Fragile

 

 I lost a beautiful friend to sudden death this week. In the blink of an eye she was gone. Her family and all her friends will miss her terribly.

It transported me to the moments and days after Jack's accident and the profound disbelief and disorientation we experienced as our minds struggled to grasp what had happened.

It got me thinking about sudden death versus the long goodbye. It does no good comparing them and wondering if one is better or worse. They both suck.

But I still thought about them.

In sudden death, I think perhaps it takes longer to get used to the fact that this is not just a bad dream, whereas with a slow descent there may have been time to start to process that death was coming. I bet the end is a shock regardless.

There's  a lot of pain and sadness that accompanies the fight to keep someone you love alive. Even one week after Jack's death, I was already conscious of the fact that we had never had to go to a hospital with him, never had to step foot in an ER or ICU, never had to make decisions about artificial means to keep him alive. Instead, he was here, then the police in our family room were telling us he was gone.

While I yearned for the chance to say goodbye, to make sure I told him, once again, that I loved him and that nothing between us was left unsaid, I felt the relief of never having to convince him that procedures and treatments that were scary or painful could make him better. That he'd have to stay out of school and away from his friends to avoid germs. That his body was failing but his spirit was strong. I didn't have to lose Jack by degrees the way too many parents do, with the losses piling up day by day until a small body can't take it any more.

I pondered whether the "Wham, Bam, He's gone Ma'am" aspect of Jack's death was part of a plan to spare us because Tim and I were so ill-equipped to deal with complications. Second opinions. Research. We are both the youngest children in our families of origin and we tend to get hopeless and exhausted, daunted by even the smallest of tasks.

I used to joke that no one in our marriage was able to return pants. Or deal with customer service reps. So I wonder how we would have held up if faced with insurance companies and treatment plans and specialists if Jack had had cancer rather than being in an accident. Would we have done a good job caring for him?  I like to think we would do what parents do, despite the fear and exhaustion. Fight for our kids. Buoy them up when we have nothing left in our own reserves. But I don't know. So maybe God was sparing us that, most likely not.

I will say I think that whole, "God only gives us what we can handle" thing is a bunch of crap. Do we really think moms and dads with kids with cancer want to hear the flawed logic that their kid is enduring so much because Mom and Dad are just so darn strong?!? No way.

Our family got the shock of sending a perfectly healthy child out to play and having him never come home.  Yet Jack didn't have to know he would die young. We never had to look in those huge brown eyes and say to him, "Jack, it's okay to let go." I guess I'm grateful for that.

But comparing is useless.

Death is death and there is ALWAYS something so wrong about a child dying, whether from an accident, murder, or a terrible disease.


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I have dear friends who are involved with the following organizations. The first two come alongside families whose children are fighting cancer, by providing practical and financial help. The third funds research to find cures for Childhood Cancers. Perhaps you would be able to support them today!

http://www.stillbrave.org/home.html

http://www.fairygodmotherproject.org/

http://www.curesearch.org/

Easing In

It's weird that with all of the end of the year talk of busy-ness and the scramble to get everything done, I haven't been feeling that way at all. I've taken a break from a lot of things, and Margaret isn't super busy (her school doesn't get out until LATE June-- yuck). It's weird to not be needed every second. That feeling was hard to imagine when the kids were younger and they were all up in my business, but it's kind of a quiet empty nest-y feeling and I can't say that I care for it.

We have sports a couple of days a week, church activities on Sundays, and that's about it. I've been working on getting advance reader copies of  my book out, and coming up with some marketing strategies. I realize I get more done when I'm busier, if that makes sense, so I may need to beef up my schedule a bit. And while I know there is a time for slowing down and making space in one's life,  it's not as if I'm at home praying and contemplating all day or even going to an exercise class.

I'm just being quiet in my house, doing laundry, and waiting. Not sure for what.

While I was waiting last week, I painted two very sturdy, lovely end tables from Hickory Chair Company. They looked very good as-is, even though they had some scratches and cosmetic damage on their surfaces. They were very shiny and formal, however, and I don't think that look is selling these days. I thought they might be more likely to find a new home if I painted them a soft gray.

Before:

After:

Ooh! I hope someone special loves them as much as I do.

I hope your week is starting off well. Mine began with a 9 am mammogram, so I think that counts as hitting the ground running (squeezing?).

Love Flash Mob!

One of the best things people have done for me since Jack died is to help me feel LESS ALONE. Life and grief and loss and pain can be so isolating, and even though I know God is always with me, I need to know his children are, too, rooting for our family, praying, noticing.

Points of connection, no matter how small, scatter flashes of light and stave off the darkness.

Today I had the chance to take part in a Love Flash Mob over at Momastery. I smiled to think that my small donation, only $25, would make a significant difference in women's lives. Their stories were compelling, and I could put my friends' faces on their faces, my daughter's name, or my sister's  or name in the circumstances of need described there.

It's so easy to feel that our small part can't do any real good. For many years, that thought paralyzed me. Now, I realize love begets love, and there is beauty in even the smallest gestures.

The Love Flash Mob is still going on for just a few more hours and they need more donations to meet the goal! Will you consider making a small donation? In fact, NO donations over $25 are accepted, so that more people will be able to take part.

Love and Hugs.

Lessons from my Mother

I only had 18 years to learn from my mother, and I worried when we lost her so suddenly one May day, that maybe her mothering of me might not "stick." These life lessons were not ever spoken aloud; they were "caught" not "taught." In many ways I am more closed than she was, more insular, more grasping and fearful. Yet in the 26 years since her death, I know that we are more alike than we are different, and that I'm still learning from her.

1. People matter. Whether you are talking to the bus driver, the garbage man, the head pastor, or an eight year old child, show that you are interested in them as people, not because of their status or what they can do for you. My mom was a cheerleader. Homecoming queen. She married an oral surgeon and lived in a big house. She could have been exclusive, a Queen Bee, but she wasn't.  She was down to earth, consistent, and genuine.

2. You are enough on your own, and there's enough of you to go around. Even though I'm sure she had the usual doubts and insecurities, my mother operated with a level of security in herself that snuffed out drama before it had the chance to flame up. She cultivated her own interests. She had no thirst or time for soul-sucking friendships or possessiveness.

3. Operate out of abundance, not lack. Widening a circle and opening up our house (to her teenage kids' friends, the 80 year old former babysitter who decided she needed a break from her husband, the exchange student stuck in an unhealthy living situation) did not mean there was LESS for our family, but MORE.

4. Laugh. Be silly. Let your high school boy and his friends try to eat spaghetti through their noses and play tunes with their farts. Break into song now and then. Play Pictionary with a table full of teenagers. Let your kids make big messes and medium-sized mistakes.

5. Small gestures mean a lot. Whether she was dropping off armfuls of pussy willow branches at a friend's house ("Hi! I have some nice pussies for you!" Oh dear Lord, kill my 13 year old self right now, please)-- writing notes to our friends when they were away at college, or making a tiny flower arrangement in a teacup for my bedside table-- Mom knew that it's the little things, not the grand gestures, that make people feel loved.

6. Who needs a purse when you have a bra? Keys? Metro tickets? No telling what she would pull out of her generous bosom. I'm not as well endowed  she was, but my bra still serves as a  good storage area in a pinch.

7. You will love your kids equally, but they don't have to be the same. When I vied desperately to secure the most favored daughter status by trying to put down my sister, my mother would have none of it, "Quit trying so hard. Nothing you can do will make me love you more, and nothing your sister does can make me love her less." She got a kick out of our individual personalities, strengths and weaknesses, and did not compare us or play us against each other.

8. Life doesn't have to be BIG to be meaningful. She never held a high-powered job. She never went on a single exotic vacation, traveled the world, or met famous people, but she is still remembered all of these years later for how she made people feel.

9. Take the high road, but also be real. She could have pulled us in many times with bitterness, gossip and negativity, but she didn't. She was judicious with her words. But even in her restraint, she didn't act fake. She was known for speaking hard truths in church meetings, calling out bullshit, and cutting to the chase.

10. Be a friendly mom, but be a MOM not a friend. Don't try to be cool by buying your kids alcohol or hosting keg parties at your house. Just be present, accessible, and ready to listen. Being flexible, safe, and non-judgmental, NOT COOL, is why teenagers wanted to be around her.

11. Your friends don't have to look like you or act exactly like you.  Sure, it was mortifying when my mom would drop a line like, "Well Sheila, my lesbian friend, got a new job." Ugh. So embarrassing, Mom, you know you can leave off the lesbian part, right? But she wanted us to know she had friends from all races, religions, sexual orientations, and political persuasions.

12. Putting people down does not build you up. Ever.

13. Trust God. When you put your trust in God, you are not led to catastrophize when your kids aren't behaving the way you want them to. Each report card, curse word, and ugly sneer doesn't lead you down the path of picturing your children in Juvie or beyond. There is freedom in trusting God with our kids.

14. Don't try to be perfect. She was known for her great taste in clothes and her decorating sense, but our house was often chaotic with papers and pets and sports equipment everywhere. She eventually learned how to just pull our bedroom doors shut and have a good exterminator on call. Acting perfect doesn't do anyone any favors.

15. The most important things in life aren't things. Mom loved beautiful things, but when they broke, we never got the idea that she cared more about them than about us. Instead of screaming at us when the STERLING SILVER teaspoons started to disappear out of the china cabinet, she challenged us to go on a treasure hunt in the sandbox and offered us and our friends a dollar for each one that we found. Stainless steel only got a quarter.

16. Wear comfortable shoes. Her long, gorgeous legs looked stunning in heels. But high heels can make you cranky after a while, so why not have a pair of comfy shoes on hand? p.s. Nothing beats a cozy pair of knee socks in winter.  

17. Teenage girls are a wreck. Let the sputum and venom roll off of you. Don't engage, don't pout about it, and don't let them define you. One day they will grow up and realize how smart you were.

18. You don't have to be good at everything as an adult, so why feel like you must as a kid? My mother was a self-professed Spanish and typing drop-out. Her spelling wasn't so hot either. There were so many things she was good at, but it wasn't EVERYTHING, and that gave us permission to be mediocre (or worse) at a lot things too.

19. Life is scary, but try anyway. Starting her own small business, taking us to NYC on the train and figuring out how to get tickets to a Broadway show, convincing a bank executive to give her a credit card in her own name, may seem like small things to us now, but they were scary at the time. Mom got scared. She faced challenges. Her life in her 40's most likely didn't look like she'd pictured it in her 20's, but she didn't give up.

Mid-Life Marital Musings

Shortly after Tim and I started dating at Wake Forest, he had to get his wisdom teeth pulled. I set myself up as his nurse, making sure he took his medicine on time and had plenty of soft food to eat. It was my pleasure to help him in his doped-up state, and I even bought his favorite pudding flavor-- pistachio. The little pistachio bits were not safe for him to eat, so I sifted through the powdery mix, picking out each one before preparing it, chilling it in the fridge, then feeding it to his adorable, grateful self.

Twenty-three years later, I am guessing that I would not jump at the chance to spare his gaping bloody tooth sockets from wayward pistachio slivers as I once did.

Why is that?

I think years of busy-ness and scorekeeping and nurturing the heck out of small children somehow leave little room for thoughtfulness for each other. I think people are generally wired selfishly, and each day is a struggle against a me-first attitude. And our culture leaves us asking every day, "What's in this for ME?" rather than "What can I do for others?" So when we feel spent, as we often do, we don't go around looking for ways to serve our spouse.

And before I get mean comments about what a terrible, horrible, no-good wife I am, I'd also venture to guess that the same guy who used to show up at my apartment window, rapping on the glass with a box of my favorite Little Debbie Swiss Cake rolls, also left the building quite a few years back.

The truth is, it's easy to forget about the little things that make our partners happy, especially as the years pass. But life really is about the little things, rather than the grand gestures, not that grand gestures now and then hurt.

As parents, we quickly learn what it's like to put someone else's needs above ours, and we are glad to do it. It springs from our deep well of love for our children. And as we pour ourselves into them, we have no guarantee that our efforts and love will come back to us in any measureable way. But we do it anyway. We can't score-keep in parenthood, because the scales would never be balanced, and we don't expect them to be. I don't mean to imply that parents don't need to nourish and take care of themselves, but that giving of ourselves to our children, although challenging, feels good, and right, and holy.

In marriage, however, we wonder if giving to our partner first will in some way diminish us and our claim for fairness or personhood or...something.

In the clunky yet thought-provoking movie Fireproof a few years back, I saw how one spouse lavished love and thoughtfulness on another with humility and without agenda, and the relationship thawed and blessings followed. Problem was, I wanted to be the one being lavished upon, not doing the lavishing. And Tim had fallen asleep on the couch, so he missed that part.

I know I could do that more, not in my own strength, but with God's help.

But most days it seems so risky to put myself back in those early days and ask myself, WWTTYAD? (what would twenty-two year old Anna do?). Because, well, what if it requires more than I want to give?

One day our house will be empty except for the two of us. It will be even quieter than it is now, and believe me it's quiet now.

And as we age, and more things fall apart, sag, disappear-- and dignity and bravado give way to need and struggle and illness-- we will be presented with many more opportunities to show each other help and grace in the smallest ways, serving each other.

It reminds me of how my grandpa used to use a curling iron to curl the back of my wee grandma's hair. Not too far removed from how Tim already colors my roots for me, right?

I don't know where this post is going.

I just know that our hours on earth are numbered. And I'm thinking I'd like to be remembered as someone who loved-- someone who would pick out pistachio slivers for her partner-- rather than someone who is worried about what's in it for her.

It's Complicated

Last fall I got shingles again-- twice.

I think the stress and sadness of packing up Jack's room and moving away from the house we loved did me in. Recovery was pretty quick, but I was left with neuropathy on my upper back. It is a constant burning, tingling sensation that gets worse as the day goes along.

Then in November, my shoulder became frozen somehow. After weeks of physical therapy (ouch!) I had regained almost all of  my range of motion. Until I fell on black ice in my driveway, aggravating the frozen shoulder and injuring my OTHER shoulder.

It has been weird to be in almost constant pain. Not excruciating pain, but pain nonetheless. Sleep is the worst, because my shoulders wake me up throughout the night. I'm going to see an orthopedist today and will probably end up back in physical therapy again to break up the scar tissue. I'll let you know what I find out.

So, I've been thinking about chronic pain. The neuropathy has been around for 8 months now, the shoulder pain for about 6, so it's not like I've been in pain forever. But it's easy while in the midst of it to think that maybe it won't get better. I just don't know.

Also, it's as if no one in my house remembers that I'm in pain, or as if their interest had a very short shelf-life. Soooooo, do I wince as I move my arms and groan as I toss Advil in my mouth at bedtime? Will that gain me some measure of acknowledgment, or just make me look like a baby? If I were bleeding from the head or had a gaping chest wound, I think it might attract some notice, but my upper-body woes don't even get a, "How are you feeling?"

I have a friend who has dealt with debilitating headaches for well over a decade. I don't ask her about it every time I see her. Does she even want me to? How do I let her know that I know when I see her out and about that it has taken her a lot of effort? When she was going around to a parade of doctors, and spending time at the Mayo Clinic hooked up to a bunch of electrodes, perhaps then people asked her about her headaches more often. But what about in the day in and day out of being a wife, mother, and managing her pain? What about my friends with Lyme's Disease, RA, and MS?

Maybe they want me to ask, maybe they don't. I don't want to talk about my pain constantly-- I just want the people in my home to mention it with a sympathetic head shake, an "I'm sorry," or quiet cluck-clucking noises once every couple of weeks.

All of this thinking about pain has led me to think of grief.

When I actively had shingles, in all their oozy itchiness, it was easy to say, "I need to rest; I have shingles," or right after I hurt my shoulder, "Sorry, I need to go ice my shoulder now."

Similarly, in the days, weeks and months after Jack's death, our pain was right on the surface. I would venture to guess it might even have been visible, our anguish showing up on our faces and leaking out in tears. Now it is beneath the surface, ever present but not acute. Our pain has lessened considerably, but it is not going away.

I've learned a little about Complicated Grief , and that people suffering from it have symptoms ranging from suicidal thoughts, inability to enjoy life, anxiety, and difficulty with daily living. Complicated grief can happen to anyone, but certain risk factors are: an unexpected or violent death, a close or dependent relationship to the one who died, and a lack of resilience.

The symptoms I've mentioned here are not at all unusual while grieving, but they become Complicated when they don't ease up over time, causing the person to get stuck.  Some signs that someone is grieving, but is not experiencing complicated grief, would be that the person is somehow adjusting to his/her new reality,  the person is allowing himself/herself to experience the pain of the loss, and that he or she is able to maintain relationships with other people.

But, I wonder, is grief (straightforward, un-complicated grief) a chronic condition?

I think perhaps it is, because I know the pain and the gaping Jack Donaldson-sized hole will be part of me forever. Loving him so much means that space can't be filled with something or someone else. However, the hopelessness and the bitterness have abated, along with my magical thinking and ardent desire for time travel (well, maybe not entirely!). I don't feel stuck in my grief, and I am able to experience joy in a way that didn't seem possible two years ago.

If my grief is indeed chronic, I will remind myself that people deal with chronic conditions every day. They bravely learn to adapt, to live with the pain and manage it as best they can. Their symptoms may in many cases be invisible, but the fact that they are functioning and living life fully is a visible testament to their resilience and adaptability. I can do that.

Now if I could just hook my bra without wincing.

Clothes-Call Tuesday

Talk about putting the cart before the horse!

In a fit of procrastination, I was cruising the net and found the perfect dress for when Rare Bird comes out in September.

Sure, it's a spring dress and the book launch is more than 4 months away, but it is so very cute, and it has birds on it! Now I just need to turn in these final edits tomorrow so I'll have an occasion to wear it!

I got it from eShakti, and I do believe I have found a website that is truly a pear-shaped woman's best friend. Instead of being all MAD that I stayed inside eating all winter, I can just go a little MAD MEN and hide some stuff under the full skirt. And by Mad Men I mean Betty Draper circa 1962 not Megan Draper circa 1969 in a miniskirt and go-go boots. Whew.

Margaret says it's too long, and I agree it could be about 2 inches shorter. I think the heels help. What do you think?

If you haven't pre-ordered a copy of Rare Bird for you and your 50 closest friends (ha!), go for it!

This dress can't languish in my closet forever, right?

I hope you had a lovely Easter and that these sunny days are putting a smile on your face.

If you need a little more of a reason to smile, please let me add a little postscript to this fashion post and present to you a photo of Tim in a baby-poop brown automotive jumpsuit handed down to him by his almost 75 year old dad. Those Donaldson men sure cut a dashing figure.

You're welcome.