Category Archive

I was talking the other night to a friend who has struggled with infertility. She went on to adopt, and has never had biological children.

I’m only about 20% of the way there in editing photos from  yesterday. I took almost three hundred (!!!) but they’re fun.

I look at these and just think they look so old!

Got back from my sister’s. It was so fun. We had such a good night, just talking, chatting, and then playing games. The boys kicked our butts at Scene It, Squabble, but we were proud to make it through the first half and not get skunked.

Caleb’s birthday party today was so fun. It was a very special little group of kids, who were just the cutest ever. There were a few I would have taken home with me, if only I could have fit them into my camera bag.

Ellie, Shannon and I played maybe 100 games of Uno Attack. I joked on Friday night after the kids went to bed if anyone was up for a game, and we all kind of laughed. After playing though, I kind of loved it and want my own!

Pictures to come. Hopefully before, I don’t know, March?

Today (which is officially yesterday, I suppose) is my birthday.

I laid around in my pjs, then got dressed. We went out to lunch (Friendly’s, my choice). Did a little shopping, then went and saw Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. I don’t care what anyone says, I loved that movie. Loved. It.

Did some more shopping, and drooled over Coach purses. Got supplies and came home.

Tooled around some more, and got to baking. Two kinds of cookies and cupcakes later, I’m tired.

But satisfied.

It’s been a sad day. My dad and grandma are on my mind a lot- it’s the first year they haven’t called. Not to hear my grandma sing happy birthday to me is a little heartbreaking. Talking about how proud my dad was to have me, and know I’ll never hear that in his voice again- that’s hard.

But I’m trying to be happy, still. So let’s call it happy with smudges of sadness around the edges, for today.

It just feels weird to go to bed without having blogged. I know I should feel relieved, but it feels weird. So here I am blogging.

I didn’t win prizes, in either NaBloPoMo or in Hannah’s contest for a printer. But that’s ok. I got to post some pictures and I got the best prize of now being in the habit of daily blogging. I hope that doesn’t mean my blog tanks, from the mundaneness of it all (what IS that word? Mundaneness? Mundanity?).

I spent all afternoon and evening baking. It was one of those days. Harry Potter on the TV, Khalil at the table doing his own version of arts and crafts with wood, me in the kitchen making messes and sweets, Rory going between us both and to sleep, curled up in a perfect circle in the middle of our couch.

A perfect afternoon.

Here’s the Contest-

But I forgot that I LOVE this series of shots too! From Turkey Day, my husband, his mom, and great uncle taking shots:

Rory helped me clean the apartment.

When I went for dip we forgot, Khalil found a woodchuck and got really close.

Set out hors d’oeuvres. Thankfully, since when family came they were starving.

Table was set and ready to go, the food just wasn’t ready yet.

We sat down to eat…

and eat…

After turkey lows-

And highs!

My mother in law and our best friend’s daughter played an intense game of war, but it was not as intense as…

Pictionary, Round ONE

Time for Dessert!

The little ones were gone, the alcohol was flowing.

Just in time for round TWO!

David looking like, well, David

Brian after he decided to shake Sprite in a martini shaker.

Khalil doing what he does while I do what I do.

All in all, not a bad night.  

Today is Veteran’s Day.

My dad was a veteran.

He was an alcoholic too, but I believe that the war he served in had a huge impact on his alcoholism. There’s no way to say that being in the war = alcoholic = death, and no way to guarantee it wouldn’t have turned out the same way if he hadn’t served. But I believe it had a part. A big one.

Happy Veterans Day.

**************

I don’t mean this post to take away from honoring and thanking our veterans for what they have done for us as a country. I greatly appreciate all that veterans do for us and for our country.

Thank you, Veterans. Thank you, dad. I’m so sorry.

So yesterday my mom said, “Can I ask you a question?”

I got a wee bit nervous at that and said, “You can ask whatever you want, but that doesn’t mean I’ll answer it” and we both kind of laughed.

She then asked if we are still “trying”. I wanted to be a smart-ass and tell her that no, I am in fact no longer trying to lose weight, I just don’t care anymore. Or say yes, we are in fact both trying to deal with the fact that we both hate our jobs and want new ones. I didn’t though. I answered her and told her yes, we are trying. It is in fact stupid to tell infertile people to not try, no matter what scary disease you’re not sure they have. Khalil and I both laugh about the day we sat at one of our many doctors visits. He more or less told us that we were not going to get pregnant without the help of IVF. After we told him the plan to start IVF sometime next year, when I’m cleared from the scary disease I probably don’t have, he then asked us what we were doing to prevent pregnancy. I wanted to tell him having sex seems to be working great for us. Can we just keep doing that?? I also wanted to tell him that he just. told. us. that we’re not going to get pregnant on our own. Was he listening to himself? At ALL?

So anyways. I told my mom briefly about that, and that yes, we were still trying. But that I had just gotten my period, so it was going- well, as expected, I suppose.

Fast forward to this morning. My mom and I are chatting and she appears to be getting even braver with the questions. She proceeded to ask me (and this is probably the fourth time someone has asked me this, including clients at work) if I put my legs up on the wall after we have sex.

I told her in no uncertain terms that I was not having THIS particular conversation with her, and she then told me that she learned everything she knows from TV. I love my mom so much, and I know that she cares. I know her asking is her way of saying she’s thinking of us and hoping things are going ok. I know it’s her way of telling me she cares what’s going on with me.

But I really cannot discuss intimate details of my sex life with my mother. I cannot. The internet, perhaps. Not my mom.

Today is one of those days that if I was not doing NaBloPoMo, I wouldn’t be writing. I don’t write when I feel off like this, and when there are long stretches of me saying nothing, often that means long stretches of me feeling off. (sometimes, though, I’m just busy).

It’s one of those days where nothing feels right, everything feels off. The fun stuff has a smudge of crankiness around it. No one else does things right and that includes me. Where I want to snip and snap and crank but there’s no one that deserves it around, so I stuff it as much as I can and it just leaks out around the edges. One of those nights where Khalil starts feeling edgey because I’ve bitten his head off twelve too many times in the last twelve minutes.

Don’t you know? The days when you feel on the verge of tears all day long for no good reason? The days where you are stressed worried and upset about everything and nothing at all, all at the same time? The days when you vascillate wildly between falling off the edge of a cliff and being in the middle of a calm lake?

It’s when he asks what’s wrong, and I answer with both nothing and I don’t know. Usually one right after the other. Nothing. I don’t know. Because the truth is nothing is often my way of saying I don’t know when something is wrong. But I truly don’t know what it is. If I’ve finally figured it out it doesn’t take me long to come out with it.

Often it’s the collection of small but overwhelming stuff. The apartment is a mess (really, I am dreading going to work tomorrow). I don’t want to  unpack (really, I’m worrying about them, missing them. Feeling badly that I left them). I have to pay the bills (really, I’m worried about a job. I hate mine and I want a new one). And then maybe some more that are yet unnamed. I don’t know.

It’s one of those days, and there’s a reason I don’t write about them. Ellie is at the age where she whines (I don’t know if there’s actually an age for that, or if you just have to be a girl, because I remember getting in trouble for whining when I was graduating from high school at 17). All weekend long Shannon and I told her not to whine. And posts like this sound like one. big. whiny. whine.

Would you like some cheese with my whine??

He’s ok, and that’s all that matters.

He wasn’t feeling well, and at 3:30 am he woke up again. He didn’t sound good (first moment of the “I’m not liking this” feeling), and I called my sister. She asked to talk to him, and after that tod me to bring him to the ED at the hospital she works at. I literally had one full second of full-blown panic, which I then reigned in to a very focused do-what-I-need-to-do mode. Which I did. I did what I needed to do and got him there.

He’s ok.

He had croup. He got a shot and some breathing treatments. I took Ellie home and we went back to bed, and later in the morning Shannon and Caleb came home.

And then I could take full breaths again.

He is ok, that’s all that matters.

That kind of has a nice ring to it, a nice symmetry.

I think the thing that I love most is just the playing. It’s Caleb and Ellie, to be sure. As we read the book Howard and the Purple Crayon tonight, Caleb got an imaginary purple crayon and drew all the things Howard (Harold?) did. After we read Fancy Nancy, Ellie told me that she’s not too interested in being fancy. She doesn’t know all the words, she said.

They love me for who I am, as they do everyone they meet. They don’t care what you look like, only that you treat them well. They don’t care if you have the right shirt on, only that you love them unconditionally. Patience is rewarded with smiles and with gems of sentences that come out of their brains. Not taking every moment seriously is rewarded with the joy of seeing what comes spontaneously from them.

Tonight we also read the book Caleb and Noah’s Ark (or something, I don’t feel like getting these books to check the titles. Sorry.) Caleb the Caterpillar brings his mate (who Ellie told me is named Kassidy in the book, although she is unnamed in the book) onto the ark. I asked Caleb who he would bring and he started giggling and told me Elizabeth. Apparently Elizabeth is a girl in his class and he told me, “Elizabeth is my wife”. Ellie then told me she is going to marry Harry from her class. I asked her if Harry likes her, too, and she told me he gives her funny looks and then she just smiles at him.

It’s all so uncomplicated and simple when you are eight and five. And wonderful.

When you’re young, before you realize there are other people out there, parents are your world. We rely on them for everything- our basic needs, and our emotional needs. They feed us, change our diapers, potty train us. They apply the band-aids and kisses. They tell us everything will be ok, that they are here for us. They make everything better with a single hug, smile, or kiss. I’m always amazed at how magical kissing a child’s ‘boo boo’ is. To a child, a kiss from a parent is their world. Children haven’t yet learned that there are other people in the world, their parents are their world. They wake up to their parents, and go to bed with them.

As they get older, other people start to enter their realm. Aunts, uncles, child care providers, teachers, friends. They start moving farther and farther away from parents to explore relationships with these other people. All the relationships are built in the framework that they have created with their parents. If the framework was abusive, children are mistrusting. If the relationships with parents was nurturing and caring, children learn that the world is a safe place. They base their interactions with others on their interactions with their parents. They are the anchors. The little rowboats of children float away, but always come back to the anchor of their parents.

Kids get older. They move away from being infants and children and we call them kids and teens. Parents are edged out as their world increasingly becomes about peers, school, and themselves. Always, though, always, this is set in the framework of their parents. If children have a stable and trusting relationship with their parents, they are more free to explore their ever-expanding world. Always, always, even as they are edged out, parents are there. Maybe ever more in the background, but always there.

When we go to college, and move on, our world shifts away from our parents. We begin to recognize their wisdom and call for advice, and sometimes actually listen to the advice. Even as we begin to build our own world full of adult relationships, school, work, and futures with all the potential, we move back to our anchors, our parents. We may push them away, still like a teenager thinking we know everything and better than they do, but nonetheless, we begin to listen. We look for their approval and while we deny it, their love and approval colors our decisions. Again, they are ever there.

As we move on, our relationships with our parents can grow to mature. They are parents but also friends. They are less of rule-makers and more of supporters. Always, always our anchors.

I don’t think I realized all of this until I lost one of my anchors.

Parents remind us of who we are. Our whole history is attached to them. Even if you don’t call or see them for a week or a few months, they are there. Always, always there. Happy to hear from you, telling you they love you. They are us. The fact that they are a phone call away, a drive, and always willing to be there when you need them is comforting. Whether we know that or not.

I know that people of all ages have parents die. Obviously this year was when I had it happen to me. It still catches me by surprise. I wonder if it still surprises me because I didn’t see him all the time. He was a few weeks to a few months between phone calls. He was a wave on the road as we passed each other. He was at holidays and special events. He wasn’t every day or even every week. So I don’t feel the pangs every day. I feel the loss of the anchor more than I feel the daily emptiness. I feel it when I go to call him to say hi, or ask a question. I had a dream where I needed to find out about loose electrical shocks. (It made no sense, but he was an electrician.) I kept suggesting we call my dad, and everyone ignored me. I can’t remember if we did or not. It’s that emptiness that makes me suck in my gut and can bring me to tears.

I don’t know how to handle it still. I don’t break out in tears, but I am dreading the holidays, in all honesty. I have hated this whole damn year, 2007 has sucked, and I don’t want to deal with the 2007 Thanksgiving or Christmas. I am going Christmas shopping today and I couldn’t understand why I didn’t want to go. It wasn’t until I started mentally preparing my Christmas list that I realized why I didn’t want to go- it was because there are people missing on my list, people that it would be silly to buy gifts for because- well, because they’re dead. I want to fast forward from now until January, when I can start a whole new year over and have some hope that it will be better.

One of my anchors is gone, and the emptiness just doesn’t quit.

Every year we head to NYC for the NYC Buddy Walk. We go to support Caleb, my nephew.

Buddy Walk 04

Buddy Walk 05

Buddy Walk 06

Caleb has Down Syndrome. The Buddy Walk is set up to raise money to support the National Down Syndrome Society, which uses that money for advocacy and research.

It’s an amazing time. Our families come together to support Caleb, and we spend time in a community of people with Down Syndrome, from infants to adults, and their families and people who support them. It’s a beautiful thing.

If you want to support us, this is our team page.

Why we do this every year.

Last night I was all kinds of “off” and just couldn’t figure out why. Was snippy, didn’t want to get off the couch. Wanted to lay around and pretend like that was all I ever did.

This morning I figured out why.

I was listening to my Nickelback CD, and this song came on. I listened to this song alot back in March. A. Lot. I would blast it in my car and belt it out. It made me feel alive, made me want to be alive. The phrase “Amen I, I’m Alive”- I would sing it over and over. It felt like everyone was dying, and I needed a way to stay connected to life.

The song came on in the car, and I realized.

It has been six months since you have been- not alive. The other day Khalil asked me to go grocery shopping with him. He rarely does this, but he did this time. I went, begrudgingly (I’ve never liked grocery shopping in general). But I got to the store and it hit me like a ton of bricks. This is what I used to do with you every other weekend. I still know your habits and could probably get the main things off your list. Veggies from the salad bar. Tomatoes on the vine. Milk in the purple jug. Aveeno. There was a reassurance to getting certain things every week, but also trying to find the new things that you saw commercials for that our grocery store never carried. The spray salad dressing. The pain stuff you wipe on your forehead.

You had fallen, and had black eyes. You didn’t really make a big deal out of it, but I was sad. These were some of the last pictures we took with all of you, and look at those black eyes.

Rory was still little here, and was smelling your hair. You were laughing hysterically, which was cracking us up. It was so funny, but especially because you just loved cats. You always asked about Rory, and always loved on her when you came. You indulged me my little stories about her and laughed at all the parts where other people just look at me like I’m crazy because I’m talking about my cat like she’s a person. How could I not? It’s in my blood.

You were really happy at your 80th. So surprised, and happy. I’m glad we did that for you. It was also your last birthday.

This is you with my other Grandma, dad’s mom. You guys were really cute together, sitting there holding hands.

Look at that. Four generations. That’s a nice picture. We’re lucky to have you.

That is the smile I remember best.

I love you and still miss you.

This week has been shitt-ay. So to end the week with a bang, I’m not going to moan about the crap that the week has brought. I’m going to talk about the good stuff.

To start, today and tomorrow: I’m meeting a friend in a town between us (we live 7 or so hours from each other) and we’re getting a hotel. She’s pregnant and I’m missing her baby shower, so we’re having our own girls weekend/ baby shower. It will be nice to spend the time with her, because once that baby comes that will be a long while coming! I’m happy about seeing her though.

It is a good thing that the nice police officer who pulled me over for speeding only to discover my registration had expired in October 06 didn’t tow my car and revoke my license. *phew*

It was awesome to see my sister, mom, niece and nephew this week. It’s good to be with family. Caleb and Ellie are getting so big and anytime I ever think I miss California I only have to look at them and how big they are and how close they are to me and know that I made the right choice in coming home.

It’s good that the work stuff that made me cry all week is more or less sorted out. Work was horrible this week. One of my kids ended up losing her foster home and another one ended up losing the school he had been working for forever. Neither of those losses was their fault, and it was hard to help them sort it out when I was having a hard time sorting thast stuff out.

Khalil ended up having a good week with his goddaughter. She’s going through some really hard things right now. Wednesday was horrible but yesterday they were able to shop for a bookbag, go to the zoo, and enjoy the day. It was a nice way to end for them.

I didn’t need to eat crap this week to help me deal with my stress. This is the week I started back on the Diabetic Exchange, and I didn’t once feel the need to make poor decisions given my emotional state. What a freeing feeling- I can only hope it lasts. However, I’m just taking one day at a time. Like the alchies. ha.

I still have so, so, so much. My husband, my family, my cat, my health (mostly), a roof, clothes, my husband, my family, good friends. Sometimes I wonder how I dare ask for more?

friends.

husband.

family

life is good.

Years, that is.

We’ve been married for three years. That equals over 1,000 days.

I asked him yesterday if he felt like it was longer or shorter than three years. We agreed- it feels like three years has flown by, but also like we’ve been together forever.

This last year, in particular the last six months, has been hands down the hardest time in my life. It’s just been… hard. Sometimes that translates into hard for our marriage. But never in my life have I been more convinced that I married the right man. The one with the quiet strength when I’ve run all out of any kind of strength. The one who can take one look at me and know something is wrong, before I’ve even figured that out myself. The one who knows when not to push and when I so desperately need him to push. This man, he gets me. He knows me inside and out, and I love that.

I feel safe. With him. It has only been three- but feels like forever. I’m so lucky that I get to spend my life with him. With him by my side I feel like I can handle each day. I love him so much it hurts.

Happy Anniversary, hon. I love you.

It’s the little, day to day incidents that get me.

It’s when I walk into the grocery story where I took you shopping every week. And go in the side we used to go in, and am confronted with the salad bar. And have to fight the urge to fill a plate exactly how you would want it, which you would tell me every time, despite the fact that I knew it by heart.

It’s when I drive by a motorcycle, and pick up my phone to call you. It’s not until I see your name that I realize you’re not there to call.

It’s when I drive by where you lived. I was there so often, I can’t even stand to drive by it.

It’s when I see a red or grey van. With a working guy inside, doing the kinds of things you used to do. I still look to see if you’re the one driving the van- sometimes you were, and it was always fun to beep and wave, see your smile of surprise, and your wave. It’s realizing I’ll never see that wave again.

It’s going to Panera. And being tempted to get the Caesar salad- without chicken-, broccoli cheddar soup, and a hazelnut coffee. Not because it’s what I liked there.

It’s having to stop myself when someone mentions they need a good electrician in our area. Because I no longer know one.

It’s the fact that I don’t think I’ll be able to go to Outback again. I always hated it there, but went with you. Because you loved it. And if they ever put one in town, I think I’ll cry. You so wanted one in town, and if they put one here you won’t be able to eat it.

It’s when I go to the restaurant we went to when you and mom were first divorced. It’s different- Mexican now- but I still remember so much about that night. It was awkward, and sad, but I now realize how hard you were trying.

It’s remember how much you loved Dairy Queen. Knowing that I got that from you and mom. We are an ice cream group.

It will be Christmas Eve. We always spent it with you guys, and I don’t know what I’ll do this year. Sit home? It was hard figuring out how to split holidays, but it ended up working out. Christmas Eve was always fun at your house. Where will I get pierogies now?

It was when the baby daffodils came out. They were one of your favorite flower, and every year at some point I made it a point to buy you some. You were always so grateful, for the littlest, most silly stuff.

It’s when the car starts to make funny noises. As much as I love Khalil, he’s not a car guy. I’d call you, and you’d lecture me about not changing the oil, or keeping the gas full. But you’d always come get me if I needed you to.

It’s when no one asks about Rory. You asked- every time. And I always felt like it mattered to you. You loved cats, even though mine put you in the hospital that one time when you met her. You still loved her.

It’s going to be when we have children- your grand and great-grand children. Neither one of you will be here, and my children would have been so blessed to know you guys. You both would have been so proud.

It’s the moments when I think of you, and how much I loved you. It makes my heart ache to know that you’re not still here with me.

My husband scanned in this picture for me for something else. I love it.

Since about Thanksgiving, when we first had the inclination that something was wrong with my grandma, my life has mainly been focused on the health of my father or grandma. There wasn’t alot I talked about at first, I didn’t want to talk about what was going on. The holidays passed, and grandma got her diagnosis and dad left to go start getting his clearances for the transplant. The intesity of worrying about them increased. At one point my sister commented, “It feels like it’s all anyone talks about”. And it was. All anyone talked about. What else was there to talk about?

Then came February. It feels to me a little like time has stopped since February. I went to sleep and am just now waking up from a nightmare. One in which I spent three weeks watching my dad’s health decline rapidly. A nightmare where I came home and said goodbye to my grandmother. Helped plan her funeral and then attended it. A nightmare where I got a phone call first telling me the good news about dad’s transplant. A dream where I started to hope that he’d make it. That he’d come home and live to tell the story. Where we could tell him what happened while his health declined, the things he wouldn’t remember. Then I got a second phone call, the day after burying grandma. That dad had 12 hours to live. A nightmare where I said goodbye to my dying father. And then planned his funeral. And attended it.

The funny thing about waking up from this particular nightmare? Is that I’m waking up to find that it’s all true. That my life is bereft of two very important people. That my future has lost their presence in my life.

Tomorrow I will wake up and go to work. I will plan the month of April and not warn my clients that I may need to leave again. I will plan to spend every weekday during the month of April at work. The weekends relaxing, cleaning. I have to start the serious business of grieving. Of becoming the girl who no longer takes grandma grocery shopping on the weekends. Who no longer has a father to call and ask a question about my car.

I have to move on. I have to wake up from the nightmare and start living my life again. I need to do this while giving myself the time to grieve. I just don’t know how. What do I talk about?

Things that kick you in the gut. And end your two day dry-eyed spell:

~Make a collage of your dad, with your sister and stepmother. Realize as you look through the collage that there will be no more pictures of your dad. Ever.

~Go back to the funeral home to pick up more boards (there are lots of pictures).

~Go pick out flowers for your dad’s funeral. While looking through the book, think: I don’t know. I couldn’t pick out wedding flowers, how am I going to pick out funeral flowers? And who ever heard of anything more sad than ‘funeral flowers’? Get to the part where the florist asks what to put on the ribbon. Stare at her, uncomprehending what she means, then realize… choke out “I’m his daughter” as you start to bawl. Bury your head in your sister’s shoulder and curse the world for the dry eyed spell ending today. Choke over the word “dad” as you realize that you are, in fact, buying flowers for your dad’s funeral. Dad’s. Funeral.

~The thought of buying an outfit? For the funeral? Makes me cry again.

~Go home. Call two of his old friends. Catch a sob in the back of your throat when you say, “I needed to call you to tell you that *catch* my dad passed away Thursday”. Do this not once, but twice.

~Have your sister call you on the way home. Cry with her because she usually calls Grandma when she’s almost home. Grandma isn’t there to call.

I can live in the land of denial. I’m somewhat… not happy, but… content? not devastated? in the land of denial. But there were moments today that I couldn’t ignore that meant that my father is, in fact, dead. As they added up, I was destroyed more and more by each one. Khalil and I were talking yesterday about why I hadn’t cried in a few days, why I was feeling OK. We talked about the fact that I didn’t see dad every day, and wait for holidays. When there’s no dad’s to go to. When I’m doing my yearly album and there are no pictures of dad to put in. It is the little moments. It’s not, for me at least, the big picture. The big picture devastates me, but it’s the little moments that kick me in the gut and make me feel like I just can’t breathe. And the tears come and I hate it when the tears come.

The further away I move, in time, from what happened with my father, the less it feels like reality to me. I feel like the pieces of my days that deal with my father dying are part of a dream, a nightmare. That I’ll wake up and go see him, and he’ll be laughing his ass off. “I got you guys!” Yeah. He would have thought it was funny.

I feel like it couldn’t possibly have happened. There is no way I stood at a hospital bed with my sister and cried and said goodbye to him. That memory feels fuzzy at the edges and faded. For the first day it was sharp as a broken piece of glass, digging into my heart constantly. The small amount of time has dulled it. I try to remember what happened and my brain will not let me go back there. I can grasp pieces of time, small words and pictures of the moments. I can’t think it through all at once.

I can almost pretend like it didn’t happen. I can pretend that it was a dream. That the time that I have spent since then has all been a dream, and I’m going to wake up. I’m going to wake up, and go to work, and accept the condolences for my grandma. And people will ask me how my father is doing, and I’ll tell them that he pulled through the infection and is recovering. I’m heading out there next week. I can almost pretend that might be true.

I spend lots of time away from tears. With dry eyes, getting through my day. I feel drained, it’s true. I feel like I have been scraped empty and there’s not much inside of me. I can feel that way without falling apart as long as I can pretend that it might be possible that my dad isn’t dead.

As Khalil and I drove home Thursday night, I kept saying it out loud. My dad died. My dad is dead. I kept trying to make that reality a reality. The pain felt real. The memory of him leaving us was still sharp and real. I just didn’t- don’t- know how to work that into my reality, into my life. I don’t know how to be a daughter whose father is gone. I don’t want to know how.

As long as I can pretend it might not be real, I can walk through my day. I can get out of bed. I can take a shower and get dressed. Eat and sleep. Do the things that need to be done. Get the details for an obituary. Find pictures of my dad. Tell people over and over that he died and then when ‘the services are’. I can do all of that as long as, somewhere in the back of my head, I keep believing this is all a nightmare I am going to wake up from.

It feels weird, feeling as if you are moving in a dream. It makes all of the edges a wee bit fuzzy, a little less defined. I still feel like I could wake up at any time.

I am fairly sure this is what they call denial.

I don’t even know where to begin, so I will start at the beginning. Of the end. The beginning of the end.

With a brief review of the beginning. A year and a half ago my sister and I started getting worried about my dad. He was looking sick. Last summer, him and my stepmom were over for dinner and he finally told us what was going on. He was in liver failure, and working to get on a transplant list. I got very, very scared.

In October, I had my stepmom, father, grandmother, mother-in-law, and grandma and grandpa over for dinner. I will forever be so happy I had that dinner. We had a wonderful time, all spending time together, reminiscing, chatting. Loving being family.

The day before Thanksgiving, my grandmother needed to go to the eye doctor because she started losing her vision. By the end of December/ beginning of January, she was diagnosed with brain tumors.

Wednesday morning I woke up. I was dreading the day. I’d been having a hard time getting out of bed since I returned from spending three weeks in Pittsburgh with my dad, and that had gotten worse since getting the word that Grandma had passed away. I had to get up on Wednesday, though, because it was the day that we were burying Grandma. I was dreading the day, it just felt so long. We had the graveside service in the morning. Then we had a luncheon. After that a memorial service in the afternoon. Later in the evening, dinner with family. When I thought about the day, I felt overwhelmed. We got through it, step by stepm. Between lunch and the memorial service, I snuck up to Grandma’s apartment and cried. And missed her. And cried. Khalil found me, and my sister came up. We looked through some of her old pictures. Between the memorial and dinner we took my niece and nephew to our apartment for a while. My sister and brother in law came by, and my sister was on the phone with my stepmother. Steve told me it didn’t sound like a good conversation. At dinner that night my sister filled me in. I don’t remember the details, but I didn’t like what I heard and started crying at dinner. I was worried. 

I got home. I was tired and worn out. Emotional. After the burial in the morning, I had felt completely drained, and that feeling didn’t go away. I finally got to bed at about 11:30pm.

At 12:30 am the phone rang. Recently, I’ve gotten more than my share of late night phone calls. I don’t like them. This one was no exception. My stepmom was crying. She was telling me that that hospital told her that dad had between 12 and 24 hours. That his heart was giving out. That they were still hoping for a miracle, but we might want to get to the hospital. Khalil went to the bathroom and threw up. I got directions. We were out the door by 1am.

The drive there was long. We were tired and drained. It’s a long drive there, longer at night. It was raining and foggy, which at least fit the mood of the drive, if it didn’t make driving easier. We took turns driving and each of us got an hour or so of sleep. Shannon and her family were on their way too. We texted back and forth for a while, then got quiet as we slept and drove. We finally arrived.

As we got back into Pittsburgh, where I spent what I had thought were the three hardest weeks of my life, my stomach tied up into knots. I didn’t know what to expect. I wasn’t prepared. I didn’t know what I would see, how I would react. I didn’t know if I could do this. How do you get ready to say goodbye to your father? Your father?? There’s no way to get ready. Khalil told me at some point during the drive up- that this moment, this being with my dad, saying goodbye, while he died… that it would change my life. And I would never forget it. He would know, he said goodbye to his own father. That stuck with me as we drove into the hospital and parked.

We went up and called the SICU. We spent an hour, maybe more with my father before he died. We said all the things we needed to to him. I made inappropriate jokes when the surgeon frustrated me. We cried. And cried.

And said goodbye.

I finally arrived home at 3:30 this morning. 44 hours from the time I woke up, and 27 hours from the time I left to go see my father. The longest day.  

This is too much goodbye. These are not see you laters, these are not talk to you soons. These are goodbyes, in that final and resounding tone that death has.

My grandma is gone. She died today.

I miss her already.

We waited all day.

Kept recalculating the hours. Let’s see… if he went in at 3am, it’s an 8-12 hour surgery. That has him out between 11 am and 3pm. Let’s say noon to be safe, noon to 3pm.

Over and over.

Then it was 3pm.

Then it was 3:45pm.

Then it was 4pm.

Then my stepmom and my sister called, at the same time. I talked to my stepmom. He had been out since 1pm (YEAH!). The surgeon went to the wrong waiting room and just didn’t bother to find them after that.

Dad made it through surgery fine. His liver looked way worse than they thought, so thank God he got the transplant when he did.

The surgeon says he’s still not out of the woods, but that he did well and they are over the first hurdle.

One sigh of relief down. All morning I walked around with an exhausted grin on my face.

My dad is in surgery right now. Getting his new liver.

I’m finally hopeful he’ll make it through this.

I woke up Friday morning and said goodbye to my father. A part of me will continue to hope that I will see him when he wakes up from his transplant surgery.

I spent Friday driving home. I cried most of the way home, on and off.

Spent some of Friday evening with Grandma.

I’m finally feeling ‘at home’. I spent most of the first two days at home very disoriented. For me, three weeks away is a very long time. I didn’t expect to feel that way, but I did.

My dad is doing better. I finally feel ok being home, not completely beseiged with guilt.

We’ll see what the next few weeks bring.

They say it takes three weeks to form a habit.

Tomorrow I will have been here for three weeks and two days.

Tomorrow I will be leaving.

This feels less like breaking a habit and more like breaking my heart.

There have been times I have wanted nothing more that to get the hell out of Dodge, in this case Pittsburgh. But right now I want almost nothing more than to stay.

But I need to see my grandmother. She’s leaving. And I need to spend time with my husband, my cat… living my life. Maybe that sounds selfish, but I think it may be a matter of mental health as well.

So I will have my heart broken. Break my habit. Change up Groundhog’s Day. And head home. Hope for the best.

I can tell when I’m starting to get anxious. Or be overwhelmed. Or be overwhelmed by anxiety.

The first thing that happens is I start snapping at people. I do this both in my head and out loud. My road rage, which is typically… not pretty, gets a wee bit out of control. The person at the check out line where I buy my lunch looks at me wrong and I think hateful things about her outfit. Like she had any choice in it. I get crazy judgemental about everyone I see. Things that don’t typically annoy me make me want to jump off buildings. I guess you could say my fuse gets a wee bit short. I work on controlling it, so most of the stuff stays inside.

Another weird thing happens. And this may peg me in the crazy category. I start counting letters in my head. It’s this weird thing I do with vowels and consonants and I can’t really explain it. But when I get overwhelmed, anxious, and anxiously overwhelmed, my brain just starts going on auto pilot. I think I start doing it when there are things I want to keep my mind off. Things that, if I dwell on them, may just do me in. So my brain works double time to keep me distracted. And then it starts to get on my nerves.

There are a very limited number of things I can do to keep my brain clear of letters. The things I do have to be all consuming. Watching TV, if it’s good, sometimes can help. Talking to Khalil sometimes helps. Eating almost always helps. A few other things.

I want to turn it off. But if I do, the things I am working so hard to avoid will crowd in. I might have to deal with what is going on with my father. I might have to face the fact that I will be saying goodbye to my grandmother this weekend, for quite possibly the last time. I will deal with the fact that I will be leaving my father this week. I will have to process all of this information, which means more than just typing it out in a cold, hard fashion.

The thing is, I just can’t process it. My brain has no idea what to do with all of this information. I’ve started to cry a few times in the last few weeks, and I always have to shut it off. I can not let go and cry. There’s never the right time, the right place, the right state of mind. There’s really no letting go. Where do you start? And once I start, where can I stop? When can I stop?

So I just hold on. For dear life.

Or the right ones, at least.

There has been a silence, I know. There are many reasons for it. Khalil was here, which made for less blogging time. Some painful things were going on. Some things I didn’t want to talk about and some things I didn’t have the words for.

It occurred to me the other day that this blog really started as a weight loss blog. I don’t even pretend right now to be losing weight. I make efforts to exercise, and that has been happening a few times a week, for the most part. Eating right has gone out the window. If I think about it too long I will break down, because it is frustrating. But I just do not have the mental or emotional space to think about it for too long. I just don’t.

I don’t know what to say about my dad. Right now, my dad is not my dad. He used to say something that made me hugely uncomfortable, and I find it coming to haunt me these days. Whenever people who couldn’t care for themselves, who were losing their mental sanity or independence were on TV or talked about in conversation, he would tell us what to do if that happened to him. “If I’m ever like that, shoot me. Put me to death. Something. Don’t let me live like that.”

He’s now living like that. I never promised him anything. His attitude right now, thank GOD, is one of wanting to live. He wants a liver desperately and he wants to make it through this. But his words haunt me. Every time his dependence is highlighted, every time he loses his mind…. I hear his voice in the back of my head. It makes me want to sob.

I don’t know what to say about my Grandma. My heart hurts when I think of her. I have been irrationally angry with my mother for the last year for leaving and moving to Kentucky. I understand why her and her husband did it, and I understand just how selfish and irrational my anger is. But she dealt the latest blow this weekend when she decided she could best care for my grandmother with her husband in Kentucky. Far, far away from me. My first reaction was that she is taking my grandma away from me. Is it the best decision? Possibly, quite possibly. Am I still angry about it? Yes.

My sister said, and I agree with her… she’s having a hard time crying. Because you feel like once you start you may not be able to regain mental sanity. You may not be able to calm and come back to a place where you are not crying. If I fall apart will I ever come back together again? This is how I feel right now.

Last night I finally got to spend some time with my husband. Over the phone, but time nonetheless. It was wonderful.

Then today happened. Today was a hard day, but for some reason I handled it much better than I did the hard day that happened, oh, two days ago.

My sister and I went to the hospital first thing to see Dad, so she could say goodbye to him. He was slow, very Underwater Dad, but seemed fairly lucid. They said their goodbyes, and I told him I’d see him later. Drove Shannon to the airport, and went to Target.

I mostly went to Target because I needed cash. And I figured what better way to get cash than at Target? Except now they only give $40 back. Argh. So I went to Walmart for a bottle of water and got some cash.

Went back to the hospital. Chatted with some of the girls from work on the way. I got to the hospital.

I met my stepmother at the elevators, and she looked… tired. And stressed. She told me that dad was confused.

He did some weird things today. To save his dignity (not that he reads here) I’m not even gonna get into them. Also, when I one day am able to relive this experience by reading these posts, I don’t want to be reminded of the specifics. I just want to note that my dad was not my dad for much of the day. When he finally got settled and took a nap, and woke up, he was at least a version of my dad. Which was better. It’s hard seeing him when he’s like that though. Although I have to admit, sometimes I just wanted to laugh. It just seems silly and so ridiculous.

And what is there to do, but either laugh or cry??

Yesterday was one of those no good, terrible, very bad days. Not in that any one huge thing happened.

I woke up in a bad place. I was tired and had cried before going to bed because I missed my husband. And my cat. And my life. I woke up still sad. I didn’t exercise. It was not a good start, all the way around.

I stayed cranky. I swore at other drivers. I was quiet. I had a hard time snapping out of it and really, I never did. I felt bad because when you’re in this kind of situation, one person’s mood affects other people. It’s not like at work when you can just kind of be to yourself. You’re on top of one another and you’re around to support each other. One’s in a bad mood and it’s going to affect the other. I felt bad for my stepmom. I tried to snap out of it and just never really did.

I wanted to cry every time I looked at my dad yesterday. He just… I don’t know why but he was just breaking my heart. Every time I looked into his eyes and saw the shadows and the person he used to be, my heart shattered. He finally had a procedure to lessen the fluid in his body, mostly his stomach. We left for a while and he got confused- he got out of bed without having the nurse disconnect him, and pulled it all out. Something he had been waiting for for almost 10 days, and one moment of confusion, and he only got about 1/4 out of it what he should have.

When we got back to the hospital, he was so frustrated with himself, disappointed. My stepmom and I both felt guilty. She does a better job of staying in denial/ positive thinking. I was so upset- at the confusion, at his frustration, at the nurse’s concern, at him not getting 100% relief.

Today was a better day. I woke up in a better place. Exercised. It’s snowing and icing here today, but I still managed to get my sister from the airport safe and sound.

Up and down days. Good and bad days.

Lastly, my stepmother’s sister (step-aunt?) and the nurse from the hospital they were working with in our home state, both told my dad when he’d be getting the liver. Predicted it. They told him it would be tomorrow.

They said that Valentine’s Day afternoon.

If he doesn’t get it tomorrow, and I don’t think he will, sorry for the negative thinking, I won’t be able to bear his disappointment.

My dad is Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.

He’s always been this way, on some level, but that’s a whole other conversation. He’s now this way not due to alcohol, but due to the liver failure (which I guess is due to alcohol still, but… well, that’s splitting hairs.)

When we arrived at the hospital initially, dad was being wheeled by another patient’s stepfather. He announced to us he was going to church (!!!). We decided to head to Target while he was at church with his new friend.

When we arrrived back, the energetic mood was gone. It had been replaced by someone else. He had a hard time answering questions. Sometimes the questions went unanswered. Sometimes they were answered a minute or two after they were asked. (Try doing this with a friend. Ask a question and then make them wait one full minute before answering. It feels like ten minutes go by.) Sometimes he’d start to answer a question and then get distracted by something else. Once he has something in his mind, there is no getting around it until it is resolved in his head.

His smiles were more sad, anxious. I told him he seemed slower today, and he did the ‘crazy’ sign by his ear and nodded. When he is in this mood, he does less for himself. He lets others do for him if he can get away with it. (My stepmother will do more for him. I let him do or try something- if he can’t, I’m more than willing to help. If I know he can do it, I want him to do it. Simple things- as simple as shaking the can of Ensure. He can shake it but not open it. Which is fine.)

When he’s this person, Underwater Dad as I think of him, he can only talk about things in the immediate. What he’s eating for lunch. What the nurse just said. He repeats things over and over. He moves as though moving through molasses.

Then he took a nap. And he woke up.

And my dad, though more subdued and aged, reappeared. He answered questions as they were asked. He was less stuck on one thing or another. He still repeated things, but he does this now. He didn’t do it to quite the same extent as Underwater Dad. He gave attitude when he didn’t like something. Dad could talk about things that had happened, that were happening, that went beyond dinner.

This is so hard to explain. If you’re not watching it, I think it’s hard to understand what the difference looks like. It is blatant, in some ways, but it is so subtle in others. You can tell in about 15 seconds if you’re dealing with Dad or Underwater Dad. Underwater Dad makes me want to curl up in a ball and cry. This can’t be my dad, I think. Dad just makes me sad, but not quite as devastated.

My stepmother and I were talking a little bit about his good days and bad days, and how he can change so much in the course of one day. I mentioned how scary it was. She said that’s she’s kind of used to it by now, but it’s still hard for her.

This is not something I can ever imagine getting used to. Any of it.

You spend your days, all day every day, wishing and waiting.

For someone else to have a tragedy.

So you can avoid your own.

My world has shifted. In three weeks, or four, or something, it will shift back to the reality I am used to and love. Work, love my job (mostly). Home with hubby and cat. Mostly quiet weekends. Mostly quiet life.

It looks so different right now.

It’s filled with hellos to strangers. Many of whom also have family members in the hospital- a hospital. We’re in an area where there are five of them.

We meet lots of people who are transplant patients or who are with transplant patients.

The patients themselves look tired. Worn around the edges. If they are pre-transplant, they are yellow. Everywhere. The whites of their eyes have become the yellow of their eyes. Their skin is jaundiced. Nail beds are yellow.

The move slowly, as though moving through putty to do anything. Their mouths are dry, and often they open them and move their tongues from side to side as though… hoping that will wet their mouth?

They shuffle along the halls in what seems to be a futile attempt to keep the swelling in their legs and feet down. Some push IV poles and others push empty wheelchairs. Some have large, distended bellies and other’s bellies have been tapped and don’t look so bad.

Then there’s the family members. They walk around looking worried and guilty. If we’re in the hospital they look worried. If we’re not in the hospital, they look guilty. Most of them are wives. They are tired. Some of them are watching every bite their husband (or family member) puts in their mouth. Others are feeding them food they most definitely shouldn’t be having.

It’s a world of “Will the doctor stop by today?” and “Is Stephanie on? She’s his favorite nurse”. A world of what did you eat for lunch? Did you drink anything? Did you poop? Your pee looks like iced tea.

It’s a whole other world. Not my world, although I seem to be doing ok. I hope this is a world we’re all not a part of for long. It’s not a bad world in that people are nice. But everyone here is waiting. Hoping. Crossing their fingers for one call, or one person to walk in the door and tell them a transplant is coming! Waiting waiting waiting.

Who woulda thunk? I wouldn’t have.

My mom warned me, and I didn’t know what she was talking about so I kind of blew her off. But there are alot of really steep hills in Pittsburgh. Huh.

This won’t be long, because I’m tired. But I need a way to start processing all of this.

It was hard to see my dad today. It’s hard to see him sick, in a hospital. When I saw him right before he left to come here, he was in his bed at home, sleeping. I remember stopping at the door and watching him sleep, and thinking that was how he would look in the hospital. And being scared by that thought.

And it is mostly how he looks. Yellow, with a very distended belly. He’s in his 50s? 60s? I’m REALLY bad with ages, sorry. But he looks almost like an 80 year old man. He’s aged so much in the last year. His feet are swollen. His eyes and skin are yellow.

He talks really slowly, and he loses his breath often. He walked down the hall to “give me the tour” (here’s the community room. here’s the nurse’s station.) and he ran out of breath often. He couldn’t walk and talk at the same time- to talk, he had to stop walking. Did I mention how slow he talks? So. Slow.

He’s so confused. Survivor has been his favorite show forever. Tonight, when talking about what he wanted to watch when he left, my uncle and stepmom mentioned Survivor. He looked at them blankly the first six times. Then he finally asked, “What’s this Survivor?” At that point my heart may have broke into sixteen pieces.

My dad has always been full of piss and vinegar. He’s always been larger than life. That has sometimes been painful and difficult, I won’t lie. But he is who he is. That’s who my dad is- loud, opinionated, could give a rat’s ass who he hurts in the process. But he has a great smile and a soft spot. Charming as can be.

He’s the same, but in much, much softer shades. Blurry around the edges, you might say. It’s hard to watch him be in a room with people talking about him without talking to him, and him just sitting there. Not really caring. Or if he does care, not having the energy to mention it. In the past, he’d be telling everyone to talk to him, and not in a polite way. Hard to watch him be poked, prodded and moved like a child.

My stepmom and uncle tell me that he’s full of his normal piss and vinegar in the mornings. I think it’s because he has the most energy.

This is hard. Hard to watch. I’m so glad I’m here, though. I miss my husband and cat, and can’t think about my grandmother. I just can’t. But I know I am where I’m supposed to be.

My father has gone to the out-of-state transplant center. He went last week, planning to go for preliminary tests and be  placed on the waiting list. They were well aware that there were one of three options: 1. not make it onto the list, 2. make it onto the list and be sent home with a pager, or 3. get on the list and the transplant center telling him he needed to stay there.

There are pros and cons to that last option. Well, one pro and one con. The pro is that if and when a liver comes, you’re there are ready to go. The con, and to me it’s a biggie, is that there is always an IF. No matter how sick he is, there’s no guarantee a liver will be available. My dad and stepmom had still been hoping for the third option, regardless.

They got their wish. He finished the preliminary testing and they are having him stay there, for one month. They told my stepmother that he needs a liver and he’s very sick. It’s the one month part that really scares me. What happens after one month, if he doesn’t get a liver? Either my stepmother isn’t answering me or the doctors aren’t really answering her. “We’ll see” is not an answer.

So I’m going out of state to see him. I was talking to my stepmom, and she sounds down. She needs the support to support my dad. An uncle has been there but he has to leave late this week.

Since it’s my blog, my journal, I’m going to be real honest about how I feel: I don’t really want to go. I don’t want to leave my husband and my cat. I don’t want to spend Valentines day with my dad and stepmother.  I don’t want to leave work right now- it’s a busy and stressful time right now. I’m stressed because what if I’m out of state when I ovulate? Just- what if? That would suck.

The real reason? The real, honest-to-God truth of it all? Is I don’t want to face my father’s illness. I don’t want to go and see him in a hospital, every day. I don’t want to watch how tired and ill he is. I don’t want to be shocked by his skin collor (yellow) and his voice (quiet) every time I see him. If I could stay, I could pretend like it’s all happening to someone else’s dad. I’m also scared to leave my grandmother. My husband will check in on her, I know that. There’s only one of me, but right now I wish there were two. Two of me. One to stay here and one to go there.

So late next week I’ll be going on a road trip. I wish it was under better circumstances.

Someone got to my site by searching “bullshit goals”. I think that may be the name of my next blog. Because sometimes, it it so apropo.

The eating thing has basically gone down the drain. I am making a half-hearted attempt to stay in my goals (bullshit goals), particularly with lunches. Half-hearted being the operative word here. I’m trying not to give up completely. I really am.

The problem is two-fold. The first is the fact that I really do not know what the best plan for me is. The Diabetic Exchange worked for a while. However, I began to have concerns with how few calories I was eating, given the very-scientific internet research I was doing. I got worried that I was starting to burn my own muscle instead of fat. This got worse when I plateaud back in September. Was the plateau a result of my diet or my lack of discipline? I honestly don’t know. Or was the lack of discipline a result of being so rigid for so long? Again, I’m not sure. On this journey, hindsight isn’t always 20-20.

The other problem is all of the stress I am dealing with. I’ve never had an easy time eating well under stress, it’s one of my coping mechanisms, I’ll admit it. I’m not a big overeater, per se. However, I do lack the motivation to make good choices. Making good choices requires a lot of work and dedication for me. It’s something that dealing with a dying grandmother, a sick father, and trying to conceive just don’t leave me with. I have no emotional energy left. One might argue that eating well isn’t emotional. They would not know me well at all if they tried to propose that. They might then argue that I should seek some professional help if eating is an emotional issue. I am not sure I could argue with them. But if I’m not stressed out, I’ve been able to make some good choices.

For the time being, I am going to keep exercising. And doing the best I can day to day, but I cannot beat myself up for making not-the-best-choices. I just can’t. So that is where I stand.

Oh. Khalil has also put the scales away- they’re in his closet. Until, maybe… June? July?

She said, after I mentioned that I was scared my father would die before he got a transplant and after a few minutes, that she just hopes we have joy and happiness in our lives. That we find joy every day. I asked her if she had. She thought about it for a few minutes.

She told me that she had. She had made alot of mistakes, and she wishes she hadn’t. She wishes that when you are younger you know what you do once you’re older, because you need it when you’re younger. I commented that the only way you know it once you’re older is because you learned from those very mistakes. She agreed, but wished there was a different way to learn. She talked about wishing she had made some different choices and decisions. We talked about the amazing people and friends she has in life despite her “mistakes”.

I asked her what her favorite memory is. “Of you?”. No, favorite all time memory, although I will ask her one day what her favorite memory of me is. It has to be soon. She thinks. There’s alot to think about, she’s been alive for 80 years. She tells me that she enjoyed spending time in Rockport, she loved those summers. She mentions her best friend, who passed away a year or two ago.

“I was so honored she chose me as her friend. I never expected it from someone like her.”

“Why not?”

“Because we all looked up to her. She was who we went to for advice. She’d listen to anything you had to tell her, and keep your secrets. She gave good advice, scriptural advice. I was also so surprised she’d want someone like me as a friend.”

“I would think she’d be honored to have you as a friend.”

“I was honored to have her.”

This surprises me. My grandmother is the best, most Godly person I know. She’s a person who truly follows what she believes, and there’s no hypocrisy in it. Maybe it took her a lifetime to come to that, I don’t really know. But I know who she is now, and she’s one of the best people I know. One of my favorites.

***

I ask what her favorite memory of my mother is. She thinks. My mother pipes up from the backseat, “I know my favorite memory of mom.” I ask what it is. She says, “well, there was this time I had to type a paper for school…. did I tell you this already?” I tell her she did, but I want to hear it again. I love hearing their memories, I want to soak them up and never forget them. My mom tells me about how she procrastinated on a paper at school, and was tired and frustrated with the typewriter. My grandma came in and took the paper and typed it up for her. In about 15 minutes. That’s her favorite memory- of a mother being there for her daughter. Without reproach. Just… being there.

They go back and forth sharing memories. “Remember when Shannon first walked?” “I remember the time I told Shannon not to wake her brother. She did, and then undressed him. I spanked her for that. When Sue and Pete came to pick the kids up, Shannon wouldn’t speak to me!” “Remember when Ellie walked, at our engagement party?”

***

She is alluding to the regrets she has in parenting. We’ve though for a while that she may have some, her sons don’t always treat her as they should. They’ve made mistakes too, who among us hasn’t? She’s telling me that there weren’t all those books to teach you about parenting back when she was parenting. I counter that the books all give conflicting information anyway, so how far does that really get today’s parents anyway?

***

We’re at dinner. She’s told me this story before, but it’s one of my favorites. My friend’s husband is applying to Juliard, and she mentions that she dated a man who went to Juliard. She wonders what happened to him. I remind her that she told me, and ask her some questions. I want to get to the best part. “He was before Gramps, right?” Yes. “You left him for Gramps, huh?” Yes, something like that. “What did he play, again?” Clarinet and saxophone. “I’ve always heard that saxophone players make good kissers.” She laughs, in that way she does. She says with a smile, “He WAS a good kisser, he was a very good kisser!” and laughs again. My mother looks at us with a shocked face.

I tell my mom, “These are the kind of conversations we have. What can I say?” She tells me she had similar ones with her grandmother.

***

When they are talking about memories, she tells another one about my sister (there are alot about her. I’m a teeny bit jealous.) She talks about how my mom used to bring my brother and sister by. She remembers my sister sitting on the toilet watching her put makeup on while she got ready for work. She’d always put a little on my sister while she watched.

When I was little, I used to sit on the toilet and watch my sister put makeup on. She’d always put a little on me.

When I babysit my niece, that is- my sister’s daughter, she sits on the toilet and watches me put makeup on. I always put a little on her.

***

Thank you guys for the support.

What I’m finding that generally makes me feel better:

1. Time with my husband.

2. Chocolate

3. Sleep. (I wake up, and it’s a new day. I can start over.)

I’m doing decent with the chocolate- I actually haven’t binged. I am keeping to me .5 cup of slow-churned ice cream each night. But I love that .5 cup. I wait for it. I plan it out. And I savor it. I swear to you, there is a drug in chocolate that makes you feel better. It’s the strangest thing.

It would be one thing to have my dad be in liver failure. And to have him leaving next week for “preliminary testing” and possibly staying out of state while he waits for the transplant. It would be stressful, scary and sad. Overwhelming and stressful.

It would be one thing to have Grandma diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. To have to process the fact that she will not be here for the duration of the year. That she will never see me have children. That we will have to help her die, if that’s even possible. To try and support my mom as she supports my grandmother. To try and be there for Grandma. To talk about hospice and radiation. It would be scary. And sad- so, so sad. Heart-wrenchingly sad. It would be overwhelming and stressful.

For so long weight loss took front and center. The fact that I needed to lose weight was the thing that bothered me, the thing I needed to deal with. Then we didn’t get pregnant as quickly as we thought we would. That started to take over. That is significantly more stressful than the weight thing.

Then people started getting sick. Nothing puts stress into perspective more than a very sick or dying close relative.

It would be one thing if they were doing it one at a time. This is going on all at the same time. It is beyond overwhelming. At any given moment, you don’t know who to think about. Who to worry about. Who to be scared about. You don’t know who to imagine your life without, because that is a fact of reality for one and a distinct possibility with the other. Who do you cry about? How do you even process this?

The answer is one day at a time. You don’t spend alot of time processing, because you get through each day as it comes. You take things one situation at a time. You wipe away the tears, again, and move on. You remind yourself that you will get through this. That if you just keep getting up, you will get through all of this. Your life may change forever, but you can get through this. One. Day. At. A. Time.

Yesterday I was all of these: cranky pants, crabapple, oscar the grouch, Royal Bitch. I don’t know what’s wrong.

I felt blah. Down. Bored. Unsettled. Out of sorts. But I don’t know why. I’m not sure there really is one specific reason, as much as it may have been little pieces of alot of things getting to me. I feel somewhat better today, though I’m finding myself still snappy. Like when you start to take yourself too seriously, and all of a sudden nothing’s funny anymore. It’s not a pretty place to be and I don’t like myself when I’m in it.

My favorite pictures of Caleb and Ellie:

For more pictures of them, go see my other site.

So what do I do yesterday to make myself feel better?

But I still owe a Thanksgiving post.

Things I am thankful for, and they are many.

I have to start with my husband. And the love, support, and friendship he gives me, every day. And for his sense of humor and not letting me take myself too seriously.  

And I’m thankful that he can cook. Because man, if he couldn’t cook, we’d be in a load of trouble in life.

I’m thankful for my cat. She’s just my baby. She wakes me up every morning at five am to cuddle with me. And if I’m still in bed, she comes again at 6:45. That time she’s hoping that I’ll get up and feed her, but still, I get a cuddle in.

I’m so thankful for our families. Khalil and I have families that couldn’t be more different in some ways. But they all love us. And are there to support us.

Khalil and I have a roof over our heads. We have a warm bed to come home to and a guest bed to offer to people. We have food in our pantry, and a decorated home. We have family, and friends, and each other. We have each other.

We are so blessed.

Ha. I checked my blog stats: six views. Now, I’m not a huge blog, which is ok by me. But since I’ve started NaBloPoMo, I’ve had more hits… last time I had stats that low was, I kid you not, October 29. Two days before NaBloPoMo.

 I know where you all are. You are in your kitchens, cooking and baking. You’re in your bathrooms, scrubbing. You’re at the table making placecards. You’re at the store getting last minute ’stuff’. You’re packing, getting on a plane, or getting in a car.

I hear you. I’m doing the scrubbing, baking, placecard making thing. I’m so excited. SO excited.

But also? I’m SO TIRED. I still have a ton of baking to do, a kitchen to finish cleaning, an apartment to vacuum (it is days like this I LOVE not having a house- having less space means having less to CLEAN!).

Today was the day from hell. It puts tomorrow in perspective, I will tell you that. My grandma is having some medical problems, and I took the day to take her to the MD, get prescriptions filled, etc. I love my grandma, but she deserves a post all to herself. There have been about a gazillion phone calls to relatives, but mostly my sister and mom. There have been tears and recovery from tears. There have been good and horrible moments.

But she’s still here. I have so, so, so much to be thankful for. I may be exhausted, I may be not feeling well. I may be daydreaming of Friday when I plan to see… um, no one. Except Khalil and Rory. But in the meantime, I’m looking forward to tomorrow and I am counting my blessings. And I have many.

Tomorrow I may or may not be going to a support group.* I almost did last month and spent four days in a foul mood preceeding the event because I was so worked up about it. It didn’t happen last month because my dad had two doctor’s appointments and was too tired to go.

It’s for my dad. He’s in liver failure, due to years as an alcoholic and I don’t think the Hepatitis helps either. He’s almost on the list for a liver transplant.

I’m not looking forward to going. Going means, as writing this also means, that I may have to face the reality of the fact that my dad is sick.

My mom was diagnosed with colon cancer a few years ago. It was a gut-punch and horrible and scary. Very, very scary. But once we learned that she would be ok, it was much less scary.

My dad said to me the other day, when I asked him how he was feeling about all of this (I am ever the social worker) that he was just focusing on the fact that he is going to get the transplant and bounce back, better than ever. Up until I asked him that, I was not ok with all of this. Because I was scared to death that my father might not make it. But when he said that, “I’m fine. I’m just looking forward to getting the transplant and being healthy again” with such confidence, I decided I could do that too.

Ignore all the other possibilities. Focus on him getting a transplant and getting better. Other options just do not exist.

*We may or may not be going based not on my mental ability to handle this, oh no, but on my work schedule. If I get out in time we’ll go. If not, there’s another one next month.

Out of the Mouths Of Babes

It’s no secret I love my niece and nephew.

Ellie and “Aunt Paige”