A Thanksgiving Prayer

Although excitement (peppered with dread) over Thanksgiving is building, we are having another calm moment in our household. 

Anthony is...Anthony.  We continue to manage his anxiety - some days well, some days not so well.  We continue to balance his needs with...everything else as best we can everyday.  He is ok right now.  There is a good chance of getting through November and December without having to adjust anyone's medication (for once).

I know that this first holiday season without my father-in-law and without John will be difficult.  The wounds are still pretty raw.  Chris and I are managing to keep it together for our day-to-day schedule right now, but I know that the craziness of celebrating these next few weeks will amplify every emotion and memory.

This "being an adult thing" means I need to figure out how to heal without stopping every day Life.  I have to grieve while working, cooking, nurturing, lecturing about eye-rolling, band-aiding, toasting Eggos (which we should buy stock in, btw, for as many as we eat), and daily planning...

This is painful... and hard...and a blessing.  I am grateful that I am denied the opportunity to wallow, as wallowing is oft my wont (I really like that phrase).

So, my challenge is to quietly acknowledge those tough moments while remembering the fun ones.  (Remember when John stuck gummy worms up his nose at the Thanksgiving table while Mom was talking to Great-Aunt Margaret on the phone, and we all got in so much trouble? Sweet Aunt Margaret was quite deaf so Mom was screaming (she was the original screaming zen momma) her side of the conversation while shooting us daggers with her eyes.) 

I want to lovingly respect the mark these men have made on my Life (Remember how Mr. Carrico loved Planes, Trains, and Automobiles?  He could practically recite the movie by heart.  We always watched it together or called each other when we were watching it on Thanksgiving.  He giggled uncontrollably at the same place in the movie every year.)

I slipped seamlessly from Thanksgivings with John to Thanksgivings with Mr. Carrico when I got married.  They are both large parts of those seasonal traditions.  It makes me so sad to know that's gone.

However, it is important  that I celebrate the Thanksgiving in front of me.  It is the most sacred of holidays (holy days) to me; partly because almost every happy childhood memory associated with it is untainted with any guilt or loss or shame; partly because it has always been so special to my family; but mainly because thanks giving is what I feel Life comes down to.






My Thanksgiving Prayer
Look down my table 
The table at which I am sitting right now
not at the table I was last year
not at the table I wish I could be 
This one 
Right here

Look at these people
The people at whom I am looking right now
not at the people I saw last year
not at the people I miss in my heart
These people
Right here

Thank you






Now, let's eat...

Letting Go of Letting Go

I'm at that stage of grief where I feel... better. There are days where I feel...happy.

I am not crying all the time. I am not sad all the time. I am not slugging through my grief all the time.

As I write those sentences, I have this overwhelming sense of shame.
How could I possibly be happy?
What kind of sister am I?


There is this weird comfort in grief that is slightly addictive.  I have given myself lots of passes since July.  I have avoided major decisions, long-term planning, and unpleasantness in general all in the name of healing and grieving.  I need to rejoin the human race.  It is time.

...But I feel guilty...
Guilty that he died and I am still here.
Guilty that I am stress-testing and checking out my heart because he died.
Guilty that anything good can come of his dying so young.


I feel good, and I feel bad about feeling good, and not just from guilt.

There is an additional sense of loss as the worst of my grief fades.  Unconsciously, I feel myself holding on to the pain, scared I will lose that sense of closeness to John.  I find myself worried about what will be left of him in my heart when the sadness goes.


And, of course, the rational (and occasionally wise) part of me knows...  I know John would want me to live.  I know John would want me to take care of myself.  I know John would want me to be happy.

I know that deliberately prolonging my pain is no testimonial of my love for him.

I know on the other side of the River Grief is a place where I can remember him with a smile.
I know that I will never completely lose him.

Right now, I am scared and ashamed.  But I know that I am not alone.  So many people have traveled this path. I find deep comfort in knowing that.

Testing...Testing

Part I
Can you get an A on a stress test?

I am going for a stress test tomorrow. Tell a teacher she needs a test (any test) and she will try to study for it. I have been eating quite healthily the past few days and walking extra fast during exercise. I do NOT want to be the 40-year-old who passes out on the treadmill. I am not worried...really. I am not sure what I think or feel about this test. I am not sure what I want from this test. I know that my doctor thinks it is a good idea, and my husband very, very much wants me checked out. I guess my best hope is

to get to know my heart better...to respect my body by learning more about it.

I will be honest. I am not looking forward to it, but I recognize the good that can come out of it (and Chris is going with me). :)

Part II

I talked to Anthony's speech therapist today. I just wanted to check in with her to see how he is doing. She has not finished the beginning of the year tests yet, but she has some results.

When we first started with speech therapy two years ago, we had many speech concerns. One of the biggest worries was his receptive communication. On average, 3 year olds have higher receptive language than expressive language. In other words, most preschoolers understand more than they can say. In Anthony, that was not the case. His receptive language was lower than his expressive. During his first round of testing, he scored three standard deviations below the mean in receptive language. His language was less than the 5th percentile. For non-stats people, that is quite far below his age group. Right now, his receptive language is testing just ONE standard deviation below the mean. He is testing at the 40th percentile for his age group.

I was ecstatic! This is amazing news to me. I had not dared to hope that he would be catching up at this rate. He is clearly working very hard and I am so proud of him. And, of course, I am extremely relieved that he is progressing faster than he is aging...

As I was mentally cartwheeling all the way home, I realized how much motherhood has changed me. That I am a reformed grade-grubbing, score-crazy overachiever tickled pink for her son scoring in the 40th percentile. I swear this kid could win the Nobel Peace Prize and this will be the moment I remember as my proudest...


Scores...grades...tests

They are necessary. We need to know where we can improve. We should identify areas of concern. Once all the useful information is obtained, though, I find it a good idea to let them go. They are a snapshot of one aspect of myself. They do not measure anything important about who I really am.

There is no grade for Life...I think. If there is, I'm really hoping for some extra credit right before the final.

Love Your Heart

"...hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize."
-Beloved by Toni Morrison


(heartbroken)



The walls of my mind are papered with hearts these days.

(heartsick)

My father died of a heart attack when he was 38. My mother died of lung and heart disease when she was 52. We have had an aunt and an uncle die in their 40s. And (a lifetime) 2 and 1/2 months ago, my sweet brother John's heart betrayed him.

(heartache)

I want to love my heart, but mostly I sit in the dark and listen to her beating (how many more).



I kiss my children (heart of hearts) and smile (heavy heart).
I search the faces and voices of those I love (near to my heart), desperately trying to see into their veins (get to the heart).
I keep reminding myself to focus, to care (have a heart), keep trying to be a better person (take heart).
I strive not to take my Life for granted (cross my heart).



But I have to admit that sometimes I am afraid (don't lose heart).
I still love it here (heart's content).
I want to see my children grow (pour out my heart).



And yet, I have lived an amazing Life, so full of joy and love (open-hearted) than I ever imagined when I was little (eat my heart out).
I found Chris (heart and soul), and he found me, and we saved each other in so, so many ways (heart in the right place).



I still cry easily (heart on my sleeve) and I am afraid (steel my heart), but I think I can love my heart.

Right now, I have this moment (heartbeat).
I'll take it.

Faking It...

Parenting is the greatest form of hum-a-few-bars-and-I'll-fake-it-skills.

Duma Key by Stephen King

...and fake it I do...

Today, we went to a checkup with Anthony's developmental pediatrician.  I love this guy.  I adore this guy.  I lurve this guy (Woody Allen reference).  He listens to what I am saying while looking me in the eyes.  He "gets" Anthony and cares about my boy's comfort level now and the long term view of his overall health.

Anthony has not been doing well at home the past couple of weeks.  We are back to the brittle, fragile, emotional child we had seen in the spring.  It doesn't take too much thought to come up with the reasons why.  The past two months have found us leaving him with a friend for several days, taking a week-long family trip to Michigan, taking a trip to Kentucky, and starting kindergarten.  Add that to a mommy that cries during Umi Zoomi, I think we found a reason for some anxiety.

The good news is that he is doing great at school.  He is very quiet, but will communicate.  He is not showing any abnormally anxious behavior at school.

I took that information to the doctor, and he suggested we increase the medication. I wasn't floored, but I was certainly surprised. I asked the doctor if time could make these "at-home" behaviors better, and he replied "yes, but at what cost? And how long will we have to wait for that?"

Those words helped me view this whole "medication" thing differently. I had an epiphany, as my friend Amy likes to say.

This medication is (and always has been) just a small comfort. Of course, this medication is optional. The same way a visual schedule is optional. The same way a predictable bedtime routine is optional. These are ways to help Anthony handle a world that does not make sense to him right now. Someday, he will be able to fill in these holes for himself. We thought so long and hard about medicating Anthony, that it was easy to overlook the long-term benefits of creating a childhood for him that was not completely awash in fear and confusion.

Of course I am faking it. But I realized today that every parent is faking it. None of us really have concrete answers. We show up (as my sister-in-law Rose often says), we love these little people as hard as we can, and we fake it...

The Threshing Floor

But if in your fear you would seek only love's peace and love's pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you cover your nakedness and pass out of love's threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you shall laugh, but not all your laughter, and weep, but not all your tears.

The  Prophet by Kahlil Gibran

This is one of my favorite quotes. (I know.  I say that often.  I love quotes.)

I have very few items on my bucket list, save this last phrase.  I very much want to "laugh all my laughter and weep all my tears."  It is my best hope for my Life.  I have seen too many people I love shellac their hearts after loss out of fear and pain.  I can't say I don't understand.  I can't say it isn't tempting.  But I want to choose differently. (timshel)

As Hurricane Grief continues to shake my roots, I am pretty sure I am weeping all my tears.  I cry at the drop of a hat.  No yoga session is without tears.  Very few rides into work are dry-eyed.  I am so uber-sensitive to casual remarks that tears sometimes appear in my eyes before I can fight them back.  

Lately, though, the saltwater rain passes more and more quickly.  I am learning not too fight too hard.  

I am learning to just let the storm wash over me.  It means letting people see me cry in places like Wal-Mart. (Just don't tell me if you see me on the people of Wal-Mart website, please.)  It means crying in my van.  It means crying in more public places than I ever have.  Sometimes it is embarassing, but not nearly as much as I thought it would.  No one really stares (especially in Wal-Mart).

As a painful as it is, I trust myself.  I can make it through with my heart open.  My world is not seasonless...  I am so grateful to be here.

So grateful that I cry at Born This Way (I know.  I said that before.  I still cry.  Those lyrics get to me.)

So grateful that I choke up when I am with my friends that I love so much.

So grateful that I tear up when Anthony's teacher sends home a note to tell us he's been announcing the "weather report" in his class every morning over the microphone.  It justs makes me so proud that he is brave enough to talk in front of his class like that.

This process is hard.  As my sister-in-law says, "we hurt so much because we love so much.  And it is worth it. 

The Other Side of Timshel

I am not doing well.  That happens with grief sometimes.  I am going along and I am ok.
Then, suddenly, I am very much not ok.

Right now, I am not ok.

I am struggling to sleep, to act normally, to stop bursting into tears, to make sense of Life, to keep reassuring myself that this is worth it.

I know that Rilke said, "Just keep going - no feeling is final".  But the contrary part of me thinks, why?    Just keep going toward what?  More pain?  More loss?  More failure?  I know I should feel that this is all worth it, but some days I feel like such a sham.

I can speak a good game about "thou mayest", but my broken heart is screaming  "F$%# timshel".  I am sad and mad and confused.  It takes so much energy just to get out of bed the past couple of days that I don't have anything left over.

Grief kills empathy with a chainsaw.

I.just.don't.care...



I want to try to care.  The care simply costs too much sometimes.  I can't pay the price today.

When I insisted a few weeks ago "I'm ok" to a good friend, she corrected me.
"You are not ok, but you will be."
The one thing I can do today is hold that idea.
I can hold it carefully in my hands, and try not to drop it.