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Beginning of the End

Now is when it started.

The middle of March.

The previous September, my parents went to Hawaii for their 24^th wedding anniversary. (A fortuitous decision, given that my mom would be dead before they could celebrate their 25^th).   I remember mom’s excited anticipation while planning and her pleasure afterwards describing the beaches, crystal clear water, and tropical fish swimming through her legs in the ocean.  

Shortly after that trip, she started feeling ill.   An ambiguous ‘not feeling well’.  Insidious.

She was diagnosed with depression sometime around December. She told me matter-of-factly, “They think I’m depressed.”  I found it strange, since she never struggled with depression before.  I knew she internalized her feelings, but depressed?  I remember her as generally happy – even though she was quiet and pensive, with a tendency to worry.  Apparently, all the pain was in her head.

I was busy in my senior year of high school with swimming practices before and after school, a part time job, babysitting, youth group, swim meets, and friends taking up all of my time.  I can’t help but feel awful I was gone so much, all while she was feeling so bad.

In mid-March, she came home from a doctor’s appointment; I think it was a Friday.  I think it was a Friday because in all my memories, everything big, save her death, happened on a Friday.    I was in the kitchen, leaning against the sink when she told me she needed to go to the hospital.  After all this time, our family doctor did a physical exam.  He must have palpated the ridiculous angry rock-hard mass growing with abandon on her liver.

Did I drive her there?  So many details forgotten and lost. 

A week in the hospital for testing.   

Another Friday.   

I picked out my outfit deliberately.  Dark blue thrift store jeans that made my legs look thin. The navy j.crew henly Chris bought me for my birthday. A white tee underneath.  Purposely casual, well worn, and comforting. I chose those clothes knowing they would be the clothes I wore the day I found out my mother had cancer.

I wanted to stay home from school.  I wouldn't be able to concentrate.  Could I stay home and come to the hospital when they had the results?  An ominous sign, my dad let me skip school without objection.  A battle not even remotely worth fighting.

Have you ever experienced a time when you see each moment pointing you to something that is about to change your life forever?   So clear it has to happen. Too clear for your hope, beyond all hope, that it wont?

March 15^th is that day for me.

Did I drive myself to the hospital?  

I remember being at her left side near the window.  The door to the hall on the opposite side of the room.  My dad was on the other side of her bed.   Did I ask?  Who told me?    None of it matters. 

It’s cancer.  It’s fast growing.  She will start chemo right away. 

I can’t remember if I cried at her bedside, but I remember being pleased I wore my hand picked “for when your mom is diagnosed with cancer ” outfit.  I looked like me, I felt like me – this seemed important because nothing else about me would ever be the same. That outfit marked a before and after. 

At some point, thinking I was holding it all together; I excused myself from the room to walk around.  Fooling no one, I probably walked no more than twenty feet before I found a bathroom in the hall and desperately shaking, I barely shut the door before I collapsed. Heaving sick and crushed, my searing tears pooling in the toilet and on the floor.

Every year.  The middle Friday of March.  It sneaks up and smashes me again. 

So unbelievably sad to recall the beginning of the end.  The beginning, which really started way before. And the end, that doesn't actually ever end. 

Too Nice to No

Discussing friendship, I gently probe, trying to get at the heart of the issue.   I ask questions, offer suggestions, even try role playing.   Finally, exasperated, she says “But I’m too nice to say no!”

Well.   Isn’t that insightful?   My little eight year old has figured out, in her young age, in her own words, she is a people pleaser.

Sitting at the breakfast table, unassuming in our pajamas, we have struck life-lesson gold.

  

Let me clarify:  My daughter has no problem saying no to me.  She has no problem bossing around her brothers. In the security of unconditional love, she asserts herself with ease. 

Even her dad will run smack into a foot stomping no every once in a while. 

Like any mother does, I blame myself.   Since she was little, I've encouraged her to think of others first. Think of their feelings, try to be nice, don’t be selfish.  As the oldest myself, I should know better.  I have demanded too much of her and often disciplined when I didn't get it. 

I consider her natural thoughtfulness, her innate gentle and caring ways.  Born little and sweet, she has always been a joy. She is a gift.  

I've encouraged my daughter to lean into her natural tendency to defer.  Because it doesn't really matter who plays what, who sits next to whom, or who is in charge.  Just enjoy being together and play with your friends!

Nature and nurture synergy.  

When kids are little, a mom’s influence wraps around every part of her children’s lives.  When it comes to playing, we make them take turns, show them how to share, say things like Everyone gets to be the Queen! and OneTwoThree:Switch!   

Eventually, thank God, they learn to play on their own.  Thrilled, we grant independence and before long, we shove them out the door and find ourselves now saying things like Work it Out! (And maybe even throw in an honest I don’t Care! or Go Back Outside!)

Like letting them brush their own teeth, it’s only when the dentist calls you over to see all the food hanging out by their gums, you realize maybe he isn’t actually old enough to do this all by himself.  One fastidious child is reliably Up-Down-All-Arounding , while the other is actually just staring in the mirror, sucking the toothpaste off his toothbrush for two minutes, before calling it a day.  Parental supervision is still necessary.

So how does a parent teach a self-proclaimed pushover to stand up for herself?  Like most mothers, I have no idea what I’m actually doing.  I start by asking more questions.   

Do you ever want to say no?  Do you feel like you SHOULD say no?  Do you ever wish you said no?

My mom-alarm is ringing. At eight, not saying no means she continues to be The Dog every time they play pet shop at recess.   At 15, not being able to stand up for herself has altogether different consequences.    

Teenage risk taking aside, how many times, as an adult,  have I felt the cringe of wanting to say no or the panic of needing to say no?  How many times have I heard nearly identical ‘I’m too nice to say no’ declarations from women five times her age?

More questions.  Do you think only mean people say No?   Do friends ever get mad at each other?  Is being nice the same as being a good friend? 

I don’t want my daughter assuming friendship is one sided and that she’s being a good friend by keeping up a facade. 

I want her to recognize when she consistently feels a subtle but painful sting saying no brings.  Each sting small and harmless, and even harder to acknowledge — but a deep unhealthy wound develops in what she assumes is a good friendship. 

It’s not our job to “fix” bold and controlling friends, young or old.  But responsibility lies in identifying a friendship built on nothing more than the shifting sand of subjective niceties. 

Accumulating unsaid No’s is destructive and dishonest.   Seeming so innocuous, resentful Yes’s betray no one but yourself.

As she grows, I want her to cultivate friendships with people who give and take, who compromise and see other points of view.   I want her to be confident enough to seek out genuine friendship.  I understand I still have a roll to play in teaching and modeling this type of friendship.

Honey – I love that you’re kind and sweet and thoughtful.  Other people love that too, and I'm positive you will know many friends in your life.  Please pursue deep friendships, even when they take time, that are built in truth and love.  I hope you will understand, even when it’s hard, the nicest thing you can do for a friend (including yourself) is to be brave enough to be honest, especially if that means saying No.

Joy in my Joy

A friend told me about a young girl, despite being diagnosed with terminal cancer, who wished to continue attending school.  I was shocked that the girl’s mother agreed.   At the time, it didn’t occur to me that a mother desires her child to feel normal, especially when circumstances are not.

***

Two weeks after my mom’s diagnosis, I left for Florida.  Unlike typical senior spring break trips, I went alone and stayed with my Aunt’s family.   Besides simply getting out of Ohio, my plans included spending time with my cousin and getting as tan as possible in five days.  

Because my cousin, already in college, had classes while I visited, some friends of ours invited me to the Keys to snorkel.   A road trip, a wet suit, and boating sounded perfect. 

Though I was an accomplished pool swimmer, I panicked as I hit open water for the first time.  I couldn't breathe right; my heart was racing… and those stupid fins!  Not wanting to drown or get back in the boat, I anxiously started kicking towards the reef.  Once my adrenaline subsided and I relaxed,  I observed the astounding beauty of life below the water. 

It will forever be one of my favorite days.  A day filled with water, beauty, excitement, and sun.  I remember nothing from that vacation save the snorkeling trip and coming home really tan.

**                                   

                                                                                               

Not knowing how life was about to change, it was easy for me to leave and enjoy being away from my family. When I left for that trip, did my mom know how quickly my normal life would change forever?   

No longer the carefree teenager, I now see through my mother-eyes, and my perception of the whole thing changes.

If I knew I was dying, I would keep my children close.  I would be scared to let them out of my sight.   Selfishly, I would cling. I would obsessively write, record, talk, prepare, and plan.  I’d pull them out of school and make memories. I would turn Family into a verb.  I would make dying some of my best work.

This would never actually happen, of course.  Because rarely does one get to choose how good she is at dying.  

Faced with the uncertainty of life and death and time – my mom just let me live.  I continued to leave a sleeping house for early morning swim practices and then be in school all day.  I swam after school and worked three evenings a week.  I attended youth group and swim meets.   Homework, church, and friends filled any remaining time.

When in the world did I spend time with my mom?  If I realized she was dying, maybe I wouldn't have been so busy?  If I wasn’t so busy, would I have realized she was dying sooner?

**

When I got home from Florida, she touched my cheek and smiled at my tan.   I tanned so easily compared to her milky skin.  She grew up with an old-European mentality that people who worked outside (hard laborers, the poor) were tan.  She quickly learned the American association between a tan and the luxury of vacation.   

I told her my snorkeling adventure and remember her smiling.  I hold that smile in my mind, looking at it from a different angle now. 

I have given this smile to my own daughter.

A mother’s smile that holds a secret.  Not living vicariously, but flesh-of-my-flesh understanding.

She was joyful in my joy. 

Her heart content because my heart was too.  

***

Easter, the last time my mom went to church, was a few days after I got home from Florida.  Early April in Ohio, snowflakes fell as we took family pictures in front of our house.   It’s hard for me to revisit those pictures. All of us in our Easter best and winter coats.  My sun kissed face contrasted against their winter white skin and my cachectic mother swimming in her clothes.    

Seven weeks later, she died.

My trip and Easter are a continuous memory, two parts making up the whole. The ache of reality butted up against one of the best days of my life. Without pretense or obligation, she let me live.  She allowed me freedom to sweetly and simply Enjoy Life.  

Half and Half

I fall into bed, exhausted.  What’s the date tomorrow?

The 30^th.

I sigh.  I knew it was coming up.

He asks, “Is tomorrow the day?  How many years has it been?”

It takes me a bit -- Oh God. Eighteen.  It’s been eighteen years.

I curl on my side, unprepared, yet knowing what is coming.  A wave of grief hits so hard I start to shake.  What I reign in, keep deep, lets loose.  No almost-pretty gentle crying.   This is dreadful heart-ache crying. 

Unlike my brother and sister who met this milestone years ago, tomorrow marks my half and half.  I have lived half my life without my mother.  I did not expect this matter of fact to re-break my heart.

I will never be able to add to our days together. For one day, they will be equal.  After tomorrow, I will only add to my days without.

It’s the 30^th and I let myself be sad.   I allow myself to sift through memories and linger.  

Just today.  I cannot live in the past. I do not look back often. Too much time has passed for that.

The other day, my oldest son asked me what would happen if I died.  “What would we do without you?”

Caught off guard, I turn away, slapped. I try to talk, but need a second to breathe.  I turn back to him.  Shaky, I say “You’d get through it.  It would be hard.  Maybe the hardest thing you ever do. But you’d get through it.” 

As he does, he presses, “But what if you die before I’m a teenager?”

I sit down.  My sister was eleven when our mom died.  My daughter is already eight. What if I only have three more years?  

I look deep in those five-year old blue eyes, and try my best to sear my mother-love into his soul.  I pray he understands the depth of my love and will know it for the rest of his life.

I wouldn't change my first half, and I cannot change my second.   No longer in halves, I pray for insight – How should I live this ever-growing part of my life?

If I have three, twelve, or fifty more years, my Half and Half itself marks my choice to live intentionally with hope, confidence, faith, and purpose.  

My Tears

My tears are not under my control. They have become entitled and act as if they own themselves.  Ever vigilant, they wait patiently, collectively ready to burst forth.   Like a sly little army, they can quietly build an unbalanced liquid wall that inevitably tumbles down my cheek in any given situation.    

You could find me tearing up (or straight-up crying) at my children’s piano recital, over a handmade card, while singing at church, on my couch during a commercial, while laughing, or any other time where emotions could possibly be felt.  

I see them now a bit like I see my children – as much a part of me as they could possibly be, from my own body, yet with a will of their own.

Although my tears can appear at any given moment, for any given reason – I want you to know that I rarely cry truly sad or mad tears.   (To be honest, I know that if I start those kinds of tears, they won’t stop easily).  I have seen dark days, but my life is largely filled with hope and contentment.   

My tears appear because of the Beautiful, Meaningful, or Worshipful.  Because My-Heart-Hurts-For-You-and-With-You.  Because of the Gentle or Joyful.  

I am painfully aware that my tender heart empties tears so it can continue to beat and feel and share and not harden.

The tears I cry now are a consequence, a privilege even, a prize won after contending with the overpowering tears of grief and fear. 

Because I have experienced my own deep hurt and I work in an environment which catapults families into horrible nightmares of the unknown, the natural empathy with which I was born magnifies and translates into an acute sensitivity to what is Good.  To Small Graces.  I bear witness of Blessings big and small. 

My tears the tangible reminder that there is love, joy, goodness, peace in the midst of a troubled world full of heartbreak, loneliness, and suffering.

My tears used to embarrass me, but I no longer fight with them.   They come unannounced and unassuming.  Although I am at their mercy,  I embrace them. For they are a signal.  

          Pay Attention!

          This is Important!

         This is Worthwhile!

         This is Beauty!

         This is God speaking to you…

I will cry for commercials, yes.  (I’m an easy target, and I don’t care how much or how often my kids and husband laugh. Those commercials are made to be sweet and sad, and they ARE, and I FEEL it).   But I will also share your hurt, your joy, your struggle, my joy, and (if it’s safe enough) my own hurt, and my own hopes with my tears.

Beautiful depth-of-my-heart tears make me simultaneously vulnerable and invincible.  Once they are loose, I cannot hide.  Yet they fortify me, as they point me to observing God at work. 

Flying Low

There is a momma cardinal in this picture.  Can you find her?  She blends in SO well, minus her bright orange beak. (This is like my red lipstick, right?) 

I sat at my kitchen table, and watched her fly from across the street. She flew so low – not more than two feet off the ground – I thought she was landing in the middle of the yard. 

She flew at that “altitude” all the way to the feeder by the window.  Straight to the bird feeder, between waves of torrential down pours.  She was soaking wet.  All business, this bird.

It’s crazy weather.  Rain all day and night, flash flood warnings, severe thunderstorms.  I am settled in at home, many things that I should be doing floating through my mind. I really just want my kids and husband to come home safely.  With weather like this, I want the essentials (my family near me) and am thankful for the basics (shelter, food, warmth). 

This momma cardinal reminded me that sometimes, during storms, we mommas have to fly low.  We have to be all business, essentials only. 

Our wings might be wet from our struggles -- what life has rained down on us.  

We need to be ready to land at anytime.

ANY time.

There are other days and other seasons for flitting around the neighborhood beautifully and gracefully.  When the storm has passed, there will be time for making beautiful nests and melodic song.

But for now, in this storm, it’s necessities only.  And it is enough.

Don’t be ashamed to fly low, soaking wet, blending in with your surroundings during your storm.   Do what you need to do, (because that is often all you CAN do), and don’t worry what other people think. 

I PROMISE, your wings will dry and you will fly higher another day.  

In God's Loving Care

If you asked me how to get there, I wouldn't be able to tell you exactly.

I’d tell you to stay to the right, go over the bridge next to the weeping willow, up past the Jewish section, and then it’s on the right.

I just get there instinctively.  The years have made this part of my internal compass which knows the right direction.

I pull up and see a man in the next section, sitting in a lawn chair, next to (what I’m assuming) is his wife. He's reading a paper.  If I were him, I’d do the same thing.  I’d come and sit, read, and maybe talk to her for a while.  If I lived close enough, I’d try to come once a day.

I stole this time away from my family, from my kids.  I don’t always come.  My trips back home are fewer and far between.  This isn't always a priority.  

Yet coming here, being here, is good for me.

I just left a very sweet time of conversation and laughter with a friend who knows my heart. I leave that to come here.    And I will leave this quiet place to rejoin my family and all those boisterous children full of energy and innocence.

I come for this reminder.  This is my reality.  

Every Good Thing in my life tastes sweeter now. Sitting here for a time orders my life.

I will mindfully wave to the man in the chair.   I will gently smile and nod at the family dressed in their fancy black clothes.  

We share this place.  This peace.  This reality. 

I take note of the section.  But I remind myself, she's not really here.  As her gravestone says, she’s “In God’s Loving Care.”

  

Getting Started

April 30, 2014   Getting Started

I recently read that people who are accustomed to failure are often people who think little of taking risks. 

There are exceptions, but I get the general principle.  If failure is such a part of the past, there is little fear in trying something new.  

If you consistently feel out of your comfort zone, walk around in tension, or with a sense of unease on your life’s journey - taking a risk hardly seems to carry the same weight for someone who never has these experiences. 

On the other hand, there are those people who are afraid of failure.  They hardly ever do anything risky, and – obviously – stay in their lane, play it safe, and just ride through life … 

And in my case, am left wondering ...What If…

Right now, I am those people. 

Not that I haven’t experienced failure, hardship, devastating life events - but generally speaking – I look at myself and see someone who is successfully safe.  

Up until 18, I had no particularly hard trials in life.  Normal growing up stuff.  My trials were things like moving, fights with friends and parents, acne.

Then mom died. 

And I just tried to SURVIVE.  I continued going through life – college, then marriage, and work. I did it. I made it through my hardship. 

I survived, and that was success.

Then Chris had his surgery, and again, it was survival mode.  We did our best.  We continued getting through life.  And one day (and after some therapy) we realized we did it.  We made it through that hardship. WE SURVIVED.

Again, simply surviving was success. 

Since then, I’ve largely been trying to just find Safe Normal. 

Having kids, as wonderful as it is, throws normal out the window, and you have to find New Normal.  Then you have another, and you hope to find a new New Normal.  Then you move, and have one more squishy baby, and you see an even newer New Normal emerging on the horizon and you realize “I’m happy and secure and things aren’t perfect, but they are good”. 

I’m safe, I’m settling in… and I’m happy here, because up till now,  there has been no such safe normal settling in my life.  

There has been a remarkable amount of transition.  MOST of it was good stuff – don’t get me wrong.  But change is change.

I’m in my safe lane now and I know it -- because I am staring to wonder … What If… 

But I freeze.  I’m frozen.

[Insert: me singing “Let It Go” …  Just a reminder: there was ALOT of FROZEN being watched and sung here in April 2014].

I want to write. But, I’m afraid of failure.  I’m not used to taking risks.  I’m used to taking life’s cards and doing the best with the hand I’m dealt.

Yet I finally asked myself – and if you get to this point too – ask yourself… What is failure?  What is success?   

For me - Success is actually writing to for my children.  Sharing my heart. Pointing them to God’s love.

What I need to do is just start and stop being so afraid.  

I will try to remember (and want you to remember):

- The path you’re on is the right one.  

- Put one foot in front of the other. (This is a step by step process).  

- Just show up, you're not late. 

I don’t exactly know what all this will all look like,  but I’m confident that failure is not even trying. 

An Understatement: Having a Toddler is Hard

Please never ever EVER let me look at you and say “Oh Honey, these are the sweetest days of your life. They grow so fast.” 

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Having a toddler is hard.

Yes, I know. I KNOW these are sweet days - as a whole.  Individually though, they might be some of the toughest days I’ve been through.

But I was that mother  ( I FORGOT how hard it is to be that mother!)  – yesterday.  I was the one with the screaming kid in the grocery checkout line. And NO, I didn’t just have milk and bread.  I had a cart full of food that I needed to buy and just TAKE HOME. ASAP.  This was not a time I could cart-abort.  

The looks from everyone,  the tsk-tsking, the embarrassed smile from the clerk …  

… all the while I am thinking ‘I KNOW why he is crying!  He wants a stinking lollipop that this usually-awesome-for-everyone-that-they-give-out-lolipops store gives BUT it’s 9:15am!   I DO NOT WANT MY 20MONTH OLD TO HAVE A LOLIPOP AT 9:15AM!!'

But it’s impossible to tell anyone anything while he’s screaming and writhing and running and falling and “Up!UP!ing” and simultaneously “DOWN!DOWN!ing” in and through my arms. 

 SO. I deep breathe and wrestle my boa-constrictor angry-arms-legs everywhere possessed monkey child while trying not to spill the entire contents of my purse, remembering I have another child that I quickly look around for, to make sure he is still somewhere in the store.  (He was!)  (Victory!)

Anyways, honey.  Having a toddler is hard.  Mentally, physically.    I got home and was essentially done for the day.  Which is silly, because it was just the start of the day.

 

This is just one part of one hour of one day example of what it’s like to have a toddler. 

Please don’t let me forget. It’s hard.  SO Hard.

You can just call me and I’ll listen and just say “Oh honey, it goes so fast.” And you can hang up and be annoyed.   Wouldn't that be wonderful!?

Legoland of Crumbs

I’m spinning around.   

Not satisfied with what’s going on.

I am so conditioned to URGENCY.  This MUST DO IT NOW mentality.  PLAN THE DAY! 

FIT IT ALL IN! YOU CAN DO IT ALL!  Without this PRESSURE, I sometimes start to spin. 

And I know I’ll stop spinning eventually, but I wonder – who can I call who may understand? 

To just take a deep breath with and check in with and be told that unproductive days are okay?

That being home and letting kids do kid things is okay?

That my front door isn’t getting painted, I don’t know which floor to put in the hideous kitchen (and I have no intention to even think about it for a while) is okay?

That making dinner and unloading the dishwasher and simply keeping children alive may be my biggest accomplishment today is okay?

This, naturally, is where I just want to call my mom. 

And then the swallowing of that pit in my stomach.  The deep breath and pressed eyes to PHYSICALLY hold back the tears.   Because I can’t.   And I cannot live life like that... wishing.   THAT is why I cannot think about her too much. 

Because, on certain days, it can still can be TOO painful. On days I need her most, those are the days where I can’t need her at all.  I’ll fall apart.

At work, I’ve helped keep people alive.  Or at least I helped them stay safe through a night of pain or confusion.  Here, I look at one floor covered in legos, the other covered with crumbs and dropped strawberries, and I feel lost.

Helpless.  Purposeless.  

I know the only way to stop my spinning is to go to God. 

So I do.  And I look to His character and His love.  I pray for His purposes for me.   And I do wonder what IS my purpose, what AM I here for?  What am I being prepared for?  

(And thank you, God, for not caring that my prayers end in prepositions).

Then the deep breath. The peace. The awareness that right now --THIS.

This legoland of crumbs is my purpose today and it is okay.   

2011 - Miscarriage

2011 - Miscarriage

Four times last night, I dreamt that glass broke and then was given to me. It was so bizarre, that even in one dream I questioned, “Why does this keep happening?”

As with most people, I have trouble recalling any specifics of a dream – but wake with a vague recollection of the situation, people, and place.  (If there are specifics, they are sure to not make any sense if I dare try to explain). 

And this morning, unable to recall the details, the broken glass dreams stayed with me. The feel of it shattered in my hands… the repetition.  Two glasses. A vase. A crystal bowl.

After coffee, but before tending to my children for the morning, I searched “the meaning of broken glass in dreams” …

To see broken glass in your dream suggests something you thought would last a long time will end surprisingly and too soon.

Well, that makes sense.

I got pregnant easily, and to be quite honest – unexpectedly.

I told a handful of people.  It didn't feel quite real.

The midwife condescendingly asked why I was so surprised that I got pregnant.  She gave me the look that she probably had given at least a thousand pregnant teenagers.  She joked that my middle name should be Myrtle.  She made me feel bad - the married for thirteen years mother of two - because I was honest that this was unplanned.

I asked for an ultrasound. To see it growing there – to make it real.   She gave me an appointment for a week later. 

It is scheduled for tomorrow.

Instead of confirming my pregnancy, I think it will be confirming a miscarriage.  

I’m writing this only because I assume I will forget what this feels like.  I will forget and not be able to adequately describe it.  I may not talk about it much.  And even if I do, and God forbid, if it ever happens to you – I want you to know what it was like for me.  Whether this is or isn’t the same as what other people go through, is beside the point.

 I guess I just want to write it down so I have record of it, and so you do too.  I know my own mother had a miscarriage between my brother and sister – but that’s all I know.  I have no details of how far along she was, how she felt, how long it took to get pregnant again.

It’s so early, that I’m not attached to this child.  I know that sounds awful to admit – but I’m not.  What is awful is the fact that I had a baby growing in me two days ago, and now I am bleeding. Slowly, purposefully, and just a bit painfully.  

There is an absurdity to my life today. I was having a playdate in the park with friends and sunshine beaming all around me.  Our kids all playing so nicely together, while something inside me – literally – dies.

The fact of what is happening is sad.

I’m not sad that it’s happening to me, or to the baby – Lord knows there is a reason for it and I completely am at peace with that. 

I’m just sad that it had to happen at all.

To anyone. Ever.

I’m sad that sometimes things are so unperfect - that death is the better alternative.

And I’m sad that it has to happen in my body.

I have the ultrasound tomorrow. 

[The ultrasound confirmed a miscarriage. I got pregnant again the following year and had our third].

First Chapter

January 1, 2015

First Chapter

I see horrible things where I work.  And I drive home on that ridiculously steep curvy road after being up for 25 hours straight.  This one morning I envisioned another car to coming just far enough left of center to cause me to swerve to the right, and off the road.  My mind went to a crash, and then me, covered in blood, calling your dad… to say goodbye.

 No sleep and working in the trauma ICU has done this to me.  I could create non-accidents all day long.

 Shaking my non-accident out of my head, I then had a very real, very overwhelming fear  (what I think is the closest I’ve come to an actual panic attack) of never having done what I’ve always wanted to do, but have always been to scared/busy/full-of-excuses to actually commit.  My mind momentarily grieved, thanks to my non-accident, my non-writing to my little girl. 

Near the end of the year, I read one of those “if you died today, what would you regret?” queries … Again,  not writing to you is my instant, constant, answer.   

I do not have a story of addiction or depression or rock-bottoms or abuse.   I really am not that special – save this – that I am your mother.   I can give you myself.   My story.  Our story.  Your story. 

As my mother was mine,  I am your first chapter.

My mother’s story is remarkable. But I know only parts and pieces.  The details may be lost forever.  Her commentary and feelings about too much of her life are gone forever.  And they matter, if to no one else -- they matter to me. 

As I navigate my life without my mom, I long for her words. For her advice, her instruction, for her heart to connect with mine. In her absence, I find myself longing.  Lacking. Wanting.

It pains me to write for (essentially) two reasons:

     -  I worry that in writing like this, I prematurely accept that you will be living without me as you grow into a woman.   (This is sad and can’t be true… but it leads into reason number two). 

     -  If I am around, you won’t care. 

Putting my own fears aside -- if I am gone, I can only assume you’re heart will long for words that will connect us.  And if I am here, I hope these words bridge any gap or explain any conflict – or shed light when I inevitably put on my rose-colored glasses of old age. 

 My words may embarrass me, may have to be eaten, or could be thrown in my face. But I will bare myself to you, so you can know my heart and, in turn, fully know yours.