I learned how to make homemade candles at girl scout camp. Each scout sat in front of a large coffee can of melted wax, dark blue. A smaller can contained cold water. With those two cans and one piece of string, we created candlesticks - a dunk of the string into the hot wax followed by a dip in the water to cool it. Wax again, adding another layer. Water again. It was slow, but tangible and satisfying work. By the end, a misshapen, bottom-heavy, drip of a candle was there to show off the patience and the repeated motion building it up. I think of that process often when I'm feeling inexplicably strong or layered with extra insulation from hurt or sorrow. Like my navy blue scout candle, that insulation I feel is both slowly built of many, many layers and very easily melted.
I've been trying to write for almost a month. Below my cursor are many started, but unfinished paragraphs, thoughts, beginnings that aren't quite how I feel. But today marks a month after the anniversary of this loss and a desperate need to finish my thoughts crept in when I realized the date.
The week leading up to October 17, 2014 was a terribly long and miserable one for me - it is amazing what the broken heart and the wandering brain can do when they are conspiring together. I was weak and waiting for that Friday, for family to come into town, for my half marathon race the day after, for the year to be over. I was also terrified to know that I would soon be unable to say, "a year ago we were here/there/doing this/saying that/happy" - that I'd know he'd been gone for over a year. I'd have to say he'd missed two Christmases, two of Daphne's birthdays, everything two. I'd have to do it all over again. My brain had turned reaching the year mark into such a goal, it slammed into me with the force of a tidal wave that it was not finished, but just starting over again.
I was at the bottom and the week was a mountain. Saving my injured leg for the half-marathon, I couldn't run, so my nervous energy came out at work. I felt a little crazed and a little too outwardly cheerful for the crumbling happening inside. How strange to know your energy is unusually manic, but with little power or desire to stop it.
Originally, I signed up for the half marathon in order to have something positive to strive for during that time since my natural tendency is to wallow. I'm good at it (the wallowing) and knew that I could choose to roll about in it or I could choose positive endeavors. So scared by what my life could become, I've been trying to choose positivity to avoid the abyss - this was no exception. The timing was perfect. It was the first day of my second year without him. I wanted to honor his life by accomplishing something I never before believed was possible. Something I knew he'd be immensely proud of.
I knew it would be emotional. I knew it would be incredibly difficult for this unnatural runner - both physically and mentally. I wasn't expecting my body to unleash a physical reaction to the stress of the past year and the emotions I carried through the run - pride, reverence for his memory, utter sorrow because no matter how hard I ran, I would still have to be without him. I finished that race, but only with the strength of the people who left notes or messages, those who showed up to cheer me on and the women who literally surrounded me, held my hand and pushed me up hills while I was on that trail. I left a lot of things out there that I can't explain. I also took a lot home with me when I crossed that finish line. I regulated breathing through tears, ran through physical pain, focused on the mantra (I AM STRONG) written on my hand in black Sharpie, and conquered my biggest physical challenge (other than childbirth) to date. I triumphed over something inside - a wall made of fear, sadness, doubt, uncertainty. I did it for him, but it turned out to be for me, too.
After all of that, I felt like I had been dipped and dipped and dipped in wax. In the days prior to October 17th, I was increasingly panicked. After closing that year and running that race with so many supporters, I was insulated somehow - on my way to being a whole candle once again. For a few weeks anyway, I slept a little better, my tears were fewer and the world seemed a little easier to tackle without Matt by my side.
This race was not everything, but it is an accidental symbol for my year. So much work. So many long stretches to navigate. Such a mental struggle requiring so much resolve to keep going. So many giant hills that are defeating in so many ways. A lot of people helping me, cheering me along. Accomplishments I never thought I'd be able to (have to) claim.
As I nurse my injured leg (four sad weeks of healing and counting), I miss my training - the release of anxiety, the camaraderie, the choice to do something for me and for Matt. At the bottom of a year again, unable to run, settling into winter, headed for the holidays, sadness creeping back in, I feel my outer layers threatening to melt. The extra bulk my candle gained in that last weekend of my most awful year is starting to go, but I'm so thankful to have had that extra boost for even a short while.
Tuesday, November 18, 2014
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
Blue and Pink
I don't believe the sky has been so breathtaking my entire life. Call it global warming, tunnel vision, or all in my head, but it has been beautiful more than I've ever noticed since last October. I would have considered myself a sky person, too - not just sky, but mountain, quiet forest, large body of water, fog, sunset-over-a-cornfield kind of person. And what I mean by that is that there is something spiritual about those things, the way they make you feel. Powerful and so small all at the same time.
I recently found a journal with some of my notes from a family trip to Colorado. While full of embarrassing nonsense about some old fixation with a boy who does not matter, those notes also contain my first ever written attempt at expressing my appreciation for the spirit of nature, specifically a sunrise over the Rockies, and its effect on me. I wrote them ten years ago. This is my second attempt.
I might as well just say it. I think Matt might have something to do with the sky - the light, the clouds. I also think I might be losing it.
The day of his funeral was the first time I noticed. The pink and purple ropes fanned in every direction, glowing like something I was supposed to hold onto. Something I couldn't reach or capture on film.
The highlights...
I'm facing the water on lake Michigan on a day that has been nothing but clouds. I'm missing him like mad. I need him and his hug. At the moment welled-up tears become too much for my eyes to hold in, the sky abruptly opens up and light reflects in one long line from a point on the horizon all the way to mere feet in front of me where waves are crashing. The clouds are moving fast and the sun is both setting and bursting. A few minutes of bright. Just as quickly, it is gone and does not appear again until the next day.
I'm about to go for a run with a friend. I am at the tallest point in a small public park and have already silently noticed every fluff against the bright afternoon sky. Hoping that he'll shield me from some of that sun and make this run more bearable. Before I put in my headphones, she points to the horizon and asks me if I've seen what my man made for me.
I'm driving with Daphne and she talks about the clouds. She tells me about how they are "getting bluer" and how much she loves them. Thinks "they are beeootiful and perfect for outside." Her frustration over the dump truck in front of us blocking her view is palpable.
Daphne asks my sister who painted the sky on our way home from an event that was important to Matt. He wanted to make it a tradition to bring Daphne there every year. Sister tells me I should write Daphne's poetic question down and that she doesn't know how to respond because she doesn't know what I'm telling her about things like that. I say nothing.
Today's morning sky was brilliant - another one of those days when the sun and sunrise were pretty, but more than that. They were contagious. In all four directions, the sky was pink and orange. And blue. And purple and white. Daphne asked me again who painted that sky.
She said, "The sky is so pink today. It is so beautiful. Who painted it, momma? Is it a man? I really love him. That pink is so beautiful for you."
I have not said these things to her. Maybe someone else did. I simply say I love the sky and I think it is beautiful. Those other blanks... She filled those in herself. For now, I'm opting out of anything more than agreeing with her.
I recently found a journal with some of my notes from a family trip to Colorado. While full of embarrassing nonsense about some old fixation with a boy who does not matter, those notes also contain my first ever written attempt at expressing my appreciation for the spirit of nature, specifically a sunrise over the Rockies, and its effect on me. I wrote them ten years ago. This is my second attempt.
I might as well just say it. I think Matt might have something to do with the sky - the light, the clouds. I also think I might be losing it.
The day of his funeral was the first time I noticed. The pink and purple ropes fanned in every direction, glowing like something I was supposed to hold onto. Something I couldn't reach or capture on film.
The highlights...
I'm facing the water on lake Michigan on a day that has been nothing but clouds. I'm missing him like mad. I need him and his hug. At the moment welled-up tears become too much for my eyes to hold in, the sky abruptly opens up and light reflects in one long line from a point on the horizon all the way to mere feet in front of me where waves are crashing. The clouds are moving fast and the sun is both setting and bursting. A few minutes of bright. Just as quickly, it is gone and does not appear again until the next day.
I'm about to go for a run with a friend. I am at the tallest point in a small public park and have already silently noticed every fluff against the bright afternoon sky. Hoping that he'll shield me from some of that sun and make this run more bearable. Before I put in my headphones, she points to the horizon and asks me if I've seen what my man made for me.
I'm driving with Daphne and she talks about the clouds. She tells me about how they are "getting bluer" and how much she loves them. Thinks "they are beeootiful and perfect for outside." Her frustration over the dump truck in front of us blocking her view is palpable.
Daphne asks my sister who painted the sky on our way home from an event that was important to Matt. He wanted to make it a tradition to bring Daphne there every year. Sister tells me I should write Daphne's poetic question down and that she doesn't know how to respond because she doesn't know what I'm telling her about things like that. I say nothing.
Today's morning sky was brilliant - another one of those days when the sun and sunrise were pretty, but more than that. They were contagious. In all four directions, the sky was pink and orange. And blue. And purple and white. Daphne asked me again who painted that sky.
She said, "The sky is so pink today. It is so beautiful. Who painted it, momma? Is it a man? I really love him. That pink is so beautiful for you."
I have not said these things to her. Maybe someone else did. I simply say I love the sky and I think it is beautiful. Those other blanks... She filled those in herself. For now, I'm opting out of anything more than agreeing with her.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Stages Three
Grief is so unique and so recursive that I'm not sure I can explain my personal experience accurately, but I feel like it is important for me to reflect on this process, lest it sweep me away like an angry river. Since losing him, Matt has been just as much at the center of my world as he was before, but in such a different way. And at some point, I realized I was letting sadness swallow me and I made a promise to myself not to force anything that didn't feel right, to try and feel what I need to feel and process what I need to process. It is important for my healing - important for Daphne. I want her mom to be a whole person who is not defined by losing her love. Shaped by it, yes, irrevocably, but not defined by it.
I know when I've moved on to a new stage or phase or mood, only when I have a moment (hour, day, week) of regression. I fall off that platform and when I'm back down at the bottom, that is when I notice where I had been, what place I had reached. This week has been one big crash and the trigger is unknown. At this point, it could still be anything and sometimes the catalyst is something small that only I would connect to Matt instead of something obvious. What would have been my fourth wedding anniversary passed weeks ago with incredible sadness, but not the giant, slow, lingering pit of sorrow I had planned to battle for a whole week. I went to dinner at a bluff top winery and left for a trip the next day which were welcome distractions. But now I'm back home and the little things are hitting me harder than they had been before we got out of town. I hadn't realized all of that had let up a little bit until now.
It could be Daphne. She is talking about him. A lot. Today she asked me, "Where's my daddy? We gonna go find him at the restaurant?" She asks everyone where their dad is. Twice she has woken up from sleep and in her groggy babble, she has told me about him. A dream? Or is she seeing something reflected in me? I knew she would start to ask about him one day, but I'm not quite ready and I'm not quite sure what is triggering these questions now. The eery way she asks as she sits quietly makes me believe she thinks about him more than she might verbalize. The way she asks me if I need a hug from him when she is in trouble is unnerving at best - both because of her mention of the very thing I need when she is acting like a true toddler and because her level of skill in the art of manipulation terrifies me.
Maybe her questions have me slipping, but I just really think it's the ebb and flow happening. So far I've outlined these three stages of my personal grief and the only one I haven't revisited multiple times is the first one.
1. Utter shock and devastation on a level I cannot accurately describe. It was as if reality was suspended and language, visuals, sounds, smells, no longer made sense even though I knew they should. Speaking was difficult, tiresome. I alternately fought urges to stay in constant motion or sit catatonically on the couch. The exhaustion was so deep that sleeping eventually became possible, but waking was excruciating because I had to remember. Other people literally held me up - held up my body so I would not fall over. Apparently someone took care of Daphne. My clothes didn't fit after not eating for two weeks.
2. Continued shock and surprise over the facts. Sometimes I just can't believe it. A friend recently told me it still all seems surreal. That's true. Absolutely. But I've had to deal with the nuts and bolts of survival for the last nine and a half months so it feels pretty damn real a lot of the time. The nuts an bolts have been distraction enough to grant me brief reprieves from descending too far into my sadness. But then, brushing my teeth, driving to the grocery store, or visiting the coffee shop where we met, it will hit me all over again. Bam. Alone. Widow. He's not coming home tonight. How can this be true? I am still swiftly rocked by the idea that he's gone and that I can't hear about his day. Sometimes I have to hide or wait it out in my car. If I'm at work, I just go to the restroom. Everyone is kind enough to pretend not to notice.
3. Missing him. A month or two ago, I realized I was physically aching for his presence. Instead of shock, losing him is a horrific reality I am constantly aware of, but not surprised by. It isn't the sharp pang that stops breath momentarily, but instead a deep missing him so great I can barely stand it. My whole chest feels like it is caving in and it sticks with me for long periods of time without a break. At first I thought this was a better phase - not so sneaky, constant, a little more predictable. I was wrong. It is persistent, unquenchable and never-ending. In this stage, I've been predicting how he would feel about something, what he would say about this or that, picturing him there, thinking about how we'd be planning to expand our family, wondering how it would be if it hadn't happened this way or what we would look like as the old couple at the grocery store. Hating that old couple at the grocery store because I feel so cheated. Dangerous.
I've found myself mentioning him in small ways just to test the waters. I don't realize I'm doing it until it's out of my mouth and I see my friends and family brace themselves when they hear his name. Is it just a mention, or a floodgate bursting? That all depends who I'm talking to and where we are. Mentioning that he liked a certain food/tv show/song/city in conversation with a friend is just a shout out. Mentioning that we lost her dad to Daphne's new preschool teacher is a floodgate.
I wish I could say I understand it. Not understanding is something I don't handle well. At all. I don't need to be good at a task as long as I comprehend the logistics, but none of this is logical and I swim back and forth between stages two and three without conscious choice. For a person who likes to be in the know, needs to be in control of herself if nothing else, and has a difficult time with change, it is still a rough journey. The fact that my thoughts are coherent enough today to delineate my biggest grief stages is a step toward understanding that I'm beginning to believe is essential. I may not have answers to most of the questions my brain asks every day, but I can at least start by analyzing where I've been and how I'm changing. Maybe one day the crumbs will all fall into a pattern on the floor.
I know when I've moved on to a new stage or phase or mood, only when I have a moment (hour, day, week) of regression. I fall off that platform and when I'm back down at the bottom, that is when I notice where I had been, what place I had reached. This week has been one big crash and the trigger is unknown. At this point, it could still be anything and sometimes the catalyst is something small that only I would connect to Matt instead of something obvious. What would have been my fourth wedding anniversary passed weeks ago with incredible sadness, but not the giant, slow, lingering pit of sorrow I had planned to battle for a whole week. I went to dinner at a bluff top winery and left for a trip the next day which were welcome distractions. But now I'm back home and the little things are hitting me harder than they had been before we got out of town. I hadn't realized all of that had let up a little bit until now.
It could be Daphne. She is talking about him. A lot. Today she asked me, "Where's my daddy? We gonna go find him at the restaurant?" She asks everyone where their dad is. Twice she has woken up from sleep and in her groggy babble, she has told me about him. A dream? Or is she seeing something reflected in me? I knew she would start to ask about him one day, but I'm not quite ready and I'm not quite sure what is triggering these questions now. The eery way she asks as she sits quietly makes me believe she thinks about him more than she might verbalize. The way she asks me if I need a hug from him when she is in trouble is unnerving at best - both because of her mention of the very thing I need when she is acting like a true toddler and because her level of skill in the art of manipulation terrifies me.
Maybe her questions have me slipping, but I just really think it's the ebb and flow happening. So far I've outlined these three stages of my personal grief and the only one I haven't revisited multiple times is the first one.
1. Utter shock and devastation on a level I cannot accurately describe. It was as if reality was suspended and language, visuals, sounds, smells, no longer made sense even though I knew they should. Speaking was difficult, tiresome. I alternately fought urges to stay in constant motion or sit catatonically on the couch. The exhaustion was so deep that sleeping eventually became possible, but waking was excruciating because I had to remember. Other people literally held me up - held up my body so I would not fall over. Apparently someone took care of Daphne. My clothes didn't fit after not eating for two weeks.
2. Continued shock and surprise over the facts. Sometimes I just can't believe it. A friend recently told me it still all seems surreal. That's true. Absolutely. But I've had to deal with the nuts and bolts of survival for the last nine and a half months so it feels pretty damn real a lot of the time. The nuts an bolts have been distraction enough to grant me brief reprieves from descending too far into my sadness. But then, brushing my teeth, driving to the grocery store, or visiting the coffee shop where we met, it will hit me all over again. Bam. Alone. Widow. He's not coming home tonight. How can this be true? I am still swiftly rocked by the idea that he's gone and that I can't hear about his day. Sometimes I have to hide or wait it out in my car. If I'm at work, I just go to the restroom. Everyone is kind enough to pretend not to notice.
3. Missing him. A month or two ago, I realized I was physically aching for his presence. Instead of shock, losing him is a horrific reality I am constantly aware of, but not surprised by. It isn't the sharp pang that stops breath momentarily, but instead a deep missing him so great I can barely stand it. My whole chest feels like it is caving in and it sticks with me for long periods of time without a break. At first I thought this was a better phase - not so sneaky, constant, a little more predictable. I was wrong. It is persistent, unquenchable and never-ending. In this stage, I've been predicting how he would feel about something, what he would say about this or that, picturing him there, thinking about how we'd be planning to expand our family, wondering how it would be if it hadn't happened this way or what we would look like as the old couple at the grocery store. Hating that old couple at the grocery store because I feel so cheated. Dangerous.
I've found myself mentioning him in small ways just to test the waters. I don't realize I'm doing it until it's out of my mouth and I see my friends and family brace themselves when they hear his name. Is it just a mention, or a floodgate bursting? That all depends who I'm talking to and where we are. Mentioning that he liked a certain food/tv show/song/city in conversation with a friend is just a shout out. Mentioning that we lost her dad to Daphne's new preschool teacher is a floodgate.
I wish I could say I understand it. Not understanding is something I don't handle well. At all. I don't need to be good at a task as long as I comprehend the logistics, but none of this is logical and I swim back and forth between stages two and three without conscious choice. For a person who likes to be in the know, needs to be in control of herself if nothing else, and has a difficult time with change, it is still a rough journey. The fact that my thoughts are coherent enough today to delineate my biggest grief stages is a step toward understanding that I'm beginning to believe is essential. I may not have answers to most of the questions my brain asks every day, but I can at least start by analyzing where I've been and how I'm changing. Maybe one day the crumbs will all fall into a pattern on the floor.
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
On Daphne's Memory
Daphne is a seriously like her mom in one way: she notices details and has a very specific, but sometimes selective, memory. She pulls out references to exact phrases I know I said only one time and months ago, but can’t (won’t) remember to sit, instead of stand, on her chair at the dinner table. I remember what I wore to the Forest Park Balloon Races with my immediate family and maternal grandparents when I was about nine years old (a long-sleeved technicolor t-shirt and jeans), but I remember surprisingly little about my master’s thesis or what I had for breakfast yesterday.
I’ve made it through a few sad milestones lately and I think she knows. It started when I began to pack up all of her baby clothes. I took them out of their clunky tubs in the closet and put them in vacuum bags that shrink down and save space. I touched all of those small outfits and soft shirts and couldn’t help but sink into sadness over their lack of use. They were intended for more babies. More babies I was supposed to have with him. And he touched them and folded them and put them on our baby girl. And now he’s gone and there will be no more babies and no more Dad caring for Daphne in that way. I was not yet crying, but I was quiet and had my back to her as she read books in her rocking chair. Without saying a word, she came to me and grabbed my cheeks in the adorable way she has been doing when she wants to kiss my forehead. But instead of giving a kiss, she said, “Momma is sad?” And then she gave me a hug with a pat.
I’ve stopped lying to her. I tell her I am sad, but that I’ll be okay. When she asks me if “Daddy is sad, too?” I just tell her how much I miss him. And that I love him so much. And that’s usually all I can choke out.
Here’s the thing. Every time I talk about him with her, I start to cry. I want to build memories and fight science, the laws of nature, and developmental speeds to make her - force her - to have real memories of him so she can confidently say she remembers her father instead of feeling like her memories are fabricated by pictures and stories told. So that she knows how much he loved her and supported her every move. I don't want her to be sad when she thinks of him. But I can’t do it yet, and I have to wonder if I just should rip that bandage. We say goodnight to him every night. She tells him to have sweet dreams. That might have to be enough for now.
A few weeks ago she asked me if we could go to the garage door in the laundry room and wait for him to come home. We used to do that a lot when we arrived home before he did in the evenings. It has been eight months (yesterday) and I have not mentioned it to her once. I haven’t told her how much I miss it because I thought it would confuse her, make her think he’s coming. Does she really remember that? She must, but how? And good god, how can I make her keep it? I know I can’t really force those memories - even training her to think about them now would be planting them in her little brain, but lately she’s been asking if he’s “just not home yet” or if he’s “just driving.” She tells me that she “loves Daddy. I miss him. He’s in heaven.” Or when I was crying (secretly and silently, I thought) on the way home from Saint Peters on Father’s Day, she asked me if I was a little sad and if I needed a hug from Daddy.
She also told me he was in the brown closet with some dirt. She struggled to spit it out, but said it was a “Different closet. Dirt in the closet. He’s all fixed now.” This was also on our drive home, and she was in and out of sleep, so I am choosing to call that some dream talking instead of thinking about it further. I have too many other waves to jump.
Eight days ago would have been his 34th birthday. Three days ago was Father’s Day. Twenty-nine days from now would have been our 4th wedding anniversary. It’s a minefield. I’m sad and I’m treading lightly. I’m trying to be strong but also nice to myself and make sure I’m in a safe place when I need to be, but she is watching me. She understands and I can’t decide if that is good or bad. She is mine and I am hers and we have to do this together either way. Maybe she’s the only one who really understands even if she can’t tell me how or why or what she actually remembers. And that might be all I need from her - just to remind me of him and to know what I am going through on some primal, animal cub level.
Eight days ago would have been his 34th birthday. Three days ago was Father’s Day. Twenty-nine days from now would have been our 4th wedding anniversary. It’s a minefield. I’m sad and I’m treading lightly. I’m trying to be strong but also nice to myself and make sure I’m in a safe place when I need to be, but she is watching me. She understands and I can’t decide if that is good or bad. She is mine and I am hers and we have to do this together either way. Maybe she’s the only one who really understands even if she can’t tell me how or why or what she actually remembers. And that might be all I need from her - just to remind me of him and to know what I am going through on some primal, animal cub level.
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Goose
Do geese mate for life like emperor penguins? I'm not sure. We had two geese growing up and one of them was named Charlotte, but the other name escapes me now. Maybe Fred? No matter. I was four or five years old and whenever I asked, my dad always told me that the one on the left was Charlotte. Always. They did move as one, almost synchronized, so I believed him and didn't realize why his own answer made him giggle until much later in life. I don't remember what happened to those geese, but I remember them being together always, and then they were gone.
In my part of town, I don't see a lot of geese. If I do, they are usually flying across the sky instead of walking in duos like Charlotte and her friend. A few stressful and gloomy mornings ago, I saw one goose fly over the highway while I was on my way to work.
I watched it and watched it. It was airborne and headed south, but it seemed wobbly and unable to stay consistently at the same elevation. Hurt maybe. It also struck me as odd that it was alone since I usually see pairs or flying V formations. This time, there was just one lone bird headed in the right direction, getting the flight done, but struggling to make it happen.
I can relate.
In my part of town, I don't see a lot of geese. If I do, they are usually flying across the sky instead of walking in duos like Charlotte and her friend. A few stressful and gloomy mornings ago, I saw one goose fly over the highway while I was on my way to work.
I watched it and watched it. It was airborne and headed south, but it seemed wobbly and unable to stay consistently at the same elevation. Hurt maybe. It also struck me as odd that it was alone since I usually see pairs or flying V formations. This time, there was just one lone bird headed in the right direction, getting the flight done, but struggling to make it happen.
I can relate.
Wednesday, March 19, 2014
Billy Bob
March 18
This morning I heard a song that brought me to tears on my way to work. I think I've started every day this week with puffy eyes. My hope is that the chilly air in my face gives me an excuse. The song was "John Deere Green" by Joe Diffy. This is not my normal taste in music, but I was listening to local radio and my choices were to listen to a commercial or change it to the country station. It doesn't make much sense that I would instantly start crying at this song - at least it didn't to me at first.
When I was in fifth grade, I started to care about music a little bit. Up to that point, I just listened to anything presented to me. By the age of ten, I know I loved Soul Asylum’s “Run Away Train” and Blind Melon’s “No Rain,” however, I live in an area where country music is difficult to avoid. Now I listen to mostly folk and indie music, but I still know all the words to Tim McGraw’s “Don’t Take the Girl,” Sammy Kershaw’s “She Don’t Know She’s Beautiful” and Joe Diffy’s “John Deere Green.”
Before we had Daphne, Matt and I spent a lot of time alone together in the car - traveling home to visit our families, taking road trips for vacation, weddings. We drove to New Orleans to honeymoon and to Alabama for spring break. We’d casually hold hands and just talk and talk. About nothing sometimes. Future plans, promises, politics, family issues, and even disagreements other times. We’d keep each other awake as we drove to the next stop on the map and one of the rules was that the sleepy driver was allowed to rule (and blast) the radio if the other person dozed off. I’m terrible at driving long distances, so I was usually the dozer. Back then, on every trip over a half hour’s drive, I would ask Matt to interrupt the rock he was listening to and turn on the Sammy Kershaw Pandora station - just for giggles and nostalgia’s sake. He thought it was hilarious when I would belt out the words to the dorky country songs of my past, so he would humor me until we heard a few good hits. He would cut me off, but he would laugh and laugh. before he’d cut me off. I know I was crying for those memories.
Then I actually listened to the song and thought about the lyrics - the characters are so damn proud to be together despite the town thinking they are of foolish. Their love was expressed their way (in letters three foot high) and their love language wasn't quite understood by anyone else. I think we really had that.
I don't think my "town" thought we were foolish, but I had many friends tell me that we seemed to be all the other needed or that we were obvious about our feelings. Many times, I felt just slightly judged by this - like I was some sort of love nerd who couldn’t be cool, be cool….in front of others. Someone once razzed me because they “didn’t know I was a hand-holder.” I met my with wine group the weekend before I lost him. On the way home, after I complained to a girlfriend about a small ongoing disagreement we had been having, she told me she was glad to hear that we argued sometimes because it seemed like we never did. That was far from true. We argued but made sure we always left lines of communication open even when we were upset. We didn't follow the rule about "never going to bed angry" but we always said I love you before we slept. Anger didn't change that. Judged or not, I never wanted to change it. We were obvious about our love. Instead of a green painted message on a water tower, Matt proclaimed his pride over being my husband to his co-workers, to our family and friends, on my Facebook wall, through handwritten cards, in every email.
The week after our wedding, I sat on the bed in our New Orleans hotel to check for a wedding photo sneak peak from our photographer on Facebook. Instead, what I found was a note from her second shooter. She wrote to me to tell me how much fun she had at our wedding, but also that she knew I had snagged a good one. She knew this because he was so proud to call me wife. She was assigned to photograph the boys getting ready for the ceremony, and she heard him talk about the card he picked out to exchange through bridesmaid messenger - how he really wanted me to like it because cards (and the artsy store he bought it from) were important to me. I frantically looked for that Facebook note tonight. I found it. She said,” I overheard him bragging to people about how incredibly artistic and creative and multi-talented you were. It wasn't in a boastful way but in a "My wife is just absolutely astoundingly talented" way. It was adorable.”
He always saw the best version of me and I’m pretty sure that version existed because of him - I always used to joke that he was a far nicer, more generous person than I could ever hope to be. I was loose around him - I laughed without thought and sang ridiculous twangy songs and made goofy faces and was unself-conscious about his hand resting on my knee as we drove south down a highway in Alabama.
“He wrote Billy Bob loves Charlene. In letters three-foot high. And the whole town said, ‘The boy should have used red’, but it looked good to Charlene in John Deere Green.”
Sunday, March 2, 2014
Sleep
I've had a lot going on lately - shopping with friends at the lake, a trip to see a much-loved musician, a film festival in my town that is becoming one of my most favorite events ever. All of these have been made possible by my friends and family, whether they bought me a ticket, just kept me company or babysat my girl so I could try to be normal for a while. It has been nice - wonderful. I would do all of these things all over again, and am so grateful, but I am so tired. Maybe I'm not yet ready to be normal again - maybe normal doesn't exist for me anymore.
What I'm learning is this: If I put myself in situations that require me to stay "on" for too long, I start to lose it. And by "it," I mean a combination of composure, a filter, positive thinking, and hope. Even the length of a normal work day can sometimes test my limit for holding it all in depending on how much sleep I've had or what triggers I came in contact with (and then tried to suppress) throughout my day. Last week I got a reminder card for Matt's eye appointment. I didn't know he had made it at his last appointment over the summer. It sent me spinning into thought about what an 8:00am appointment would do to our morning routine - the old routine that is. The one I wish I could have back. Really remembering the intimate details of our family's morning routine was the saddest thing I had done all week until I had to call and tell them to stop sending reminder cards.
I constantly look for distraction, but feel like even when I appear to have found it, my brain won't let it fully happen. I might be having a conversation about iPad end-of-the-year-procedures at work or posing in a silly photo with my friends or sisters, but I guarantee that I am focused on the task of just keeping my concentration, focused on trying not to miss him. The constant film reel of sad in my head does not seem to take a break - I simply ignore it until I'm alone again. This usually makes the ride home from work every day my first blurry moment to decompress. I am grateful that it is usually drowned out by the radio so Daphne cannot hear my voice crack. If I can pull it together before we go inside, I can usually make it through the few hours before she goes to bed, all the while focusing on not focusing. Exhausting.
Because of my full life, I like to think that I'm not lonely, but I am. I hope that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings. I am so lucky for you all. So lucky. I know that. But I had a person who wanted to know everything - all my secrets, all of my plans and dreams, all of the boring details of my boring, cherished, life. I saw seven documentary films this weekend and instead of snuggling on the couch to tell him about each one, I am sitting alone. I know I could call someone, but I want to talk to him.
The intimate connection of a spouse is so much more than romance, plans, shared stories, family histories. It is the knowledge you didn't realize you even had - the little things. The small details that didn't matter until you didn't have anyone knowing yours. I have months of mundane to tell someone and it's spilling over. I haven't done it, but the thought to text his phone just to feel like I have someone to talk to while I'm here at my house alone every night has crossed my mind. Then I realized how crazy and unhealthy that sounds. I know it doesn't make sense, because if he was here I wouldn't be crushed by this sadness, but I really just want to tell him about it. He would make me feel better and he might not even need to say anything at all.
I cannot seem to think of anything else, so I was surprised my first dreams about him took as long as they did to occur. I actually remember this one. Maybe this means I am sleeping better. I did start sleeping more normally last week - no longer am I at the foot of the bed.
Like dreams so often are, one of these first dreams was set in a place that did not look the way it does in real life. It was set at a Wal-Mart, a store I cannot stand to visit. The ceilings were taller, the aisles much more open - like an arena. At this "Wal-Mart," Matt and I were participating in a game show with a live audience. We made it through a physical challenge that I cannot remember, but I think it may have involved a hula hoop. The second round was set high atop a set of bleachers or risers and was in front of a live audience. Teams were made up of one man and one woman. Each team was required to finish a task - the girl had to shave the man's face and head. Barbershop style with the old-fashioned blade and the painted on shaving cream.
Throughout this dream, my dream self was conscious that Matt was sick. Also, I was acutely aware that knowing about his illness ahead of time was so much worse than losing him suddenly. I was conscious of being married, but also strangely broken up or not together. He was not assigned to be my partner in the competition, but instead, I was paired with one of my former students. When we climbed the bleachers to race-shave the men, I asked Matt if he thought it would be too weird if I took over as his partner. He said he did not think it would be strange at all, so I moved to his station, abandoning my student. The horn sounded to start the race, but I wasn't tall enough to reach him. My dream self thought she was really clever and planned to win by using a doggy swimming pool from the pet aisle as a step-stool. While I was hunting for a pool, the competition ended. I missed the whole thing.
When I dream, I usually do not see real faces. The characters are not creepy, but they are blurry. This was not the case with my dream about Matt. I could see his face exactly - the square angle of the tip of his nose, the crooked smile, those eyebrows he passed on to Daphne, everything.
When I returned to Matt's station, he was still sitting in the barber's seat, waiting for me to return. He was clearly resting - his body relaxed and leaning sideways in the chair the way he used to fall asleep in the car from time to time. We were still very aware of his grave illness. He realized I was back and ready to try again in the next round of the competition, but instead he looked at me calmly, smiled and said, "It's time." Everyone around us in the competition seemed to understand that this was something we just had to do. Reluctantly, I took him to the hospital where we both knew his body would fail. Dream over.
He smiled. I could see his face and he smiled in that way that was supposed to convince me to get on board with something. The dream has been haunting me for over a week and I have not had one since.
I could go on and on about what I do or do not think it means. Or if it means anything at all. I'm not going to get into that, but I do know that I woke up so sad I could barely get up early and shower before Daphne started to stir. I'd like to dream him every night so I could tell him about my day, but again, that doesn't sound healthy. I also don't think I could handle the wake-up since I'm still recovering from this one.
What I'm learning is this: If I put myself in situations that require me to stay "on" for too long, I start to lose it. And by "it," I mean a combination of composure, a filter, positive thinking, and hope. Even the length of a normal work day can sometimes test my limit for holding it all in depending on how much sleep I've had or what triggers I came in contact with (and then tried to suppress) throughout my day. Last week I got a reminder card for Matt's eye appointment. I didn't know he had made it at his last appointment over the summer. It sent me spinning into thought about what an 8:00am appointment would do to our morning routine - the old routine that is. The one I wish I could have back. Really remembering the intimate details of our family's morning routine was the saddest thing I had done all week until I had to call and tell them to stop sending reminder cards.
I constantly look for distraction, but feel like even when I appear to have found it, my brain won't let it fully happen. I might be having a conversation about iPad end-of-the-year-procedures at work or posing in a silly photo with my friends or sisters, but I guarantee that I am focused on the task of just keeping my concentration, focused on trying not to miss him. The constant film reel of sad in my head does not seem to take a break - I simply ignore it until I'm alone again. This usually makes the ride home from work every day my first blurry moment to decompress. I am grateful that it is usually drowned out by the radio so Daphne cannot hear my voice crack. If I can pull it together before we go inside, I can usually make it through the few hours before she goes to bed, all the while focusing on not focusing. Exhausting.
Because of my full life, I like to think that I'm not lonely, but I am. I hope that doesn't hurt anyone's feelings. I am so lucky for you all. So lucky. I know that. But I had a person who wanted to know everything - all my secrets, all of my plans and dreams, all of the boring details of my boring, cherished, life. I saw seven documentary films this weekend and instead of snuggling on the couch to tell him about each one, I am sitting alone. I know I could call someone, but I want to talk to him.
The intimate connection of a spouse is so much more than romance, plans, shared stories, family histories. It is the knowledge you didn't realize you even had - the little things. The small details that didn't matter until you didn't have anyone knowing yours. I have months of mundane to tell someone and it's spilling over. I haven't done it, but the thought to text his phone just to feel like I have someone to talk to while I'm here at my house alone every night has crossed my mind. Then I realized how crazy and unhealthy that sounds. I know it doesn't make sense, because if he was here I wouldn't be crushed by this sadness, but I really just want to tell him about it. He would make me feel better and he might not even need to say anything at all.
I cannot seem to think of anything else, so I was surprised my first dreams about him took as long as they did to occur. I actually remember this one. Maybe this means I am sleeping better. I did start sleeping more normally last week - no longer am I at the foot of the bed.
Like dreams so often are, one of these first dreams was set in a place that did not look the way it does in real life. It was set at a Wal-Mart, a store I cannot stand to visit. The ceilings were taller, the aisles much more open - like an arena. At this "Wal-Mart," Matt and I were participating in a game show with a live audience. We made it through a physical challenge that I cannot remember, but I think it may have involved a hula hoop. The second round was set high atop a set of bleachers or risers and was in front of a live audience. Teams were made up of one man and one woman. Each team was required to finish a task - the girl had to shave the man's face and head. Barbershop style with the old-fashioned blade and the painted on shaving cream.
Throughout this dream, my dream self was conscious that Matt was sick. Also, I was acutely aware that knowing about his illness ahead of time was so much worse than losing him suddenly. I was conscious of being married, but also strangely broken up or not together. He was not assigned to be my partner in the competition, but instead, I was paired with one of my former students. When we climbed the bleachers to race-shave the men, I asked Matt if he thought it would be too weird if I took over as his partner. He said he did not think it would be strange at all, so I moved to his station, abandoning my student. The horn sounded to start the race, but I wasn't tall enough to reach him. My dream self thought she was really clever and planned to win by using a doggy swimming pool from the pet aisle as a step-stool. While I was hunting for a pool, the competition ended. I missed the whole thing.
When I dream, I usually do not see real faces. The characters are not creepy, but they are blurry. This was not the case with my dream about Matt. I could see his face exactly - the square angle of the tip of his nose, the crooked smile, those eyebrows he passed on to Daphne, everything.
When I returned to Matt's station, he was still sitting in the barber's seat, waiting for me to return. He was clearly resting - his body relaxed and leaning sideways in the chair the way he used to fall asleep in the car from time to time. We were still very aware of his grave illness. He realized I was back and ready to try again in the next round of the competition, but instead he looked at me calmly, smiled and said, "It's time." Everyone around us in the competition seemed to understand that this was something we just had to do. Reluctantly, I took him to the hospital where we both knew his body would fail. Dream over.
He smiled. I could see his face and he smiled in that way that was supposed to convince me to get on board with something. The dream has been haunting me for over a week and I have not had one since.
I could go on and on about what I do or do not think it means. Or if it means anything at all. I'm not going to get into that, but I do know that I woke up so sad I could barely get up early and shower before Daphne started to stir. I'd like to dream him every night so I could tell him about my day, but again, that doesn't sound healthy. I also don't think I could handle the wake-up since I'm still recovering from this one.
Tuesday, February 4, 2014
Maybe this is why...
I don't really believe in "meant to be." I don't believe in "all things happen for a reason." And I certainly don't believe god includes terrible things in his plan for our lives. I wish I did - finding comfort might be a little easier. Although I'm feeling a bit abandoned, I don't blame god. That seems too easy. Blaming, throwing blanket statements of dismissal at it - these seem to only postpone the hurt. Instead, I've been trying to let myself feel as much pain as possible so I don't explode by holding it in. How else can I heal enough to function when I haven't dealt with all of the chaos inside?
It is not difficult to understand why these comforting ideas are tempting and I frequently have thoughts in the same vein before I wake up from what feels like an illogical dream. I've never been so exhausted to just be in my own head so the mental and emotional break does me some good. If I did believe, I might have some things to say.
I might say that maybe this is why we fell in love so darn fast. Why we bought a house before we bought a wedding. It could be why we had such a terrible time trying to live apart when we thought we were going to transition to a new city. Why I missed him so much when he was away for referee assignments. Maybe this is why Daphne was a wonderful surprise. Maybe this is why we didn't move to that other city - so I would have my group of friends and a stable career to lean on. Maybe this is why Daphne talked so early - so her dad could get to know her as much as possible. Maybe this is why she walked a little late - so he could hold her a little longer. Maybe this is why "our song" was actually a very sad song when the second verse was included.
If I entertained the idea that there was reason behind it all, I might think that this is why I was so unsettled the weekend before I lost him - I was crabby and hung up on (and a bit panicked about) getting the perfect family photo at a fall festival we attended. It's probably why we held hands in the car all the time. It didn't matter the length of the trip. I'm sure it's why we said I love you so much. If we said our morning goodbyes, and I came back into the house to grab some forgotten item, he would say it all over again. I love you. I'm sure it's why we actually had many conversations about how happy, how lucky, we were to have found each other.
The sunset was stunning on the day we had to say goodbye. After his funeral, my family scooped me up and brought me to stay with them for the week. Before we left town that afternoon the sky looked like something unreal. Purple and orange streaked the sky in rope-like clouds that shot out from the sun in every direction. It was the most vibrant October sky I can recall. And when I rode east, away from those clouds and my house, I felt like I was leaving him behind. Like he was physically being ripped away from me all over again. If I thought it was real, I might say those clouds were there for a reason.
Two Sundays ago my family surprised me with a birthday party at my house. A day I didn't think I could bear alone was made tolerable and even happy by their presence and thoughtful gestures. Still, they had to leave hours before I could reasonably go to bed so I felt incredibly alone before they even left. When I walked them outside on this gorgeous, unseasonably warm January day, that airbrushed sky was back. This time, the color was more pink than purple. The clouds were smoother, and instead of radiating from a specific point of light, they were smeared across the entire sky. I spun around in my driveway to see that in every direction it looked like someone had pressed a handful of color. Science tells me that this is because the temperature literally dropped 40 degrees that night and those clouds were a front moving quickly. This is true. But if I really wanted to believe it, I bet I could convince myself that it was him - everywhere and in every direction for just a few minutes until another day ended with the sun.
It is not difficult to understand why these comforting ideas are tempting and I frequently have thoughts in the same vein before I wake up from what feels like an illogical dream. I've never been so exhausted to just be in my own head so the mental and emotional break does me some good. If I did believe, I might have some things to say.
I might say that maybe this is why we fell in love so darn fast. Why we bought a house before we bought a wedding. It could be why we had such a terrible time trying to live apart when we thought we were going to transition to a new city. Why I missed him so much when he was away for referee assignments. Maybe this is why Daphne was a wonderful surprise. Maybe this is why we didn't move to that other city - so I would have my group of friends and a stable career to lean on. Maybe this is why Daphne talked so early - so her dad could get to know her as much as possible. Maybe this is why she walked a little late - so he could hold her a little longer. Maybe this is why "our song" was actually a very sad song when the second verse was included.
If I entertained the idea that there was reason behind it all, I might think that this is why I was so unsettled the weekend before I lost him - I was crabby and hung up on (and a bit panicked about) getting the perfect family photo at a fall festival we attended. It's probably why we held hands in the car all the time. It didn't matter the length of the trip. I'm sure it's why we said I love you so much. If we said our morning goodbyes, and I came back into the house to grab some forgotten item, he would say it all over again. I love you. I'm sure it's why we actually had many conversations about how happy, how lucky, we were to have found each other.
The sunset was stunning on the day we had to say goodbye. After his funeral, my family scooped me up and brought me to stay with them for the week. Before we left town that afternoon the sky looked like something unreal. Purple and orange streaked the sky in rope-like clouds that shot out from the sun in every direction. It was the most vibrant October sky I can recall. And when I rode east, away from those clouds and my house, I felt like I was leaving him behind. Like he was physically being ripped away from me all over again. If I thought it was real, I might say those clouds were there for a reason.
Two Sundays ago my family surprised me with a birthday party at my house. A day I didn't think I could bear alone was made tolerable and even happy by their presence and thoughtful gestures. Still, they had to leave hours before I could reasonably go to bed so I felt incredibly alone before they even left. When I walked them outside on this gorgeous, unseasonably warm January day, that airbrushed sky was back. This time, the color was more pink than purple. The clouds were smoother, and instead of radiating from a specific point of light, they were smeared across the entire sky. I spun around in my driveway to see that in every direction it looked like someone had pressed a handful of color. Science tells me that this is because the temperature literally dropped 40 degrees that night and those clouds were a front moving quickly. This is true. But if I really wanted to believe it, I bet I could convince myself that it was him - everywhere and in every direction for just a few minutes until another day ended with the sun.
Wednesday, January 22, 2014
Time Stop
I turn 31 on Sunday. This has sparked thought about time and its passage and even though I hadn't realized it until tonight, I guess I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Friends, family, authors - they all say time will make things easier, heal the wounds. At first I thought they might be misspeaking - isn't it just that the shock will fade and the pain will become my norm? Now, I'm beginning to worry that they might be right for I have had moments of laughter and my 365 Gratitude project has helped me focus on something wonderfully distracting and positive each day. For three months and five days I have endured waves of forgetting only to remember, stifled pain and one step at a time. I ask for relief, but tonight I think maybe I could fend it off forever.
I work in a high school. I went to high school. The usual stint is four years which is longer than the length of time we were married. I lost him three years and three months to the day after I married him which is shorter than the blip of time I was a high school student. How is that for cruelty?
So since I'm over 30, high school was about half my life ago. Think about what you remember from high school. Are those memories clear? Are they only brought to mind by a rare scent or song? Are they fresh and present in your daily thoughts or are they faded and worn, sparked by a few old pictures? Mine are the latter. I see pictures of myself from high school and occasionally I don't recognize that person. I don't remember sitting at that restaurant or owning that sweatshirt. Some of the long lost friends in these photos are merely familiar faces without easily recalled names. Now there are the stories, the special nights, the events you relive in your mind over and over. That vision, those friends, those experiences are still with me, but the day-to-day of being in high school is gone. I am losing what it felt like. When I was there, I thought it was intense and forever. But now? I'm sure if I went back there the building would feel small and the smell would be unrecognizable.
Certainly, it is absurd to compare my marriage to my high school career in many ways, but in length of time? I can't stop myself. What if I can't remember my every day with Matt in 15 years? I cannot bear it. I've been so focused on worry for Daphne who won't remember her own experiences with her dad that I haven't stopped to worry about my own memories turning into old glory day stories. He is not just some old boyfriend, boiled down to the five stories your friends hear whenever his name is conjured. But like an old boyfriend, my memories created with him are finite. The pictures are already no longer current. So how do I make sure I save each experience and not just the photos? And not just the special stories. How can you file away the millions of seemingly unmemorable pieces of a life?
I want to remember how he made a goofy and dramatic face when he had the sniffles. He used one of those protein shake bottles with the metal ball inside about six hundred times a day and the sound drove me nuts. His handwriting - he always hated it. His tooth that overlapped just a little in the front and only from certain angles. All of his made up lyrics to real pop songs. That time when we had a big argument before he stormed off to work, only to come back after having driven all the way there so he could hug me and then hash it out even though he would be late. The way he put on Daphne's diaper cream far too thin and not nearly enough. The way the skin between his forefinger and his thumb was always dry and how his eyes crinkled when he open-mouth smiled at our baby's every word. How it felt to just sit on the couch near him even if we weren't talking or touching and how Daphne and I both went straight for the laundry room entrance to greet him when we heard the garage door lift. I want to remember these things, but not just in this list. Writing the list may have ruined them already - now they are trophy stories, the highlights of a life that can never actually add up to everything that he was, is, for me.
Faced with the idea that I might one day forget that he really loved to warm his feet (frigid) up with mine (warm) in bed or the way he always presented his grocery store purchases to me like they were prizes from a treasure hunt, I'd rather stop time now and keep every knife of pain. I've said recently that I feel stuck. I've also said that the farther away we get from October, the farther away he feels. Panicked, stuck, drifting, healing... None is better than the others and I find that thinking about it causes me to feel like I can barely breathe.
I work in a high school. I went to high school. The usual stint is four years which is longer than the length of time we were married. I lost him three years and three months to the day after I married him which is shorter than the blip of time I was a high school student. How is that for cruelty?
So since I'm over 30, high school was about half my life ago. Think about what you remember from high school. Are those memories clear? Are they only brought to mind by a rare scent or song? Are they fresh and present in your daily thoughts or are they faded and worn, sparked by a few old pictures? Mine are the latter. I see pictures of myself from high school and occasionally I don't recognize that person. I don't remember sitting at that restaurant or owning that sweatshirt. Some of the long lost friends in these photos are merely familiar faces without easily recalled names. Now there are the stories, the special nights, the events you relive in your mind over and over. That vision, those friends, those experiences are still with me, but the day-to-day of being in high school is gone. I am losing what it felt like. When I was there, I thought it was intense and forever. But now? I'm sure if I went back there the building would feel small and the smell would be unrecognizable.
Certainly, it is absurd to compare my marriage to my high school career in many ways, but in length of time? I can't stop myself. What if I can't remember my every day with Matt in 15 years? I cannot bear it. I've been so focused on worry for Daphne who won't remember her own experiences with her dad that I haven't stopped to worry about my own memories turning into old glory day stories. He is not just some old boyfriend, boiled down to the five stories your friends hear whenever his name is conjured. But like an old boyfriend, my memories created with him are finite. The pictures are already no longer current. So how do I make sure I save each experience and not just the photos? And not just the special stories. How can you file away the millions of seemingly unmemorable pieces of a life?
I want to remember how he made a goofy and dramatic face when he had the sniffles. He used one of those protein shake bottles with the metal ball inside about six hundred times a day and the sound drove me nuts. His handwriting - he always hated it. His tooth that overlapped just a little in the front and only from certain angles. All of his made up lyrics to real pop songs. That time when we had a big argument before he stormed off to work, only to come back after having driven all the way there so he could hug me and then hash it out even though he would be late. The way he put on Daphne's diaper cream far too thin and not nearly enough. The way the skin between his forefinger and his thumb was always dry and how his eyes crinkled when he open-mouth smiled at our baby's every word. How it felt to just sit on the couch near him even if we weren't talking or touching and how Daphne and I both went straight for the laundry room entrance to greet him when we heard the garage door lift. I want to remember these things, but not just in this list. Writing the list may have ruined them already - now they are trophy stories, the highlights of a life that can never actually add up to everything that he was, is, for me.
Faced with the idea that I might one day forget that he really loved to warm his feet (frigid) up with mine (warm) in bed or the way he always presented his grocery store purchases to me like they were prizes from a treasure hunt, I'd rather stop time now and keep every knife of pain. I've said recently that I feel stuck. I've also said that the farther away we get from October, the farther away he feels. Panicked, stuck, drifting, healing... None is better than the others and I find that thinking about it causes me to feel like I can barely breathe.
Thursday, January 16, 2014
Stone
Yesterday afternoon, in the middle of my very safe work day, I got an email from the funeral home director informing me that Matt's gravestone had been placed in the garden. The garden. Gravestone.
I actually had to design it. Like the plans for a house or a commissioned piece of art, they asked me for my vision and there was a series of back and forth emails, proofs, confirmations, etc. I am 30 and I have already designed my husband's gravestone. I held his hand while he died. I watched them close the casket. I designed his gravestone. These are the things of nightmares.
I want to see it, make sure they didn't screw it up, be close to something I can look at that represents him. Now that I know it is actually there, I can't stop thinking about visiting it, but I just can't do it yet. With my close friends, I think I spill a lot of information about myself - maybe too much. With anyone outside that circle, I gather lately that I must seem a little guarded. This blog is certainly the exception. I have no idea who reads it, but sending it out into the world seems to take a little weight out of my situation. But being a private griever, as I have always known I am, doesn't really seem to match up with going to a public garden to visit. Maybe it's just too unreal that this is my life, maybe visiting his grave makes me feel like I am now just a cliche, or maybe I'm worried someone else will ruin my moment with him. Maybe I'm worried I won't feel any different than I do now, on my couch, staring at the Direct TV screen saver bouncing around the television screen. I worry that when I go there it is just going to be me, full of sorrow, in the grass, staring at a stone. What I want to feel is how I felt when he would make me feel better...about anything... just by being near.
I tried to make the stone represent him, but how do you embody your most important person, your biggest loss, your happiest moments in a few symbols? Not possible. With no other choices but to think it through or draw out the painful process by avoiding it, I chose a fleur de lis because he loved them after living in New Orleans. The metal clock in our living room is textured with them. We bought a New Orleans flour de lis ornament for our Christmas tree when we were on our honeymoon. He gravitated toward them always. I have recently learned that the fleur de lis is also a sign of resilience which is nice to know. On either side of the symbol I asked them to place three horizontal stripes. The designer found this a strange request, but I don't care. The stone is black marble and the etching is white. These horizontal lines are my subtle nod to referee stripes because it was his biggest and most passionate pursuit outside of family. I really hope he would have liked it. I really hope I am strong enough to carry myself to see it soon.
Tomorrow marks three terrible months of missing him.
Tomorrow marks three terrible months of missing him.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Assignments
I have given myself two assignments recently. Maybe it's the teacher in me. Maybe I'm weary of feeling hopeless. Maybe I'm just clinging to anything that keeps me from the brink of sorrow.
Assignment #1: I recently found myself at a coffee shop for 14 whole minutes of unscheduled time before my next errand. Without a toddler in tow. I cannot remember the last time this happened. So while I'm currently in the middle of a book that has actually been able to capture my scattered attention for more than ten minutes, I chose not to get it out. Instead, I ordered my favorite cup of black coffee and an apricot rugelach - my old standby. I sat in my favorite old spot in the window. I checked the time and for five whole minutes, I forced myself to unplug from my phone, iPad, other people, and most of my brain. For five whole minutes, I made myself think of only Matt's goodness. I watched the steam rising from the tops of downtown buildings and thought of him and his beautiful soul - everyday memories only a wife would be able to recall. I tried not to think about how much I missed that goodness and just moved on to another of his wonderful qualities when I veered toward a negative thought. It was a difficult exercise, not because I lacked for things to think about - but because I do miss him so much. For about 24 hours, I felt a little stronger. Now that I write this, the sadness is taking over once again. Maybe it's time for me to practice my homework.
Assignment #2: By chance, I found information online about a website and movement called 365grateful. In the spirit of the project and to force myself to really appreciate the positive in my life each day - more than just be aware - I have decided to document my gratitude. I am already aware that I am so lucky, but this project will force me to examine and focus in a way that is proving difficult for me lately. I have chosen Instagram as my vehicle, so I plan to post once every day about something positive from the previous day. I will reflect on my last 24 hours and find the good - even on the bad days. I'm on day 4/365. If interested, my Instagram name is fosley.
Assignment #1: I recently found myself at a coffee shop for 14 whole minutes of unscheduled time before my next errand. Without a toddler in tow. I cannot remember the last time this happened. So while I'm currently in the middle of a book that has actually been able to capture my scattered attention for more than ten minutes, I chose not to get it out. Instead, I ordered my favorite cup of black coffee and an apricot rugelach - my old standby. I sat in my favorite old spot in the window. I checked the time and for five whole minutes, I forced myself to unplug from my phone, iPad, other people, and most of my brain. For five whole minutes, I made myself think of only Matt's goodness. I watched the steam rising from the tops of downtown buildings and thought of him and his beautiful soul - everyday memories only a wife would be able to recall. I tried not to think about how much I missed that goodness and just moved on to another of his wonderful qualities when I veered toward a negative thought. It was a difficult exercise, not because I lacked for things to think about - but because I do miss him so much. For about 24 hours, I felt a little stronger. Now that I write this, the sadness is taking over once again. Maybe it's time for me to practice my homework.
Assignment #2: By chance, I found information online about a website and movement called 365grateful. In the spirit of the project and to force myself to really appreciate the positive in my life each day - more than just be aware - I have decided to document my gratitude. I am already aware that I am so lucky, but this project will force me to examine and focus in a way that is proving difficult for me lately. I have chosen Instagram as my vehicle, so I plan to post once every day about something positive from the previous day. I will reflect on my last 24 hours and find the good - even on the bad days. I'm on day 4/365. If interested, my Instagram name is fosley.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
New Year's Everything
Today is New Year's Eve. It has never been my favorite day of the year - too much pressure. Too many expectations for an epic experience. Too much letdown. A few years ago, I got smart and quit putting all of that expectation out there and I've been happier for it. Tonight I will see some wonderful friends and drink some delicious wine. I will probably eat too many snacks and I will go to bed a little later than normal. The whole time I will miss Matt.
Maybe the reason New Year's Eve is a bummer is because of the usual holiday high. Or the holiday crash afterward. The season is almost over and I have to say I'm feeling relieved which is not like me. Enduring was harder than I thought it would be, but I'm not sure why. I went into the season thinking it wouldn't be that difficult since every day is already a gauntlet anyway. How could it be harder than that? It was. To explain is also difficult.
My friends and family were nothing short of amazing to us during this season. The support and the rallying of Christmas cheer have gotten me through when I didn't think I could participate anymore. Matt and I were overwhelmed with love and good wishes on and near our wedding day. We talked about it - man, are we lucky. Then when we had Daphne, we were overwhelmed and surprised all over again. Those two experiences pale in comparison to the support Daphne and I feel from all around us - even from unexpected, dusty and far away places. Thank you, universe, for the gift of friendship. Make sure everyone has a little bit even if they don't have as much as I've been lucky to have.
Despite all of this, I never before have I felt so alone in a crowd. Lost is more like it. Like I'm missing a limb, or forgot something essential. It's the uneasy, the anger, the sad, the future, the bone-weary that I'm having a hard time with now. They say there are many stages of grief and that they are recursive instead of linear. How about simultaneous? The only one I haven't reached for even one second is acceptance. I'm guessing that any book or therapist would probably tell me that one day I will reach it, but right now I can't see it. Maybe I don't want to because I'm right in the middle of "anger" and "bargaining" or all the stages at once. So I'm stuck where I'm at - feeling everything and nothing and trying to keep it all together. I had a thought once or twice near Christmas that it was difficult to be around so many people because crying isn't always so accepted. How long is that phase going to last? The bruised peach phase... Anything can set me off and everything reminds me of him. Every song, every place, every road, every color, every meal. I want to talk about him all the time, but I can't bring myself to say anything about him at all. Keeping that in is going to make me burst.
I am still sleeping at the foot of the bed. I do not use our down comforter, but another blanket instead. The light from our master bathroom stays on every night. I have not touched one item from his side of our double-vanity sink. His side of the closet is still full. His referee shirt still hangs in our laundry room. For over a month, I left the small pile of clothes and hats he left in the living room exactly where he left them. After I picked them up, I spent a blurry half hour just standing in the living room trying to breathe through panicked tears. Now they are with his other closet things and the living room no longer looks lived in by him. I am incredulous that life and time can just move on without him. And now a new year.
Because I am stuck, because it is another holiday that I have to endure without him, I have decided that my New Year's resolution is just to be okay. Not great, but alright. I resolve to be okay in 2014.
Maybe the reason New Year's Eve is a bummer is because of the usual holiday high. Or the holiday crash afterward. The season is almost over and I have to say I'm feeling relieved which is not like me. Enduring was harder than I thought it would be, but I'm not sure why. I went into the season thinking it wouldn't be that difficult since every day is already a gauntlet anyway. How could it be harder than that? It was. To explain is also difficult.
My friends and family were nothing short of amazing to us during this season. The support and the rallying of Christmas cheer have gotten me through when I didn't think I could participate anymore. Matt and I were overwhelmed with love and good wishes on and near our wedding day. We talked about it - man, are we lucky. Then when we had Daphne, we were overwhelmed and surprised all over again. Those two experiences pale in comparison to the support Daphne and I feel from all around us - even from unexpected, dusty and far away places. Thank you, universe, for the gift of friendship. Make sure everyone has a little bit even if they don't have as much as I've been lucky to have.
Despite all of this, I never before have I felt so alone in a crowd. Lost is more like it. Like I'm missing a limb, or forgot something essential. It's the uneasy, the anger, the sad, the future, the bone-weary that I'm having a hard time with now. They say there are many stages of grief and that they are recursive instead of linear. How about simultaneous? The only one I haven't reached for even one second is acceptance. I'm guessing that any book or therapist would probably tell me that one day I will reach it, but right now I can't see it. Maybe I don't want to because I'm right in the middle of "anger" and "bargaining" or all the stages at once. So I'm stuck where I'm at - feeling everything and nothing and trying to keep it all together. I had a thought once or twice near Christmas that it was difficult to be around so many people because crying isn't always so accepted. How long is that phase going to last? The bruised peach phase... Anything can set me off and everything reminds me of him. Every song, every place, every road, every color, every meal. I want to talk about him all the time, but I can't bring myself to say anything about him at all. Keeping that in is going to make me burst.
I am still sleeping at the foot of the bed. I do not use our down comforter, but another blanket instead. The light from our master bathroom stays on every night. I have not touched one item from his side of our double-vanity sink. His side of the closet is still full. His referee shirt still hangs in our laundry room. For over a month, I left the small pile of clothes and hats he left in the living room exactly where he left them. After I picked them up, I spent a blurry half hour just standing in the living room trying to breathe through panicked tears. Now they are with his other closet things and the living room no longer looks lived in by him. I am incredulous that life and time can just move on without him. And now a new year.
Because I am stuck, because it is another holiday that I have to endure without him, I have decided that my New Year's resolution is just to be okay. Not great, but alright. I resolve to be okay in 2014.
- I will try to be okay with the unknown, because that sometimes feels like all I have in my future.
- I will try to be okay with my lack of control, but control the things I can like caring for Daphne.
- I will try to be okay with the passage of time even though the more time moves, the farther away from him I feel.
- I will try to be okay with asking for help when I need it.
- I will try to be okay with not being okay.
- I will try to be okay with missing him and knowing that there is no end point or relief from that feeling.
- I will try to be okay with finding my own peace and not getting it from outside sources.
Tuesday, December 17, 2013
Two Months
Two months. Multiply that by six and I'll make it to a year. Just one year... It may take a lifetime to make it through just this one. I catch myself thinking that if I can make it a year with this this anxious, sad, rage rattling around in my body, I'll be free. I'll level up in some way. Maybe I won't have to focus on evening out my breath while I drive us home for the night.
For now, I'm just watching the world fly around me while I am safe inside a bubble of my own reality. Am I camouflaged enough to participate in that world? Am I acting normal? I'm sure people see right through me, which makes me uncomfortable. I'm not good at being vulnerable - at least not around most people. I know there was probably a time when I was still trying to impress him, but I can't remember it. I can't remember a time when feeling vulnerable around Matt made me squirm - he was never a threat to my ego or my heart. Just safe.
Daphne started to self-potty train last week. Matt would have been so wonderful at talking with her about this. While he would have found her hilarious as she squirmed on the toilet, he would have made her feel comfortable and relaxed. I didn't even know she knew what it meant to really go on the potty. Well, she does. She asked to go. And she did. And Matt missed it. He's going to miss everything.
I guess I could go on being nice to myself about it and tell myself that he can see her and that he's always with her, but I feel like it will start to hurt less if I just yell at myself. He's gone! He can't ever know that she is putting together three word sentences or asking to poop on the potty. He won't know that she screamed, screamed, screamed when I took her to see Santa. Or that she doesn't really like to put things in the trash can like she did before. Or that she likes to check for packages at the front door. I have to navigate her new toddler tantrums by myself and he won't get to see her in her Christmas dress. I will decide where she will go to pre-school next year and what to do about this whole potty training thing. He will never hear her say, "Daddy? Love him. Miss him" to his picture in the living room.
So instead, I make myself listen to ugly, pain-filled words inside my head like widow. Single mom. Late husband. I now know what "words cutting like a knife" feels like. I had to tell my new dentist last week. He was a nice man, but he referenced my husband in a way I couldn't avoid. I was traumatized for the rest of the afternoon by my having to tell him that he was gone. Telling people is hard. I think it's because most of the people I now tell are people who don't really know me. So when they act sad or gentle with me, it sends me into a tailspin. I'm not sure why kindness when I need it makes me cry, but I've been like that my whole life. Right now anything makes me cry - especially the overeager dental assistant who acts horrified that my daughter is only 18 months old and tells me that "crying heals the soul." Saying ugly, horrifying words in my head won't help my situation, but maybe I'll stop being as shocked as the person sitting across from me when they come out of my mouth.
Today I am thankful for a routine. Going to work helps me take an emotional break so I can focus on healing and peace and Daphne when I come home. I am thankful for my coworkers who do incredibly thoughtful things for me and who act normal even when that is difficult, so that I can, too.
For now, I'm just watching the world fly around me while I am safe inside a bubble of my own reality. Am I camouflaged enough to participate in that world? Am I acting normal? I'm sure people see right through me, which makes me uncomfortable. I'm not good at being vulnerable - at least not around most people. I know there was probably a time when I was still trying to impress him, but I can't remember it. I can't remember a time when feeling vulnerable around Matt made me squirm - he was never a threat to my ego or my heart. Just safe.
Daphne started to self-potty train last week. Matt would have been so wonderful at talking with her about this. While he would have found her hilarious as she squirmed on the toilet, he would have made her feel comfortable and relaxed. I didn't even know she knew what it meant to really go on the potty. Well, she does. She asked to go. And she did. And Matt missed it. He's going to miss everything.
I guess I could go on being nice to myself about it and tell myself that he can see her and that he's always with her, but I feel like it will start to hurt less if I just yell at myself. He's gone! He can't ever know that she is putting together three word sentences or asking to poop on the potty. He won't know that she screamed, screamed, screamed when I took her to see Santa. Or that she doesn't really like to put things in the trash can like she did before. Or that she likes to check for packages at the front door. I have to navigate her new toddler tantrums by myself and he won't get to see her in her Christmas dress. I will decide where she will go to pre-school next year and what to do about this whole potty training thing. He will never hear her say, "Daddy? Love him. Miss him" to his picture in the living room.
So instead, I make myself listen to ugly, pain-filled words inside my head like widow. Single mom. Late husband. I now know what "words cutting like a knife" feels like. I had to tell my new dentist last week. He was a nice man, but he referenced my husband in a way I couldn't avoid. I was traumatized for the rest of the afternoon by my having to tell him that he was gone. Telling people is hard. I think it's because most of the people I now tell are people who don't really know me. So when they act sad or gentle with me, it sends me into a tailspin. I'm not sure why kindness when I need it makes me cry, but I've been like that my whole life. Right now anything makes me cry - especially the overeager dental assistant who acts horrified that my daughter is only 18 months old and tells me that "crying heals the soul." Saying ugly, horrifying words in my head won't help my situation, but maybe I'll stop being as shocked as the person sitting across from me when they come out of my mouth.
Today I am thankful for a routine. Going to work helps me take an emotional break so I can focus on healing and peace and Daphne when I come home. I am thankful for my coworkers who do incredibly thoughtful things for me and who act normal even when that is difficult, so that I can, too.
Tuesday, December 3, 2013
First Thanksgiving
Yesterday was the anniversary of the day Matt and I met. We also called it our dating anniversary which we celebrated every year with Christmas decorating, pajamas, hot chocolate and cheesy Christmas music. I asked some friends to be with me this year, so I wouldn't sit and cry all night. They came bearing the most wonderful ornament crafting materials in case I couldn't bear to hang our sentimental family ornaments. There was a lot of glitter and paint and laughing - they are really wonderful friends. I opened and shared the bottle of wine I bought the week I met Matt - we had been saving it for a special occasion which seems like a waste now. It was a DaVinci Chianti that I purchased at a wine tasting with a friend. I think he would have really liked it.
I am realizing that he is everywhere, and that I cannot escape the world he and I built around ourselves even if I want a break for one second. Thanksgiving and this time of year are worse than I thought. I've been thinking a lot about our usual holiday events and I realized that I can count on one hand the amount of Thanksgivings I was able to spend wih him. How is that it?
2007- I met Matt (through email) during the week of Thanksgiving. We exchanged a few emails over my break from school - emails I received on a laptop in my parents' living room, all the while concealing any reaction or commentary. He was my exciting secret. I remember him telling me in one of those emails that he spent one of his holiday break evenings watching football with a friend in Kentucky, but I really knew nothing about him at that point. That's a strange idea - to go back to a time when I didn't know his Matt-ness. We used to say that it felt like we had known each other our entire lives even though we had memories that were obviously of times before we met. We would say we couldn't believe the number of years we had known each other was so small since it felt like we'd known each other forever. Now those conversations are haunting me.
So he was at a bar or restaurant watching football while I was in a living room in Saint Peters, watching movies with my family. I didn't see him, but he told me he wore Mizzou gear from head to toe just to get a rise out of the locals. I remember the dress I wore to Thanksgiving dinner because it still hangs in my closet as something I'd love to fit into again one day. After about a week and a few long phone calls, we met in person.
2008- Our second Thanksgiving almost didn't happen- not with family. After his 3-week stay in the ICU for his flare-up of Hemilitic Anemia, ITP and an emergency splenectomy, he was released from the hospital the day before Thanksgiving. We made it to visit family in Saint Peters, but returned to home for the rest of the weekend so he could rest. We decorated our duplex for Christmas on Saturday (our one-year anniversary), but took an overnight trip to the emergency room because he was having a gall bladder attack that felt like a heart attack. A month later on Christmas Day, he was admitted to the hospital again. Secondary infection from the splenectomy. I gave him the board game of Mancala and a pair of black Chuck Taylor's.
2009- The third thanksgiving was the first time we saw his family after our engagement on September 29th. It was fairly normal. We saw both sides if the family and ate way too much. I made his mom's recipe for Miracle Pie.
2010- First major holiday as a married couple. I wore orange. Matt wore a grey hat, purchased because he saw the style in New Orleans on our honeymoon. It made his eyes sparkle - most hats did that for him. Over the break he tried duck hunting with my family for the first time. He shot for fun once, but didn't hit a bird. He looked ridiculous in camo hip waders, four shirts and giant gloves with hand-warmers stuffed inside.
2011- This was the first big holiday after Matt's mom passed away. He was sad that she had to miss the big family announcement we brought with us. To each family gathering we went to, we handed out our Christmas card - a picture of two adult pairs of Chuck Taylor's and one tiny pair in the middle. May 28th, 2012. It was an exciting and exhausting couple of days. I was 14 weeks pregnant and Matt could not contain his excitement. This year, Matt's side of the family came to Columbia to celebrate. I made a ridiculous and huge meal.
2012- Daphne's first Thanksgiving. We had a bib that said, "Grandma's Little Gobbler." She had some teeth, but she had not started eating solids yet. We took a family picture - our only Thanksgiving picture - on the steps of my Grandma's house not knowing that by one year later she would have sold it and would be living in her new condo.
2013- Our first Thanksgiving without him. There are too many yet to come. There are not enough years in the list above.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Relative Bravery
People keep telling me I'm brave. I'm really not sure why as I've never before felt so phony. That person who gets to go to work or who spends time with friends and family is a totally different person than the sad version of her who goes home at night. I think that this is part of it, but every once in a while I can't stop fixating. Not only am I sad, my insides are a child mid-tantrum, kicking and stomping. I think sad and terrible thoughts.
How could people who were so happy to be together deserve this kind of punishment when horrible people who are horrible to each other get to go on? My brain is pretty good at telling me that's not how it works. I know it's not really punishment, but it feels like it is. I sometimes think about how, if it had to happen, it should have been someone else's husband who died suddenly - someone who was cheating or lying or abusive. It should have been someone older who had already lived a full life or who didn't have a kid who needs him, needs him, needs him. Someone who didn't have a plan to have more children. Someone who was not mine...
I'm not proud. And by the time I've had all these terrible thoughts, I have to remind myself all over again that this is real.
What I wouldn't give to hear the garage door open because someone is coming home.
I've started writing in a journal recently. At the end of each day, I try to think about someone or something good to be thankful for that day. I can use all the reminders of good I can get.
Today I am thankful for friends and family who continue to check on me with visits, food, texts and cards in the mail even though I seldom answer and try to act normal when I'm in person. I don't care if I'm fooling anyone because I think it helps me. I'm flexing some emotional muscle that I hope to strengthen enough to make it real. So thanks for continuing to be gentle and check on me. Makes me feel like I'm not crazy to be floundering the way I am.
Saturday, November 16, 2013
So Many More Than 30
As I sift through my shattered life, I am also trying to gear myself up for the holidays. Today, I remembered my Thanksgiving gift to Matt last year - the email copied below. Now it seems superficial and small and way too short. I am not okay, and I fear I will never be, but maybe remembering these small things will help. More importantly, I hope these memories help me answer Daphne's questions in the future.
From: CarolynReasons I am thankful for you:
Date: November 22, 2012, 9:03:21 AM CST
To: Matt
Subject: Reasons I am thankful for you
1: You love me despite my dervish (his nickname for my cooking messes)
2: You are so in love with Daphne
3: Our lazy Sunday afternoons at home
4: You work so hard to stay healthy and have overcome so much
5: You share the load of dishes and diaper laundry
6: You listen to love songs, think of me, and share the song with me
7: You are supportive of my career and where it might take me
8: You want to provide for our family even if that means changing jobs
9: You pursue your own hobbies and are really good at them
10: You love my family and go hang on the island (to hunt deer) even though it's not your thing
11 : Watching tv is more fun with you because you laugh freely and it is contagious
12: You take care of me and make sure I have what I need
13: You kiss me very time you get home and every time we part
14: You appreciate good food
15: You snuggle me before we sleep
16: You call Daphne "sleepy beepy" when she is tired or asleep
17: You like my skinny jeans
18: You are so gosh darn handsome
19: You are smarter than you give yourself credit for
20: You tell me everything
21: You are so slow, but you are trying to be more on time :-)
22: You clean up my water glasses
23: You are good at long-distance driving
24: You are really good at job interviews
25: You use grammar when you text
26: You tell me you love me every time we part in person or on the phone
27: You gave our daughter your deep blue eyes and long lashes
28: You read to me before bed
29: Daphne lights up when she sees you
30: You make me feel important and needed and loved.
I love you Matt Foster. And I'm thankful for you every minute of every day. Happy Thanksgiving!
Friday, August 9, 2013
Mighty Words
I really like words. I think I've mentioned that here before. Reading is one of my loves. I value a precisely chosen word over a paragraph of filler description any day. Some of my greatest jokes and zingers are mere syllables long. Words are important. Mighty. Difficult to take back.
We can't be afraid to wield them, but we need to be careful with their weighty power.
Today I overheard a conversation at a coffee shop that bothered me. It boiled down to a parent speaking to a child in an ugly, careless way. Two months ago, I saw a parent tell his son who was less than two years old to stop crying and shut up when we were visiting the zoo. Calling his delivery gruff is an understatement. These kinds of fleeting moments make me cringe and they haunt me for many months after. My imagination gets the best of me and I think of all the other things they might say behind closed doors, of what their kids are learning about themselves and about the world and about how we talk to one another.
Since before Daphne was born I have been especially aware of ugly talk. I've heard teenagers tell their parents to shut up. I've heard my students use terms "gay" and "retarded" in the most hurtful of ways. I've heard young ones repeat words that make movies earn a rating of "R." One of my unspoken rules as a classroom teacher was that we had to speak with respect and believe me, my students offered me plenty of teaching moments on the subject. And it wasn't until I was a teacher and I heard my students using words they didn't understand that I understood why I was never allowed to say "this sucks" or "shut up" or "crap" at my house as a kid. Thank goodness my parents had some sense.
An unsavory word from a little mouth is ugliness magnified and a symptom of something much larger than letting that word slip out at the wrong time.
Now that Daphne is a toddler, I feel like I live under a microscope. She watches and listens to everything with a curiosity that is unwavering. Yesterday, we realized she was using sign language for "more." We've never taught her this, but learned that another toddler at daycare has parents who are teaching him to sign. Our daycare provider tells us she has never taught the sign to Daphne, but that she learned by observation and knows exactly what it means. The first time we brushed her teeth, I told her what we were going to do before we did it. She mimicked the noise I make when I read the page about brushing teeth in "Little Pookie Goes Night Night." We hadn't read that book once in the week prior to her making that connection. Almost every day she says a word I didn't know she knew. She says "yes" when she wants something. She says thank you or "ank ooo" when she receives it. "Out" and "up" are differentiated. She even tells me "poop" after I hear her grunting from across the room. This girl knows language and she understands that it is her greatest tool. Watching her grow is my only experience with a language learner, so I assume this age of 14 months turns most kids into super absorbent language sponges. I am completely fascinated.
Since she seems to understand so much, I am careful about what she hears coming from me when I can control it. She can tell me "dadda dadda dadda" is home before he even walks in the door because she heard the garage door and she points out birds that I would never notice because I tune their tweeting out. Obviously I'm not perfect and have probably had conversations I shouldn't in front of her. I bet they were about bills or the schedule conflicts or car repairs - not always relaxing conversations. But when I can, I work on making sure most of my instructions are positive. Instead of saying "no" all the time, I've been saying what should be happening. There are plenty of opportunities for practice with a toddler around.
During a slight tantrum because she wants to stand on the arm of the couch, instead of saying no, I might say, "Couches are for sitting" or "We need to be safe on the couches. Please sit down." Sometimes this is really hard. And, of course, when something dangerous happens really quickly and I need to get her attention or stop her in her tracks, I break out the "No!"
I want to tell her so many things, and sometimes I just talk and talk and talk. I know she doesn't understand every word I'm saying, but she will soon. She sometimes stares at me blankly when I tell her that I think it's pretty silly that driver next to us is looking at her phone. I'm sure she doesn't really know much about which shirt matches my cardigan, but I still tell her all about it. And I know she really likes to hear about my grocery shopping list.
Last year, when a frustrated student told her classmate to shut up, I asked her to find another way to tell him what she needed. She already knew my rule about not using that term and she complied. At the end of class, she asked me what I said to my husband when we were arguing and I didn't want to listen anymore - as if she understood that English class was not right time, but that during a fight it might be okay. I explained that we like to try and communicate without hurting each other's feelings and that we had never, ever told one another to shut up. Ever. She was astonished. I don't think anyone in her life had ever expressed an opinion about their choice of words the way I had that day. By golly, Daphne might be sick of hearing it when she is 16, but she will have had these conversations with me.
Anyway, I'm just thinking a lot about talk lately. Talk, talk, talk. We do a lot of it and it is easy to do carelessly, but I'm making it my goal to teach my babe that words can hurt, heal, create change, unify and divide.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Freshman Media Specialist
Notes written after my first day on the new job:
"I’ve worked my first day as the sole media specialist for summer school! On my list of tasks accomplished? I helped a teacher add her school email account to her iphone, I checked out some laptops to teachers for their students to use, processed about 100 hdmi cords and added them to our collection, checked out a number of books to students (mostly Manga or anime for today’s crowd), helped supervise a computer lab, consulted with a tech about a malfunctioning computer, scheduled a few laptop carts and computer labs for teachers, signed for a delivery of computer monitors, chatted with a member of the custodial staff about New Orleans since she is from Louisiana and saw my NOLA drinking glass, fielded a few reshelved a whole cart of books (again, mostly Manga and anime for this crowd) and....ate lunch.
What a change from my job as of two short weeks ago! I had a great, if not very quiet, first day in my new role. I admit it is already an adjustment to be here instead of with the kids in the classroom, but I don’t think that’s a negative thing. Will I ever get over the feeling that I’m supposed to be somewhere else? That I’ve left a group of expectant people unattended? I would like to know the students’ names or at least something little about them, but I expect I will find news ways to build those relationships.
I also admit to being a little nervous. For that reason, I spent as much time as possible in the new building to make myself feel more comfortable over the last two weeks. I wanted to soak up as much information as I could before my first day alone - I observed everything and asked as many questions as I could. I can be a situational spy when I want to be. Plus, I am such a creature of habit that I knew I need to just be in the space for a while to acclimate. After doing that by attending a few training sessions held in the buliding, and making a little cheat sheet for myself to use (passwords, important phone numbers, procedures, etc.) I was feeling pretty solid about my start.
Of course the first person to come to me was a teacher asking about how to add her email to her iPhone. Could I help her? Yes... Could I remember exactly how I did this on my own phone, my own iPad, my own computer at the time that she was right in front of me? Not exactly...
So, I looked up the server on my iPad. Step one. We added that to her phone but the email account still wouldn’t verify. Whaaaat? So I thought I was pretty clever by looking up the server name I had forgotten on my own device. Well, maybe not clever, but resourceful. And when that didn’t work, I was afraid I would be revealed as a fraud! An imposter! A phony! I was stumped just long enough to tell her I’d work it out and email her the solution. And don’t you know it, about three minutes after she left I figured it out. It was a silly mistake that equated to not having the right box clicked.
I don’t think I seemed overly flustered when this very nice teacher was with me, but I annoy myself when I let the fact that I have an audience knock me off my game. Something to work on while I learn the ropes, I guess. Goals are good to have, and mine are basic. Survive with some grace leftover at the end of the day. Luckily, my partner in the media center is a confident and knowledgeable woman who has been working in this role for over a year. So while I get it together, she will be able to fill in my holes. I only hope I can help her the same way soon.
What do I have to prepare for tomorrow? Nothing. Sure, there are some things that we need to accomplish before the beginning of the school year. Tutorials to plan, iPads to distribute, instructions, support materials, procedures, best practice lists, mission and vision statements as well as Media Center expectations, etc. But for tomorrow, I just need to come in and continue to help students and teachers as needed while I knock out my to do list in between. No lesson to plan and no known challenges or schedule ahead of me. I think I like this deal-with-whatever-comes-at-me part of the job. And the school bells - really, they mean nothing to me since I don’t have to live by their decree the way a teacher does. What a freedom, a luxury in the world of education. As for my classroom? I just keep telling myself that I no longer have one in the traditional sense. I have a beautiful Media Center full of gorgeous windows, 9,000 brand new books and plenty of couches and tables for working, reading, lingering, meeting. I no longer have one classroom full of kids who need me. Even though they may not need me often or for extended periods of time, I have a whole building of students and a whole faculty of teachers and administration to serve. I’m excited for day two!"
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Best Practice?
I don’t usually write a lot about my work, but today I must.
Best practice. What does that mean anyway? And when someone asks you if what you’ve done or what you are doing is best practice, what are they really saying? Are there unspoken implications behind that question? Or has curiosity simply taken over?
We use this term a lot in the education world. We are always working toward and sharing best practices. We go to professional development sessions about them and we analyze and share them with our colleagues in professional learning team meetings. It’s kind of what we do. Best practice.
The problem lies when there are different philosophies about what is best. Who gets to decide on best vs. all the rest? What if you really believe you are doing what is best, but the climate is changing or trending in a direction you cannot support? Best practice is also one of those terms that starts to lose all meaning after you say it so many times for so many years. A quick online search will produce many answers, but I think this one from TechTarget.com is fairly sound:
“A best practice is a technique or methodology that, through experience and research, has proven to reliably lead to a desired result. A commitment to using the best practices in any field is a commitment to using all the knowledge and technology at one's disposal to ensure success. The term is used frequently in the fields of health care, government administration, the education system, project management, hardware and software product development, and elsewhere.”
So if I’m using best practice at my job as a high school English teacher, I am committed to using all of my resources to ensure student success. Well, then we must define success and how it is measured. The idea that success is measured by one answer, one score, one performance, one assessment is antiquated. Really, success is layered and individual. It is also dependent on the situation. Are we talking about success in my class? On an assignment? As a whole person?
I like to think we are working with the whole student and not just the piece that pertains to our subject area. Instead of teaching Language Arts, I am raising Language Arts learners. So is my end goal that every student get one hundred percent of my work correct? Not necessarily. The goal should be to teach skills – language arts skills like comprehending what we are reading, writing with supportive evidence, thinking critically about a source. I believe in giving students second, third, fourth chances when they are learning. Who among us has learned everything and done everything perfectly the first time? Would I expect a student do to that? No. If I did, I wouldn’t be teaching them one of the most important lessons – to reflect and change and grow when it is necessary.
I have crafted an entire course on this idea in the past seven and half years. In the beginning it was difficult. I struggled to figure out what I believed was best for students. Through collaboration and practice, I got better. I figured out my teaching philosophy. When I did, I was confident – a completely different teacher. And even though the way I ran my class was controversial and not accepted by all of my colleagues, I stood by it and the way I was trying to teach kids the value of knowledge over points. Years later, not only is it accepted, it seems to be the way to making sure all students achieve at my school. I believed my class was one small step toward a new style of assessment, that it was respected and that my superiors were supportive. I still believe that.
But recently I was asked a question that really bothered me. A series of events led one of my superiors to ask me through an email if I thought I was using best practice in a situation she knew almost nothing about.
The answer inside my head:
“Of course! You have no idea what is really going on in this situation. What about my history and reputation make you think that I would do anything but strive for best practice in regard to my students and their learning? How insulting can you be about all I’ve worked for during my time here?! How many teachers in this building give students a complete list of learning targets at the beginning of every unit - learning targets that are printed on EVERY single class activity or assessment to which they are linked? Do all of your teachers use backward planning so they know how every skill and lesson will be assessed before they teach it? Does every single person on our faculty try to find a way to make every day, every lesson relevant by consistently bringing in contemporary connections? Do all of your teachers allow for and require students to revise and relearn instead of moving on to the next skill no matter what? And for this particular unit you are asking about: Do all of your teachers have an average of 98% of all research papers turned in over the last five years? I do.”
My actual answer was not forceful or rude. It was not arrogant. It did not poke the bear. This question was in an email, so I replied by thanking her for the “feedback.” I know most of my colleagues strive for best practice every day. I would never say I have all the answers or that I am the best teacher. We all have our days of greatness and days that humble us. There is a great amount of reflection as well as pride in our work so we are flexible. When reflection reveals a weakness, we change to make it better. We are proud enough that we want to do it right, flexible enough to change when it is required. It’s when an outside force makes me feel like my options are to change to a philosophy or best practice I don’t believe in, or be left standing alone that I am uncomfortable.
Lately I’ve been sad to see this school year end, but I feel that sadness lifting. That seems like a positive thing, losing sadness, but when I realize that I’m happy for the year to end, I’m sad about the reasons I’m happy to go. That sends my mind reeling about how much we all define ourselves by professional successes and failures, and how many times I’ve recently said I’m looking for balance in my life. The subject of balance sounds like a completely different post. The short version? I need it. We all do. There are 32 weekdays before finals. I guess I have that long to figure it out.
Best practice. What does that mean anyway? And when someone asks you if what you’ve done or what you are doing is best practice, what are they really saying? Are there unspoken implications behind that question? Or has curiosity simply taken over?
We use this term a lot in the education world. We are always working toward and sharing best practices. We go to professional development sessions about them and we analyze and share them with our colleagues in professional learning team meetings. It’s kind of what we do. Best practice.
The problem lies when there are different philosophies about what is best. Who gets to decide on best vs. all the rest? What if you really believe you are doing what is best, but the climate is changing or trending in a direction you cannot support? Best practice is also one of those terms that starts to lose all meaning after you say it so many times for so many years. A quick online search will produce many answers, but I think this one from TechTarget.com is fairly sound:
“A best practice is a technique or methodology that, through experience and research, has proven to reliably lead to a desired result. A commitment to using the best practices in any field is a commitment to using all the knowledge and technology at one's disposal to ensure success. The term is used frequently in the fields of health care, government administration, the education system, project management, hardware and software product development, and elsewhere.”
So if I’m using best practice at my job as a high school English teacher, I am committed to using all of my resources to ensure student success. Well, then we must define success and how it is measured. The idea that success is measured by one answer, one score, one performance, one assessment is antiquated. Really, success is layered and individual. It is also dependent on the situation. Are we talking about success in my class? On an assignment? As a whole person?
I like to think we are working with the whole student and not just the piece that pertains to our subject area. Instead of teaching Language Arts, I am raising Language Arts learners. So is my end goal that every student get one hundred percent of my work correct? Not necessarily. The goal should be to teach skills – language arts skills like comprehending what we are reading, writing with supportive evidence, thinking critically about a source. I believe in giving students second, third, fourth chances when they are learning. Who among us has learned everything and done everything perfectly the first time? Would I expect a student do to that? No. If I did, I wouldn’t be teaching them one of the most important lessons – to reflect and change and grow when it is necessary.
I have crafted an entire course on this idea in the past seven and half years. In the beginning it was difficult. I struggled to figure out what I believed was best for students. Through collaboration and practice, I got better. I figured out my teaching philosophy. When I did, I was confident – a completely different teacher. And even though the way I ran my class was controversial and not accepted by all of my colleagues, I stood by it and the way I was trying to teach kids the value of knowledge over points. Years later, not only is it accepted, it seems to be the way to making sure all students achieve at my school. I believed my class was one small step toward a new style of assessment, that it was respected and that my superiors were supportive. I still believe that.
But recently I was asked a question that really bothered me. A series of events led one of my superiors to ask me through an email if I thought I was using best practice in a situation she knew almost nothing about.
The answer inside my head:
“Of course! You have no idea what is really going on in this situation. What about my history and reputation make you think that I would do anything but strive for best practice in regard to my students and their learning? How insulting can you be about all I’ve worked for during my time here?! How many teachers in this building give students a complete list of learning targets at the beginning of every unit - learning targets that are printed on EVERY single class activity or assessment to which they are linked? Do all of your teachers use backward planning so they know how every skill and lesson will be assessed before they teach it? Does every single person on our faculty try to find a way to make every day, every lesson relevant by consistently bringing in contemporary connections? Do all of your teachers allow for and require students to revise and relearn instead of moving on to the next skill no matter what? And for this particular unit you are asking about: Do all of your teachers have an average of 98% of all research papers turned in over the last five years? I do.”
My actual answer was not forceful or rude. It was not arrogant. It did not poke the bear. This question was in an email, so I replied by thanking her for the “feedback.” I know most of my colleagues strive for best practice every day. I would never say I have all the answers or that I am the best teacher. We all have our days of greatness and days that humble us. There is a great amount of reflection as well as pride in our work so we are flexible. When reflection reveals a weakness, we change to make it better. We are proud enough that we want to do it right, flexible enough to change when it is required. It’s when an outside force makes me feel like my options are to change to a philosophy or best practice I don’t believe in, or be left standing alone that I am uncomfortable.
Lately I’ve been sad to see this school year end, but I feel that sadness lifting. That seems like a positive thing, losing sadness, but when I realize that I’m happy for the year to end, I’m sad about the reasons I’m happy to go. That sends my mind reeling about how much we all define ourselves by professional successes and failures, and how many times I’ve recently said I’m looking for balance in my life. The subject of balance sounds like a completely different post. The short version? I need it. We all do. There are 32 weekdays before finals. I guess I have that long to figure it out.
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