The 40something Year Old Orphan

My mother came very close to passing away last week.

At least that's what we were told.  That's what it looked like, but no one ever really knows how these things work.  So we gathered close and "prepared ourselves," as we were instructed to do.

She's doing a bit better now, but she won't live through this, in as much as none of us live through this - "this" being life.  She's got a serious condition, and is in the final stages of it, so it's not an "if" but a "when."  Could be days, weeks, months, who knows?

In the worst of it, there was lots of crying and upset.  As my one sister said, "We're going to be 40 and 50something year old orphans." 

No matter how old you are, you're never ready to lose your mother.  And, having lost our dad 27 years ago, it was almost orphan-time for us but we dodged a bullet.  For now.

It's hard to watch someone you love suffer.   It's also hard to not make it about you.  I found myself Googling, "Can you die from crying?"

As I was with her in the hospital, there was a moment where I crossed into that logical mode where I realized that she was suffering and I couldn't - shouldn't - be selfish and wish her to stay here with me.  And I actually managed to articulate that, and felt proud of myself, but then kinda took it all back when I burst into her hospital room a few days later crying asking, "Who's going to worry about me now?"

And because she is more rational and had thought this through and come to grips with what might happen, she started to rattle of a list of names of people who, yes, I had to admit, would take on the mantle of worrying about me if they hadn't already.

And even though I wished I hadn't said it and wished I had kept my composure and been strong for her as I planned and imagined, instead I replied, "But they're not my mother."

HA!  Try to come up with a response for that.  You can't.  I win.

But not really.

I keep thinking about all of the things I haven't done yet that she might not be here to experience with me.  I wish I had gotten on the stick sooner and gotten married and had kids because it's unlikely she'll get to experience that with me.  I wish I hadn't been such a brat my whole life my teenage years and that I had said "I love you" more and pulled away less.  But overall, I know I have been a good daughter and I've done the best I can.  And that's some comfort.

This past week, my mom has improved and is doing better.  She's still in rehab but will hopefully be released.  I like to give pizza some of the credit since, at one point, she asked for pizza and seemed to start getting better after that point.  Pizza can cure anything, in my opinion, but skeptics might say it was food, period, that helped, because she hadn't been eating for many days.  Whatever. I like to think it was pizza.  That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

We don't know what the road ahead holds and that's scary.  But it's been comforting hearing her talk about death and the fact that she's ready for it - even though no one else is.  In her words, "Take it day by day, don't project."

Two things I am not very good at.

It's the unfortunate nature of life that nothing and no one is forever.  All of our times here are limited.  It's not fair, but it's true.  My mother has come to peace with her life and as she joked, "I'm not going to have any more kids, I'm not going to have another job, I've done all I wanted to do here, what's left?"  To which my sister Alicia responded, "You haven't won the lottery."

And so she went out and bought her a ticket.

Right now, every day we have together feels like a gift - if I were corny, I would say it's kind of like winning the lottery (which I'm kinda hoping doesn't happen because I can see a fight over assets - whose money actually bought the ticket?  It's gonna get messy...)  She's doing better.  I'm grateful for that and I'm doing my best to try to stay in the here and now and not in the tomorrows that are not guaranteed for any of us.

PS:  Thanks to all of you who have been supportive during this time.  I feel like this has been really helpful to me as a human for future situations with other humans going through difficult times.  Texting and email - good.  Calls - not so good.  Trying - good.  Not doing anything - not so good.  Distraction - good.  Taking the other person's lead - good.   Making it about you - not so good.  Chocolate and wine - good.  Too much chocolate and wine - never good.

xoxo

"Like" This Post

A bit ago I posted a status on Facebook that created a little bit of a stir.  I posted it in response to those studies that were saying Facebook was bad for your mental, and possibly physical, health because people tend to post only positive things which makes those sitting at home on their couches watching Judge Judy and eating a pint of ice cream (as you do) feel bad about themselves.

It went something like - okay, exactly like - this:

In response to my earlier post about everyone putting only good things on FB (see my previous post about FB now being called hazardous to your health), here's my reality check: Most days I like my life, but I wouldn't say I love it. Some days - more and more lately - I hate living in NYC. I'm grateful for my family, friends, good health and the many experiences and adventures I've had. I can't believe I'm 41 and still single. I'm worried I'll never have kids. I work too much, sometimes, I think, to avoid being lonely. The person I see the most, aside from my coworkers, is my acupuncturist, who, in some ways, is a paid friend that I can't afford. I live in a small, dark NYC apartment with no washer and dryer and a cat that likes to bite. I haven't slept through the night in years. I have too much debt, and no idea what I'll be when I grow up even though, somehow, when I wasn't looking, I ended up way on the other side of grown up. And, if all of that wasn't enough, I am not a natural redhead.

And the people went a little wild.

Are you okay? - went some.
Seriously, if you think YOUR life is bad ... - went others.

You all are missing the point - went me.

When I see the studies about Facebook affecting mental health, I call a little bit of b*llshit.  Let me back up.  I totally believe it in some ways and I totally respect people who feel like Facebook is a huge waste of time and doesn't add value to their lives.  I get it.  And as far as the emotional impact, believe me, there are many times when I see people posting and I feel wistful or lonely.  Look at all of these exciting things that are happening to people.  Look at their adorable kids whose cheeks I just want to pinch while my cat-child tries to rip my face off.  Look at their enormous, fancy residences that have more than two rooms and a washer and dryer.  Braggarts.

Sometimes I'm even offended or hurt.  Why didn't that person from elementary school that I haven't seen or spoken to in 30 years invite ME to her second cousin's third birthday?  What have I done to her?  I mean, I'm a fun person.  I've never met a karaoke machine that I didn't like and I, um, I smell good.  Just ask Judge Judy.

Kidding aside, I do get those twinges of hurt and I do feel lonely seeing posts sometimes.  I do feel like everyone is rubbing their fun times in my chocolate ice cream covered face.

But my point is, that's on me and my insecurities.  I can't blame Facebook.  I was crazy before Facebook and I will be crazy long after we abandon it for something better.  Like teleporting to share status updates with one another.

Kinda like how that b*tch from elementary school abandoned me.

Don't get me wrong - I was touched by people responding to me, especially those who showed genuine concern, but, honestly, all I posted was the truth.   My truth in that moment in time.

The problem is, I think we're so unused to seeing the truth that it makes us all uncomfortable.

As I said, it doesn't mean that I'm unhappy all the time, but I am certainly not happy all the time either.  We're alive - we're meant to feel lots of things.  Sure, hopefully happy is on the list and hopefully we feel happier at more points than we do sad, but it's ok to not be happy and moreover, it's ok to admit that you're not happy.

Was it hard for me to post that?  It was.  But it was harder for me to think that there might be people out there - allegedly my own friends although I now have 414 Facebook friends and I'm really not sure I know all of these people - who might be feeling bad about themselves as a result of something I shared on Facebook and I wanted to rip the mask off, so to speak.

Sure, I have lots of great times and amazing experiences and wonderful people in my life, but there are days that my life is a sh*tstorm and I'm unhappy and wondering how I got here and what to do about it.  Stop my life I want to get off.

In fact, the past two months have been a little hard in that regard and it doesn't always feel wonderful, but, as a person who believes everything happens for a reason, I believe I'm meant to feel this way right now as it's hopefully leading me to a better place.

Feelings things, is, like, hard.  And being vulnerable is harder.  Admitting when things aren't so peachy keen and asking for help can be terrifying.

I'm awful at asking for help and really would rather stab myself in the eye with a hot poker than do it most times, but my reluctance to connect with others in that way is a huge disservice to me and my relationships.  It puts a big wall between me and everyone else.  I wall that I built with my stubbornness and insecurity, and only love and vulnerability can tear it down.

And when it's down, I'll be selling off pieces of it for $5 a pop.

But for now, I'm doing my best to keep it real, if people still say that.  I'm going to post the good, the bad and the ugly.    And hopefully, the ugly will be in short supply and I certainly won't be posting expletive-filled video of me on my couch trying to get the damn remote to work, but I refuse to pretend it's not there.

I mean, after all, we're among Friends, right?

Wish I Were Here

I've been realizing that more and more time passes between posts and I also have realized that it's because, when the topics are deep, I get what Brene Brown calls a "vulnerability hangover."

I post and then cringe. 

Did I really write that?  I guess I did.  But no one reads this stuff, right?  Oh wait, they do?

F**k.

Retreat.

But I'm back, three months have passed, and I'm freshly back from vacation, a "spirit journey" to New Mexico where I found my spirit, and it turns out my spirit is kind of a bitch.

I know, I know.  Some of you are thinking, "Oh c'mon, no you're not.  Don't say that," while others are thinking, "And this is news to you how?"

When I think of my spirit, I like to think of her/me as white light and open arms, with a loving heart and the patience of Mary.

In reality my spirit is impatient and inflexible, anxious and judgmental, crossed arms and clockwatching, stressed out and burnt.

In other words, I am my spirit; my spirit is me.

How disappointing. I kinda hoped my spirit was, I don't know, if not Mother Teresa, Oprah.  Or at least Ellen DeGeneres.  But instead I'm Heather Chandler or Judge Judy, only without the lace collar.

Well, f**k me gently with a chainsaw.  Who knew?

Which isn't to say I didn't have a great time on vacation.  I truly did.  I just hoped I'd find myself, and that, well, I'd be different.  Better.  And most certainly thinner.

I've always been jealous of those people who are carefree.  I was born worried.  Is this hospital sterile enough?  I don't like the look of that nurse.  Does this onesie make me look fat?  Take this hat off me, I look stupid.

So I always think of vacation me as the me I want to be.  And I have visions of me relaxed and rolling with the punches, maybe telling hilarious jokes to people throwing their heads back in rapturous laughter, charming the locals and sleeping through the night, all of it set to "Walking on Sunshine" or some other upbeat song about happy people doing happy things.  But the problem is, it's still me.  To tell you the truth, I honestly don't even know what rolling with the punches means or why one would do such a thing.  Why would you roll with the punches and not fight violently against them?  Sounds like something someone lazy made up.  I mean, they're punches, people.  And I'm just not sure that I know any other way to be aside from the person that worries about things being over before they've begun and misses people while they're still here.

I booked a plane ticket for vacation me and planned all kinds of soul-soothing activities for her.  I even packed her yoga pants and a poncho.  But it was the real me who showed up.  Who invited her?  What a buzzkill.  Maybe the real me plays in NYC but the real me doesn't play so well in New Mexico.   It's ... so ... quiet.  How can I relax when all of the restaurants close at 9?   Such pressure.   We are going to starve to death out here and have to feast on each other's carcass - or the bags and bags of snacks I bought at Target, in addition to the snacks I sent FedEx ahead of time, you know, because they don't have stores in New Mexico. Wait, my cell phone doesn't work?   How will I know how to feel without my daily horoscope email?  What if I miss an important coupon from CVS?  What if our hot air balloon operator has a heart attack and dies?  Who's gonna land this thing?   Why are there so many bugs?   And dirt.  We are definitely going to die on this road and never be found again - and by again, I mean, at least not until another car comes along in about 15 minutes.  Of this I am certain.



And yet, somewhere in the quiet and the beauty and the worries about the quiet and the beauty - it's too quiet, it's too beautiful - I found myself.  And I've decided I'm not sure I like me so much.  I don't mean that in as harsh a way as it sounds.  It's like the beautiful New Mexico landscape held up a big old mirror to my soul and my soul screamed back, "You talkin' to me?"

Well, I'm the only one here.

So maybe my spirit isn't all sunshine and happiness, or adobe and turquoise.

But, I'm not going to roll with the punches; I'll fight like hell.

There's still time to land this balloon.

And if not, maybe it's time for a little self-acceptance.  I can always vacation somewhere more in line with my personality.

Like New York.

Or Afghanistan.

Wish you were here.

On Mother's Day...

First of all, I can't believe that this is my first post of 2014.  How shameful.  But alas, here I am.

So much has happened so far this year, and yet, so little has happened.

As I write, it's Mother's Day and I'm filled with warmth and thanks for all of the moms and mother figures I know and love.  And yet also, for the first time perhaps, I also am aware that I am not a mother.  And that, quite possibly, I might never be a mother.  My emotional reaction to this catches me by surprise in the way that I think it catches many women like me off-guard.  It's not a devastation but a slow burn, a sudden not tsunami of tears but just enough to blur your vision and make the guy sitting across from you on the subway take note long enough to decide not to ask.  Kind of like an "Oh."  Oh right, I forgot to have children.  Surely we know that we are, shall we say, getting a little long in the tooth and short on the eggs, but in some ways too it is a surprise, like looking in the mirror and wondering how just yesterday it seemed that there were no lines there and now there are more than a few.  My lines have given birth to other lines.  How can it be that I am 41 when just yesterday I was 21 and I feel 25?

How indeed.

This year has been an emotional one for me in a lot of ways that I hadn't expected and I find myself having a lot of these moments about lots of different things.  Maybe it's that I'm now 41, which is closer to 50 than 30.  All of these feelings feel really self-indulgent.  I'm not the first person to turn 41, and I certainly far prefer this than the alternative, but I'm increasingly conscious of the march of time and, well, time running out for certain things.  Who's to say that even if I decided tomorrow that I wanted to have a child that I even could.  Maybe I never could, even at 25.  But as a control freak, I don't like that time is cobbling away at my ability to decide.   Time is the great equalizer.  The playing field is no longer level but a steep climb. 

I'll be a stepmother, I think.  I'm already an aunt.  Maybe I can do IVF.  Or adopt.  Maybe I'll settle down and be really lucky and be able to have a child of my own.   The not knowing is driving me crazy.

I've never been one of those women who looks at friends having kids and feels jealous.  I truly only feel happy because I don't see their pregnancy or wedding or new job or apartment as having anything to do with the fact that I don't have those things.  Maybe it's because I'm my own toughest critic and the only person I feel in competition with is myself.  And I don't really think about the fact that I'm not a mother all that often, but I do certainly today, and certainly more and more. 

I think about it especially today when I think about my friend Oliver, who was born 6 months ago today, and today, Mother's Day, is his next to last day on earth.  Born with a congenital heart defect, he has spent every day of his short life in the hospital.  I remember how thrilled his parents and grandparents were during his mother's pregnancy.  This was a very much wanted child.  And I remember how equally elated they were when he was born, only to get the news less than 24 hours later that he had the deck stacked against him.  And I've been following their journey for the past six months - the highs and lows, the many tests and medical procedures, the prayers, the hopes, the tears, the circle of family, friends, coworkers, fellow patients and strangers who built a circle of support around Oliver and his family.

And I've thought about how much of a leap into the unknown it is to have a child.  How much courage it really takes when you think about it.   Oliver's parents went from being blissful albeit nervous first time parents to the parents of a very sick child who had to make the decision that no parents should ever have to make - to let their son go.  And on this Mother's Day, Oliver's mother is celebrating both her first Mother's Day and her last Mother's Day with her son.  My heart breaks each time I think of them and I cry for all of the time they won't have together.

And yet, as much heartbreak and devastation as they have faced, and will continue to face, as Oliver leaves the earth tomorrow, they say they have no regrets.  They instead focus on the lessons Oliver has taught them and those who have been fortunate enough to know him.  The lessons of unconditional love and faith.

And maybe most of all, the lesson that we really don't have a damned clue.  About what this life holds, what tomorrow holds, what this hour holds, what this minute holds.  Control is an illusion and nothing is guaranteed, not even the time it takes for me to finish this sentence.  It's important to stay in the moment because it's all we have.   Oliver's life has been a series of moments strung together over six months - and because his parents have known that the next moment is not guaranteed, they have taken nothing for granted.

As Oliver approaches the end of his moments, I am so fortunate to have been witness to his journey - a journey very different from mine, but exactly the same in the sense that we are here for a finite amount of time.  He won't take wobbly first steps or step up to the plate.  He won't feel snowflakes on his tongue, race to finish a melting ice cream cone, or dip his toes in the ocean.  He won't have a first car or pin a corsage on his prom date.   He will never be a husband or a father.  Maybe he would not have wanted to do any of those things.  Oliver has had a lot of love in his short life and a lot of impact, but he has not had time. 

So this is what I'll remember for as long as I have moments - for already I have been very fortunate.  I thank him for reminding me to be grateful and to not focus on what I don't have, because I'll miss this moment, and, bad, good, busy, bored, it's not coming around again and there may not be one behind it.

Rest in peace, Oliver Robert Halligan.