Scar Tissue

I write this post after a short two week break from work - not so much a vacation but a family leave that I took to look after my family, and by family, I kinda mean my mom but mostly I mean me.

As a complete workaholic, it was a dicey move and one that, unlike essentially everything I do, was made quickly.  As a friend said to me, "I'm worried for you; this could go either way." Meaning, this could be a disaster.  Maybe distraction was the only thing keeping me together.  I had the same thought.  But as I stood on a Manhattan street at 9 pm on a Tuesday night overwhelmed and crying and with one phrase repeating over and over again - "I can't" - for someone who always CAN, I knew something had to give and for the first time in my life, I identified that something as work.

When you self-identify as strongly as I do around your work and qualities relating to work - hardworking, smart, reliable, etc. - pulling that away for a bit, even for as short a period as I did, can leave you reeling.  But I really had no choice.  Not only did my mother need me as she has been really sick for a long time and is now reaching the end of her journey, but I needed me.  I needed me for mundane things like, "How about we do this laundry that isn't doing itself" and "Maybe we should find some foods that aren't cheese..." but also for big things like, "How do I feel about what's happening?" I needed to feel some feels and put a name to them instead of sitting in my office all day crying so much that my under eye bags got chapped.  Did you know that can happen?  Neither did I.

"Go back to work," my mom said, "You'll get fired.  And it's not like this is going to happen overnight."  "This" being dying.  But it might and I wasn't willing to take that chance.  At the worst, taking this time was going to give me a few more days to spend with my mom that I wouldn't have had, and I would have time to do laundry so I would have clean underwear to wear.  I knew I wouldn't regret either of those things.  And I'm very lucky.  I work for an employer with a generous family leave policy, which meant that do this and not put myself in danger of being out of work or penalized.

Taking some time also helped me make some order out of chaos - even if order is just an illusion.  As my mom said, "We're smart women and we try to control everything, and a lot of things we have been able to control being smart and working hard, but this we can't control."  I look to her doctors for answers and wish I had a crystal ball.  Someone asked me what a crystal ball would do for me, why I would want to know.  If I had one, I would know that I can go see a 3 hour movie and shut my phone off and know it's OK, or I can maybe sleep through the night tonight.  It wouldn't make later much better but it might make now a little more livable.  Or maybe it wouldn't, I don't know.  The last thing I want her to feel is guilty that we are all worrying but it's inevitable because I am just not that emotionally healthy enough to live this much in the moment.  And, as I keep saying, it's payback for the last 50 plus years she's spent worrying as a mother.  All her doctors can say is she's already lived beyond what they thought she would, so they have nothing to contribute to this debate and here I was thinking they were captaining the team.  I read into comments that are probably innocuous.  So, why doesn't she need to make a follow-up appointment?  Do you think she'll die before then, would that be about in six weeks' time?  Or are you just trying to make her life easier and save her the trip when there's not much more you can do?

This time has also helped me process some of my emotions.  I was at acupuncture the other day and had a vision of me holding lemons.  I know it sounds weird, but when you stop and truly let your mind quiet down - something I never do - random things happen. And I realized I've spent a lot of the past several months feeling angry and isolated.  Bitter, sour.  Mad at life, mad at the situation, mad at people.  Friends who say or do the wrong thing, or, worse, nothing at all.  If it's one thing I've learned going through this it's that doing something - anything - is always the best thing.  There have been times when I haven't known what I wanted or needed and so I have been in no position to ask for what I need, because I can't identify it, although the closest name I can put to it is reassurance.  Reassurance that people care and are there and silence doesn't help that one bit.  People mean well but saying, "Let me know what you need" is not really helpful but I'm guilty of it too.  It's what we do when we don't know what else to do.  I just said it to someone earlier today.  Being present helps, giving the gift of attention and care although that's admittedly so hard for any of us to do with so many demands - both virtual and real; we've all got our own stuff.  I'm learning to appreciate those who have stepped up and are around, those who are clearly trying, while keeping a careful eye and an open heart toward those who have disappeared or stayed away.  Resentment won't help this process and I'd rather have lemonade than a fistful of lemons.

I'm surprised when I can handle conversations about her wishes after she dies (cremation, short service, nice lunch afterward maybe on the water) and how to get rid of her things (take what we want and then let anyone we know take what they want, you never know when someone needs a spatula and why should they have to buy one when we have a perfectly good one here) - but then fall apart at random moments like when I'm asked to fill in my emergency contact person's information on a form.  It doesn't seem like a good idea to choose her and yet I always have so it seems wrong to choose someone else, you know, while she's still here, but will that mean when I fly off my SoulCycle bike and end up in a full body cast, I'll end up rotting in the hospital until finally someone at work realizes I should have shown up a few days ago?  I know that's a crazy talk, especially since you need to actually go to SoulCycle for that to happen. We laugh that maybe she didn't need to buy a 20 pack of toilet paper (something else to throw out after she's gone) and think of my grandmother who would only buy single rolls of toilet paper for the last 30 years of her life, always reasoning, "I'll be dead before I go through that much toilet paper!"

Mostly this time has helped me realize that even though the death of a loved one is universal, it is really effing hard.  Nothing prepares you for it.  It doesn't matter how many times you get to say goodbye.  And there's not much that anyone can say or do to make it better.  But you have to try to do whatever you can to make the process as bearable as possible, especially when it's a marathon not a sprint.  Some things will work, like exercising and sleeping more, and the occasional brownie, and withdrawing when you feel the need to in favor of watching Scandal vs putting on a happy face and forcing small talk.  Some won't, like a second brownie or that last glass of wine or talking to the friend who never says the right thing because she sure as Hell won't all of a sudden won't say it now and you'll be left wishing you stayed home with Scandal and a second brownie.

We have a choice in letting these situations make us harder or softer, not second brownie soft but the kind where you are open to all the feels, even the awful, devastating, terrifying ones.  I'm still stripping away all of the brittle armor I've built up over the past few months - the scar tissue of  pretending things are okay when they aren't while refusing to ask for help.  Two weeks is just not enough time to get to the marshmallow center but I'm closer and I feel like I can breathe again.  For now, anyway.

And now the real challenge begins in not letting it build up again.

Landslide

Protip:  If you ever find yourself home at 11 pm on a Saturday night Googling "Depression Quiz," you don't even need to take the quiz to know the answer.

But like every overachiever, we are good students, aren't we, and we love tests, so let's take a look and see how we do.

Question #1:  Without trying to diet, have you gained or lost weight?

What kind of question is this?  When I have not tried to diet?  And wait, people actually can lose weight without dieting?  If I wasn't depressed before, I am now.  Next.

Question #2:  My sleep has been disturbed - too little, too much, or broken.

What sleep?  Next.

Question #3:   It takes great effort to do simple things.

You mean not everyone's closet avalanches down on them when they open it?  Then yes, I guess, yes.  Isn't this quiz over yet?  Next.

 Question #4:  I have difficulty making decisions.

I'm not even sure how to answer this.  Like, all the time, or just sometimes?  Like big decisions like what to be when I grow up or small decisions like how do I like my eggs?  I don't know, I don't know.  Next.

Question #5:  I don't enjoy things that I used to.

Like taking tests?  Next.

Question #6:  It's hard for me to concentrate when thinking and/or reading.

What now?  Next.

Question #7:  When something is bothering me, I cannot stop thinking about it.

I mean, seriously, people can lose weight without trying?  How can this be?  Next.

Question #8:  When things go wrong,  I don't want to tell people because I worry they will pity me.

Why would you tell people and subject yourselves to their sad faces and pouty lower lips?  Move along, Judge Judy. Next.

Question #9:  Do you feel isolated and alone?

I think the fact that it's 11 pm on a Saturday night and I am taking this test speaks for itself on that front.  Next.

Question #10:  Do you feel depressed?

Why do I feel like this test could have been one question and not 10?

Yes.

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

If I were to be honest, I think I've been depressed for quite awhile now, but since I so wholeheartedly embrace the anxious side of me and consider it a major part of who I am and, in some ways, a defining part of my personality - I mean, who in NYC isn't anxious?- I don't give the old depressive side as much attention.  Frankly, it's a bit of a downer.

I mean, at least when you're anxious, you get stuff done.  Depression is like a big old reverend no fun, like the friend in your group who is always complaining and has lots of negative opinions but has no productive suggestions.  I hate sushi.  Okay, where should we go?  I don't know, I just hate sushi.  Ok, what about burgers?  Ugh, no, God, who eats BURGERS?  I'm a vegetarian now.  Oh and I have a gluten allergy.  Wait, aren't you eating a donut, right now?  Ok, maybe it would be better if you just stayed home with some Real Housewives, Depression, you're bringing us down. Take one of those online Depression quizzes and text us in the morning.

Anxious me is always moving.  Where are we going?  What are we doing?  What can I plan?  Depressed me has no energy for the 37 unreturned emails, calls, and texts and last minute backouts and cancellations seemingly required to put any kind of plan together.  I'll just wait over here and see what happens, and if and when it's nothing, it'll be more food for my depression.  SEE.  No one loves me.

A good friend says that solitude and loneliness is the fuel that depression feeds off of.  And it's totally true.  But it's also true that, when you are depressed, reaching out, making plans, is really difficult.  It's really hard.  When you think about it, it's a pretty brave thing we all do each day putting ourselves there to people - do you want to see me?  Do you want to hang out with me?   Those are pretty vulnerable questions.

When you're depressed, not only does it take a lot of effort to even put the ask out there, but you're not really in any position to stomach the answer, either way.  No, you have other plans?  Oh God, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have bothered you, I knew that you would say no, if you wanted to see me, you would have reached out to me on your own, I know you'd rather be organizing your sock drawer, pretend I didn't ask.  Yes?  Oh, you mean I have to get dressed and have a productive conversation and be interesting and fun and toss my hair back and laugh and pay attention to what you have to say and answer the question "How are you?" with the socially acceptable "Fine" and not cry?  I'm not sure I can pull this one off.

The catch 22 is that you need to cut depression off from its food source of loneliness.  Depression is like those robots who use old people's medicine for food except the food in this case is isolation and, oh God, nevermind.  See questions #3 and #6.

And it's hard for those in our lives to win, right?  If you tell people you're depressed, if they start being a little more attentive, it's hard to not think, "Oh, so I had to be depressed to get attention?  That kinda stinks, doesn't it?"  And if they do nothing, you're like, "God they're assholes."  And if you don't tell them, the isolation increases and the gap between you and, everyone else, gets wider and wider.  But as they say, "It's not you, it's me."  And essentially we have to forgive ourselves for being broken and everyone else for not being inside our heads enough to know it and even moreso, for not knowing what to do.  They're too busy being inside their own heads.  And who knows what's going on in there?   Maybe a little resentment that we haven't been calling - because we're been depressed, remember?  Just a thought.

Like every human interaction, it's a little bit risky.  A little bit scary.  A little bit terrible.  Just like writing this post.

I know I won't  be depressed forever.  I'm not sure how I know that, but I do, and I think that's the biggest lifeline that I have.  Hope.  That's a bigger part of my personality than any depression.  I always believe, sometimes with no real evidence or reason, that tomorrow is another, better day.

So maybe I'm not as depressed as I think, maybe I'm a little bit closer to failing this test.  And funnily enough, the act of writing this post, of sharing where I am and how I feel, brought me there.

Who knew?

(Parting thoughts:  I encourage anyone struggling with depression to seek help - you are not alone, even when the empty space on your couch or in your inbox or the lack of likes on your posts or dings on your phone suggest otherwise.)

Fait Inaccompli

'tis the season for resolutions!  How will I use this year to become a better, different person?  Lynn (Len) 2.0?  Sign me up, baby!

But alas, it is well-documented that I'm not a patient person.

I'm a pacer, a leg-shaker, an interrupter, a constant phone-checker.  I hate waiting, or, really, the lack of control involved in waiting.

It runs in my family - we've been known to ask for the check before the entrees come, and plan an exit before something even begins.   What time does this show end?  Why did I even get tickets?  To essentially show up and wait for it to end?

By the way, I can't wait for this post to be over.

This is probably also why I am not a good listener.   I want to listen.  I care about what you have to say, really I do, but let's get this show on the road already, so we can continue to go, well, nowhere.

I feel like I've been going a whole lot of nowhere recently and I'm in a really big hurry to get there.  I can't be bothered to finish an entire article, project, workout, night's sleep, thought.  All starting somewhere and ending nowhere.  The only thing I've finished recently is a donut.  And, let me tell you, it was good.

Now, don't get me wrong, at work, I am a star at starting and finishing things.  So, before you rush off and tattle to my boss, it's my personal life where it all falls short.

Pretty much the only thing worse than starting something and not finishing it is thinking about all of the things you started and didn't finish and how, if you had actually finished those things when you started them, if not the first time, but the tenth time, they would be off your plate, and well, done, and you could move on to the next things.

But where's the fun in that?

Sometimes I think about having been on a diet since I was 8 years old.  If my math serves me and I'm being a little kind to myself, that's over 30 years on a diet.  Do you mean to tell me if I had actually lost weight 30 years ago I could have spent the past 30 years of my life doing something different?  Like curing cancer?  Or becoming the first white middle aged lady rapper?  Or finding out what all the fuss was about with Breaking Bad?

Gretchen Rubin writes about how all of our bad habits and patterns actually serve a purpose and if we can identify the purpose, we get closer to the root of change.  For example, if you eat a candy bar every afternoon, it's maybe because you hit an energy slump every day at that time - you hit on a solution for it, congratulations you!, but how can you come up with a better solution?

Now I want a candy bar.  No, must finish post.

Where was I?  Oh right, so what does all of this starting and not finishing mean?   For me, I think it's fear.  Fear of finding out that I'm not perfect.  I know the fact that I'm not perfect is shocking and mind blowing to many of you so, if you feel the need to take some time to eat a candy bar and reflect and come to terms with this revelation, feel free to take that time for yourself now.  I'll wait.

Wait, you're done already?  You're sure you don't need more time?  Ok, whatever.

You know, maybe I never finished learning to play guitar because I'm no Carlos Santana or even Charo.  Maybe I can't dance, swim well, paint, ride a horse, run a marathon, cook a proper dinner.  Maybe I keep gaining and losing the same weight over and over because I'll find out that, under all this, I look perfectly average, maybe even worse than average, and not at all like Gisele.

Even worse, maybe all the things I've blamed on my weight really had nothing to do with it after all.   Maybe they're thanks to other things that I also need to work on.  Man, you mean I'm not done?

I'm tired just thinking about it.  When do I get to be done?

Oh, I know:  Never.  It's all a little overwhelming.

I tell myself, I don't want to be perfect.  Perfect is boring.  But IS perfect boring?  Or is that what imperfect people tell ourselves?  I guess since no one is perfect, we'll never know.

But what's the flip side?  A constant, lazy, circuitous quest for imperfection?  If they give out medals for that, I'm definitely in the running for the gold.  I'm like the Michael Phelps of imperfection.  Quick temper?  Borderline hoarding tendencies?  Underachieving bank account balances?  Check, check and check.  I'm getting to imperfect at lightning speed.

Love yourself just as you are, they say.  I call bullshit.  I'm not sure that's always great advice.  Hitler, you be you, I got you brother, never change.   No, no, no.

Sure, we can have compassion for ourselves, and not beat ourselves up, but I don't see any problem in wanting to be a better version of yourself.  Not for anyone else, but for you.

The problem is, how do you identify those things that you really can and should work on without subjecting yourself to crippling judgment?  I'm not really sure.

I feel like I've spent the past year in a place wanting to move forward but really marching in place, marking time.  And what I can say about that experience is it doesn't help anybody.

So as 2015 starts, I have a whole new list of to-dos, many of which are carry overs from, the, well, last 20 years.  Some of them have evolved into more realistic goals over the years.  Like, maybe "Get a body like Gisele's" is now more like, "Get a body like Kirstie Alley's after she lost the weight the 15th time - no, not when she lost it with Jenny Craig and went on Oprah in the bikini and had those weird control top pantyhose on with the seam- but that time right after Dancing with the Stars before she gained weight again."

This, my friends, is what we call progress.

And at least I finished this post.  If nothing else this year, I can say that.

Happy belated new year, friends.  May you end this year a slightly better you than how you began it - whatever that means to you.

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.