Here in the dark.
Hearing our laptops hum
At night.
Not so softly
I ask you,
what I should write.
You say,
“Um, I do not know.”
Imagine those words sung to the melody of Journey’s “Open Arms.” Sadly, Dave did not sing it to me that way. That would have been awesome, though! Seriously! It would. He is busy working and has no idea that while I was thinking about what I should write about, I looked over at him and of course the phrase, “Lying beside me, here in the dark…” popped in my head. And then I saw myself riding in that early 1980s paneled-side-station wagon (or weigh-gun as we say it in Minnesota), to the Journey/Brian Adams concert. I was only thirteen years old. True story. This older kid we knew from church had his driver’s license (obviously). We talked him in to driving us from the Minneapolis Suburbs all the way to St. Paul. I believe Melanie, my BFF, her boyfriend, Mike and this other dude went along. We sung in our hairbrushes all the wat as we listened to the awesomely awesome words of “Open Arms” during the forty-five minute drive to the show. Now that I think of it I, swear my brother Bill was there too. Were you, Bill? Maybe there were more people. Wait. Maybe it was Anna Oelkers not Melanie. I cannot remember. Mel or Ann, you must tell me, please! [UPDATE 12:48 PM MST, I just heard from Anna. She was there, but went with others. It was Melanie. I should have gone with me first instincts.] They both dated Mike. I was young, naive and was really focused on one thing. I needed to hear MY song, Journey’s, “Lights.” “Faithfully” was for the masses and I was (am) an Outlier. I still remember standing there, swaying along with my imaginary lighter. I did not smoke and it was eons before the fake-lighter-iPhone App arrived. And when the song began playing live, well, I burst. I could scream now. I would scream just thinking about it, but I think I might scare Dave. Please, please do not tell thirteen-year-old me that I have moved on in my musical taste. Fourteen-year-old me found U2’s Unforgettable Fire and sixteen-year-old me fully immersed herself into The Cure. Please. Thirteen-year-old me was earnest, eager and hopeful. She had her moment and I will never take that away.
Music was a big deal in my house. My sister loved Led Zepplin. My brother loved STYX. My mom adored Johnny Mathis and I was determined to find not only my own band, but my favorite song. Take that, “Stairway to Heaven”, “Babe” and “Chances Are.” I found Journey and I had “Lights.”
Feeling like I have been so intense I needed to lighten it up. My day-to-day is currently routine except for this pounding headache I have been carrying around. My friend Teresa says it is because, “Um Beth, you lost a lot of blood and you are not drinking enough water.” Ok. She is correct. It is hot. It reached over one hundred degrees in this high desert heat today and I could stand to hydrate. Instead of running to the kitchen for another giant glass of water I am heating my abdomen with this laptop and remembering days when I was way too young to think about hospital bills, wanting to punch pregnant ladies, soccer camps, husbands who work all night or even know that people really do lose their babies. All I had to worry about is convincing my parents that this teenage boy could safely drive me far away so I could hear my dream. And until tonight I never realized how simple that song really is, with its few and repeating lyrics, it didn’t matter, it was my song and that was my night.
Kyle at Fort Columbia State Park, WA (just over the river from Astoria, OR)
Finally home, although we already miss Portland. After two and a half weeks on the road we are finally home. The boys are up in bed. Dave is in the kitchen looking at all the mail and I am watching a recorded episode of, “So You Think You Can Dance.” I love that show! And maybe it is because I am finally home, or because I am finally alone, or maybe it is because I am extra super tired, but just now when I heard the first few bars of, “I will always love you,” tears started rolling, simple, slow and quietly down my face. I sucked a deep breath in and of course I thought of Whitney and yes, I wondered why she did not have someone watching her in that bathtub.
I watched the beautiful dance and then I listened. I think it is the words and I think it is because in this moment I see that I will not have another child. I get it and then I realize I am not breathing. I concentrate and tell myself, “breathe, Beth, breath,” and then I let the tears fall. I let them stream. Those words, as cheesy as they are, were reaching, reaching me and I am glad. Before tonight, whenever or wherever I heard those words sung, say in a dressing room, my car, or sung by at least one contestant every single year on American Idol, I blurted them out loudly and sung them with my best power-ballad-styled conviction. Didn’t we all?
Cathedral Tree/Column Trail Astoria, OR
Dave, while on a LDS Mission in Caracas, Venezuela, had a mission companion who incessantly played the Bodyguard Soundtrack, which of course includes the song, “I will always love you.” This guy played the Bodyguard soundtrack so often that one day Dave could not take it any more and in an instant he threatened to toss that damn Bodyguard Soundtrack cassette tape out the window. “Use your headphones!” Dave demanded! “If I hear that music played out loud one more time, the tape is gone! I will throw it out the window!”
Not soon after Dave uttered those words, his companion must have either doubted Dave’s threats or simply could not resist his sweet, sweet Bodyguard Soundtrack and had to play the “and I, yi, yi, yi I will always love you, ew, ew’s,” one more time. Upon hearing those first bars, Dave walked over, stopped the cassette player, pulled out the threatened cassette tape, walked over to the window, opened it and threw that damn Bodyguard Cassette out the window, where it fell to its untimely or timely (depending on how you see it) death; no sooner to be run over by a car below.
Dolly Parton wrote the song in 1973 after a break-up with her partner and mentor, Porter Wagoner. Tonight I listened to the Whitney version, and as I heard those very first bars, “If I should stay, I would only be in your way,” I let go, gave in and was somehow able to disconnect from the gooey, overly sentimental and overplayed aspects of that song and just listen. It was like our child was singing to me. Crazy, right? It was as if my broken hopes were saying, “hey Beth, I get it. I know you wanted another child for years. I know when you found out about me you were mad. I know you wanted to carry me, to feel me grow. I know you were scared. I know you didn’t want me. I know you did. I was here, but I had to go. I know you felt me leave. I know. I get it and somehow you will be ok.” Now how weird is that? How weird is it that a reality dancing show playing an overplayed Whitney Houston song brought me to soul-gripping tears? I thought it was a little weird too, yet it did.
As the song ended (I rewound and played the dance through twice), well, as the song ended a second time, there were no long drawn out power-ballad crescendos from me. Instead I just heard myself saying,
And I will always love you. I will. Then I held my breath again.
At the top of the Column Astoria, OR
A question I have been asked a lot about the last few days besides, “are you ok?” is, “was it painful?” or better, “you really don’t mention the pain at all?”
The answer, if I can give you one: it was horrific! It was horror movie bloody, gory and I felt searing, gut-wrenching pain. I felt pain before the hospital. I felt pain the night before, at lunch, at Ruby Jewel and once there, if it were not for Liz, the amazing Ultrasound tech, I believe I would have passed out from the intensity, literally! Finally, as the blood continued to gush like some insane river, Liz yelled at my nurse, “Do not listen to her. She needs something for the pain!” The nurse tried to have a business-meeting styled conversation with me and began dissecting every single word as he asked me what I wanted or if I even needed pain medicine. I tried to rationally answer him in between tears, terror and my constant questions, “What is happening to me? Why is there so much blood? I can feel it rushing over your hand. Liz, the blood. It will not stop!”
Dave and Liz both piped in. “Do not listen to her. Get her something now!” Grateful. I am so grateful! It hurt, but I wanted to feel that hurt. My stupid nurse played right in. I think he wanted me to hurt to. I felt like he was thinking, “well, she isn’t having a baby so how could it possibly hurt that badly?”
I wanted to bleed through my nightmare and get through. I wanted to feel this moment. I needed to feel this moment so deeply that I will never forget these last seconds that I was pregnant. I kept thinking of the last moments I nursed Eli. It was May 2003. I looked at his sweet little face and said to myself, “This is it. Do not forget! Look at him and remember this moment. It may not happen again.” Did I jinx myself? I don’t think so. I am grateful I remember. I am grateful I remember what it is like to hold a baby in your arms and nurse. I remember how it feels to fell so close. I want these moments seared into the involuntary spaces of my soul. There is no other way to say it. I wanted to feel this pain so I never forget. They were contractions. I finally realized. Another friend asked about them. When she was miscarrying she told me she had really horrible contractions.
Yes, I had them. They came on hard and they came on fast. I thought I was going to die. Seriously I was like, “what the hell is happening to me? Really? What?” Because there was no baby, I had a difficult time connecting to the fact that they pain I was feeling was indeed labor. Because there was no baby, I felt like I deserved this pain. Seriously. That is how it was. I already knew I had failed and because this was the end, albeit a surprise ending, it was the end of a very long road. And because it was the end, I needed to feel the pain.
The bridge between Oregon and Washington at Astoria
—-
Earlier today I had my blood drawn. I am assuming my hCG is going doing and that my Hemoglobin is where it needs to be. Cross your fingers that my products of conception have flown the coop and that I am on my way. Yes, Thom and Adam, to be continued. I will give you the word as soon as I hear from my doctor.
[Saturday Morning, August 4, 2012, 11:06AM: PART TWO will be waiting for you early Monday Morning. Thank you for reading and making it over to my space on the planet! It means a lot to me!]
[UPDATE: Saturday August 3, 2012. When I began writing this post on the evening of 7.30.12, I had no idea what the next twenty-four hours would bring. I will say it now and I will say it again: We cannot predict the future!]
Monday Evening, July 30, 2012: Surprise! I’m Pregnant.
Here is a picture of my actual pregnancy test.
I have spent my summer pregnant (the past three months) and today I am miscarrying. I know what you are thinking. I am thinking it too. I am old. My kids are almost teenagers and I thought I was done traveling this very long road.
“How did this happen?” I asked my OB.
“Oh, you know how this happened,” she very wisely responded.
Uncle Miah and the boys. See-saws at sunset.
Nevertheless and moments ago I was at a city park here in the Irvington Neighborhood of Portland, Oregon. I was snapping pictures and keeping an eye on my boys. We, joined with Dave’s sister, Dori and her family, had all just eaten a yummy combo picnic dinner and now were scattering around the park. I had already been spotting for a few days so I was not surprised when Kyle, Eli and their Uncle Miah stood wobbling on the see-saws while my nephews Andy and Nathan moved giant toy trucks back and forth through the sand that I felt one mother of a cramp followed by a big fat gush.
“I need to find a bathroom NOW! Really.” I calmly said to Dave and Dori.
“Let me go with you.” Dave said, as we first walked to the car to grab some supplies and then walked over to a prison-issue-no-seat-just-stainless-basin public bathroom.
The two tattooed, pierced and Portland-conservative looking men who each had a son who each sported an ironic toddler-mullet said one more thing to me as I raced to the bathroom door. Their toddler sons were fascinated with Kyle, Eli and the see-saws. “They can handle themselves. Don’t worry. Your boys are fine.”
I thanked them and walked on.
“Ew!” I screeched as I saw all this brown stuff all over the floor.
“Those are just leaves. Just walk over them. Everything is ok.” Dave quickly and wisely shot back. They were just leaves.
I walked over the leaves to the metal toilet, held my breath and squatted over the silver basin. In milliseconds, if that, weighty clumps of tissue dropped into the water. If you have miscarried before, you know exactly the weight I describe here. You know how it feels and weirdly I am grateful you do.
As I squatted, and if you know me, especially the-me-in-less-than-ideal situations me, you know I needed to keep it light and say something and by something, I mean, something humorous-ish. “Hey at least I am keeping it real theme-based. Last time I miscarried at a truck stop (true story).”
Dave probably rolled his eyes, laughed and helped me up. As soon as the heavy park bathroom door slammed like a snapped rubber band behind us, I felt another gush and knew it was time to leave. We yelled to the kids and told them we would be gone for a few minutes, walked over to our car and Dave drove me back to where we were staying. I went up to the guest room and immediately started writing.
Here I am and here is what I am feeling. In between moments of awful menstrual-like cramps and pure denial I am bursting, I mean, BURSTING with crushing quantities of anger while simultaneously filling with competing amounts of gratitude, DAMN IT! I don’t know how else to say it. I have re-written and re-written that phrase: gratitude combined with anger. So grateful I really cannot be mad! Many of you have traveled a similar road. I am grateful you understand and am very sad that you had to go through this too. Many of you also know that I tried for years to maintain a pregnancy. I have succeeded twice. Thank God for Kyle and Eli! Seriously! Wow! I get contrast. I feel selfish that I wanted more. I get that those two boys are two brilliant miracles! Birth is not easy! Yet, may I tell you in complete honesty, I was pissed when I found out I was pregnant. At the very least, this pregnancy has caused me a very inconvenient summer. At best, I feel equal amounts of gratitude and anger!
And I think the denial I have been in has given me this crazy strength, strength that I never thought I had. With this denial I have pushed myself hard. I have pushed harder than I have in a very long, long time. Wait, let’s not pretend, when Kyle was lying with a feeding tube shoved down his nose and his eyeball skin peeling off, I pushed hard too. That’s what you do. You push hard. You fight for those you love.
If only this was our two test box.
We bought a two-test box. “Dave, we have to buy a two-test kit. If we buy one, I’ll just end up buying another one tomorrow.” We laughed the Park City Smith’s laughing and joking about the psychosomatic effects of pregnancy tests. “You relax and then your period starts.” We only needed one. We only needed one pregnancy test because the second I peed on that stupid stick, it turned to a plus sign. When I saw that stupid plus sign I totally deer-in-head-lighted and then I laughed. “Really?” I really said, “really,” out loud. I bet you would have too. Do you know how many hundreds of negative pregnancy tests I have peed on? Wow! A joke? I bought the pregnancy test as a joke.
I saw the plus sign. I freaked out. Then I screamed, “Dave, you need to come up here now! Now! Dave! Now!” Then I grabbed my iPhone, opened up my web browser, Google’ed the phrase, “old pregnant ladies,” read the statistics and felt worse. Women over forty are screwed! The End! I know my history and when we told our doctor friend, here is what he told us:
“You’re old blah, blah, blah, blah and you are doomed blah blah blah. Oh and your fertility history sucks blah blah blah. Mostly, YOU ARE OLD!”
Dave is busier than he has ever been, which seems impossible, because he has always been busy. This summer was my time, pregnancy or not, to up my parenting game. Dave needed me. I do not breathe and until last night, I simply hold it all in. I have hardly told a soul and when I do I imagine what they must be thinking. I have a couple of close friends, my sister and my mom (of course), who knew. They all have had my back. They get my horror and every single one of them said, “I will be there to help you raise that baby or help you grieve its loss.” They knew my reality too. Last night I melted. Just a little, but I finally did. It was probably hormones. No. Really. I went nuts and kept asking Dave, “Why are you acting so weird? What is wrong with you?” Not my finest moment. Suddenly after yelling, screaming and being silent, I walked down to the kitchen, poured myself a bowl of Cocoa Krispies, then another, texted Dave from the kitchen, cleaned the cute little cracker crumb mess the other house tenant always leaves behind, and went back upstairs. While eating the second bowl, Dave responded:
“Come back up here and I will hold your hand. I need the points.”
[August 3, 2012]
Me and my boys in Oregon.
Like I mentioned, we are currently in Portland, Oregon. I love the house we are staying in. It’s an old Four Square Craftsman in the Irvington neighborhood. Our friends graciously invited us to stay while they are working in Phoenix. I know we have the better end of the deal. Whole Foods is a short walk and an even shorter drive. The Whole Foods folks already know me, make me the best gluten free sandwiches and the boys have discovered that the Portland Whole Foods sells warm Chicken Pot Pies. Yum! If this deceptive Portland sun keeps shining, I think we may just stay.
On Wednesday, July 25, we dropped Dave off in Pasco, WA. I know. Weird and a little random. He needed to be in San Francisco. When planning our trip we figured Pasco was the farthest he could travel with us before he needed to go. Once in Pasco and after washing our bug-covered and mud-covered car, we were under such a deadline that almost as quickly as we walked into a local Mexican Restaurant, we looked at the time, apologized, told the hostess they are number one in the area on Yelp, and we walked right back out. We did not want Dave to miss his flight. We stopped for gas, bought our requisite two Chick-O-Sticks and were on our way. I hugged Dave hard, held back tears and prayed that he would fly safely from this little airport we had never seen before.
We left Dave in Pasco and came from heartache in Spokane, where my head was spinning after feeling the reality of stomped on hearts and a broken marriage. Spokane was filled with love of old friends and hope that they will find their way. I wondered if they were felling angry and grateful. Life does not discriminate when it comes to pain or happiness, for that matter. As we arrived in Spokane, we were on the heels of our dreamy trip through Yellowstone and the Tetons (yes, when they ask, we tell them that Tetons indeed mean “boobs” in François and then we quickly admonish, “What we talk about in the car, stays in the car, like that Tetons mean, “The Big Boobs”). We had been planning this Yellowstone trip for months. We were never quite sure if it would happen and at the last minute and thanks to our fabulous-plan-making friend, Doug, it did.
On Thursday, July 19, we left Utah late morning. We met up with our Minnesota friends at the Park City Whole Foods. I walked all four boys over to the Kimball Junction Starbucks, I ordered my green ice tea, insisted they use the bathroom, the other three adults made their way over and we were on our way.
Old Faithful doing what Old Faithful doesI’m not overreacting. It is scary!
In the past two weeks we have traveled from Utah to stunning Jackson, WY. We stopped at a groovy health food store in Jackson thanks my friend’s clever and determined thinking. Thank goodness for her, and also gratitude for the discovery of the Gluten Free Sandwich. From Jackson, WY we drove through the Tetons with a quick stop at Jenny Lake, where we had to force a very sick Kyle to complete a very long hike, then and on to Yellowstone. We spent the night at a crazy Yellowstone Lodge. No, not the Yellowstone Lodge, just another random Yellowstone Lodge. We watched Old Faithful do its thing, because you have to, and somehow between puffs of smoke and really warm walking paths, I overcame my fear of hot springs. Seriously, do not read the book “Death in Yellowstone,” it may haunt you forever! We hiked the Grand Canyon of Yellowstone, the top of Mammoth Hot Springs and then found our way to Bozeman, MT, where we hiked to the most amazing waterfall. (May I just add that Eli not only completed every single hike, but he was often the first done and always seemed to hike to the highest spot! So proud.) After the waterfall and a quick detour/Bison charging, we ate lunch at the Bozeman Food Co-Op and yes, Bozeman and its accompanying food co-op, are indeed where the real hippies exist. We sat at a lovely outdoor table, ate our yummy food, talked with our friends about our combined dreams of traveling to New Zealand while a very yappy dog barked away in the background. We said our goodbyes, met one more time at the gas station then they headed east and we headed west. On to Spokane, the Pasco, WA Airport and then Portland, all the while I was pregnant, or at least my body thought it was. The boys and I drove non-stop the windy four hours along the Columbia River Gorge into the waiting arms of Dave’s best friend, Justin, who immediately took very-hungry us to an open-late Portland eating establishment.
On Monday, July 30, 2012, I went to bed believing I had fully miscarried.
I think I was five or six years old when I first heard the term “manic-depressive.” And to very young, impressionable me, when I asked what those words meant, the response was simple and safe: “sometimes so-and-so is really happy and can get a lot of things done and sometimes so and so is very, very sad and cannot get out of bed.”
“Hmm?” I thought.
And because I was so curious, once the phrase, “mentally ill” entered my lexicon, I became fascinated and wanted to understand why people were having a hard time with their brain. Curious me became really curious about everyone else. I reminded myself of some of my gay friends. Once they came out, they were certain everyone was gay. Once I learned about mental illness, I thought everyone had something wrong with their brain and ever since, I have tried to figure out why people act the way they do.
With the openness of information like learning about mental illness, also at such an early age I was taught to give people an out. “If people are acting strange, mean, out of control, depressed, self-centered or whatever, they must be dealing with something,” I was told. The good parts of empathy, understanding, compassion and love all came from my mom. There have been many times when the only way I was able to let go was because of the kindness and openness my mom instilled in me.
So terms like mental illness, bipolar, empathy and compassion were simply and have always been a part of my vocabulary. My mom would always say, “Don’t assume. You just don’t know what is in their heart.” Many times when I really wanted to judge (and I probably did), I heard my mom’s voice ringing sweetly in the back of my head, “You do not know what’s in their heart.” Instead of shutting the door, with her words, I found ways to invite the stray dogs, misfit toys, misunderstood, sad, lonely and depressed into my life. I was really young and that’s what I knew to do.
When, at age nine or ten, I learned that some folks are even hospitalized when they are really sad, I was not at all shocked or surprised. It made sense that they would go somewhere to rest their very sad heart. Maybe it was because the innocence of childhood was wearing off (probably was), but by age twelve I knew there was a lot more to Mentally Ill people than the fact that sometimes they were really, really happy and sometimes they are really, really sad. When so-and-so was acting like an out-of-control asshole, I made an excuse. “They can act this way because they are sick! They can treat me this way because bad things have happened to them.” I could tell myself, “I don’t know their heart,” and then let it be.
Community Mural
Patterning is deep. Patterning teaches you how to embrace, interpret and cope with the world. My pattern was to try to understand why, and most importantly, to always give people an out. The main out I gave them was that their selfish, mean, weird or crappy behavior is understandable because they must be either mentally ill, autistic, an alcoholic, have anxiety, an eating disorder, are depressed, have ADD, ADHD, OCD, are bipolar, a sociopath, a narcissist, paranoid or some combination of the above and most definitely something that is out of their control.
Being around women, I know that many of them suffer various types of eating disorders. Overeating, under-eating, exercising until you die, I see it every day. It is so sad. I excuse their need to control because they have told me they are sick. When I find someone really difficult to deal with, it is easy for me to excuse their selfish or mean behavior and convince myself that the reason they have no empathy for others is because they have “something”. People who always need their way, “well, they must be suffering some sort of OCD or maybe they are a sociopath, but a nice sociopath.” When I am around someone who dominates the conversation, dominates the perspective yet will get beyond easily offended when someone pushes back, I think, “well, they must be a narcissist or at least one of the borderlines.”
My diagnosing of others was validated when I had these two roommates. I was on a Mormon Mission (whole other story, if you want to hear about it let me know and yes, I will write about it.) They were my mission companions and I was a brand new missionary. One woman was very sweet and one woman was big, tall and mean. Eventually, they both were committed to a psychiatric unit. A day or two after the nice missionary had been committed to the mental hospital, the mean one sat across from me in her pajamas. I was on my bed. She was on hers. She looked at me and out of nowhere said, “Sister Rodgers (my maiden name and because “Sister” [insert your last name here] is what you call yourself on a mission), if I ever met you on the street, I would not talk to you. I do not like you. In fact, I HATE you!” I sat stunned. We were alone together and I was not sure what to do. The tall, big, mean companion continued, “When I was in college someone called me a lesbian and you know what I did? I kicked in her ribs and broke six of her fingers. I DO NOT LIKE YOU!”
When that happened I excused her words. “She is sick. She does not mean what she says.” I was hurt. I was afraid, yet I knew she was not well.
In high school it was a hard day when my youth leader said to me, “Beth, I think you are depressed.” It was hard for me to swallow and I felt a little embarrassed. I talked with my mom and she agreed. Eventually, I found my way into counseling and realized yes, of course I was depressed. There were a lot of things happening that would make me, and really anyone, depressed. Once I accepted that depression was no big deal, it really has been no big deal. When I had my babies my memory is that my post-partum was huge, especially with Kyle, but the “no big deal” aspect of it all got me through. “No big deal” was not dismissive or undermining a serious mental health issue, the “no big deal” aspect meant that I could get help and that I would be ok. “No big deal,” meant I was not alone and I was not a loser. Help is a good thing. This new understanding deepened my patience and perspective. I became more tolerant of others, more curious as to why people act the way they do and I was very sad when I saw how afraid people were to get help. I found opportunities to tell people, “Hey, you are human. Sure your pain is horrendous. You can get help. You will be ok!”
Cowboy Mural
Recently, however, I had a new realization, a realization I am not sure I like. After years of diagnosing everyone in my path and getting diagnosed myself, something occurred to me. I was standing in my bathroom and as I brushed my teeth, I had this thought. “Not all mentally ill people are mean. Not all mentally people are selfish. Just because you are depressed, you don’t have to be a jerk.” It has been a sad realization. It is sad because I want to give people an excuse. I assume their heart is good. I realized in that moment, that people may not be mentally ill; they may just be mean. I have liked having a lifetime where I can excuse unkind, uncalled for and inappropriate behavior. I liked being able to say, “She screamed at me and said all those terrible things because she is sick.” This new realization has tipped my thought process on its head. I see that even people who are suffering do not have to be mean. They are being mean and selfish because they are mean and selfish, simple as that. Ouch! They are mean because they do not like you or they are mean because they think you wronged them or they are mean because that is who they are. I have always given people the benefit. I can understand not wanting to get out of bed. I hurt when my loved ones are sad. I feel so much pain when I see people struggle. I would rather give you an excuse than see your darkness. However, as much as I want to excuse the behavior, as much as I know I may not know your heart, bottom line is I do not think there is ever an excuse to be mean, ever!
I don’t know if it is hormones, onion layers or simply human nature. There is no question that I feel more resolved and more peaceful today than I ever have. And now, even in those crazy moments, I know I can talk myself off the ledge and find my way through those moments of deep despair. Yet as much as I feel healed, the more layers I peel away, the more I see how deep my wounds really are.
To the bone they go.
And as I read back on the words I have written, I read through years of patterns, patterns and cycles. I read years of hurt and I read years of hope. Somewhere along the way, I figured all of my many written and processed words would eventually heal me. I know the moment. It was during college. It was warm, sunny and I was walking north on University Avenue, really far north, way past campus, and because I did not have a car and because I liked to walk, I was walking the three miles each way to my therapist’s office. As I walked and in a warm and sunny moment, I really believed that if I worked hard enough to get to those moments, that when I arrived, magically I would be healed forever.
Not so.
Sure, I most definitely feel better. I also feel older and yes, I feel like my experiences have taught me a thing or two. I know by now that loud fidgeting done by others will always bug the crap out of me. Dave says my intense irritation is because I have this one condition where the affected cannot tolerate certain repetitive sounds. He is correct. Repetitive noises do annoy me, diagnosed condition or not. I also know that if I see a piece of cake, especially cake that I am not allergic too, I will be hard pressed not to eat the entire piece and if I do not eat it, I will think about that yummy piece of deliciousness until the moment it is gone or in the freezer. Seriously! I will.
Sadly, or maybe it is just life’s journey, I now realize that my words will repeat, my stories will change, yet will really mean the same as my feelings travel deeper, each time something or someone pulls the trigger. I know this because I believe my relationships, specifically the relationships with the family I was raised in and possibly the family I married into has a way to go before they are healed. And because these families are so much a part of who I am and who I want to be, until we heal, my words, their words, private, texted, blogged about, written or spoken out loud will ooze through the rotten flesh of our hidden sorrow. Until we learn to let go, forgive and allow ourselves to heal, we will be stuck. I believe we will feel hurt, assume the worst and see the worst until we accept the best. It’s just how it goes.
Brenda and me
Thankfully my sister, Brenda (my biological sister), and I have been taking tiny steps year after year phone call after phone call, visit after visit to arrive at this very cool place, a place where we can disagree, love, listen, and a place where I know she always has my back. Brenda believes in me. Truth be told, even when things were rocky, Brenda believed in me. She always has. Brenda knows my heart and accepts the fact that I am very different than the rest of my family (except my grandma Koener). And oddly, I am different because I have always been the one who cannot sit still. Even crazier, I really think I am the one in Dave’s family who cannot sit still either. I cannot believe how long his family can sleep, when given a chance, or how they can read for hours and hours on end. I envy their ability to be still. Sadly, my inability to sit still has caused a lot of pain and misunderstanding. It is often assumed that I would rather be anywhere else than with my family. Maybe true [wink wink], but really it is the simple fact that I need to move. As soon as stir craziness sets in during a visit to my in-laws, nothing calms my soul like a quick trip to Whole Foods. When I visit my mom, I often try to talk her into a lunchdate or to meet me at Target, where we can walk the aisles together. I like to walk. I like to hike. I like to talk. I like to move. When one sister is content to spend endless hours and days in my kitchen dicing, slicing and blending raw food after raw food, I think my head may just explode. I know my kitchen is large and if I am in my kitchen, I do not want to be there long. When family comes to visit and wants to sit and admire the beautiful aspens, I have about five minutes before I want to admire something else. It is not personal. I like to move. Thank goodness my mother-in-law likes to get out and walk too. I want to move and even from far away, Brenda (and my mom) know I am probably walking up and down our stairs as we talk. Thank God she loves me for who I happened to be.
When Kyle was in the hospital, every waking and when-I-was-supposed-to-be-sleeping millisecond was spent caring for him. Caring for him so intensely distracted selfish-me from that small, dark and very sad hospital room. There were so many moments I felt like a deer in headlights, trapped and suffocated. If it were not for my deep, extremely deep love for that boy, I would have bolted. Ask Dave. Ask my mom. Ask Brenda. They know me. They know how hard it is for me to sit still. When I am backed against a wall, I want to scream. When I am trapped in a small room, I want to claw out my eyes. When the world fights to take away my little boy, I want kick someone’s ass, I want to throw something. And after spending hour after hour, day after day, second after second in the hospital and then at home with my very sick boy, my very sad and confused boy, my boy who was tethered like a Kevlar chord to my soul, I realize that I am still not breathing.
Spinning
Sure, I am alive and I am breathing, but it has been a very long time since I breathed one of those really deep cleansing breaths. If I were to attempt a Yoga Breath, I promise you would hear me fail. After my Gallbladder surgery, the surgeon chastised me. “I hear crackling noises in your lungs. Your breaths are not deep. That is not good. You will get Pneumonia.” I do not breathe and this new, shallow, breathless healing is an added and thick, deep-fried crust to my already full and layered onion. Seriously, how many layers must one peel before they get there? And why? Why is it that once we have peeled so many of those layers, does some terrible crisis send us right back to start, back to a fresh new, layer-filled onion, Why?
On a day like today, when, for no reason, I feel mad and like I was sent back to “Start”, it seems like my healing is so far. It makes no sense.
So today, I am doing what I keep reminding my boys to do. “Boys, when you feel ripped off, mad or like life is not fair, instead of acting crabby, why don’t you feel grateful?” I really do say this and we have been talking gratitude all week long. So, thank God for Dave. Thank God he gives me space and lets me breathe. Thank God my relationship with Brenda gives me hope. My relationship with my sister makes me believe that one day my family can actually be in a room with each other and that we can be there together without the room imploding in on itself.
And right now when I need them most, thank God for old friends that become new. Thank God these same friends get it, and thank God they get it, because these same friends have experienced layers so similar to my own. Thank God for Happy Hollow Road, for giant marshmallows, kind words from Melbourne, splinter removers, flip flops in winter, Ann at Top Nails, sunshine and Summertime. Thank God for gold teeth, dream catchers, and those who care enough to save the gecko. Thank God for owls, last minute lunches at Rubios, and for every single park. Thank God for bike rides to Coldstone, gifted memberships to the Natural History Museum, Pogo Sticks, Red Butte Garden, Wawa and Harvs, and for badass young men. Thank God for summer art classes, talented architects, generous photographers, long drives, walk talks, homemade Ugly dolls and dreams of Bear Lake.
Thank God for the sisters of friends. Thank God these same sisters point me in the perfect direction. Thank God for open hearts, gardens, tree houses, homemade concoctions, buckets full of sand, beautiful paintings, and for the 1-2-3-wee-swing-you-high-in-the-air walks down Center Street. Thank God, a God I don’t even know is there, well, Thank God, I am able to move and that some of you realize that I have too.
In high school and then again in college I always managed to get myself into the Creative Writing classes. And thanks to Roman Borgerding, my twelfth grade Creative Writing/Poetry teacher, I learned to love writing and reading poetry. In fact, I can singlehandedly thank Mr. Borgerding for giving me my love of writing. I thank him for recognizing my writing voice after I had ignored it for so long. I thank him for reminding me not to run from the very loud sound of my words. I thank him now this very second for remaining that very loud, strong, and brave voice that sings in my head. His voice sings when my Little-Engine-That-Could thinks it can’t. I tear up as I think of him. I smile as I think of him fighting for me, fighting for every single teenage soul that stepped into his class. I did not see it. Writing for creative purposes and making a career out of doing such a thing was something people like Anne Lamott, Tom Robbins, John Irving, Gabriel García Márquez and Judith Guest did. I was just some super-confused suburban teenager, transformed into a confused teenager who loved to write.
Nevertheless, Mr. Borgerding did that thing I think we all hope to do. He waved his crazy magic wand and gave me this big, giant spark. He believed in me. He believed in all of us! We were assigned to bring a spiral notebook, and then he told us to write and write and write some more. “Just keep on writing. Write out all of that garbage, and then write out even more garbage,” he would say, “Eventually you will find the beauty.” Guess what? He was absolutely correct! I had no idea the life lesson he was giving me. Move through the pain and garbage. Don’t skip or cheat the steps. Work it out and then work it out some more. Eventually, if you hold tight, stay strong, keep moving forward, take out the trash, you will come out on the other side. Hey and guess what? The other side is pretty amazing. It is filled with College degrees, well edited papers, rainbows, lollipops, healthy marriage, and grounded self esteem. Thank you, Mr. Borgerding. Your process really is the key.
In that Creative Writing class all those years ago we learned Ars Poetica and tried to be. He was right and it was not easy. I can tell you that most of the words I wrote, as Mr. Borgerding said, were complete and utter rubbish. I can still hear him now, as he stood there my notebook in hand, reading, “Garbage. Garbage,” [insert turning page sound here], “Garbage. Oh. Wait. Look. I think you may be getting closer. Keep on writing.” [insert a few of my teenage-girl-angst-filled-eye-rolls here] And then, I started to get it. He showed me how to find the beauty. Wow! Seriously, wow! It did not matter. I absolutely bought it. I believed I could write out the garbage, and that is what I started to do, and have continued to do ever since. Come on, some of us have really large trash cans.
Back then at Hopkins High School on Lindbergh Drive, tenacious me kept on writing and prayed for some beauty.
And then one day, somewhere between getting the trash out, and having a breakthrough, I was working my after school job at the Ridgedale Dayton’s. This particular evening I was working with my friend Ian in the Stationery, Luggage and Sporting Goods Department. Bored as we often were in that hidden corner of neglected Mont Blanc pens and Tumi luggage, I found myself looking through a clearance book display when I happened upon a Marilyn Monroe coffee table book. I was horrified when, flipping through the pages, I saw a picture of Marilyn Monroe in her casket. The picture was creepy and unexpected. “Hey Ian, you have to see this,” I said as I made him look.
And somehow during my after-school-job in a quiet corner of Dayton’s, the beginnings of my very frist poem were born. I had written out enough garbage, at least to get to this place. Oh, thank God!
(I have always had a soft spot for this little poem and yes, after the build up, here it is.)
Marilyn Monroe
I saw her dead.
Her face purple
and caved in.
She wasn’t beautiful.
My grandpa lay,
alone,
in his coffin relaxed.
With a smile on his face.
Na Pali Coast Hike, Kauai, HI, 2010
—–
Self-portrait: Kyle & I. Maui, HI, 2010. He was out of the hospital and still quite sick with Stevens-Johnson Syndrome. This trip was a blessing.
Note on today’s pictures: In my Google search I found that Mr. Borgerding is quite an accomplished photographer and bird watcher. I also found that he moved to the mountains years ago; a place he loves. My pictures are to honor him; a beautiful bird, a beautiful Hawaiian mountaintop and my sweet son (yes, I love Dave and Eli too, of course); all places, people and even a bird that I love.
—- PS (I had to include this.) I am not the only one who LOVES Mr. Borgerding. Thank you, Google. Thought you would all enjoy this:
From a former student: DO YOU KNOW HOW PARANOID I AM TO WRITE A COMMENT TO THE MOST MEMORABLE TEACHER I EVER HAD ? I WAS A NEW STUDENT AT HOPKINS HIGH IN 1985. IT WAS MY JUNIOR YEAR, AND I HAD YOU FOR A POETRY CLASS. I LOVED YOU SO MUCH I TOOK SHORT STORIES THE NEXT QUARTER. ILL NEVER FORGET WHAT YOU WROTE IN MY YEAR BOOK. YOU SAID, ” I WAS IN LOVE WITH A WOMAN FROM OKLAHOMA ONCE, AND YOU REMIND ME OF WHAT GOOD PEOPLE COME FROM THAT STATE “. READING THAT TODAY STILL MAKES ME SMILE. I LOVED SITTING IN THAT CIRCLE EVERY DAY ARGUING WIHT MY PEERS OVER THE MEANINGS OF SHORT STORIES, WHILE YOU QUIETLY STOKED THE FIRES OF OUR IMAGINATION. I WISH YOU HEALTH AND LONG LIFE.
From, ROMAN BORGERDING, on March 26, 2009:
Cathy and Julie, what a pleasant surprise to reconnect with you via the Google page. Of course i remember both of you, how you immersed yourselves in the vigorous discussions of poems and stories. My memories of those classroom days are more than nostalgia; they very often enrich me with vivid details — visual and linguistic. My wife died 20 years ago; five years later I bought three acres and a “house” in Colorado, elevation 7700′, where I have lived alone for 15 years in solitude and gratitude, spending much time gathering digital images of the details of my world — from this Arkansas River Valley to the 14,000′ summits of the many mountains nearby. Hike out sometime for another discussion of “Ars Poetica.”
And then of course I Googled some more and found a blog post circa 2006. One life really does make a difference.
