Forty-Six

Why hello there, 46, you sly fox.

I don't know how you managed to surprise me.  It's not like I don't know you're coming.

I think maybe you hid out behind some of your younger siblings, like 28 or 32, and then pounced on me when I wasn't looking.

Speaking of siblings, some of them have been paying me visits. They like to come late at night, as I'm trying to fall asleep.  40 was particularly annoying last night. She wouldn't stop reminding me about the surprise trip to Bermuda I got from the husband I no longer have. 40 wasn't around for the rest of the story, so all she could do was remind me that back then I thought I would be married forever.

I remember being excited for the arrival of 44, because four is my favorite number and I thought this is going to be a great year.  It turned out to be especially sucky.  Back then I didn't know how dangerous expectations truly are, and I spent too much time waiting for life to get better instead of realizing that life was right in front of me, wanting to be appreciated.

50 made a cameo appearance last night, too. She whispered to me that she is right around the corner, that she will be here before I know it.  She kept saying that she is undesirable and decrepit and that I better get moving on finding someone to love me while I still have a chance. She must have been hanging out with 40, what with them both being milestones, and all.

I've been thinking about 16 a lot, too. Perhaps because I am about to get my license reinstated and I have to take the permit test, first. 16 pops up when I'm at the DMV for hours, waiting to talk to a bored employee who holds my fate in their hands, and gazing at the young hopeful drivers. I feel every inch of you, 46, when I'm surrounded by the ghosts of my youth.  It's those damn expectations again. I sit in those hard DMV chairs, surrounded by bright-eyed, tight-skinned teenagers waiting to get their first license, and 16 dances in front of my eyes and cackles, bet you never thought you'd be here at your age.

So, 46, I want to get a few things straight, while you're new here and all eager. Let's set some ground rules.

Feel free to chat with your siblings - both younger and older - but leave me out of it. Please do not disturb my slumber regaling me with memories of how awesome everything used to be, and how perilous the future looks.

I'm middle aged now, 46, and I'm getting wise to your game.  I've earned you, and I intend to wear your battle stripes proudly. Sure, 24 is free from stretch marks and wrinkles and her back doesn't scream at her when she sits too long. When she walks into a room the men turn and stare. That defined her, made her feel loved and worthy, and I'm going to let her have that, and love her for it. She was doing the best she could.

Your younger siblings all had a job to do, 46, and they did it well. They made us who we are today.

46, you will be tempted to tell me who I am not. You will hold me up against the dreams of the past; you will want to tell me what I used to be, and I used to be a lot of things. I used to be a size 8. I used to be someone's wife. I used to believe my parents would live forever. I used to believe in the tooth fairy.

You will think you know who I will become. You hang out with 49, 53 and 67 and you think you know, but you don't. I don't know if it's in your job description or something, but you and your siblings seem to think the past is all shiny and the future is bleak. But, 46, you are exactly who you are supposed to be. Resist the urge to gaze longingly at your younger siblings and wish you were them. They are inside you, 46. You don't need to compare yourself to them, because they are you.

Maybe you can be the first of your siblings to resist the siren call of the past and the tolling bells of the future. Because, 46, you are only going to be here for one year.

You may as well appreciate yourself while you are here. You are so many things, 46. You are funny and compassionate. You can make your kids laugh at the drop of a hat. You are surrounded by friends and family who love you exactly as you are. You wear the scars of your losses proudly, because they remind you that while you stumbled, you did not fall.

You will always look at your reflection in the mirror with a combination of surprise and awe. Surprise at the lines on your face, and awe that you still look damn good.  You know how to love yourself, 46. It took 45 years of hard won lessons to get here, so be proud of yourself.

Do you hear that, 46?  The sound of your kids laughing downstairs? Can you smell the bacon cooking?

That's a good place to start.

On Caterpillars And Not Taking Over The World

Day One.  New beginnings.  Two kids in school full time.

I shuffle my newly minted 4th and 1st graders onto the bus, come inside and wipe a few tears away.  I don't know what the tears are about, exactly.  Nervous anticipation of what comes next?  Gratitude that I'm back, from cancer, that I get to be the one to put them on the bus and meet them at the end of the day?  Fear of the booming silence in my house?  Relief?

Probably all of the above.

As they were waiting for the bus, Greta turned to me and said, "Mom, I have the caterpillars".

Usually they are described as butterflies in the stomach, but Greta calls them caterpillars in her
throat. Much better description, I think.

"I have them, too," I told her.  "And I had them every first day of school, ever."

She gave me a tentative grin.  "They're wiggling.  A LOT," she said, and giggled.

"I'm not nervous at all," Finn chimed in. "At least I don't think I am.  What's my teachah's name again? What's my room numbah?  Oh.  I think I have the catahpillahs, too."

Greta put her arm around him, glad for a little brother to comfort.  "Stick with your friend Tim*", she said. "He's on your bus and in your class. If you stick together you'll be fine."

I watched from my perch on the porch, sipped my coffee, my heart swollen with gratitude as Greta wrapped her arms around Finn.

Of course, as the bus approached, she gently pushed him away and whispered, "Now, don't talk to me."

I always seem to see milestones as endings.  No kid at home to take care of, lots of empty silence where before there was constant noise.  My identity isn't totally wrapped around my kids, I'm grateful for that, and I have jewelry orders to make and the gym to go to and phone calls and emails to return.  I can focus on my other life for a while.

I'm trying to see this as a beginning, not an ending.  But, truthfully, it's both.

And today? I feel their absence in a semi-scary, semi-grateful way.  I'm learning that opposite emotions can co-habitate in my mind.  Scared and grateful.  Nervous and excited. Empty and full.  Closing and opening.

Today begins my regimen of self-care. My promise to myself that I won't try to take over the world in these first few months of two kids at school. That I'll take small bites - do something healthy for myself every morning - write, exercise, meditate, do yoga, read - before I start my day. That I won't go nuts cleaning the house, or spend hours messing about on the computer trying to create a new website for my business (something I have no business trying to do but it would get me out of my head for hours), or exercise like a fiend.

It's my time to spend some time with me. Maybe that's why I have the caterpillars. Spending time with myself can be scary for me, because I get all crazy nutso about what it all means, who I am supposed to be, have existential crises.

I'm dialing back, not up, and that's different for me.  I'm giving my body and mind time to heal from the last year.

I'm all talking smack today - here on Day One.  So call me on it, friends.  Let's see how I'm doing on Day 15, or 21 of my non-world-domination campaign.

Right now, though, I'm off to sip coffee, stare out at the rain and listen to the booming silence.



*not his real name

Earning Forty Three

One side effect of cancer?

I will never take another birthday for granted again.

Yesterday I turned 43.  I've never been one to make a big deal about getting older. Birthdays don't bother me as far as the whole "don't tell anyone how old you are" thing. I wear my age like a badge of honor.  I've earned forty-three, and all the wisdom, scars and lessons that come with age.

Now birthdays feel like the gift they should have felt like all along, I suppose.  Now I get to turn forty-three.

It was an incredible day, full of fun, sun and family.  We are out at our beach cottage (it's totally off the grid, no electricity, only solar power and a generator and propane to run the appliances) so the kids aren't plugged into anything.  We play games, lounge on the beach, have frivolous and soulful conversations.  The kids can run freely outside with no worry of abductors or getting lost.  It's as close to what I remember childhood feeling like as we can get (barring the fact that I have wi-fi from a hotspot on my phone and can plug a computer into the generator to blog.  Cause a girl's gotta blog).

The cousins came out to celebrate, and watching them run wild through the wide open space fills my heart with happiness.

I spent a lot of time doing this:

And this:

At the end of the day, we had cake and ice cream.  And my throat is well enough now that I could eat them both. So I had three helpings:

And saw the most beautiful sunset - a big ball of fire sinking below the horizon:

Before dinner, there was a brief rainstorm, so we even had a rainbow (the only thing missing in these pictures is a unicorn, it was that unbelievably gorgeous):

There was this awesome card from Greta, too: 

"Thank you so much for doing all the nice things you do to us. Like make us dinner and mabe [sic] get 
us a pet goat?  You made it through all.   Love, Greta"

My favorite line? "You made it through all".

I did. And it would be easy to write about what a tough year it has been, how I deserved and wanted a terrific birthday.  But these days I try not to look back too much. I try not to look too far forward, either, wonder about forty-four, or think thoughts like "If I had known when I turned 42 what this year would be like...", but of course I sometimes do. 

Mostly, though, I try to lean into the moment.  And when I say "try", I really mean "try".  It's hard. I have a lot of work to do.

The self-care I'm focusing on is helping.  I'm still meditating, going to group counseling for cancer survivors, taking a yoga class for cancer patients/survivors, talking to safe people who understand. The anxiety is still there, peeking around the corner, waiting.  Instead of running from it or trying to pretend it's not there, I give it a little wave (hello, anxiety) and try to honor it as part of me. As much as joy, gratitude and hope are part of me, too.

The gratitude is coming back, and days like yesterday help a lot.  I am a lucky woman indeed.

Dad - One Year Later

Yesterday was a hard day.  Today is too.

A year ago my father died unexpectedly of a blood infection, related to having his spleen removed years before when he successfully beat Lymphoma.  If you are new to this site and you want to read about that day (I can't bring myself to write about it again) click here.  

Instead, I want to write about a conversation I had with my six year old son last night.

I tried not to let them see me cry during the day. I kept unexpectedly breaking out into tears. I'm pretty sure they saw me anyway at times.   We were at the beach; it was a sparkling blue day, and his spirit was everywhere.  This is the same beach I grew up on with him, searching for minnows to use as bait, fishing for flounder out of his trusty aluminum boat, which is now our boat.

I did my best to think about his spirit; his aliveness.  The one year anniversary of his sudden passing is full of little knee dropping moments of something close to horror.  The things I saw that day, the memories I wish I could wipe from the screen.

By 6pm I had had it, though.  I wasn't feeling well, my throat still hurts a lot, I couldn't eat much all day, and I collapsed into my bed in a ball of self-pity and tears.  And missing Dad. Missing him SO MUCH.

I didn't hear the bare feet pad into the room, or sense someone climb into bed next to me; that's how hard I was crying. Only when Finn started to rub my back did I realize someone was there.  I thought it was Steve, so I didn't curb my crying. Then, a couple minutes later I hear his little sing-song voice say, "It's okay, Momma," and I rolled over to see his deep brown eyes staring into mine; my own eyes in this little-boy face looking back at me.  

"Do you miss PopPop?" he asked.

"Yes, Bud.  I do. I miss him a lot."  And, because I couldn't help myself, and I know he's only six and this is unfair but I was so desperate for love and attention I said it anyway:  "It's been a long, hard year, and I'm feeling sad about having to go through all of it without my Dad."

He nodded sagely, his wisdom belied only by the careworn paw print blanket thrown cavalierly over his shoulder.

"Maybe now that da cancer is over, at least for now, it will help," he stated.  Not a question, a statement of fact.

I nodded, rubbing my face with a Kleenex and trying to pull myself together.

"But, PopPop is in heaven, right?  So that's not sad." 

All I could do is nod.

He was quiet for a bit, his head on my shoulder, still rubbing my arm, when he said, "when I go to heaven I'm going to shut my eyes, because I'm afraid of heights."  Another pause.  "But not that it will really matter, though, because it will just be my spirit, right?"

I nodded again.

More silence, and then this bombshell, said in the quietest of quiet voices:  "How do we know heaven is real?  What if it's just dark?"

I sat up, and in my most authoritative voice said, while stroking his hair, "Buddy, we know heaven is real because heaven is love.  Think of all the people that loved PopPop, right?"   

He nodded, listening intently, his blanket now crammed in his mouth for comfort.

"Heaven is being surrounded by all that love. All the people who came before you, and all the people still here on earth who love you.  It's beautiful.  It has to be, because it's LOVE."

He thought for a moment, and said, "And God is dere, right?" 

"Yes," I said. "God is there, and he is love, too."

He nodded again, thinking it through.  "Does God let you down for visits, do you think?  I'm the last in the family, so I'll probably be the last to die, and it will be lonely here without all of you."

"Oh, Finn," I said, pulling him in tight, "by then you'll be a Dad and have a family of your own.  It goes on and on and that's what makes it so beautiful.  There is no end."

He smiled.  "But I still hope dere are visits.  Maybe we don't even know about them.  Maybe he sneaks down in the form of a bird or a butterfly and just watches." 

"Yes," I said, "that would be nice. And sometimes I feel his spirit really strongly, so I know he's here, cheering us on.  It's just hard because I'd rather have him - his body, his person, here.  But you can talk to PopPop whenever you want to.  Just close your eyes, and picture his face and say hello.  I bet he can hear you.  I bet he can."

And with that he scrunched up his eyes and fell back on the pillow, silent, talking to my Dad.

I miss you, Dad, with all my heart.  You are in our hearts and minds all the time.   We love you.

Dad and me, circa 1975.

What Did You Think About Today?

What did you think about today?

Did you think about all the things you had to get done?  The endless To-Do list?

Did you miss a loved one?  Or, perhaps, love a missed one?

Did you obsess about a dark secret you've been harboring deep in your heart?

Were your thoughts full of anger, injustice and annoyance?

Or maybe love, gratitude and peace?

Did you have to fight hard to stay sober today?

Did you think about that 5 o'clock drink starting at noon?

Did you plan a trip to a fabulous beach resort?  Or did you spend some time wishing you could afford to?

Did you speak sharply to your children in "just-a-minutes" and "not-nows"?

Was your inner dialogue - the one you speak just to yourself - forgiving and loving?  Or was it full of harsh words of ineptitude, shame and not-measuring-up?

Did you take a moment to sit and put your feet up?  Just sit, motionless, for five minutes?

Did you hug your husband or significant other as you parted ways this morning?  Or did you forget?

Want to know what I thought about today?

I spent most of the day obsessively making jewelry and watching episode after episode of "Touch" on Hulu Plus, so that my brain didn't have the opportunity to think.  It passed through my mind that I forgot to kiss Steve as he went out the door, and I fleetingly thought, with a furrowed brow, of Greta's increasing headaches and sinus troubles, but mostly I tried not to think.

Until the phone rang at 3pm and I saw it was the doctor's office. Then my brain exploded into thought - answer it, don't answer it, take one more second of not knowing, have a little faith, Ellie, PICK UP THE PHONE.

It was my surgeon on the other end, and he dispensed with any and all pleasantries and simply said, "Your biopsy was clear.  Congrats.  Now go get that feeding tube out."

I hung up the phone and got down on my knees and thanked God for yet another reprieve.

And then I thought about my non-day.  How tired I am of fear, of numbing out, of hiding.  About how I vowed to Live Out Loud after I got sober, after so many years of living in the dark with a terrible secret.

I don't want to spend my days hiding anymore. Even from fear.

So I'm going to think about where my mind goes - where my thoughts take me.  I'm going to make a conscious effort to follow them along, without judgement, and learn from them.

And then I'm going to hug my family tight tight tight.

Trip Around The Sun - My Blog's Birthday

It's my blog's birthday.

She's four.

Instead of engaging in my usual platitudes of how this blog has brought so much joy and goodness into my world, because you've heard them all before, I'm going to play you a song.  And I want you to listen to it, okay?  Because, if you're like me, you think 'ugh, song' and click away. But this is a good one.  One of the all time bests.

I do want to say - because I can't say it enough and I mean it from the bottom of my soul - THANK YOU.  Thank you so all of you who read, comment, email me, facebook me and send your words of encouragement.  Without exaggeration, I don't know how I would have gotten through the past seven months without you.   You rock.

And thanks for supporting my shop.  After my last post I was so overwhelmed by the response, by people posting on the faeebook and twitter pages, that I cried.  And then the orders came pouring in.  THANK YOU.

Now sit back, relax and enjoy one of the wisest, truest songs ever written.  It was written by Al Anderson, so he deserves the credit (the You Tube video of him singing it isn't as good - but if you want to hear it sung by the original master, you can find it there).

This version is sung by Jimmy Buffett and Martina McBride, and they're pretty cool, too.  This song has brought me through many dark days.  I think I had it on loop my first year of sobriety. when what I wanted more than anything was to have a year sober. And again these past seven months, when the perspective this song brings helped me so much.

Trip Around The Sun: