Frozen

My shoulder started hurting for no good reason around Thanksgiving. I guess it's because I'm getting old. I told my friend Jane that I was babying it a bit because I was afraid I'd torn something, and she said, "Don't baby it! That's the worst thing you could do. You might end up with a Frozen Shoulder." She gave me exercises, which of course I didn't do.

Poop.

So, this week I finally dragged myself to a doctor and found out I have....a Frozen Shoulder! Yippee! Right after giving me a shot in the shoulder and referring me to a physical therapist who would then recommend the exact same exercises Jane told me about two months ago, the doc sat down for some chit chat.

"What do you do for a living?"

I recently quit my job managing a small Christian bookstore, so I tried out something new:

"I'm a writer."

I've never said that before. It sounded strange, maybe a little bit of a stretch, but it felt good, too. I hadn't anticipated the next question, even though it was an obvious one.

"So, have you written any books?"

"Well, yes, my first book is coming out in September." Now, THAT felt great to say!

But why oh why wasn't I ready for the next question? I know I need to get used to speaking about my book. I need to not be embarrassed or ashamed about the subject matter. I need to believe that there is a reason I've been given the chance to tell my story, and that it can't help anyone if I don't share it.

Deep breath: "Well, it's a memoir about losing my son."

"Oh, I'm sorry. But I sure won't be reading it. I don't DO tragedy."

The doctor's words did not offend me. He was on the spot, in that little exam room. He had plunged into something uncomfortable and scary, when all he wanted was a few seconds of small talk. And his thoughts were not so very different from ones that I have voiced before. I mean, who wants to DO tragedy, if they can help it?

I remember that when Jack was born almost 15 years ago, I abruptly stopped watching some of my favorite shows, most notably Law and Order SVU. I just couldn't take the depravity of the world and the way it made me feel so vulnerable, especially since I had a little one to take care of now. No longer fascinated by the dark side of the human experience, I wanted to shield us from it any way I could, and covering my eyes and ears seemed like a viable option. I had to seriously limit the Oprah book club books I read, too.

I understand that the doctor doesn't want to read my book. I totally get it.

Then today, at my first physical therapy appointment, the therapist asked me how many kids I have. I had already cried when it felt like she was breaking my arm, and more tears trickled out when I said, "I used to have 2, but now I have 1." It's not what I expected to say when asked this question, as if Jack had ceased to exist in a "poof!" but it's what came out. Usually I just say "2" and leave it at that, but she and I will be seeing each other 3 times a week for a while, and I didn't want to make her feel even more awkward later with follow-up questions if I had led her to believe I had two healthy kids at home with me.

It's interesting, because in the next months, I'm going to have to figure out how to talk about what I write about. I'll have to get out behind the screen and actually talk to people. I'll be attending conferences and meeting people, and eventually promoting my book. Not only am I a horrible sales person, "Umm, you, uh, wouldn't want to buy some Girl Scout cookies, would you?" I am also reluctant to put people on the spot and make them uncomfortable.

They are such natural questions, "What do you blog about? What's your book about? How many kids do you have?" but they freak me out. The last blog conference I went to, I brought a stack of business cards that I was too chicken to give out, when people asked what I blogged about, I said, "Uh, Life," and when I wasn't hiding in my room, I tried to stick very close to people who already knew my story.

I'm thinking my honest yet awkward answers to the doctor and the physical therapist were important baby steps for me.

Do you have any suggestions? Is there a way to know if someone just wants a quick, pleasant interaction versus the truth? Do I use the same gauges I use in determining whether someone really wants to know how I'm doing or is just asking to ask?

Sign, Sign, Everywhere a Sign

We've shared a lot of signs from above on this blog and through many kind emails you've sent me. I have appreciated every single one! They have buoyed me up time and again, which I think is why we are given signs in the first place. To feel less alone. To feel cared about. Known. Held. To at once remember our very small size in this huge, mysterious universe, while also realizing that we may be small but we are in no way insignificant or forgotten.

When writing the book, I included only a few signs, even though I've experienced many, because I think sometimes their impact can be diminished or lost entirely when shared. Sometimes they are hard to explain, in a "you just had to be there" kind of way. And what is encouraging to one person, can easily sound convoluted and grasping to another. What a bummer.

I was thinking about that and how the very personal way a sign or a "god wink" speaks to one particular hurting heart in a specific moment can be why they are so hard to explain to one another. Of course that doesn't diminish the encouragement and love conveyed in that moment.

Anyway, today I remembered a god wink that I never shared with you, that I thought might be a neat way to start the day.

When Margaret had her first soccer tryouts after Jack died, she was nervous. We had spent a lot of time that first winter sitting on the couch, she'd missed a few games because of illness, and she wasn't sure if she still had what it took to make the travel team again. To pump herself up, she took a black Sharpie and wrote 4:13 on her hand. This was to remind her of a special Bible verse, "I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength." She was nervous, and she didn't feel all that strong, but she was going to show up, get out there, and try anyway!

As we drove through town toward the middle school field for tryouts, we pulled behind a fire truck. It turned, we turned. It stopped, we stopped. When we were at a stoplight, Margaret said, "Look!" There, emblazoned on the back of the truck in tall black paint, was its engine number: 413.

She smiled, I smiled, and the engine pulled into the station right next to the middle school and we continued to the field.

I'm glad Margaret noticed the number in front of her that day, matching the number on her hand. It was a moment of connection and encouragement she needed, and it reminded me to keep my eyes and heart open.

By the way, she made the team!

Ages and Stages

You might remember that Jack didn't like looking young for his age.

I told him he'd appreciate it later, much later;  lucky Tim looks about a decade younger than he is. Stinks for me. But being small and looking young rankled Jack. In his (obligatory) letters home from summer camp in 5th and 6th grade, he lamented that there were a few boys in other cabins who made fun of him. They would call out insults as Jack and his buddies walked around camp, "What are you doing with them? You look like you should be in the 2nd grade cabin!"

I know it sounds weird, but it really bothers me that Jack is "stuck" as a 12 year old in so many hearts and minds, not just because of the obvious sadness that he's not able to be alive and well with us right now, but also because I hate that he didn't get to have the growth spurt that he wanted that so badly. I wonder if he'd be embarrassed that he's remembered as a boy, not a teenager or a young man. Souls are souls are souls, and even from the first days of mothering Jack and getting to know him, his soul struck me as wise and mature, as if he'd known me for 1000 years. But in our memory, Jack is 12, and always will be.

All around me are markers of what his life could/should be like now because I see teenage boys all the time, but the truth is, we don't really know what Jack would interested in at this point. I mean, it's pretty obvious that he would have liked Minecraft or an iphone and PlayStation 4 if he'd lived long enough to experience them. But what would he be involved in in high school? Debate? Would he be running cross country? What would be his hardest class? Would he be driving us crazy? Would he have joined the youth choir at church, even though his singing was a joyful noise more than anything else?  Would he have a girlfriend? How many of our interests and loves at age 12 can define us for the rest of our lives?

***
We spent time at my sister's house for New Year's Eve. Jack's favorite cousin, just 9 months older than Jack, had gotten his learner's permit 3 days earlier. We sat in my sister's little car as he carefully chauffeured us around the neighborhood. We praised him for how long he stopped at the stop sign and how he smoothly pulled in and out of the garage. It was wonderful to share this moment with our nephew, and we are so proud of him.

But oh, the absence and lack. It was painfully obvious that he was pulling ahead of Jack once again. As he must. We discussed grown-up movies and told slightly off color stories, that would have been unthinkable just 2 1/2 years ago, but that made my nephew grin. We included him more in our adult circle than ever before. It was time. But it hurt.

And that's really what Christmas and New Year's were like. Honoring the past AND moving ahead in necessary ways. Embracing traditions like Christmas Eve lunch at Chevy's, the candlelight service at church, and watching It's a Wonderful Life together on the couch. The poem scavenger hunt to find that one last gift hidden somewhere in the house.

There is stability in knowing that I'll cry every time I hear: "To George Bailey, the richest man in town!"

But there were new parts, too, like giving Margaret the chance to connect more with friends, and our family socializing more with friends, some of whom knew Jack well, and others who didn't know him at all.

Invariably, each time we had people over to the "new" house over the holidays, someone would pull  me aside and say, "I can really sense Jack's presence here."

And it was true.

Not necessarily 12 year old Jack. Or almost 15 year old Jack. Just Jack.

Pushover, Thy Name is Anna

When the kids were little, we told them that if they asked one of us for something, didn't get the answer they wanted, and then tried to go to the other parent, the answer would always be NO. Tim and I didn't always agree, but we agreed to back each other up. This helped keep the good cop/bad cop dynamic out of our relationship with the kids. And we were consistent with a NO BADGERING rule, too. Badgering = Not a chance.

Then we got Shadow.

From early on, it has been clear Shadow loves Tim best. He is her Alpha. We tested this theory a few times by each taking a piece of dog food, and scattering to hide in four different areas of the house. We would make little noises and see whom she would find first. Always, always Tim. Her fave.

Tim is firm with Shadow, and she adores and respects him. Me? Not so much. Shadow does not give me the time of day unless she wants something. I'm like the indulgent grandma who has taken things too far. And what does Shadow want? Food. Always food. If Tim and I are both home when she wants to eat, suddenly I become Miss Popular.  She comes to find me because she knows I will break down and feed her earlier than Mr.Scheduled. In an instant, I become the most fabulous, adored pet Mom in the entire world.

Things have gotten out of hand since I started working from home a few months ago. Shadow starts jonesing for her evening meal around noon. Noon! I try to lay low and keep my motions to a minimum, because any trip to the bathroom or the fridge seems to awaken her desire for dinner.

In the past, I would get home from work and school pickup around 3:30. That seemed at least in the dinner-zone, so I would indulge her. After all, she'd been shut up in the house all day, and I felt sorry for her.

But now we are home together all day, and I know what to expect. First she gets off her dog bed, which is next to my desk. Then she stands next to me, looking so cute with her big amber eyes. Then she starts to talk, "Mwwoorrarooar. "Which I guess means 'food.'

I talk back.

I am firm: "No!" "Go sit down!" I reason with her: "If I feed you now, it's going to be a looooooong time before breakfast tomorrow! You'll regret it."  But if  I don't hop up immediately to feed her, she starts to bark, and bark, and bark.

And I break down.

I know it's kind of embarrassing that I don't let children badger me into things, but more often than not, I give in to Shadow. I tried earplugs. Bark. Bark. Bark. I tried putting her outside. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark. I tried conducting my life from a table at Panera to avoid the whole issue.

The earliest I've given in was at 1 pm, okay maybe 12:55 during a conference call, when one of the other participants suggested I perhaps should go take care of my dog. Bark. Bark. Bark.

I know I'm teaching Shadow that I'm a pushover. "That Lady in the slippers gives me food when I bark! Yay! Let me not slacken in my barking! My barking works! Best barker ever!"

I'm hoping with Tim home more over Christmas break, we can get Shadow back on her old routine.

If not, I could always do what my sister, who is the dog-Mom of Shadow's sister does, hide in the car checking Facebook until she reaches a respectable feeding time.

Different

Margaret and Tim were making snickerdoodles after church yesterday when they ran out of flour. We decided to borrow from one of our neighbors rather than go to the store, so Margaret and I bundled up and traipsed across the street. My neighbor apologized for the huge pile of blankets in her hallway, and I laughed, thinking of all of the times Jack, Margaret, and friends had stirred up our old house, moving things around as part of a game. I glanced to the right, and saw that three kids had set up a sort of ramp of pillows, blankets and couch cushions to slide down the carpeted stairs to the basement.

As Margaret and I carried the flour back home, I started to cry quietly. I think she thought I was missing Jack, which of course I was, because it was hard and wonderful to see those cute boys who reminded me so much of him, but I was missing her old life, too, when there were made-up games to occupy a Sunday afternoon. Kids around the kitchen table cracking each other up, talking about nothing and everything. When Margaret had the easy give and take of kids in and out of our home, and the noise and chaos they brought with them.

Our house is quiet now. We use electronics to fill the hours and the silence. With the exception of the clothes strewn all over Margaret's floor, and the shoes Shadow insists on stashing around the house, things pretty much stay in their places now, which is nice, except when it isn't.

People talk of the hustle and bustle of these days leading up to Christmas, but we don't really feel it.

But we make plans. We go to a play and out to dinner. We go to church. Tim and Margaret bake delicious cookies from the recipe she learned in Home Ec.

We're doing okay.

We're doing.

It's just very different. And different takes more getting used to than one might think.

The Season

NOTE: Mary Dawn Carrier, you won the beautiful Holly Lane Designs pendant. I haven't been able to reach you. Please email me so I can send it to you.

Sorry to shout. I just really want Mary Dawn to get her pendant.

So, how's it going?

There's so much hustle and bustle all around, I wonder if we are even reading blogs this close to Christmas? I am. But I'm not all that hustle-y or bustle-y this year, so I may not be a good one to ask.

Right now I'm more p.j.-y and avoid-y. I don't have many presents to buy, which makes me feel down, and it's not helped by all of the frantic ads on t.v. which make me feel like I. NEED. TO. SHOP. NOW. for my full and bountiful life! I headed out to Bed, Bath, and Beyond yesterday, with no agenda but clutching my 20% off coupon in my hand. Before long, I found a bunch of stuff I wanted... for myself. Spirit of giving, I say.

I decided not to send cards this year, so that doesn't feel very festive, and I've been in a bit of a holding pattern with book revisions, which may or may not be freaking me out. So, I've spent December thus far watching a lot of tv and going to various yearly doctor's appointments. Oh, and buying new tires. I never realized I had oversized, fancy tires on my car until it was pointed out to me at three different tire establishments (ka-ching!). Please notice their radiant beauty if you see me around town.

This weekend our family will attend a play together, our fourth year doing so. I think that may get me in the mood. I haven't done anything for Advent, and I can really feel the difference in my spirit, and not in a good way. It's so easy to lose any wonder of the season and see the Christmas Story as, well, just another story.

So today I'm sharing a beautiful post written by a blogger and frequent reader of An Inch of Gray. Kelly Cone, from The Cone Zone, writes how she saw Christmas in a new way while sharing the Christmas Story with her foster children.

You will love it! Seriously, go read it! You and I can catch up more later.

I hope you are doing well, whether you are feeling overwhelmed or, like me, kind of under-whelmed this month.

The Radio

I had an emergency radio. I bought it from L.L. Bean, and it had a hand crank-- no batteries needed. It had a flashlight, an alarm signal, and a place you could plug in a cellphone to charge. It came in a small black case and made me feel prepared. For what, I'm not so sure. I envisioned it would be useful in a blizzard, a hurricane or a terrorist attack.

Perhaps I thought that in buying such a thing, I was sending out a message to the universe that I'd done my due diligence, so any crisis could/should just move right along please. I carried it from house to house in my young mothering like I'd moved my dog-eared junior high folder with CPR instructions in it, making a mental note to myself when the guidelines dropped the 2 breath standard in favor of just chest compressions. Surely, if I'd carried that green folder off to college, and grad school, and into home ownership and motherhood, I'd be off the hook from actually having to perform CPR, from the terrifying privilege of having to save a life.

I write this today because on the balmy afternoon and evening of Jack's accident, it never crossed my mind to get out the emergency radio. We were tucked in our cozy home. We were laughing. We were snacking. Yes, we were experiencing very strange and notable weather, but it just didn't click with me that there could be danger on our plain little cul de sac. Life seemed so normal. So relaxed. So hopeful.

Perhaps the radio could have alerted me to just how bad the situation was, if I'd bothered to turn it on. Maybe it could have snapped me to attention. Who knows? Like my neighbors up and down the street, who sent their kids out in the rain to play, I was living in the middle of an emergency situation without even realizing it.

I guess the radio didn't do the real job I bought it for.

Zipped up in its little black case, among the kids' backpacks and sports equipment, it didn't serve as any kind of insurance policy that bad things wouldn't happen to our family.