experience love like they've never known. Please let them feel comforted and deeply connected to each other." It was all I could do.
"Sweetie? I'm just calling to let you know I'm at home right now. I had to leave work because of a migraine," I said today, knowing he would panic a little; visions of me vomiting into whatever plastic container we could find as he drove me to the ER flashing through his mind (okay, and really not so much the vomiting part that panicked him, but probably the visions of me passing out from vomiting that panicked him). "I'm not throwing up or anything. It's just that I've been fighting it off all day and I just couldn't do it any more. Nothing seemed to help. I'm gonna try and sleep it off," I told him.
"Have you been drinking enough water Abby? With 106 degree heat, I really worry that you're going to dehydrate." I told him I wasn't dehydrated. I had been drinking plenty of water all day, and besides, I had been inside all day. When I reassured him that I wasn't vomiting, he seemed to be okay. So I spent the late afternoon babying myself.
I had sat at work all day long, the pain throbbing one minute and then easing up the next. Finally when the ringing in my ears started I asked myself, "Who are you being tough for?" I decided that it was better to take care of me than to prove anything to anyone at work about how tough I was! Haven't I learned this lesson? Yes. In fact I have. So I drove home (in excruciating pain because of the bright sunshine in my eyes - you migraine sufferers will understand that!), took a couple more Extra Strength Tylenol, turned the lights off, and found some relief! I'm thankful that I have an appointment on Friday with Dr. M so I can ask her about a different migraine medication as the one I have now doesn't do diddly-squat for me. Cross your fingers.
But this is nothing. Seriously. In fact I was telling myself that on my drive, "This is nothing compared to where I've been," and as my mind drifted, "or to where others are right now."
I have a friend from high school whose little boy (not even two years old) just died this past weekend, unexpectedly. I've been thinking about her constantly. She has been keeping a blog and writing about what she's going through to keep family and friends updated. And now here I am, on the other side. I'm no longer the one in need. I am the one who can give, and its frustrating because it feels like I can't do enough.
I was thinking this morning, "What can I do for her?" I want her not to feel alone. But I know that even with all the love and support of family and friends, there will be moments when she will feel completely alone. She was the only one who was his mother. I just wish I could take the pain away so she wouldn't have to feel it. But she will have to. That's the only way she'll heal. And that just sucks.
So I pled with God, "Please God, please let her family draw closer to each other during this time. Please let them experience love like they've never known. Please let them feel comforted and deeply connected to each other." It was all I could do.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Too much
July 7, 2009
There is a lot I want to say today, but the events that are spurring my thoughts do not belong to me, and so I don't feel I should say any more out of respect. Suffice it to say, my heart is aching and is full of love for a friend who is going through the fires of hell right now.
There is a lot I want to say today, but the events that are spurring my thoughts do not belong to me, and so I don't feel I should say any more out of respect. Suffice it to say, my heart is aching and is full of love for a friend who is going through the fires of hell right now.
Monday, July 6, 2009
The Dream Police
July 6, 2009
I've been alone a little too long today. I think it's making me a lee-tle bit goofy. I have all these conversations with you, the reader, in my mind during the day. Every day really. I think to myself, "Oh I want to write about that," or "What would they think if I wrote about that?" It's a strange thing, this blogging world. It's strange to know there are people out there who know really personal things about my life but don't really know me. It's strange, but that's okay with me. The honesty part of this blog has helped me more than I could explain. It's helped me be real with myself about what I'm feeling and thinking. It's helped me be a more authentic person. It's given me purpose in hoping to at least have touched one life, to have comforted at least one person, to have helped one person not feel alone. And it's taught me something else too; we can only touch each other's lives if we are real and honest about what we're going through. That's been a huge lesson for me.
Anyway . . . so today I was worrying about what the indefinable you thinks of me. Yep. I was worried. I worry about that from time to time. I let the ugly side of me show in this blog; the dark thoughts, the jealousy, the self-centered, self-pitying parts. I let them all hang out there in the name of honesty and growth. But I'm still incredibly insecure. I still just want to be liked by people like everyone else. (Did I mention I let the insecure part hang out there too?) Today was one of those days that I started questioning if this blog is still serving a purpose. Or maybe it's just that the purpose shifts from time to time for me and when it does I'm aware that it's happening. I don't know . . . like I said, it's been a long day of me and Django at home together.
Speaking of which, I was getting a little tired of being inside my own head. So what did I do? I watched the movie What Dreams May Come. If you've seen the movie, I know what you're thinking, this chic is sadistic, right? But it wasn't like that. Lately I've been drawn to movies that express things that I can relate to (somewhat any way). I could relate to the depression of the wife in this one, and to the relationship between the husband and wife. Other movies that are incredibly intense but that I seem to relate to parts of right now are In America, Fearless, Frida, and What Dreams May Come. Okay, so back to my story.
I watched the movie and then Django had to go outside and I realized I had been in the house pretty much all day, except for getting the mail and stepping outside to let him out a few times. I was feeling a little ho-hum and knew that I needed a little boost. It was way to hot to go outside and exercise, besides, I wanted to do something fun. So what did I do? I decided to dance. What the heck? My curtains were pulled closed. No one could see me. Why not? I knew it would put me in a good mood. I can't believe I'm even writing about this. I feel like such a geek. But maybe you need a good laugh today, so here's the scene:
The closest CD I could see was Cheap Trick. Okay. I could do Cheap Trick. I could rock out to that. So I put it in and the first song was Surrender. Right on. I'm not even going to try to describe myself dancing, alone in my living room. I'll let your imagination have fun with that one, but be sure the words awkward and silly are somewhere in there, okay? Django was laying on the floor, only his eyes following me as I hurdled over him to the beat. He wasn't amused. But I needed a partner, so I went to his treat jar and pulled out a treat. Bribery always works. In no time at all I had a four-legged friend dancing around the room with me, following my every move. It was hilarious. But then I think Django got a little carried away and took The Dream Police a little too seriously (him being the police, me being the robber), and he started chasing me a little too energetically. But it made me laugh, so it was all good.
I'm not even sure why I wrote about that. To make you laugh maybe? I don't know. It'll be good to get back to work tomorrow. (Don't quote me on that though.)
I've been alone a little too long today. I think it's making me a lee-tle bit goofy. I have all these conversations with you, the reader, in my mind during the day. Every day really. I think to myself, "Oh I want to write about that," or "What would they think if I wrote about that?" It's a strange thing, this blogging world. It's strange to know there are people out there who know really personal things about my life but don't really know me. It's strange, but that's okay with me. The honesty part of this blog has helped me more than I could explain. It's helped me be real with myself about what I'm feeling and thinking. It's helped me be a more authentic person. It's given me purpose in hoping to at least have touched one life, to have comforted at least one person, to have helped one person not feel alone. And it's taught me something else too; we can only touch each other's lives if we are real and honest about what we're going through. That's been a huge lesson for me.
Anyway . . . so today I was worrying about what the indefinable you thinks of me. Yep. I was worried. I worry about that from time to time. I let the ugly side of me show in this blog; the dark thoughts, the jealousy, the self-centered, self-pitying parts. I let them all hang out there in the name of honesty and growth. But I'm still incredibly insecure. I still just want to be liked by people like everyone else. (Did I mention I let the insecure part hang out there too?) Today was one of those days that I started questioning if this blog is still serving a purpose. Or maybe it's just that the purpose shifts from time to time for me and when it does I'm aware that it's happening. I don't know . . . like I said, it's been a long day of me and Django at home together.
Speaking of which, I was getting a little tired of being inside my own head. So what did I do? I watched the movie What Dreams May Come. If you've seen the movie, I know what you're thinking, this chic is sadistic, right? But it wasn't like that. Lately I've been drawn to movies that express things that I can relate to (somewhat any way). I could relate to the depression of the wife in this one, and to the relationship between the husband and wife. Other movies that are incredibly intense but that I seem to relate to parts of right now are In America, Fearless, Frida, and What Dreams May Come. Okay, so back to my story.
I watched the movie and then Django had to go outside and I realized I had been in the house pretty much all day, except for getting the mail and stepping outside to let him out a few times. I was feeling a little ho-hum and knew that I needed a little boost. It was way to hot to go outside and exercise, besides, I wanted to do something fun. So what did I do? I decided to dance. What the heck? My curtains were pulled closed. No one could see me. Why not? I knew it would put me in a good mood. I can't believe I'm even writing about this. I feel like such a geek. But maybe you need a good laugh today, so here's the scene:
The closest CD I could see was Cheap Trick. Okay. I could do Cheap Trick. I could rock out to that. So I put it in and the first song was Surrender. Right on. I'm not even going to try to describe myself dancing, alone in my living room. I'll let your imagination have fun with that one, but be sure the words awkward and silly are somewhere in there, okay? Django was laying on the floor, only his eyes following me as I hurdled over him to the beat. He wasn't amused. But I needed a partner, so I went to his treat jar and pulled out a treat. Bribery always works. In no time at all I had a four-legged friend dancing around the room with me, following my every move. It was hilarious. But then I think Django got a little carried away and took The Dream Police a little too seriously (him being the police, me being the robber), and he started chasing me a little too energetically. But it made me laugh, so it was all good.
I'm not even sure why I wrote about that. To make you laugh maybe? I don't know. It'll be good to get back to work tomorrow. (Don't quote me on that though.)
Sunday, July 5, 2009
The moments that slip in
July 5, 2009
It started Friday at lunch. I'm sure it did. I relayed bits and pieces of Harper's loss to a friend I hadn't seen in a few years. "I gave birth to her." "She was just under a pound." "I was five months pregnant." On the drive home from lunch I thought, "Well you handled that well Abby. You didn't break down crying. See, you can do this."
Yesterday I got a wonderful video from Jason and Laura of Jonas walking. His chubby little legs wobbling as he pointed himself in one direction and then decided to go another. It was so cute. I laughed out loud watching it, over and over. I love that modern technology lets his aunt who is two thousand miles away be a part of that moment.
Jeremy and I decided to do the night-time Sonoran Desert Museum experience last night. We were tag-teaming use of the shower as we got ready to go out. And all of a sudden it hit me, smack dab in the middle of my chest. I had known intellectually, and had even said it out loud numerous times, but yesterday was the first time it HIT ME. Jonas and Harper were supposed to be only two months apart. I flipped the toilet seat lid down and sat down and started sobbing, face in my hands.
"Did you see his wobbly little legs Jeremy?" I asked through the tears.
"Yeah," he said softly.
"They were only two months apart." More tears. More sobs. "Poor Jonas. His whole life, all of his milestones, Aunt Abby will be sad . . . " I couldn't finish the thought. I laughed through the tears, "And I know she would have been walking already because I walked early!"
"Well I think I was a late bloomer, so she might have balanced out on that one," he laughed through the sorrow too. And that was it. I wanted to move on. That was enough sorrow for today. And we went about getting ready again.
Oh, but I guess I wasn't done, because more sobs came. "It's not fair! We have no daughter. I can't help but wonder if I did something to deserve this," I cried into Jeremy's chest. "I know," he said. He put his arms around me and held me. Am I such a bad person that I didn't deserve my little girl? Am I that bad?
And then I was angry. And I started bargaining with God. "Okay God. I lost my daughter. I can deal with this, but you owe me. You owe me something amazing and wonderful. When's it coming?" And I stopped myself. I realized what I was doing; bargaining with God. Whatever. It doesn't work that way Abby. It's not about DESERVE. It's just not. And you know God didn't make this happen to you. This is grief. You know, that stage that you talk about in parent ed class - bargaining? Look in the mirror dear girl. It's right there in front of you.
And I turned and looked in the mirror and gasped and then laughed. My eyes were puffy and red and my face was blotchy. "Are you going to get sick of seeing me breakdown at every life milestone Harper would have had?" I asked Jeremy, worried once again that our grief processes would come between us.
"No Abby. I do it too. Not in the same ways or the same times as you, but I do it too. And we'll experience this the rest of our lives." Somehow hearing that was comforting to me.
It was just a few moments you know. It wasn't my whole day that was swallowed up by the sadness. I realized as I was thinking about blogging about this that I was feeling a little defensive that I'm still grieving and it's been over a year. But it's not like I'm stuck in the sadness any more. I'm not. My days are good and happy and productive. I'm happy to be alive. There are just these moments that slip in from time to time. Bittersweet moments really, when I think about my daughter.
It started Friday at lunch. I'm sure it did. I relayed bits and pieces of Harper's loss to a friend I hadn't seen in a few years. "I gave birth to her." "She was just under a pound." "I was five months pregnant." On the drive home from lunch I thought, "Well you handled that well Abby. You didn't break down crying. See, you can do this."
Yesterday I got a wonderful video from Jason and Laura of Jonas walking. His chubby little legs wobbling as he pointed himself in one direction and then decided to go another. It was so cute. I laughed out loud watching it, over and over. I love that modern technology lets his aunt who is two thousand miles away be a part of that moment.
Jeremy and I decided to do the night-time Sonoran Desert Museum experience last night. We were tag-teaming use of the shower as we got ready to go out. And all of a sudden it hit me, smack dab in the middle of my chest. I had known intellectually, and had even said it out loud numerous times, but yesterday was the first time it HIT ME. Jonas and Harper were supposed to be only two months apart. I flipped the toilet seat lid down and sat down and started sobbing, face in my hands.
"Did you see his wobbly little legs Jeremy?" I asked through the tears.
"Yeah," he said softly.
"They were only two months apart." More tears. More sobs. "Poor Jonas. His whole life, all of his milestones, Aunt Abby will be sad . . . " I couldn't finish the thought. I laughed through the tears, "And I know she would have been walking already because I walked early!"
"Well I think I was a late bloomer, so she might have balanced out on that one," he laughed through the sorrow too. And that was it. I wanted to move on. That was enough sorrow for today. And we went about getting ready again.
Oh, but I guess I wasn't done, because more sobs came. "It's not fair! We have no daughter. I can't help but wonder if I did something to deserve this," I cried into Jeremy's chest. "I know," he said. He put his arms around me and held me. Am I such a bad person that I didn't deserve my little girl? Am I that bad?
And then I was angry. And I started bargaining with God. "Okay God. I lost my daughter. I can deal with this, but you owe me. You owe me something amazing and wonderful. When's it coming?" And I stopped myself. I realized what I was doing; bargaining with God. Whatever. It doesn't work that way Abby. It's not about DESERVE. It's just not. And you know God didn't make this happen to you. This is grief. You know, that stage that you talk about in parent ed class - bargaining? Look in the mirror dear girl. It's right there in front of you.
And I turned and looked in the mirror and gasped and then laughed. My eyes were puffy and red and my face was blotchy. "Are you going to get sick of seeing me breakdown at every life milestone Harper would have had?" I asked Jeremy, worried once again that our grief processes would come between us.
"No Abby. I do it too. Not in the same ways or the same times as you, but I do it too. And we'll experience this the rest of our lives." Somehow hearing that was comforting to me.
It was just a few moments you know. It wasn't my whole day that was swallowed up by the sadness. I realized as I was thinking about blogging about this that I was feeling a little defensive that I'm still grieving and it's been over a year. But it's not like I'm stuck in the sadness any more. I'm not. My days are good and happy and productive. I'm happy to be alive. There are just these moments that slip in from time to time. Bittersweet moments really, when I think about my daughter.
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Flipping the coin
July 2, 2009
Such a weird paradox happening to me these days. I am enjoying, even thriving on my time alone. I love the peace and quiet of it. I love listening to my books on CD as I accomplish those tiny little household tasks that are so easy to skip over but when you do them you feel so proud of yourself. (Like doing the dishes! No, just kidding.) I might stop in the middle of my task to get down on the floor next to Django, laying my face right next to his, leaning over to kiss him by his ear, my favorite spot for the softness and earthy scent. He's not amused so I complain out loud about the fact that he's just not a cuddly dog and then get up and go about my tasks again. I want it, the alone time. I really do.
And then take that coin and flip it up in the air and watch it come down and land on the other side. That blasted other side. I'm lonely. Maybe I'm doing it to myself. I'm sure I am. But it's where I am nonetheless. And as I'm sitting here writing, I've started and erased numerous sentences. All of them want to blame my loneliness on other people for their shortcomings or inability to understand or whatever, but I keep erasing because I know I'm doing it to myself.
It's not that people can't understand. They absolutely can. I know that. I've had many women reach out to me who have had miscarriages and still-births. I've had people with j-pouches and UC reach out to me. I've had people who are sorting through their changing views on faith offer support and encouragement as I define what I believe. I have friends to goof off with. I have friends to have heart to hearts with. So what am I complaining about? Get out of this funk Abby. You're just feeling sorry for yourself! So what? I want to feel sorry for myself. Once in a while I want to soak in the muck. It takes so much work to be positive all the time. Forget that. Indulge in the negativity a little.
Ick. Just letting myself go there grosses me out a bit. I don't even want to be around me when I'm like that! Okay, so here's where the shift needs to happen, right? Haven't I been down this road before? And not so many days ago either, right?
What am I thankful for, today, right now? I'm thankful that my body is functioning as it should. I'm thankful for the job that I have. I'm thankful for the kindness of others, even when I'm not deserving. I'm thankful for iced mochas (there always has to be some gratitude for caffeine). I'm thankful for the sunshine and the rain. I'm thankful that I can learn and grow just by paying attention. I'm thankful for the patience of my friends. I'm thankful for entertainment. I'm thankful for music and musicians, for books and writers, for artists. I'm thankful for ibuprofen.
When will I learn?
Such a weird paradox happening to me these days. I am enjoying, even thriving on my time alone. I love the peace and quiet of it. I love listening to my books on CD as I accomplish those tiny little household tasks that are so easy to skip over but when you do them you feel so proud of yourself. (Like doing the dishes! No, just kidding.) I might stop in the middle of my task to get down on the floor next to Django, laying my face right next to his, leaning over to kiss him by his ear, my favorite spot for the softness and earthy scent. He's not amused so I complain out loud about the fact that he's just not a cuddly dog and then get up and go about my tasks again. I want it, the alone time. I really do.
And then take that coin and flip it up in the air and watch it come down and land on the other side. That blasted other side. I'm lonely. Maybe I'm doing it to myself. I'm sure I am. But it's where I am nonetheless. And as I'm sitting here writing, I've started and erased numerous sentences. All of them want to blame my loneliness on other people for their shortcomings or inability to understand or whatever, but I keep erasing because I know I'm doing it to myself.
It's not that people can't understand. They absolutely can. I know that. I've had many women reach out to me who have had miscarriages and still-births. I've had people with j-pouches and UC reach out to me. I've had people who are sorting through their changing views on faith offer support and encouragement as I define what I believe. I have friends to goof off with. I have friends to have heart to hearts with. So what am I complaining about? Get out of this funk Abby. You're just feeling sorry for yourself! So what? I want to feel sorry for myself. Once in a while I want to soak in the muck. It takes so much work to be positive all the time. Forget that. Indulge in the negativity a little.
Ick. Just letting myself go there grosses me out a bit. I don't even want to be around me when I'm like that! Okay, so here's where the shift needs to happen, right? Haven't I been down this road before? And not so many days ago either, right?
What am I thankful for, today, right now? I'm thankful that my body is functioning as it should. I'm thankful for the job that I have. I'm thankful for the kindness of others, even when I'm not deserving. I'm thankful for iced mochas (there always has to be some gratitude for caffeine). I'm thankful for the sunshine and the rain. I'm thankful that I can learn and grow just by paying attention. I'm thankful for the patience of my friends. I'm thankful for entertainment. I'm thankful for music and musicians, for books and writers, for artists. I'm thankful for ibuprofen.
When will I learn?
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
The green eyed monster
July 1, 2009
It's making me sick, this feeling. Jealousy. That's what it is. Pictures of friends with their children flashing in my mind. Their friendships growing ever deeper, bonding to one another in ways that I am unable to because I'm childless. My loneliness pangs. I want what they have. I'm jealous of it. And so I play out stories in my mind about how it is that they don't deserve what they have. They are elaborate stories too. And then I'm sick again. Aware of what my jealousy is doing to me. It's ugly and I don't want any part of it. I don't want it near me. God please, help me here. I don't know how to get rid of this jealousy.
Do I try to think good things about them? Do I change the stories playing out in my mind? Is that how to get rid of the jealousy? No Abby, don't fool yourself. This isn't about them. It's about you. Yes. It's about me. And then it dawns on me. I'm holding on to this jealousy because it's easier to feel than the sorrow. I'm sick of the sorrow. And I'm scared too. Scared that I will never be able to be around people with children, never be able to walk past a pregnant woman or see the love between a parent and child without feeling sorrow. And trust me, these are not images you can escape if you have any desire to be a part of the real world.
And I realize that what I need to do is cry. And I do. And crying releases the feelings. It brings authenticity back to me. The jealousy dissolves. I'm at peace again.
It's making me sick, this feeling. Jealousy. That's what it is. Pictures of friends with their children flashing in my mind. Their friendships growing ever deeper, bonding to one another in ways that I am unable to because I'm childless. My loneliness pangs. I want what they have. I'm jealous of it. And so I play out stories in my mind about how it is that they don't deserve what they have. They are elaborate stories too. And then I'm sick again. Aware of what my jealousy is doing to me. It's ugly and I don't want any part of it. I don't want it near me. God please, help me here. I don't know how to get rid of this jealousy.
Do I try to think good things about them? Do I change the stories playing out in my mind? Is that how to get rid of the jealousy? No Abby, don't fool yourself. This isn't about them. It's about you. Yes. It's about me. And then it dawns on me. I'm holding on to this jealousy because it's easier to feel than the sorrow. I'm sick of the sorrow. And I'm scared too. Scared that I will never be able to be around people with children, never be able to walk past a pregnant woman or see the love between a parent and child without feeling sorrow. And trust me, these are not images you can escape if you have any desire to be a part of the real world.
And I realize that what I need to do is cry. And I do. And crying releases the feelings. It brings authenticity back to me. The jealousy dissolves. I'm at peace again.
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