I recently published an article in a site for moms regarding our upcoming adoption. In my article, I mentioned briefly that we intend to adopt a child who is between the ages of 2 and 8. I have plenty of reasons for wanting to adopt a child in that age range. I feel called to adopt an older child. I want to give a family to a child who is not likely to be adopted otherwise. My daughter is about to turn four, and I want her to have a playmate. All that being said, I have one more reason that is far more compelling than all the others. I have kept this reason largely to myself as it breaks even the most sacrosanct rules of motherhood: I am not a baby person. There. I said it. Someday my daughter will call this blogpost Reason #497 for Why My Mother Makes Me Need Therapy.
Don't get me wrong; I have always loved my daughter. I have always thought she was the most incredible, wonderful, amazing human being I have ever met. However, I've also had days when I thought Angelina Jolie nailed it in referring to her first biological daughter as kind of a "lump" in her first few months of life. I've always felt this way. I am not fascinated by tummy time, and infant toys often make me long for the peace and quiet of a Guns 'n Roses concert. I think baby clothes are cute, but I resent any article of clothing that requires an instruction manual to wear. I like offering to hold my friends' babies, but I also like to give them back - some faster than others. I am simply not a baby person. Without the fascination in all things baby-like, you really just have a lump (and one that requires enough diaper changes to make you think Indian food isn't so bad for your digestive system after all).
I thought through out my pregnancy that I would surely become a baby person when the baby was my own, but I was wrong. I loved spending time with my baby daughter, but I also loved going back to work. I loved cuddling her when she was still plump and stationary, but the second she started crawling our cuddling hours were replaced by days on end of "How Did We Not Know Our Home is an Infant Obstacle Course with Sharp Edges and Falling Things?" The result was endless hours, days, and weeks of chasing my baby around, trying to keep her safe, and not really having the appropriate fascination and pride in her early days as a card-carrying pedestrian. Instead I bought stock in a childproofing company around the same time, thus marking the high point in my enthusiasm for that stage of life.
As my daughter gets older, I am no more of a baby person than I was three years ago. I hear friends and coworkers extolling the glorious wonders of babyhood, and I respond by reading facebook. I hear my siblings discuss the possibility of procreating, and I begin to wonder if it's time for another dog. I see babies out and about with their mommies and think, "You look like you're about four months old. I bet your parents haven't slept through the night in at least 120 days." It's not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.
However, as my daughter gets older I also found myself enthralled with the person she is becoming. I am finally one of those people who can say that I am fascinated by my own child! She has the funniest things to say and do, and her three year-old commentary on the world around her is hilarious! I am not so far gone that I expect the rest of the world to be equally interested in her every spoken word, but I certainly have more mommy stories to share than I have in years past. Now I get it. My daughter is an intriguing little person. She is more than just likes and dislikes (yay for strained carrots, pass on the strained peas). She has opinions, and she has reasons for her opinions. She has goals and dreams. She has an imagination that keeps her constantly on the go, and she shares all of this with me. I have never loved any stage of parenting more than I love the stage we're in right now.
Of course, I can't see how everyone doesn't agree with me either. Six months ago I looked at my daughter in the throes of the terrible threes and wondered what on earth would make a parent look at that particular stage of toddlerhood and say, "Hey! Let's have another!" as so many parents are wont to do. Now that my daughter is past that stage and safely ensconced in a fun, curious, loving, humorous person stage, I still can't imagine wanting to start over. I can't imagine having to leave her to play by herself as she imagines herself galloping away on a horse in the Sahara - all so I can take care of my newly procreated lum- I mean, baby.
So there's my confession. I am not a baby person. I am fairly certain that my confession alone is enough to get me kicked out of any mommy group that still involves new parents, but that's why the only mothers' group I'm in says it in the title - Mothers of Babies *AND* Big Kids. I'll take the latter, thank you. I love kids! I love playing with most kids, talking to them, learning about their perceptions of the world. My affections simply don't extend to babies. I loved my baby. If, in a crazy twist of fate, I ended up with another infant, I'm sure I would love him or her as well (because even I am not so far gone that I will call an infant "it" - here's looking at you, Greta!). I simply wouldn't elect to have a baby, just as I don't elect to spend more than an hour or so in the presence of most babies. There you have it. My amazing little person is no longer a lump, and I don't miss her baby days. Why would I? She has never been more fun than she is today! She is still cuddly, snuggly, and sweet. She still has a distinctive softness all her own. Now, however, she has all this in the walking, talking, independent-thinking model that is an almost-four year old! Call me a mommy with a missing link. Call me a woman without the mommy gene. Call me whatever you want, but just remember that this means you can have my turn holding most babies, looking at their pictures, and choosing their clothes. I'll be too busy having a conversation with my toddler anyway!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
I Know You're There; You Know I Need You
Let me start with a confession. When I opened my laptop tonight, I had every intention of writing a tribute to my dog, Rebel. I didn't want to, though. At this moment, Rebel is laying on his bed less than ten feet from where I lay on the couch, and he's dying. My husband is sleeping next to him, and my daughter is sleeping not far away. Two of our other four dogs are also sleeping within a few short steps from Rebel. We've spent the last five hours crying, praying, and crying some more. Now I am the only one awake, and I don't know what to do with myself - so I decided to write. Writing Rebel's tribute seemed like the obvious answer, but my entire body resisted. If I write his tribute now, will it seem like a premature obituary? What about the tribute I already wrote to him over a year ago-before he was sick? Am I really ready to write something that could be construed as his eulogy? The answer was a resounding no. Still, I knew I needed to write. I didn't know what else to do with myself, so to my computer I went. I resignedly logged into my blog ready to write the only thing that came to mind, and then I realized that my last post was a tribute to Rosie. I stopped, I read, and I realized now is not the time to write about Rebel.
Here's what I'll say instead: I've prayed all night long, and I haven't felt an answer. I can't hear God's voice, and opening my Bible did not bring about any powerful feeling of connection or warmth. I've spent the last five hours feeling inconsolably separated from my faith when I felt I needed it most. Why wasn't God talking to me? Why could He help me find my keys this afternoon, but He couldn't be with me now? Then I opened my own blog and realized I was trying to listen when I should be trying to feel. In reading my own writing, I thought of my friend Rebecca's recent blog about her own dog passing and how she turned to her Bible. I then thought of my friend Starla's words today about how to devote myself to reading my Bible, and I realized God was ready to talk to me all along; He was just waiting for me to be ready to feel His word and listen to His message.
Let me start with Starla's message. Starla advised me to read the psalm and the proverb that matched the date of the month. "For example," she said, "today is the 23rd, which means the 23rd Psalm, but you know what that is." Now Starla has been an amazing guidepost to me of late, whether she knows it or not. She demonstrated the kind of fervent prayer I would like to engage in on a regular basis. She showed me unconditional enthusiasm about her faith that emanated joy, celebration, and praise. What she doesn't know, however, is that I had no idea what the 23rd Psalm was. Not a clue. I didn't tell Starla of my ignorance this afternoon, and by this evening I had moved on to other thoughts. Then Rebel's problems began.
Starla's words came back to me when I most felt I needed to hear God's words. I opened to the 23rd Proverb, but I felt nothing. I then opened to the 23rd Psalm, and I realized God's word had been there all along, and He used Starla to lead me to them. In my tribute to Rosie, I mentioned going to the Children's Chapel in my church because I didn't know where else to go. I prayed with my coworker, and I focused on the walls instead of the cross. Each wall was covered in handwritten messages from kids who had been there before me, but I focused on the one typed message: the 23rd Psalm. Tonight, as I mourn a different dog in a different manner with a different feeling of loss and regret, I return to the same words.
"The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; he leadeth me beside the still waters; He restoreth my soul; He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name's sake."
Tonight I need to focus on God. He will answer my prayers. He will take care of me, and He will take care of Rebel. He will take Rebel to Heaven when the time is right, and He will comfort me as I mourn my best friend. His green pastures and still waters will be there for Rebel when Rebel enters Heaven, and the Lord will reunite me with Rebel when the time is right.
"Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me."
I've recently heard many debates on whether or not animals go to Heaven. One woman even advised me to search the Bible for written proof that pets do not go to Heaven because she was so certain I would not find any such answer. I did not seek my answer from the Bible, but I also have my answer just the same. God loves me. God loves my family, and God loves my dog. Dogs are living proof of the kind of selfless, loving, unprejudiced personalities we should all strive to have. Dogs in many ways are images of the kind of Christ-like dedication for which we are meant to aspire. If God rewards His children with eternal life, and God rejoices when we follow Him with an uncluttered heart, then God has also given us dogs as examples of how to be the loyal, dedicated followers He desired. As followers, my dogs will follow Him to Heaven. To me, all of this means that I will fear no evil for the same God who takes care of me will also take care of my dog.
"Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over."
I've said it before and I'll say it again: Rebel is an amazing blessing. We've been through everything together. Rebel and I lived together over a thousand miles away from everyone else we knew. We've driven all around the country, just me and him. We've lost people and pets, we've gained a husband, daughter, and several more dogs. We've been partners in life for nine years, and now it's time for him to go to Heaven. Before he goes, however, I'm struck by how blessed we've been. Rebel has epilepsy, hypothyroidism, arthritis, and cancer, yet he is not in pain and his illnesses have been manageable. We've also had such a long life together that no one could have predicted. Rebel was already five years old with a history of ailments when we adopted him, yet he has lived a happy, fulfilling life for an additional nine years. When he is in Heaven, I will have his lifetime of memories to keep with me as I love other dogs and other pets until we are reunited. My cup runneth over. My Lord has blessed me so greatly that I will focus on celebrating the life Rebel and I had together rather than get caught in the gap he will leave behind.
"Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever."
Tonight I am overcome by God's message of mercy. It's been nearly four weeks since we learned of Rebel's cancer. It's been nearly three weeks since he came home from his surgery, and it's been only one week since we learned the surgery was not a cure. I've cried everyday for four weeks. I've grieved and pleaded with God to help me understand, to help my dog, and more than anything, to please take Rebel to Heaven without assisstance when the time is right. I trust God to know when Rebel needs to move on from this life, and I need God to know I can't make that decision - for Rebel or anyone else. As I prayed my seemingly unanswered prayers tonight, I reminded Rebel of all the talks we've had of late. I've told him he can go when he is ready, and I will be okay. I've reminded him of my love for him and promised to never forget him. I've assured him that we will soon be reunited in Heaven, yet I still found myself in this incredible evening of despair. Until I turned to His word. In turning this over to God completely now, I know this, too, shall pass. The pain will ease and the memories will suffice until we are reunited, but God and Rebel seemed to know on their own that I was not in this place of comfort until tonight. Tonight I know that part of God's mercy is, as Starla also said today, that He knows better than we do when we are ready for His answers.
Now, I can't say this will be easy. If ever I thought there was a possibility of a soulmate, my soulmate would be Rebel. His unrelenting presence of love and loyalty have been a constant source of comfort and joy for me. However, I know in Rebel's absence I will still have God. I know God will take care of Rebel until I can be with him again. I know God directed me back to the 23rd Psalm tonight to reiterate that Rebel will be with Rosie, they will take care of each other, and then one day in the future I will reunite with them in the house of the Lord. I don't know why Rebel has to go this way. I don't know why he has to go at this time. Instead, I know that I don't need to know. God has the answers, and He gives me all the answers I need. I don't need answers on cancer, euthanasia, or time. The only answer I need is the 23rd Psalm.
For the first time ever, I close my blog in prayer. Heavenly Father, thank you. Thank you for my blessings. Thank you for my family (including my dogs), my home, my security, and my health. Thank you for my family's blessings as well. More than all of this tonight, thank you for Rebel. You knew what I needed when I went looking for him, and you've continued to bless our lives through every day we've had together. Thank you. Lord, I ask that you lead Rebel to Heaven when the time is right for him. Lord, I pray it is not part of your plan that I make the decision to have him leave this life. Lord, I pray that he will leave this life in the comfort and warmth of his own home, on his own time. Lord, I thank you and praise you for your amazing work in my life, and I continue to pray that you guide me to be your hands and feet, to live a Christian life, to be a Christian spirit. As I close in prayer, I ask that you comfort my husband and daughter as well, and let us focus on rejoicing in Rebel's life rather than mourning his passing. I pray you will continue to keep our family safe, happy, healthy, and together for a long, long time. In your son's heavenly name I pray, Amen.
Friday, August 12, 2011
A Tribute
By now anyone who reads this has also read my Facebook status and learned of the passing of Rosie, Momma Dog, Snowy Cinnamon Perfection, Roz, Rosalind, Miss Highland Village, Puppy Dog, Ros-a-Pose Williams. Rosie came into my life with a style all her own and left in much the same manner. She was a friend, a furbaby, an inspiration, a caregiver, and more. Rosie will always be missed and never forgotten.
Rosie first came into our lives on a fluke. We had just moved to Texas with our miniature Beagle/Basset hound mix, Emma, and our black Lab, Rebel. Emma was (and is) the princess of the family, and Rebel was (and is) my best friend, and we decided we were ready to add to our family. We called a local rescue home about a white lab they had listed on Petfinder.com, but that dog needed more help than we were able to give. As I was about to get on the phone, the woman asked me if I wanted to meet another dog instead. Rosie, she said, had introduced herself to the husband of the home when he was at the park one day five years earlier. Rosie had no collar or chip, and no amount of fliers or phone calls could find her original family. The couple agreed to keep Rosie along with their seventeen other foster dogs until someone chose to adopt her, and for no conceivable reason five years had passed without anyone realizing the amazing love available in this red-furred bundle of dog. We were somewhat skeptical, but we agreed to meet her just the same. A week later we ventured into PetSmart with our dogs, introduced ourselves to the foster mother, and watched as the furriest dog we had ever seen ambled past our dogs and promptly dropped all 113 pounds of fur directly onto my feet. We signed the papers almost immediately, and she came to live with us within the week.
Rosie was not an easy puppy dog to start. Five years of living with seventeen other dogs had taken its toll on her. She had been attacked by the other dogs so severely that she had to have surgery on her stomach and back legs, so she was more than a little skittish around strangers (including those of the four-legged persuasion). Still, she looked outwardly like the world's largest teddy bear, so it took some time to convince the people around us to proceed with caution where Rosie was concerned. On her third day in our home, she saw an opportunity and took off running as fast as her slightly gimpy legs would carry her. After four hours of searching, we only managed to rescue her for the second time when she fell into the pool of an open backyard a mere two blocks from our home. That was the first and last time Rosie ran away from us. In the years to come Rosie would see her brothers and sister take off when the appropriate opportunity arose, but Rosie stayed behind. By the third time she watched them run, those who knew Rosie personally could almost see the irritation and frustration she felt when any dog was so ignorant as to run from a perfectly good home.
It took Rosie almost a full year, but eventually she settled into our house as though she'd never lived anywhere else. She greeted strangers with typical Lab friendliness, and she treated us with a love and loyalty that could never be broken. When we brought Ellie home for the first time, each dog had their own reaction. Emma was jealous of this strange new pet and wanted to know when it was going back from whence it came. Rebel was anxious that the new pet made noises he could not identify. Rosie, however, was immediately relaxed. She would defend the baby if necessary, but she knew her place was safe. She did not need extra attention, nor did she need to assert her presence if we failed to notice when she entered the room (here's looking at you, Emma). Before Ellie and since Ellie, all Rosie ever wanted was a nice place to lay down, a bowl of food, and then after all was done, she would like a rub only if you had time. If you didn't, that was okay, too.
After Ellie turned one, we looked into adding to our family yet again. Within a few weeks we brought home Luke. To understand Rosie, you must also understand Luke. Luke was born on a puppy mill. When he and his sister were the last remaining puppies that did not sell, the farmer who owned the mill prepared to shoot them. A neighbor, learning of the farmer's intentions, purchased the puppies for himself. Although the neighbor had good intentions, he already had two dogs and did not want more. He tied Luke and his sister to a post outside and kept them there for nearly a year. He kept them fed and cleaned their area, but that was the extent of their care. Likewise, these two outcasts experienced daily visits from the family dogs who lived the privileged lives of beloved pets. When the man with good but misguided intentions decided to move, he turned Luke and his sister over to a rescue group. Luke stayed with the group for one night before we adopted him, again with good but misguided intentions. Whereas Rosie's adjustment period involved growling, antisocial responses from an unfamiliar dog, Luke was much more demonstrative with his fears. He stayed outside for hours when new people came into our home. When we left for the day, he gutted four couches and a chair (on five separate occasions) so much so that he pulled the springs out of the base of the couch. He ate three metal kennels, a wooden barrier, and more clothes and shoes than we could possibly list in one blog. We tried barriers, toys, punishments, rewards, and finally Prozac. In the end, the only thing that could help Luke was Rosie. Rosie, who presumably never had puppies of her own, took Luke in as her baby. She bathed him and comforted him when he was upset. She brought toys to him when he was too afraid or stubborn to come for them himself. She collected him when it was time for meals or bed, and she stayed with him when he seemed afraid of his own shadow. As much devotion and love Rosie had shown to us over the years, she showed even more to Luke. After two months of Rosie's love, Luke settled in as part of our family.
In the end, we believe Luke is the one who found Rosie. We will never know for sure. Across five years with us, Rosie had many illnesses. She had cancer in her rear leg. We had the tumor removed, but the vet said she had a high risk of the cancer returning. She developed arthritis and hypothyroidism, the latter of which caused her fur to stop growing long before she passed away. In her final months, Rosie developed partial laryngeal paralysis. The vet assured us she would be okay as long as she did not experience complete laryngeal paralysis, a complication that he said was highly unlikely. These complications brought about new restrictions on her lifestyle, but Rosie didn't take much convincing. Just as she knew instinctively what Luke needed in order to settle into our home, she also seemed to know what she needed to do to take care of her own ailing body.
In any case, Rosie seemed like the invincible dog. With every ailment and injury, Rosie bounced back. She bounced a little slower and a little lower each time, but she always recovered. On her final day, she didn't seem any different than she had the day before. She came around for dinner like always, and then she went on her merry way - like always. She often liked to lay out on the cooler floors on the kitchen, so we were not surprised when she didn't accompany us to the backroom. Three hours later, Tracey found her outside. She was right outside the doggy door, but she'd clearly been gone for a while. We have no way of knowing what happened. We had no way of saying good bye. She was simply gone.
We each responded in our own way. Luke, who seemed to know before we did, spread himself out in his bed and refused to move for hours. Eli, our newest addition, would not leave my side. Emma waited til the next day and then howled on and off for hours. Only Rebel seemed to accept this as a natural part of life. Tracey cried, but he kept himself together better than I did. I stayed with her that night, sleeping on the bed of Tracey's truck where we settled her on her favorite bed. It's a traditional Jewish practice to sit shiva, and although I'm not Jewish, I couldn't imagine leaving her alone. After that everything happened quickly. We took her to the vet the next morning, Friday, and by Saturday morning they had returned her ashes to us in a hard, unwelcoming wooden box. It's more than a little ironic to me today that when my grandfather passed in March I felt like the grieving period was being stretched across extra days with the delayed funeral. Then, when Rosie's body was cremated a mere thirty-six hours after she passed, I felt like it was all over too soon. I'm still processing.
Rosie had such an amazing personality that I couldn't possibly hope to capture it all here. She was friendly and loving, warm and patient, solicitous and easygoing, and so much more. Yet as much as this is a tribute to Rosie, I also know that I could not have survived these few weeks without the people who have grieved her with me in their own way. I couldn't mention all of them either, but I have a new appreciation now for what helps and what doesn't when a person is in pain. I still ache. I still want to cry, and I still resent having to get up each day and live my life in much the same way I lived it before, as though nothing has changed, when the fact of the matter is that nothing will ever be the same again. Still, I've had so many people reach out to me in different ways.
My husband is a given. My husband, who had previously only had a dog for six weeks and was thus a stranger to this kind of grief, kept himself together so that I could fall apart. My twin sister, who loves her own furbaby as much as I love mine, came to be with me that night. We had been fighting previously, but I called her anyway because I knew she would come, and she did. She is one of three people who could know exactly what I needed that night, and she did. I can't imagine going through that without her, but I don't have to because I know she'll be there for me. My aunt and my dad grieved with me, listened to me blather and cry, and they understood when I kept talking long after I'd lost any sense of logic. My coworker saw me the next morning and stayed with me without judgment when I fell apart in the Children's Chapel at our church because I didn't know where else to go. Two weeks before Rosie passed, my friend's mother shared the story of losing her own dogs. More than that, she shared with me how God reached out to her and told her to let her dog go so that he could be in Heaven with Him. I kept that story with me each time I cried, and I continue to think of that story now.
In the end, this is a tribute to several blessings I have experienced of late. I have had the blessings of many people who have reached out to me and prayed for me and my family, and I'm grateful for all of them. I have had the blessing of continuing to treasure the love and loyalty of my four other dogs, and I've had the blessing of listening to my baby's wisdom as she tells me, at only three years old, that Rosie is with Jesus now. She and my husband are my greatest blessings, but my biggest tribute at the moment is to Rosie. I am blessed to have had five incredible years with a dog who taught me so much about love, family, and motherhood.
RIP Rosie "Momma Dog" Williams, September 1, 1999 - July 28, 2011.
Rosie first came into our lives on a fluke. We had just moved to Texas with our miniature Beagle/Basset hound mix, Emma, and our black Lab, Rebel. Emma was (and is) the princess of the family, and Rebel was (and is) my best friend, and we decided we were ready to add to our family. We called a local rescue home about a white lab they had listed on Petfinder.com, but that dog needed more help than we were able to give. As I was about to get on the phone, the woman asked me if I wanted to meet another dog instead. Rosie, she said, had introduced herself to the husband of the home when he was at the park one day five years earlier. Rosie had no collar or chip, and no amount of fliers or phone calls could find her original family. The couple agreed to keep Rosie along with their seventeen other foster dogs until someone chose to adopt her, and for no conceivable reason five years had passed without anyone realizing the amazing love available in this red-furred bundle of dog. We were somewhat skeptical, but we agreed to meet her just the same. A week later we ventured into PetSmart with our dogs, introduced ourselves to the foster mother, and watched as the furriest dog we had ever seen ambled past our dogs and promptly dropped all 113 pounds of fur directly onto my feet. We signed the papers almost immediately, and she came to live with us within the week.
Rosie was not an easy puppy dog to start. Five years of living with seventeen other dogs had taken its toll on her. She had been attacked by the other dogs so severely that she had to have surgery on her stomach and back legs, so she was more than a little skittish around strangers (including those of the four-legged persuasion). Still, she looked outwardly like the world's largest teddy bear, so it took some time to convince the people around us to proceed with caution where Rosie was concerned. On her third day in our home, she saw an opportunity and took off running as fast as her slightly gimpy legs would carry her. After four hours of searching, we only managed to rescue her for the second time when she fell into the pool of an open backyard a mere two blocks from our home. That was the first and last time Rosie ran away from us. In the years to come Rosie would see her brothers and sister take off when the appropriate opportunity arose, but Rosie stayed behind. By the third time she watched them run, those who knew Rosie personally could almost see the irritation and frustration she felt when any dog was so ignorant as to run from a perfectly good home.
It took Rosie almost a full year, but eventually she settled into our house as though she'd never lived anywhere else. She greeted strangers with typical Lab friendliness, and she treated us with a love and loyalty that could never be broken. When we brought Ellie home for the first time, each dog had their own reaction. Emma was jealous of this strange new pet and wanted to know when it was going back from whence it came. Rebel was anxious that the new pet made noises he could not identify. Rosie, however, was immediately relaxed. She would defend the baby if necessary, but she knew her place was safe. She did not need extra attention, nor did she need to assert her presence if we failed to notice when she entered the room (here's looking at you, Emma). Before Ellie and since Ellie, all Rosie ever wanted was a nice place to lay down, a bowl of food, and then after all was done, she would like a rub only if you had time. If you didn't, that was okay, too.
After Ellie turned one, we looked into adding to our family yet again. Within a few weeks we brought home Luke. To understand Rosie, you must also understand Luke. Luke was born on a puppy mill. When he and his sister were the last remaining puppies that did not sell, the farmer who owned the mill prepared to shoot them. A neighbor, learning of the farmer's intentions, purchased the puppies for himself. Although the neighbor had good intentions, he already had two dogs and did not want more. He tied Luke and his sister to a post outside and kept them there for nearly a year. He kept them fed and cleaned their area, but that was the extent of their care. Likewise, these two outcasts experienced daily visits from the family dogs who lived the privileged lives of beloved pets. When the man with good but misguided intentions decided to move, he turned Luke and his sister over to a rescue group. Luke stayed with the group for one night before we adopted him, again with good but misguided intentions. Whereas Rosie's adjustment period involved growling, antisocial responses from an unfamiliar dog, Luke was much more demonstrative with his fears. He stayed outside for hours when new people came into our home. When we left for the day, he gutted four couches and a chair (on five separate occasions) so much so that he pulled the springs out of the base of the couch. He ate three metal kennels, a wooden barrier, and more clothes and shoes than we could possibly list in one blog. We tried barriers, toys, punishments, rewards, and finally Prozac. In the end, the only thing that could help Luke was Rosie. Rosie, who presumably never had puppies of her own, took Luke in as her baby. She bathed him and comforted him when he was upset. She brought toys to him when he was too afraid or stubborn to come for them himself. She collected him when it was time for meals or bed, and she stayed with him when he seemed afraid of his own shadow. As much devotion and love Rosie had shown to us over the years, she showed even more to Luke. After two months of Rosie's love, Luke settled in as part of our family.
In the end, we believe Luke is the one who found Rosie. We will never know for sure. Across five years with us, Rosie had many illnesses. She had cancer in her rear leg. We had the tumor removed, but the vet said she had a high risk of the cancer returning. She developed arthritis and hypothyroidism, the latter of which caused her fur to stop growing long before she passed away. In her final months, Rosie developed partial laryngeal paralysis. The vet assured us she would be okay as long as she did not experience complete laryngeal paralysis, a complication that he said was highly unlikely. These complications brought about new restrictions on her lifestyle, but Rosie didn't take much convincing. Just as she knew instinctively what Luke needed in order to settle into our home, she also seemed to know what she needed to do to take care of her own ailing body.
In any case, Rosie seemed like the invincible dog. With every ailment and injury, Rosie bounced back. She bounced a little slower and a little lower each time, but she always recovered. On her final day, she didn't seem any different than she had the day before. She came around for dinner like always, and then she went on her merry way - like always. She often liked to lay out on the cooler floors on the kitchen, so we were not surprised when she didn't accompany us to the backroom. Three hours later, Tracey found her outside. She was right outside the doggy door, but she'd clearly been gone for a while. We have no way of knowing what happened. We had no way of saying good bye. She was simply gone.
We each responded in our own way. Luke, who seemed to know before we did, spread himself out in his bed and refused to move for hours. Eli, our newest addition, would not leave my side. Emma waited til the next day and then howled on and off for hours. Only Rebel seemed to accept this as a natural part of life. Tracey cried, but he kept himself together better than I did. I stayed with her that night, sleeping on the bed of Tracey's truck where we settled her on her favorite bed. It's a traditional Jewish practice to sit shiva, and although I'm not Jewish, I couldn't imagine leaving her alone. After that everything happened quickly. We took her to the vet the next morning, Friday, and by Saturday morning they had returned her ashes to us in a hard, unwelcoming wooden box. It's more than a little ironic to me today that when my grandfather passed in March I felt like the grieving period was being stretched across extra days with the delayed funeral. Then, when Rosie's body was cremated a mere thirty-six hours after she passed, I felt like it was all over too soon. I'm still processing.
Rosie had such an amazing personality that I couldn't possibly hope to capture it all here. She was friendly and loving, warm and patient, solicitous and easygoing, and so much more. Yet as much as this is a tribute to Rosie, I also know that I could not have survived these few weeks without the people who have grieved her with me in their own way. I couldn't mention all of them either, but I have a new appreciation now for what helps and what doesn't when a person is in pain. I still ache. I still want to cry, and I still resent having to get up each day and live my life in much the same way I lived it before, as though nothing has changed, when the fact of the matter is that nothing will ever be the same again. Still, I've had so many people reach out to me in different ways.
My husband is a given. My husband, who had previously only had a dog for six weeks and was thus a stranger to this kind of grief, kept himself together so that I could fall apart. My twin sister, who loves her own furbaby as much as I love mine, came to be with me that night. We had been fighting previously, but I called her anyway because I knew she would come, and she did. She is one of three people who could know exactly what I needed that night, and she did. I can't imagine going through that without her, but I don't have to because I know she'll be there for me. My aunt and my dad grieved with me, listened to me blather and cry, and they understood when I kept talking long after I'd lost any sense of logic. My coworker saw me the next morning and stayed with me without judgment when I fell apart in the Children's Chapel at our church because I didn't know where else to go. Two weeks before Rosie passed, my friend's mother shared the story of losing her own dogs. More than that, she shared with me how God reached out to her and told her to let her dog go so that he could be in Heaven with Him. I kept that story with me each time I cried, and I continue to think of that story now.
In the end, this is a tribute to several blessings I have experienced of late. I have had the blessings of many people who have reached out to me and prayed for me and my family, and I'm grateful for all of them. I have had the blessing of continuing to treasure the love and loyalty of my four other dogs, and I've had the blessing of listening to my baby's wisdom as she tells me, at only three years old, that Rosie is with Jesus now. She and my husband are my greatest blessings, but my biggest tribute at the moment is to Rosie. I am blessed to have had five incredible years with a dog who taught me so much about love, family, and motherhood.
RIP Rosie "Momma Dog" Williams, September 1, 1999 - July 28, 2011.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Thank You for My Blessings
Today someone told me I am a blessing, and it was an amazing moment. The woman who said it has only met me in passing before and doesn't really know me now, but she heard about something I do, and she called me a blessing. In turn, I spend a few minutes of everyday in prayer thanking God for the blessings in my life, but my goal is live every moment in much the same way. Every moment that I stop to think, "Please! Help me find my keys!" or "What an amazing gift my daughter is," I try to have that conscious moment where I realize that I am asking, praising, and thanking Him. In reality, I am not a blessing - though I appreciate the sentiment. I don't have special abilities or talents, but I do have one blessing above all other blessings in my life: I am blessed with the ability to live everyday recognizing God's amazing work in my life and trying to share that blessing with others.
The most obvious blessing is my family. My parents split when I was very young, and I only saw my grandparents' marriage full-time for three years before my grandfather died far too young. When I met my husband, I had no idea what a marriage looked like. I looked at his sister and her husband, and I kept waiting for signs that they favored one of their children over the other, but I couldn't find one. I watched for debilitating disagreements in how to parent their children, but I didn't see those either. I looked at his parents and wondered why they weren't angrier, more resentful, but I couldn't find an answer. In other words, I looked for problems that didn't exist because I didn't know what a harmonious marriage looked like, so I didn't recognize one when I saw it. My husband knew this about me, and he accepted me anyway. He let me learn from him as well as with him, and our marriage is what it is largely because of his infinite patience with me. My husband is an amazing man, but he is an amazing man because God made him to be an incredible person. Long before I believed in a God I couldn't see or a faith I couldn't recognize, I found myself believing in a man who was perfect for me and a perfect marriage that I didn't know existed - because God made them available to me.
My daughter is also an incredible blessing in my life. After knowing without a doubt for so long that I did not want children, my childfree resolve began to crack when I met my husband. I soon fell in love with the idea of being a mother and having a baby. I had spent years treasuring my time, energy, and even money for myself, and all of a sudden I found myself realizing that I could have an endless supply of all of these things to share with another person if only I tried. Like God and my marriage, I began to believe in something I couldn't see in the beginning, but now I can't imagine my life without my baby. I have time for myself because I most want to spend my time with her. I have energy for what matters because she matters more than anything else. I have . . . well, I don't have as much money. But I don't want as much money because I want for her to have what she wants, and we've been blessed with three amazing sets of grandparents who fill in where we fall short - in time, energy, love, and even money.
My dogs are blessings. My dogs keep me safe and secure. My dogs are always happy to see me, and they demonstrate a loyalty to me that is unparalleled in comparison to the other people in their lives. They teach me humility and gratitude, yet each one has his or her own lesson for me as well. Rebel, my oldest dog and undoubtedly my best friend in the world, reminds me everyday how much I would rather have one perfect relationship than a crowd of just content. Rosie, my second oldest dog, has been attacked by other dogs, feared for her food, survived cancer, thyroid problems, arthritis, and more, yet she shows me how physical impairments are entirely limited to physical experiences. Emma, my first dog and resident princess, reminds me that anyone can look like a victim to the world if that is their goal (and it is her goal!). Luke, the dog we rescued for Ellie, has had a hard time overcoming a very difficult beginning. He came into our family foreign to the ideas of trust and love, yet he learned like I did that endless love is available for everyone, even if it isn't available everywhere. Finally, our newest dog, Eli, is a survivor of years of abuse and neglect. He has an incredible personality that allows him to greet everyone with an open, friendly demeanor. He trusts everyone until they give him a reason not to, and this trust is just further evidence of he is sophisticated beyond most people. I often find myself saying I want to be like Eli when I grow up.
A large part of my identity is associated with the car accident I was in when I was seventeen. That, too, is such a contradiction in my life because the most tragic experience came with some amazing blessings. I lost so much in one day, including my invincibility. I lost the innocence that comes with being seventeen, but losing that invincibility also allowed me to grow up a little bit faster and a lot wiser than I would have otherwise. I also gifted the opportunity to appreciate things I'd never lost before and struggled to have returned to me - freedom, stability, the ability to walk, and more.
Most recently I find that I've been blessed with seeing God's path in so many ways. When we get discouraged about adopting, God puts a new reminder in our path of how adoption is a definite part of our future. When we experience pain and loss, God puts new relationships in our lives to fill the gaps. When we feel discouraged by obstacles and our own human nature, God reminds us of what we really want to work for and why. In other words, my faith is my greatest blessing. It is God that brought me to a place where another person would consider me a blessing, and it is my faith in Him and His message to me that has kept me there. I am really only at the beginning of my relationship with Him, but our relationship has really existed for all twenty-eight years of my life and I am blessed with the ability to spend the remaining years worshipping, thanking, and praising Him.
The most obvious blessing is my family. My parents split when I was very young, and I only saw my grandparents' marriage full-time for three years before my grandfather died far too young. When I met my husband, I had no idea what a marriage looked like. I looked at his sister and her husband, and I kept waiting for signs that they favored one of their children over the other, but I couldn't find one. I watched for debilitating disagreements in how to parent their children, but I didn't see those either. I looked at his parents and wondered why they weren't angrier, more resentful, but I couldn't find an answer. In other words, I looked for problems that didn't exist because I didn't know what a harmonious marriage looked like, so I didn't recognize one when I saw it. My husband knew this about me, and he accepted me anyway. He let me learn from him as well as with him, and our marriage is what it is largely because of his infinite patience with me. My husband is an amazing man, but he is an amazing man because God made him to be an incredible person. Long before I believed in a God I couldn't see or a faith I couldn't recognize, I found myself believing in a man who was perfect for me and a perfect marriage that I didn't know existed - because God made them available to me.
My daughter is also an incredible blessing in my life. After knowing without a doubt for so long that I did not want children, my childfree resolve began to crack when I met my husband. I soon fell in love with the idea of being a mother and having a baby. I had spent years treasuring my time, energy, and even money for myself, and all of a sudden I found myself realizing that I could have an endless supply of all of these things to share with another person if only I tried. Like God and my marriage, I began to believe in something I couldn't see in the beginning, but now I can't imagine my life without my baby. I have time for myself because I most want to spend my time with her. I have energy for what matters because she matters more than anything else. I have . . . well, I don't have as much money. But I don't want as much money because I want for her to have what she wants, and we've been blessed with three amazing sets of grandparents who fill in where we fall short - in time, energy, love, and even money.
My dogs are blessings. My dogs keep me safe and secure. My dogs are always happy to see me, and they demonstrate a loyalty to me that is unparalleled in comparison to the other people in their lives. They teach me humility and gratitude, yet each one has his or her own lesson for me as well. Rebel, my oldest dog and undoubtedly my best friend in the world, reminds me everyday how much I would rather have one perfect relationship than a crowd of just content. Rosie, my second oldest dog, has been attacked by other dogs, feared for her food, survived cancer, thyroid problems, arthritis, and more, yet she shows me how physical impairments are entirely limited to physical experiences. Emma, my first dog and resident princess, reminds me that anyone can look like a victim to the world if that is their goal (and it is her goal!). Luke, the dog we rescued for Ellie, has had a hard time overcoming a very difficult beginning. He came into our family foreign to the ideas of trust and love, yet he learned like I did that endless love is available for everyone, even if it isn't available everywhere. Finally, our newest dog, Eli, is a survivor of years of abuse and neglect. He has an incredible personality that allows him to greet everyone with an open, friendly demeanor. He trusts everyone until they give him a reason not to, and this trust is just further evidence of he is sophisticated beyond most people. I often find myself saying I want to be like Eli when I grow up.
A large part of my identity is associated with the car accident I was in when I was seventeen. That, too, is such a contradiction in my life because the most tragic experience came with some amazing blessings. I lost so much in one day, including my invincibility. I lost the innocence that comes with being seventeen, but losing that invincibility also allowed me to grow up a little bit faster and a lot wiser than I would have otherwise. I also gifted the opportunity to appreciate things I'd never lost before and struggled to have returned to me - freedom, stability, the ability to walk, and more.
Most recently I find that I've been blessed with seeing God's path in so many ways. When we get discouraged about adopting, God puts a new reminder in our path of how adoption is a definite part of our future. When we experience pain and loss, God puts new relationships in our lives to fill the gaps. When we feel discouraged by obstacles and our own human nature, God reminds us of what we really want to work for and why. In other words, my faith is my greatest blessing. It is God that brought me to a place where another person would consider me a blessing, and it is my faith in Him and His message to me that has kept me there. I am really only at the beginning of my relationship with Him, but our relationship has really existed for all twenty-eight years of my life and I am blessed with the ability to spend the remaining years worshipping, thanking, and praising Him.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Eleventh Year
At almost exactly this time last year I wrote a blog about mourning. In the tenth year since the event that has come to be known as "the accident" in my life, I wrote about stages of mourning not according to the emotion we experience but according to the stage we pass without the person we left behind. As that date approaches once again I find myself thinking more about how we are told to experience trauma rather than mourning. Somebody, somewhere was paid a lot of money to explain that something that constitutes a "near-death experience" is hard to get over. Somebody published countless pages because they realized that we re-live bad experiences and bring a new emotion with each new trial. What's amazing about all of this is not what they discovered, but how much money someone could have saved if they asked the people doing the experiencing - rather than the people with the degrees. It's not unlike literature, really. I can sit with "Invisible Man" and spend the rest of my life talking about what it means, what each aspect represents, how it speaks to its author, culture, and other texts. The reality, however, is that decades of studying and countless degrees will still leave me less able to answer to that interpretation than the author himself. Considering his lifetime after that book was published, I imagine Ralph Ellison would agree.
But I digress. According to the Kubler-Ross Model, one stage of grief is anger. In the event of a fatal car accident, the anger can go a few ways. The easiest answer is anger with the person responsible for the accident. I still remember how my driver's ed teacher spent hours instructing us that there is no such thing as an "accident" because someone is always to blame. In my accident, R. O. was to blame. I know his name. I doubt I will ever forget his name. Still, what good would it do to be angry at him? What would that produce? The law looked at R.O., looked at my deceased friend and my mutilated body, and they said he failed to yield right of way. One $57 ticket later, he was a free man - as he should be. R. O. made a mistake that changed lives forever. If he's human, he is causing himself more grief than I ever could or would. If he hasn't brought grief on himself, there's nothing I could do that would change that. Getting angry at him won't change what happened, and of the two of us, I would be the only one who would ever know I was angry.
The next answer, of course, is that I could be angry at myself. I made mistakes that day. I don't know what would have happened differently if I had reacted differently, and I don't want to feel helpless in the face of my own emotions. I could be angry at how I am now. My entire life is harder. I think slower and remember less. My legs lost years of their lives as though they are independent of the rest of my body, and I can't change what they won't do. But I'm alive. It took me a long time to realize it was okay to be angry at my body and my brain when I'm blessed to be alive, and now I find myself waivering between an onslaught of frustration and the inevitable guilt that can follow.
The last answer is to be angry with Nicole. I won't do that, and I think this is a prime example of where the psychologists have failed. We are all incapable of feeling certain emotions in certain directions, and this one is mine.
After the stages of grief, there is the inevitable idea of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The very name gives me more frustration than a lifetime of knee surgeries. What must have made a psychologist realize that something like PTSD exists? Could it be the Vietnam veterans who have yet to return to civilization? The burn victims who are physically unable to approach a candle? Or, perhaps, could it be the obvious solution that Rome wasn't built in a day? Rome, in this case, being a person's ability to reconcile their past experience with their future expectations. Of course, PTSD seems not unlike a person's addiction. Once you are painted with this label, you will never really lose it.
In this respect, I've learned two things. First, you can't relive something you can't remember. As is apparently normal for near-death experiences, I have no direct recollection of what happened that day. I have countless imaginary "memories" and endless theories, but no matter what I picture or imagine I hear, nothing seems to click as what must have really occurred. Before the accident I recall leaving the mall. I remember we both agreed to take that road. Afterwards, I vaguely recall R. O. sticking something in my mouth (to prevent me from choking on my own tongue) and the sound of EMTs asking me questions, but I don't remember answering. In between, my mind is a blank.
Second, I've learned that a label is something you take with you as much as people assign it to you. In Iowa City, I felt like I would always be "that girl." People knew who I was and talked to me accordingly, but we'd never met. I had no reason to know who they were. After I left Iowa City, it felt unfamiliar to me to wear a pair of shorts and have to explain the scars (and so I stopped wearing shorts completely). I didn't understand when someone talked about a person dying in a car accident and nobody immediately looked to me (as though we are all in some super-secret club formed only of people involved in fatal accidents). Outside of that town, I had the opportunity to be whoever I wanted to be, which was exactly what I wanted. Then I realized that I don't know how to be anybody else. The label of being "that girl" was not assigned to me in a day and was not specific to one moment. That label encompasses who I am, what I've seen in the past, and how I look at everything I see in the present and in the future. I am a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter . . . and I'm "that girl."
There are two more days until the anniversary is over, and I find the waiting exhausting. I'm not exhausted from anger because I feel that emotion assigned to me by a disembodied voice who doesn't know me or what I've been through. I disregard the idea of PTSD because, for most of us who experience PTSD, it's not a disorder; it's a way of life. Instead, I wait impatiently for another anniversary to pass, knowing all the while I will remember it again in the next stage of mourning, the next stage of frustration, and the next stage of grief. Like Ellison, I may spend the rest of my life trying to explain myself. I don't know if anyone else will understand or if they'll be able to see past what their degrees tell them they see. I don't even know why I have a "rest of my life" to do all of this, but I do know that there isn't a psychologist out there who can explain to me what I feel better than I can explain it for myself.
But I digress. According to the Kubler-Ross Model, one stage of grief is anger. In the event of a fatal car accident, the anger can go a few ways. The easiest answer is anger with the person responsible for the accident. I still remember how my driver's ed teacher spent hours instructing us that there is no such thing as an "accident" because someone is always to blame. In my accident, R. O. was to blame. I know his name. I doubt I will ever forget his name. Still, what good would it do to be angry at him? What would that produce? The law looked at R.O., looked at my deceased friend and my mutilated body, and they said he failed to yield right of way. One $57 ticket later, he was a free man - as he should be. R. O. made a mistake that changed lives forever. If he's human, he is causing himself more grief than I ever could or would. If he hasn't brought grief on himself, there's nothing I could do that would change that. Getting angry at him won't change what happened, and of the two of us, I would be the only one who would ever know I was angry.
The next answer, of course, is that I could be angry at myself. I made mistakes that day. I don't know what would have happened differently if I had reacted differently, and I don't want to feel helpless in the face of my own emotions. I could be angry at how I am now. My entire life is harder. I think slower and remember less. My legs lost years of their lives as though they are independent of the rest of my body, and I can't change what they won't do. But I'm alive. It took me a long time to realize it was okay to be angry at my body and my brain when I'm blessed to be alive, and now I find myself waivering between an onslaught of frustration and the inevitable guilt that can follow.
The last answer is to be angry with Nicole. I won't do that, and I think this is a prime example of where the psychologists have failed. We are all incapable of feeling certain emotions in certain directions, and this one is mine.
After the stages of grief, there is the inevitable idea of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The very name gives me more frustration than a lifetime of knee surgeries. What must have made a psychologist realize that something like PTSD exists? Could it be the Vietnam veterans who have yet to return to civilization? The burn victims who are physically unable to approach a candle? Or, perhaps, could it be the obvious solution that Rome wasn't built in a day? Rome, in this case, being a person's ability to reconcile their past experience with their future expectations. Of course, PTSD seems not unlike a person's addiction. Once you are painted with this label, you will never really lose it.
In this respect, I've learned two things. First, you can't relive something you can't remember. As is apparently normal for near-death experiences, I have no direct recollection of what happened that day. I have countless imaginary "memories" and endless theories, but no matter what I picture or imagine I hear, nothing seems to click as what must have really occurred. Before the accident I recall leaving the mall. I remember we both agreed to take that road. Afterwards, I vaguely recall R. O. sticking something in my mouth (to prevent me from choking on my own tongue) and the sound of EMTs asking me questions, but I don't remember answering. In between, my mind is a blank.
Second, I've learned that a label is something you take with you as much as people assign it to you. In Iowa City, I felt like I would always be "that girl." People knew who I was and talked to me accordingly, but we'd never met. I had no reason to know who they were. After I left Iowa City, it felt unfamiliar to me to wear a pair of shorts and have to explain the scars (and so I stopped wearing shorts completely). I didn't understand when someone talked about a person dying in a car accident and nobody immediately looked to me (as though we are all in some super-secret club formed only of people involved in fatal accidents). Outside of that town, I had the opportunity to be whoever I wanted to be, which was exactly what I wanted. Then I realized that I don't know how to be anybody else. The label of being "that girl" was not assigned to me in a day and was not specific to one moment. That label encompasses who I am, what I've seen in the past, and how I look at everything I see in the present and in the future. I am a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter . . . and I'm "that girl."
There are two more days until the anniversary is over, and I find the waiting exhausting. I'm not exhausted from anger because I feel that emotion assigned to me by a disembodied voice who doesn't know me or what I've been through. I disregard the idea of PTSD because, for most of us who experience PTSD, it's not a disorder; it's a way of life. Instead, I wait impatiently for another anniversary to pass, knowing all the while I will remember it again in the next stage of mourning, the next stage of frustration, and the next stage of grief. Like Ellison, I may spend the rest of my life trying to explain myself. I don't know if anyone else will understand or if they'll be able to see past what their degrees tell them they see. I don't even know why I have a "rest of my life" to do all of this, but I do know that there isn't a psychologist out there who can explain to me what I feel better than I can explain it for myself.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Letting Go of Dates
I've never really been sure why we insist on remembering dates. Birthdays, first date, first kiss, weddings, and more all seem to hang over us like annual obligations on the calendar. I've never been a big one for dates. I couldn't tell you when my husband and I started dating or even when we got engaged, and I only remember our anniversary because we got married on the first summer month that had the first day of the month on a Saturday. However, in lieu of all these wonderful memories I could associate with each passing year, I seem to be caught up the tragedies that have marked milestones in my life. I remember the date for most and the week for the rest, and no matter how old I get or how much life I live, I can't seem to leave them behind.
The first anniversary I remember is my grandfather dying. I was ten years old, and we had been living with my grandparents for a few years by then. His birthday was April 8, and he died on April 22nd. It was a Thursday. At fifty-six years old Paga (as we called him) had already lived through a stroke, cancer, and at least one heart attack. On more than one occasion the doctors had instructed his family to go in and say their final good byes, and each time he pulled through until this one last heart attack too him when he was still far too young. I don't feel this anniversary hanging over me in a tragic way, yet something prevents me from leaving the date behind.
Four years after Paga died, my grandmother took me and my sister to New York to visit our aunt. After spending about a week at her home in Oswego, we took off on the road to return to Saratoga Springs, the town where my grandparents raised my mother and her siblings. Along the way, we were rear-ended by a college student who was driving in excess of one hundred miles per hour on the interstate. I had been sitting at an angle in the backseat, and my head whipped back into the door on impact. Afterward, the man at the car garage asked if the person who made the dent in the door had survived. That was March 22, 1997, my first experience with brain damage and exactly one month before the anniversary of my grandfather's death. Again, I don't find myself pausing in life to recognize this date, yet I know when it is just the same.
At this point I could continue to list anniversaries that stay with me, but it's that time of year again that I find myself caught up in the date that does hang over me: May 24. On May 24, 2000 my life changed forever and another life ended far too soon. I've written blogs about it in the past, but I don't know how you can ever write enough about losing a friend in such a horrific tragedy. The day started so simple. I hate saying that. I hate the idea that, to the rest of the world, that day was like any other. The weather was clear and hot, and everyone was preparing for the end of the school year. Nicole and I drove to the mall during our open hour, and we took a shortcut on a gravel road to get back to school on time.
I won't get caught up in hindsight or retrospect on choosing that road now, but I think I'll always wonder what if. What if we had chosen a different road? What if we had driven a little faster or a little slower? What if that driver had paid a little more attention? Perhaps we wouldn't have been hit. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad. Perhaps I would be able to think better, smarter, faster if I hadn't had my second experience with brain damage. Perhaps Nicole would still be alive. Perhaps I could live one year without thinking of May 24 as the date that will haunt me forever.
I've noticed in years past that May 24 is unlike other anniversaries. Birthdates tend to be as short as a special meal or as long as the few days it takes to get from the date to the party. Anniversaries are as short as a date or as long as it takes to find the perfect present. May 24 is not like either of these. For me, May 24 is a month. It's week after week of waiting for something to go wrong. Listening for a phone call, watching for someone with bad news, and collapsing with relief when it's over.
In an earlier post I wrote about a man I met on the side of the road, P.J.C., who visits the place where his son died at least once a month. He explained how these visits ease his conscience and assauge his guilt as he leaves a physical reminder that he has not forgotten, will not forget, the son he lost that day. For him, it's been four years. He asked me that day if it gets easier, and I didn't have an answer for him. I still don't.
Instead, I've turned his question back on myself and wonder when it will be easier for me. Eleven years later, all I can think of is that day and wonder if it's going to happen again. I think about Nicole and find my mind going blank as I try to formulate questions about how she must feel, what she's doing, who she's with. I think about what I'll do on the actual day and wonder if everyone can tell just by looking at me that something isn't right. Still, I know that on May 25 everything will be over. Another year will have passed, and I'll find myself in a remission of sorts for eleven months - once again.
For most of the world, May 24 is just another date. It's an anniversary of other sorts for other people, but for me and a handful of other people I know, it's an era of mourning. Mourning Nicole didn't happen in a set of weeks, months, or years immediately after she died. Instead, mourning comes from a collection of one month anniversaries across countless years. Every May, I return to mourning. I can't remember most birthdates or happy anniversaries, but I remember this date more than any other. In truth, I don't know that I want to forget.
The first anniversary I remember is my grandfather dying. I was ten years old, and we had been living with my grandparents for a few years by then. His birthday was April 8, and he died on April 22nd. It was a Thursday. At fifty-six years old Paga (as we called him) had already lived through a stroke, cancer, and at least one heart attack. On more than one occasion the doctors had instructed his family to go in and say their final good byes, and each time he pulled through until this one last heart attack too him when he was still far too young. I don't feel this anniversary hanging over me in a tragic way, yet something prevents me from leaving the date behind.
Four years after Paga died, my grandmother took me and my sister to New York to visit our aunt. After spending about a week at her home in Oswego, we took off on the road to return to Saratoga Springs, the town where my grandparents raised my mother and her siblings. Along the way, we were rear-ended by a college student who was driving in excess of one hundred miles per hour on the interstate. I had been sitting at an angle in the backseat, and my head whipped back into the door on impact. Afterward, the man at the car garage asked if the person who made the dent in the door had survived. That was March 22, 1997, my first experience with brain damage and exactly one month before the anniversary of my grandfather's death. Again, I don't find myself pausing in life to recognize this date, yet I know when it is just the same.
At this point I could continue to list anniversaries that stay with me, but it's that time of year again that I find myself caught up in the date that does hang over me: May 24. On May 24, 2000 my life changed forever and another life ended far too soon. I've written blogs about it in the past, but I don't know how you can ever write enough about losing a friend in such a horrific tragedy. The day started so simple. I hate saying that. I hate the idea that, to the rest of the world, that day was like any other. The weather was clear and hot, and everyone was preparing for the end of the school year. Nicole and I drove to the mall during our open hour, and we took a shortcut on a gravel road to get back to school on time.
I won't get caught up in hindsight or retrospect on choosing that road now, but I think I'll always wonder what if. What if we had chosen a different road? What if we had driven a little faster or a little slower? What if that driver had paid a little more attention? Perhaps we wouldn't have been hit. Perhaps it wouldn't have been so bad. Perhaps I would be able to think better, smarter, faster if I hadn't had my second experience with brain damage. Perhaps Nicole would still be alive. Perhaps I could live one year without thinking of May 24 as the date that will haunt me forever.
I've noticed in years past that May 24 is unlike other anniversaries. Birthdates tend to be as short as a special meal or as long as the few days it takes to get from the date to the party. Anniversaries are as short as a date or as long as it takes to find the perfect present. May 24 is not like either of these. For me, May 24 is a month. It's week after week of waiting for something to go wrong. Listening for a phone call, watching for someone with bad news, and collapsing with relief when it's over.
In an earlier post I wrote about a man I met on the side of the road, P.J.C., who visits the place where his son died at least once a month. He explained how these visits ease his conscience and assauge his guilt as he leaves a physical reminder that he has not forgotten, will not forget, the son he lost that day. For him, it's been four years. He asked me that day if it gets easier, and I didn't have an answer for him. I still don't.
Instead, I've turned his question back on myself and wonder when it will be easier for me. Eleven years later, all I can think of is that day and wonder if it's going to happen again. I think about Nicole and find my mind going blank as I try to formulate questions about how she must feel, what she's doing, who she's with. I think about what I'll do on the actual day and wonder if everyone can tell just by looking at me that something isn't right. Still, I know that on May 25 everything will be over. Another year will have passed, and I'll find myself in a remission of sorts for eleven months - once again.
For most of the world, May 24 is just another date. It's an anniversary of other sorts for other people, but for me and a handful of other people I know, it's an era of mourning. Mourning Nicole didn't happen in a set of weeks, months, or years immediately after she died. Instead, mourning comes from a collection of one month anniversaries across countless years. Every May, I return to mourning. I can't remember most birthdates or happy anniversaries, but I remember this date more than any other. In truth, I don't know that I want to forget.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Struggles in Spirituality
I was not raised a Christian. I've always been open about that fact. When I was younger, I offered this information in a laughing, joking, "Could you really think any different?" manner. As a twenty-something, I offered this as an excuse when my few devout friends tried to witness to me. How could I possibly believe in a god I knew nothing about? When I first began attending church, I said this as fast and as frequently as possible in a convoluted attempt to decrease expectations from my fellow churchgoers. Today, as I approach my third anniversary of really believing in and accepting Christ as my Lord and Savior, I still offer this line: as an excuse, an explanation, and a reminder to myself that it's still okay to struggle. I wasn't born a Christian and I wasn't raised a Christian, but I am determined that - when my time comes - I will die a Christian.
I've attended church every Sunday that I've been in my "home" town since that fateful Easter when Tracey, Ellie, and I attended church together for the first time. I've gone to Sunday school many of those Sundays, participated in a few classes of varying topics, volunteered, and now I work for my church. Together, we have baptized our daughter and commited ourselves to raising her in the church for as long as her faith continues to lead her there. However, my faith is not complete. I don't really believe that anyone's faith can be "complete" to the fullest sense of the word, but this sense of incomplete faith has persisted in my soul in a sense of unrest, angst, discomfort, and even anger. Lately I find my struggles perpetuated by my determination to participate in my church, and I find myself struggling all the more.
My first solution was to stop believing. I didn't believe in God for the first twenty-five years of my life, so surely I could return to not believing, right? After all, not believing provided me with many more answers than questions. However, in a feeling totally unfamiliar to me, I found that I couldn''t not believe. Christ is not simply something I believe in; He is a part of me. He made me, and He is ingrained in my every breath, my every moment for eternity. When I first realized this, I was shocked. After all, my first months in church were more of a "Fake it 'til you make it" than a total commitment to faith, so what had changed? Why could I not return to my adolescent mindset? I want to say something brilliant here about how I grew up, I had an epiphany, and I embraced Him. The reality, however, is that He embraced me. When I was ready to believe, I didn't go to Him. He came to me, and He stays with me even when I try to run away. As I will always remember a classmate saying in Sunday School, now more than ever, "Let the glory be to God."
My next solution was to try to find answers to everything. I tried to absorb spiritual subject matter everywhere I went. I recognized verses from the Bible, spoke more and more to devout Christians about their faith, and immersed myself in my religion. I found more questions than answers, and so my struggles continued. Reading the Bible can inspire me and comfort me, but it does not give me the answers I need. This, too, was a shocking moment for me. If the word of God cannot answer my questions, what can? Exactly how far was I supposed to carry my (blind) faith? I was too embarrassed to admit my inability to really absorb the Bible, so I argued with it. I denied passages, reinterpreted others, and looked to multiple sources until I found a translation that worked for me. I pursued this until the day came that I learned one of the pastors at my church, one who has played a very significant role in my joining this church, has (somewhat openly) stated that he, too, does not believe the Bible is the direct word of God. He offers many explanations of what he does believe the Bible to be, but the direct word of God is not one of them. This was a huge relief! If a pastor, a man whose entire being is devoted to sharing the word of God, does not accept the Bible as a complete and perfect text, how can a mere layperson do any better? I can't, and the reality is that I don't have to.
Most recently I have found myself at a crossroads with the various paths disappearing. I can't stop believing in God, and I wouldn't want to if I could. I can't fully accept the Bible, but I can not accept every single word as the word of God and still be a Christian. I pray and find comfort. I pray and witness miracles. I pray and He answers. For now, I think that's more than enough. I feel now that declaring myself a Christian without any struggles would be, for me, a shallow faith. I still have a lot to learn and a lot of growing to do, and my only real struggle is not in believing in Him, but in accepting that faith is not an answer in a book. It's not a prayer to be memorized. It is a lifelong journey that I, a person with too little patience in all too many areas of life, have committed myself to taking. I won't ever be done with my struggles, and I won't ever be done with my journey, but I am believing more everyday that the true gift here is that He will take this journey with me.
I've attended church every Sunday that I've been in my "home" town since that fateful Easter when Tracey, Ellie, and I attended church together for the first time. I've gone to Sunday school many of those Sundays, participated in a few classes of varying topics, volunteered, and now I work for my church. Together, we have baptized our daughter and commited ourselves to raising her in the church for as long as her faith continues to lead her there. However, my faith is not complete. I don't really believe that anyone's faith can be "complete" to the fullest sense of the word, but this sense of incomplete faith has persisted in my soul in a sense of unrest, angst, discomfort, and even anger. Lately I find my struggles perpetuated by my determination to participate in my church, and I find myself struggling all the more.
My first solution was to stop believing. I didn't believe in God for the first twenty-five years of my life, so surely I could return to not believing, right? After all, not believing provided me with many more answers than questions. However, in a feeling totally unfamiliar to me, I found that I couldn''t not believe. Christ is not simply something I believe in; He is a part of me. He made me, and He is ingrained in my every breath, my every moment for eternity. When I first realized this, I was shocked. After all, my first months in church were more of a "Fake it 'til you make it" than a total commitment to faith, so what had changed? Why could I not return to my adolescent mindset? I want to say something brilliant here about how I grew up, I had an epiphany, and I embraced Him. The reality, however, is that He embraced me. When I was ready to believe, I didn't go to Him. He came to me, and He stays with me even when I try to run away. As I will always remember a classmate saying in Sunday School, now more than ever, "Let the glory be to God."
My next solution was to try to find answers to everything. I tried to absorb spiritual subject matter everywhere I went. I recognized verses from the Bible, spoke more and more to devout Christians about their faith, and immersed myself in my religion. I found more questions than answers, and so my struggles continued. Reading the Bible can inspire me and comfort me, but it does not give me the answers I need. This, too, was a shocking moment for me. If the word of God cannot answer my questions, what can? Exactly how far was I supposed to carry my (blind) faith? I was too embarrassed to admit my inability to really absorb the Bible, so I argued with it. I denied passages, reinterpreted others, and looked to multiple sources until I found a translation that worked for me. I pursued this until the day came that I learned one of the pastors at my church, one who has played a very significant role in my joining this church, has (somewhat openly) stated that he, too, does not believe the Bible is the direct word of God. He offers many explanations of what he does believe the Bible to be, but the direct word of God is not one of them. This was a huge relief! If a pastor, a man whose entire being is devoted to sharing the word of God, does not accept the Bible as a complete and perfect text, how can a mere layperson do any better? I can't, and the reality is that I don't have to.
Most recently I have found myself at a crossroads with the various paths disappearing. I can't stop believing in God, and I wouldn't want to if I could. I can't fully accept the Bible, but I can not accept every single word as the word of God and still be a Christian. I pray and find comfort. I pray and witness miracles. I pray and He answers. For now, I think that's more than enough. I feel now that declaring myself a Christian without any struggles would be, for me, a shallow faith. I still have a lot to learn and a lot of growing to do, and my only real struggle is not in believing in Him, but in accepting that faith is not an answer in a book. It's not a prayer to be memorized. It is a lifelong journey that I, a person with too little patience in all too many areas of life, have committed myself to taking. I won't ever be done with my struggles, and I won't ever be done with my journey, but I am believing more everyday that the true gift here is that He will take this journey with me.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Child Care, Take Three
As many of my (four) readers know, I recently had to take my daughter out of her preschool. After approximately eighteen months of entrusting the owner and her staff with my daughter's care, it became apparent that the owner was more interested in the financial side of the business than the safety side of childcare. Much to my dismay, I had this realization exactly three days before the new semester started. Cue: panic.
For those of you who have never had children, it can seem fairly easy to choose a daycare. On paper, they're all the same. The state decides how many children they can have per caregiver and room size, how often the children must be fed and how much, how often the children must take naps, and what qualifies a person to be a licensed childcare provider. The state regulates all of this, and the insurance companies take care of the rest.
The reality, however, is that choosing a daycare center is (on a much more serious level) like trying a new hair stylist. You know how you want your hair to look, just as you know how you want your child to be treated. You can bring pictures (talk to the teachers), point out hair colors (talk to the owners/directors), look at pictures of other styles the stylist has done (drop-in visits, talk to parents), explain endlessly how you take care of your hair (your child), but the reality is that once you are in the chair, you are at the mercy of the stylist. If you really do your homework, you've still only improved your chances slightly. You watch, you ask questions, you offer reminders about your previously agreed upon arrangement, but you still have a fifty-fifty shot of asking for Demi Moore and leaving with Dickie Moore. Ouch.
With this optimistic attitude in hand, I have spent approximately forty hours in the last four weeks researching schools, asking for referrals, visiting schools, and ultimately leaving schools no closer to having a place to take my daughter. Some schools are easy to cross off (What do you mean you won't tell me the name of the owner?!?!?), yet others slip all too easily into a potpourri of, "Can I really leave her here?"
In order to answer this question, I have tried to put together my smaller questions as I toured the schools, certain that I'm only ever a few "right" answers away from finding a safe and happy preschool. Instead, my well-intentioned questions are all too often turned into conversation fodder for the owner and director to laugh about as they assure me that I don't really need to worry about those little things. Yes, because heaven knows I don't really need to know who is watching my daughter for the hour and a half before her regular teacher gets there. That would be no.
On the whole, the entire process has been almost comical in its lack of productivity where schools are concerned. There was the school she used to attend where all extracurriculars were offered during the 'insignificant' lessons that later turned out to be counting and phonics. Then there was the Montessori school where we actually let her try it out for two days. On the first day, the director escorted me back only to find the children watching a movie on a television that, surprise, the director didn't even know they had. The second day was no better when the teacher could not find my daughter's hat or mittens, couldn't explain why her sleeping bag was on a table in the corner, and wasn't entirely sure whether the kids had been outside that day. Don't call us, but we probably won't call you either.
From there the schools began to pass in rapid succession: the "preschool" with no formalized curriculum, the next Montessori school that wanted $1,800 up front and four weeks notice before leaving the school, the next Montessori school that had an owner on hand who couldn't tell me anything about the curriculum they used and then explained that the children running freely around the school were actually her students that she was supposed to be teaching at that time. From there came the highly reputable school with a two-year waiting period (she'll be in Kindergarten by then!), the smaller school that had an 80% negative feedback record, and, of course, the 'new' school that did not have any extracurriculars established yet because they were "shocked" at how "quickly" they were growing. The school, which is designed to hold up to 320 kids, has been open for six months and has a grand total of twenty kids enrolled. This is the same school that required the children to wear formal uniforms despite having the director and assistant director in ripped jeans and "uniform" t-shirts. However, they were more than happy to take my daughter's name, birthdate, and Social Security number on the spot to begin her enrollment process! I'm afraid that won't be possible.
All of this brings us to today, when I finally find myself satisfied with a nearby school and ready to enroll her. I've got my hairstyle in mind, picture in hand, and colors chosen, and I'm ready to take a seat. I can't expect Demi Moore-hair and I know that, but hopefully, there's a nice middle ground (Mandy Moore? Julianne Moore?) along the way. With forty hours in and only a handful of schools I haven't been to in the greater DFW area, I need this one to work. If not, I may find myself fighting to expand my analogy - what is the "wig" equivalent to preschool anyway?
For those of you who have never had children, it can seem fairly easy to choose a daycare. On paper, they're all the same. The state decides how many children they can have per caregiver and room size, how often the children must be fed and how much, how often the children must take naps, and what qualifies a person to be a licensed childcare provider. The state regulates all of this, and the insurance companies take care of the rest.
The reality, however, is that choosing a daycare center is (on a much more serious level) like trying a new hair stylist. You know how you want your hair to look, just as you know how you want your child to be treated. You can bring pictures (talk to the teachers), point out hair colors (talk to the owners/directors), look at pictures of other styles the stylist has done (drop-in visits, talk to parents), explain endlessly how you take care of your hair (your child), but the reality is that once you are in the chair, you are at the mercy of the stylist. If you really do your homework, you've still only improved your chances slightly. You watch, you ask questions, you offer reminders about your previously agreed upon arrangement, but you still have a fifty-fifty shot of asking for Demi Moore and leaving with Dickie Moore. Ouch.
With this optimistic attitude in hand, I have spent approximately forty hours in the last four weeks researching schools, asking for referrals, visiting schools, and ultimately leaving schools no closer to having a place to take my daughter. Some schools are easy to cross off (What do you mean you won't tell me the name of the owner?!?!?), yet others slip all too easily into a potpourri of, "Can I really leave her here?"
In order to answer this question, I have tried to put together my smaller questions as I toured the schools, certain that I'm only ever a few "right" answers away from finding a safe and happy preschool. Instead, my well-intentioned questions are all too often turned into conversation fodder for the owner and director to laugh about as they assure me that I don't really need to worry about those little things. Yes, because heaven knows I don't really need to know who is watching my daughter for the hour and a half before her regular teacher gets there. That would be no.
On the whole, the entire process has been almost comical in its lack of productivity where schools are concerned. There was the school she used to attend where all extracurriculars were offered during the 'insignificant' lessons that later turned out to be counting and phonics. Then there was the Montessori school where we actually let her try it out for two days. On the first day, the director escorted me back only to find the children watching a movie on a television that, surprise, the director didn't even know they had. The second day was no better when the teacher could not find my daughter's hat or mittens, couldn't explain why her sleeping bag was on a table in the corner, and wasn't entirely sure whether the kids had been outside that day. Don't call us, but we probably won't call you either.
From there the schools began to pass in rapid succession: the "preschool" with no formalized curriculum, the next Montessori school that wanted $1,800 up front and four weeks notice before leaving the school, the next Montessori school that had an owner on hand who couldn't tell me anything about the curriculum they used and then explained that the children running freely around the school were actually her students that she was supposed to be teaching at that time. From there came the highly reputable school with a two-year waiting period (she'll be in Kindergarten by then!), the smaller school that had an 80% negative feedback record, and, of course, the 'new' school that did not have any extracurriculars established yet because they were "shocked" at how "quickly" they were growing. The school, which is designed to hold up to 320 kids, has been open for six months and has a grand total of twenty kids enrolled. This is the same school that required the children to wear formal uniforms despite having the director and assistant director in ripped jeans and "uniform" t-shirts. However, they were more than happy to take my daughter's name, birthdate, and Social Security number on the spot to begin her enrollment process! I'm afraid that won't be possible.
All of this brings us to today, when I finally find myself satisfied with a nearby school and ready to enroll her. I've got my hairstyle in mind, picture in hand, and colors chosen, and I'm ready to take a seat. I can't expect Demi Moore-hair and I know that, but hopefully, there's a nice middle ground (Mandy Moore? Julianne Moore?) along the way. With forty hours in and only a handful of schools I haven't been to in the greater DFW area, I need this one to work. If not, I may find myself fighting to expand my analogy - what is the "wig" equivalent to preschool anyway?
Monday, February 14, 2011
Home Alone 3: Attachment Family in Texas
I am a mature adult.
I am safe in my home.
I can take care of myself, daughter, and dogs.
I am woman, hear me . . . whine like a little girl from under the blankets with my flashlight?
That, too.
Today my husband flew to Las Vegas for work (cough, cough) leaving me behind to take care of our family. No problem, right? Our daughter is three, reasonably well-behaved, and very good at articulating her wants and needs - ALL her wants and needs. We have four dogs, three of whom would be more than happy to defend us against all intruders large and small (and one dog who is more than happy to let the others do the defending, thankyouverymuch). My retired-Navy dad is ten minutes away, and my sister is only an hour out. With my emergency response system firmly in place, I am not too proud to admit that I'm still more than a little afraid of the dark whenever my husband isn't home.
It's every bit as irrational as it sounds. My husband is a wonderful man in every sense of the word, but he's no Chuck Norris. He doesn't know martial arts, doesn't own a weapon (at my request), and hasn't regularly participated in sports in at least five years. Still, there is something about a second adult, particularly male, that makes the entire house feel safer. Now, however, the reality is that he is out of town and I've seen my last hour of sleep for the next five days.
I'll do what any self-respecting imitator of Macaulay Caulkin would do. I'll stack cans by the door (that my dogs will surely knock down), leave all dog-barriers between me and my daughter down (for my dogs to eat us out of house and home), and sleep with a baseball bat under my pillow (that I will undoubtedly drop on my foot before this week is over). I'll call someone every morning and every night as though the twelve hours in between are not enough time to break into my house and do any number of unmentionable crimes. I'll check the locks regularly and leave lights on in the windows, and yet with all of this foolproof defense in place, I still will not sleep.
Here's what I will do instead. I will jump at every. single. sound. My rationale will be that if the sound is so loud that even I can hear it, it's probably something to worry about. I will check on my daughter three times per night instead of one. I will close the blinds to hide the inside of my house from the outside world only to open them again out of the unreasonable fear that closed blinds will make it look like I'm trying to hide something. I will read book after mind-numbing book before finally giving way to sleep . . . just in time to awake to the blaring rooster that lives in my alarm clock.
As a comfort to myself, I will do things I can't do when my husband is home. I will let the house get messy during the day, but knowing me I will then clean it every night because I can no longer stand the mess. I will buy my coffee in addition to making it at home, but then I'll undoubtedly feel guilty for spending $5 on something I can make for $1. I'll consider buying new clothes and spend hours looking at shopping websites, but the aforementioned exhaustion will prevent me from actually retrieving my wallet to punch in my credit card number.
I will repeat this routine everyday for four days until I will finally reach that moment where I brace myself in front of the mirror, throw my shoulders back, chin up, and prepare to admit that I, at the ripe old age of 28, am still afraid of the Boogey Man. Just as I start to form the words, however, one of two things will occur. Either my husband will finally come home, staving off the humiliating confession for a few more months, or, more likely, another noise will occur and I will abandon the mirror in my thirty-second dash to the top of the stairs, fully prepared to rescue my daughter from danger. Then, when I realize that I lost my epiphanous moment of honesty to "danger" in the form of a thirty-pound puppy lunching on Barbie Buffet 2011, I will collapse on the ground and accept the fact that sleep will only come in a huddled ball in front of my daughter's door (at least until my husband comes home).
I remember bravery. I remember being a self-sufficient, self-respecting adult. I would like to say that I can build myself back into the person who could walk around late at night without a fear in the world, but at the moment it's only Day One and I'm already too tired for such a battle. Instead, I'm off to drag my pillow and blanket to the top of the stairs in the unlikely hope that I'll still find a way to sleep in my own bed. What can I say? I like to kid myself (and the Moment of Honesty is still four days away).
I am safe in my home.
I can take care of myself, daughter, and dogs.
I am woman, hear me . . . whine like a little girl from under the blankets with my flashlight?
That, too.
Today my husband flew to Las Vegas for work (cough, cough) leaving me behind to take care of our family. No problem, right? Our daughter is three, reasonably well-behaved, and very good at articulating her wants and needs - ALL her wants and needs. We have four dogs, three of whom would be more than happy to defend us against all intruders large and small (and one dog who is more than happy to let the others do the defending, thankyouverymuch). My retired-Navy dad is ten minutes away, and my sister is only an hour out. With my emergency response system firmly in place, I am not too proud to admit that I'm still more than a little afraid of the dark whenever my husband isn't home.
It's every bit as irrational as it sounds. My husband is a wonderful man in every sense of the word, but he's no Chuck Norris. He doesn't know martial arts, doesn't own a weapon (at my request), and hasn't regularly participated in sports in at least five years. Still, there is something about a second adult, particularly male, that makes the entire house feel safer. Now, however, the reality is that he is out of town and I've seen my last hour of sleep for the next five days.
I'll do what any self-respecting imitator of Macaulay Caulkin would do. I'll stack cans by the door (that my dogs will surely knock down), leave all dog-barriers between me and my daughter down (for my dogs to eat us out of house and home), and sleep with a baseball bat under my pillow (that I will undoubtedly drop on my foot before this week is over). I'll call someone every morning and every night as though the twelve hours in between are not enough time to break into my house and do any number of unmentionable crimes. I'll check the locks regularly and leave lights on in the windows, and yet with all of this foolproof defense in place, I still will not sleep.
Here's what I will do instead. I will jump at every. single. sound. My rationale will be that if the sound is so loud that even I can hear it, it's probably something to worry about. I will check on my daughter three times per night instead of one. I will close the blinds to hide the inside of my house from the outside world only to open them again out of the unreasonable fear that closed blinds will make it look like I'm trying to hide something. I will read book after mind-numbing book before finally giving way to sleep . . . just in time to awake to the blaring rooster that lives in my alarm clock.
As a comfort to myself, I will do things I can't do when my husband is home. I will let the house get messy during the day, but knowing me I will then clean it every night because I can no longer stand the mess. I will buy my coffee in addition to making it at home, but then I'll undoubtedly feel guilty for spending $5 on something I can make for $1. I'll consider buying new clothes and spend hours looking at shopping websites, but the aforementioned exhaustion will prevent me from actually retrieving my wallet to punch in my credit card number.
I will repeat this routine everyday for four days until I will finally reach that moment where I brace myself in front of the mirror, throw my shoulders back, chin up, and prepare to admit that I, at the ripe old age of 28, am still afraid of the Boogey Man. Just as I start to form the words, however, one of two things will occur. Either my husband will finally come home, staving off the humiliating confession for a few more months, or, more likely, another noise will occur and I will abandon the mirror in my thirty-second dash to the top of the stairs, fully prepared to rescue my daughter from danger. Then, when I realize that I lost my epiphanous moment of honesty to "danger" in the form of a thirty-pound puppy lunching on Barbie Buffet 2011, I will collapse on the ground and accept the fact that sleep will only come in a huddled ball in front of my daughter's door (at least until my husband comes home).
I remember bravery. I remember being a self-sufficient, self-respecting adult. I would like to say that I can build myself back into the person who could walk around late at night without a fear in the world, but at the moment it's only Day One and I'm already too tired for such a battle. Instead, I'm off to drag my pillow and blanket to the top of the stairs in the unlikely hope that I'll still find a way to sleep in my own bed. What can I say? I like to kid myself (and the Moment of Honesty is still four days away).
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