Going on 20 years of an amazing marriage to my darling Luke, a daughter, Addy who is 12 years old, and my little buddy Joseph born on the 4th of July of 2013. And of course Hazel, the first child (dog) who is 17 years old.
When you suddenly feel it... the expanse of ridiculous gaping hole, now infinite. There are no more mothers. You were the last. The Matriarch. The Glue that held my family history together. The Center. And now there is just Space where you used to be.
Your artist soul carries through space and time and genetics! We are surrounded by the beauty and always will be. If only a painting could hug.
The inspiration of your life story must be a lesson to the rest of us. To survive what you survived to tell the story so many others couldn't. Your love story, the genesis of all of us. What an honor to come from you. How many stories were left untold?
I never called. You never called. We were the ones who didn't call. But I know you loved us immensely and you knew we loved you the same. I do have regrets, but there is no purpose there, just a hole. I have a lifetime of memories and love from you.
The things that linger with us--sensory things. Smells and sights and flashes of insignificant yet so significant memories. Childhood parties when all the people still lived and came. Relentless, unyielding optimism and sheer force of will for life at the forefront of it all; the model for us all. Your carpet, your couch, your smell, the coffee maker, the orchids on the fireplace, the hot tub, a drink in the backyard before it got too cold to stay outside. Sleeping over the night before an early flight or during a conference in SF. Painting with the children. Piano recitals.
The humor! How we used to lead you astray mid-conversation just for entertainment! Such an effective story-teller--captivating no matter the topic. You never lost your laugh, no matter how hard life was for you. May we never lose our laughter.
What do we do now? We mothers who remain... With everything in our blood and bones from you? How can we carry on in your image? How do you live on in our hearts and minds? In the art, and the smells, and the flashes of memories, and the spirit of life-to-be-lived that you embodied. Every day. Forever.
Most years at this time, my shoulders are starting to tan from days on the pool deck.
This year my shoulders are tan from the endless, countless walks around the neighborhood and the solo runs that sometimes serve as my only time alone in a day.
Most years at this time, we are preparing to take a deep breath as everything comes to an end. Ballet recitals, piano recitals, the end of baseball season, and of course school finishing up.
This year everything ended on March 16.
Most years at this time, we are looking forward to camping, or flying somewhere, or planning side-trips.
This year we are waiting with baited breath to hear whether state parks will even reopen, and hoping we get to use our months-ago-purchased Disneyland tickets sometime before 2022.
Most years at this time, the hot weather and warm cement are welcome, and the cool reprieve of the mall, or a movie theater, or a store of any kind really, become the hallmarks of the transition to summer.
This year, I have felt the cement daily on my feet, changing from cold, to wet, to warm, to too hot, all while walking circles in my yard on work phone calls just to take a break from the table.
Most years at this time, we'd be planning a rare date-night. A movie, a beautiful dinner, a stroll downtown in the warm evening air.
This year, we are doing dishes at least 5 times per day, exhausted from cooking, and desperate to be allowed to have a babysitter over and somewhere to go.
Most years at this time, the children are ramped up with the excitement about the end of school, the beginning of summer freedom, and the excitement of summer camp with their old friends.
This year, we are faced with deciding whether to continue the current arrangement (all of us, here) or allow the kids their confined (and not essential) summer camp/childcare experience, using money we may not have soon. A choice of a relief for all of our mental health versus exposure to this monster.
Most years at this time, we are spending more time at the pool than in our house.
This year, we have no pool. We have only house.
Most years at this time, I'm grateful for the slow-down and the change in tempo of life that summer brings, on all fronts.
This year, I'm lethargic from moving so slowly.
This year, I'm tired from doing nothing.
This year, I would like nothing more than to feel the extreme highs and lows of NORMAL life, even on a smaller scale.
This year, I'm craving MORE.
Three out of three bathtubs in my life are useless. Which makes me think that maybe I'm just not meant to be a person who takes baths. I never wanted to take baths, in all those years of having a functional bathtub. Now I want to take a bath and no bathtub will have me.
We are in a lovely Airbnb, booked without knowledge of the existence of a bathtub, known lack of hot tub, and upon arrival discovered that (lo and behold!) there is a bathtub. Husband lovingly encourages night-bathing but I abstained, to allow the lingering, lovely anticipation to last until morning. Filling the bathtub did seem to take a bit longer than expected, and once in, the warmth and soothing smell overtook me. Then that fateful sound. The draining. It was happening yet again. So there I sat in a bubble-filled, Lorien-sized bathtub with book and coffee at my side, and the fucking thing is draining. I put my hand over the drain to confirm but as a person-not-meant-to-bathe, I'm quite familiar with the sound. So my lovely bath lasted a total of 45 seconds. I tried to refill the drained part, thinking, it's raining, there's no drought, maybe I can last a minute and a half! Alas, no. There was no more hot water.
So that was the end of that. On a positive note, the bathroom has its own heater, so you can stay warm while sitting in your cold-water, draining bath. And the fluffiest towel I've ever seen to dry the still fresh bubbles off your body. Small pleasures.
I think it's been a devastating lack of inspiration, or an adept suppression of any unnecessary thought patterns. Which under normal circumstance is a healthy coping mechanism, until all of a sudden, like the breaking of a dam, my thoughts start taking over again. And then the only things I can do to stop them is high intensity cardio or writing. So here I am. All Orange-Theoried and blogging.
It's been a school year of questioning my purpose, and my success at achieving my purpose over the last 11 years (and the last, say, 60 years of American history). The statement that every day feels like a battle doesn't really fully describe the magnitude of the problem I have on my hands at the moment.
I think I've been talking too much. I don't know how to stop, though. I feel like every person I can retain as an audience needs to hear the message. But the ones who listen to me already agree. How do you unify a fundamentally inequitable system? How do we recover from the fundamental lack of understanding that people with disabilities are PEOPLE and to participate in the world the way non-disabled people can requires stuff. And stuff requires effort. I feel like it's 1953 and we are on the verge of another civil rights movement right here in MDUSD. But its fucking 2018. What the fuck.
So I saw a movie the other night. "Embrace" is the story of one amazing woman's journey through the roller coaster of self-image. It was thoroughly inspiring and insightful and I enjoyed every minute of it. But it reminded me of something that hangs over my head every single day.
I'm small. Petite. Athletic. Fit. Slim. Whatever you want to call it. And that means I'm not allowed to participate in conversations about body image.
Seriously.
Any comments about size or image or fat or bodies around other women is met with glares, eye rolling, heavy sighs, and general auras of resentment. My feelings and experience immediately become negated and I stop participating.
So since I can't talk to most other women about any of this without feeling stupid and insulting to them, I'm going to write about it here. This is MY perspective. I understand the importance of having other peoples' perspectives, and that does help to keep things under control, but it doesn't detract from my personal struggle which is real, and I think, noteworthy, even if no one else does.
I've spent the last 26 years of my life struggling with body image issues. Since I was 12 years old and the doctor told me I had high cholesterol, I started scrutinizing product labels, cutting out fatty food from my diet, living in a constant state of stress that I was making poor food choices. Granted, I was literally a toothpick at that stage in my life, winning physical fitness awards at school and dancing competitively. Ridiculous, right???? Well that was only the start of it.
Being a dancer is a generally bad idea for most women. It causes so many irreconcilable body issues, with the never-ending glances in the mirror, the constant badgering to "tuck your tail under" (I can't, that's my frickin' ass and yes it sticks out behind me), comparisons to the other anorexic ballerinas you spend so much time with, the measurement of your body and costume-sizing..... and on and on. I love dancing more than basically anything in the world (besides my family of course) but I have spent 32 years looking at myself in that damn mirror.
Then there was Grandma, Rest in Peace. The first time she saw me when I came home from Freshman year of college at Thanksgiving, the first words out of her mouth were, "Oh! Did your butt get bigger?" No joke. Yes, Grandma, my butt got bigger. It's called the Freshman 15. It's called, I'm a normal woman and look I even kind of have boobs now. It's called leave me the fuck alone I'm actually happy right now. And there I went again. I went back to college and learned how to use the weight machines and treadmills and elliptical machines at the gym. Oh and I was still dancing 3 days per week. Grandma didn't mean any harm, I don't think, but these statements in women's formative years and times of life literally fucks them up for, well, 20 years or so.
Then there was my stint as a vegetarian. In grad school, having made a staunch decision years before to never weigh myself but to attempt to gauge my fitness by how I felt and generally looked, I realized I was buying clothes that were bigger than before. So I decided to become a vegetarian to solve that problem. I didn't really care about meat anyways. And I lost probably 10 pounds that way, landing at about 2 pounds more than I weigh right now. I was ok with that and I decided that my "happy" weight was 125. Now I know it's more around 117-119 but that comes later. My year in grad school was amazing, inspiring, and life-altering. I discovered Buddhism, my purpose in life (compassion and service to people with disabilities), I lived alone for the first time, and I made the insane decision to move back to Australia to snag back that cute Aussie boy I'd been with 2 years before (happy ending there!). And it was the year I weighed the most I ever have (aside from pregnancy).
Speed forward 5 years. I wanted a baby. Husband wasn't ready. I decided to exert control over my life in the only way I knew how: by obsessively counting calories. I had never counted calories before, but there were neat websites who would do it for you if you just entered your intake and output. It was awesome. That is until I started telling myself to ignore that nauseous feeling I get when I'm hungry and just keep going. I called it, "Practicing hunger." How fucked up is that??? I would set goals for myself of how few calories I would have in a day. Don't worry, the lowest I ever consumed in a day was 1100. But I was also exercising 6/7 days in the week. I bought new pants and was showing them off to a friend who then said, "Where's your butt?" I had a strange combined sense of pride and fear. What was I doing????? It's VERY easy to see how quickly things can get out of control.
Then one morning husband was ready to start baby-making. Hallelujah. And I knew from obsessive research that super skinny people had a harder time getting pregnant. So I started eating full-fat yogurt and using more olive oil. After 8 months of trying and nothing happening, my mom got diagnosed with cancer. Well stress really does a number on one's body. So I was eating ok but in a constant state of fight or flight, which I believe suppressed whatever hormones are required for making someone get/stay pregnant. Finally I'm eating right and then this cancer shit comes along. Mommy passed away 4 months later and I got pregnant less than one month after that. I think deep down I blame my body issues for the fact that my mother never got to meet a grandchild. That sucks.
Fast forward to baby #2: extreme postpartum anxiety (that's a thing, who knew?). I went back to barely being able to eat. I lost the baby weight very quickly, which of course led to an inundation of, "Oh my gosh how did you lose the weight so fast?" and "wow you look amazing!" No one knew (and I wasn't allowed to say) that I would literally gag when I tried to eat and my insides were all twisted up from anxiety about parenting 2 tiny children. And that's why I got skinny that time. I dealt with it and got better. For a while.
Fast forward 17 months. Little dude is at the tail end of nursing and the girl child is finally over her daily unbelievable tantrums. And I started dry-heaving every. single. morning. I spent every morning in bed before I had to get up spinning mentally out of control. I would struggle to breathe and calm myself down while in the shower. And by the time I had to eat breakfast, if I could eat at all, I was choking it down and then promptly throwing it up. I knew this was anxiety. And this time is was serious. I got down to my lowest adult weight--111, which was very skinny for me. And yet, I would still look in the mirror and examine my sunken cheeks and prominent cheekbones and think, "Well at least I'm skinny." What the fuck?!? I could barely function at home or at work and the bright side of my life was that I was skinny. Anyways. Medication, therapy, blah blah blah and it has all been worked out.
So now I'm as fine as I've ever been since age 12 when the food paranoia/obsession started. I still have a love/hate relationship with food (mostly hate, honestly), but I have systems now to keep things under control. And I don't have time to spend obsessing about anything except preparing everything for the next day. My job is extremely stressful, my kids are extremely amazing, my husband is extremely loving, my house is extremely beautiful, and my body is extremely amazing. And I don't look at my entire naked body in the mirror. Ever. My measure of pride is what my body can DO. I made 2 incredible children and delivered them both without any drugs. I can do some awesome yoga tricks. I can run pretty fast, for a person who hates running. I can dance and do the splits and jump and turn and exude emotion through all of it. My body is STRONG. And I am actually grateful for it. Finally.
That's a long story. I've never told any human on earth all of this. Because I never felt like I was justified in doing so. But I've been through a lot. Just because I have this fit body doesn't mean I can't share the body issues that bigger women speak about. And don't assume that I haven't struggled as much as the next person to get and keep this body. Yes I have good metabolism, and good genes, and I naturally enjoy exercise. But it's taken this whole story for me to get to this point in my life of "as close to acceptance as I'm going to be" of my imperfect beautiful body.
Body image conversations need to include ALL bodies. Just sayin'.
And now back to this pizza.
Wednesday, August 10, 2016
For Marin's Mother, One Year Later
I'll never forget the phone call for the rest of my life. I knew something was horribly horribly wrong. As I answered, my heart sank into my stomach. Somehow I knew what you were going to say. With some kind of inhuman strength, you told me you had to decide to let go of your sweet baby Marin. After 13 days of fighting like a champion, she couldn't hold on any more. I had no words of consolation. What do you say to a mother about to lose their only child? There's nothing to say. There's no consolation. Only empathy, or at least sympathy. When we hung up, I wept and wept and Addy brought me the Oma Judy angel necklace and I believed, for a minute, again, in something spiritual and beyond us. To have something to hold onto that represented my mother's spirit, and could somehow connect to Marin's spirit was so powerful, and to come from my own daughter was perfection.
For those 12 days, we saw you frequently. We did laundry, we watched you eat, we watched you make milk for your baby. Every day I wished there was more I could do. No amount of chicken or detergent could solve the problem you had. It is hard to feel helpless when your best friend's heart is breaking. I didn't meet Marin in person, but I felt like I knew her. I still do. Seeing you those days made me love her deeply, because you did. You do.
Then the worst day. I waited for the news, wishing I could do something, anything, to ease the pain or make this nightmare end. When the text came from Paul, I began weeping. Stepping out into the busy hallway of the first day of school, I cried out for our friend. I told her what happened. We embraced in this hallway, amid naive high-schoolers. I didn't stop crying for a long time. I shared the message with our team, who so passionately worried about you, and Mike, for whom we were all passionately worrying. The moments passed in surreality. No way this could be true. But it was. It is.
The last year has been tumultuous to say the least. I am nothing but proud of your strength and courage every day of your life. I'm in awe of your self-analysis and the extreme dedication to healing. Very few can understand what you are actually feeling through this, both then and now, but I feel like this has been an immense year of growth and self-discovery. And I feel privileged to be here next to you as you wade slowly through it.
I have visions of you. And there's a baby. And she's yours. The images are so vivid and so real that I know they are true. She's not Marin. No one will ever be. But there is a baby. And she's also yours. I can't predict the future, and I'm not trying to. The feeling is very convincing though. The faith is strong. The spirituality is strong. No God, no Jesus. But there is Oma Judy. And there is Marin. And there is Grandma. And now there is Grandpa. In whatever realm of reality they exist, they are never far away, when we think of them and mourn them and mostly, when we celebrate them.
Hold on, my friend. Though the days shall, as they say, pass, this will not. It must not. We hold Marin so close in our hearts in everything we do; for what she taught us (love, gratitude, fragility, mortality), what she continues to teach us (inspiration, hope), and what the future holds (sister, brother). She taught you what love feels like. And the most excruciating loneliness on earth. And you keep going. You keep learning. You keep evolving. Every day you are stronger. Every day I learn from you.
My eyes are wet with tears, of course. No words can actually express the depth of emotion here. It's enough just to say her name. And feel it echo in your head and in your heart..... forever...... Marin......
