What is it? Why do I procrastinate? I have had a week to take care of some business, and I put it off for no reason. Now I'm in deep shit and working like a dog to make things right. Why would I risk my business reputation and client satisfaction by delaying this project? It's nothing, really, not difficult. I could have finished it last week without any issues.
I have always done this type of thing. I am a card carrying member of Procrastination Nation. I am the master of avoidance maneuvers.
An hour later...
Yep, I just did it again! I got side-tracked on some other paperwork and couldn't even finish this blog! Jeesh. OK, I swear, this time I am going to kill my browser, get to work, and face the music. Hmmm, that sounds somewhat like an addict promising they'll change. Do they have a 12-step group for people like me?
Oct 5, 2010
Oct 4, 2010
Unspecial: Part II
If you haven't already done so, read Part I. Just scroll down a little. It's only two posts. I'll wait.
(waiting)
Ok, done? Great.
So we are "them"... the nameless, faceless people whose tragedies we read about over our morning cups of coffee. Them. The others. Someone else.
They were us once. Regular folks tsking over the unfortunate events of "them" until one day when they were blindsided and unceremoniously inducted into the fraternity of "them."
The inspiration for Part I was someone I knew. Kids losing their mother. A husband losing his wife. A family losing their North Star. I wonder what would happen to my family if I died. Would it be as sickeningly tragic as I imagine, or would they cope and move on without me? The wise woman in me knows that I would want them to heal, to move on, to live. But the mother bear in me knows no one else could do it better than I could. The deepest part of my heart knows that they need me, and my not being there would write indelibly on the slate of their being.
What's worse, losing your mother, or losing your child?
Sick kid, ICU, no more treatments. Curling up in their hospital bed, arms wrapped around them, careful not to disturb the myriad lines running under the sheets, listening to the death march of beeps and clicks from the machinery keeping your beloved alive, whispering promises and making bargains with God to let your precious cargo become whole again.
And then what? The ventilator becomes a morbid metronome, pacing each breath until you've crossed the event horizon, the point of no return, and you're sucked in and torn apart by the supermassive black hole. Science says it's theoretical, but you know it's real. You're in it. Time stops. And then everything you know to be true in life ceases to be.
I worked with a woman who lost her teenage daughter. Three years after her death, the woman still spoke of her child in the present tense. No one had the nerve or the heart to mention it. We didn't dare suggest that we knew what she went through. Because we didn't. We could not fathom her pain.
I wonder at her courage, her resolve, the sheer will required to get up in the morning and take a shower knowing your child is dead.
Where do you find hope after something like that?
(waiting)
Ok, done? Great.
So we are "them"... the nameless, faceless people whose tragedies we read about over our morning cups of coffee. Them. The others. Someone else.
They were us once. Regular folks tsking over the unfortunate events of "them" until one day when they were blindsided and unceremoniously inducted into the fraternity of "them."
The inspiration for Part I was someone I knew. Kids losing their mother. A husband losing his wife. A family losing their North Star. I wonder what would happen to my family if I died. Would it be as sickeningly tragic as I imagine, or would they cope and move on without me? The wise woman in me knows that I would want them to heal, to move on, to live. But the mother bear in me knows no one else could do it better than I could. The deepest part of my heart knows that they need me, and my not being there would write indelibly on the slate of their being.
What's worse, losing your mother, or losing your child?
Sick kid, ICU, no more treatments. Curling up in their hospital bed, arms wrapped around them, careful not to disturb the myriad lines running under the sheets, listening to the death march of beeps and clicks from the machinery keeping your beloved alive, whispering promises and making bargains with God to let your precious cargo become whole again.
And then what? The ventilator becomes a morbid metronome, pacing each breath until you've crossed the event horizon, the point of no return, and you're sucked in and torn apart by the supermassive black hole. Science says it's theoretical, but you know it's real. You're in it. Time stops. And then everything you know to be true in life ceases to be.
I worked with a woman who lost her teenage daughter. Three years after her death, the woman still spoke of her child in the present tense. No one had the nerve or the heart to mention it. We didn't dare suggest that we knew what she went through. Because we didn't. We could not fathom her pain.
I wonder at her courage, her resolve, the sheer will required to get up in the morning and take a shower knowing your child is dead.
Where do you find hope after something like that?
Oct 2, 2010
I Want a Christmas Present This Year
Yep. You read that right. I want a Christmas present this year. A good one. Not some "take the kids to Target and have them pick out useless (albiet heartwarming) crap that is a complete waste of money" present. A real one. A present that takes thought, planning, care, concern, and maybe a little $$.
Before I start sounding like a spoiled brat, let me share a little backstory.
Even though money is tight, our kids never go without. In fact, they have most of the same accessories and accouterments as all of their friends. Not to mention they are well-fed, housed, clothed, and educated.
Even though money is tight, I can always manage to find a way to make special things happen for everyone else. New guitar for Father's Day? Check. Choir trip to Chicago? Check. Rounds of golf, trips to the salon, concert tickets, and gift shopping cards for birthdays? Check. Private school? Check. Yankees tickets and Cardinals tickets for Father's Day? Check. Surprise honeymoon to Las Vegas? Check.
In the long run, special things don't cost as much as you think they will, and the memories you're making during those special times far outweigh the expense. I want a Christmas present this year, and I want my family to put a lot of thought into it. I have never asked for this before. I have no problem living small. My car is 10 years old, my wedding ring is extremely modest, my wardrobe consists of jeans and t-shirts, and we subsist on a steady diet of chicken. But somehow, some way, a part of me feels a little slighted.
Maybe I wish that everyone put as much thought into something for me as I do for them. I enjoy surprising the people I love. I count my blessings on a daily basis. I am shown much love in a variety of ways, some small and some big. But once in awhile a girl just wants jewelry, expensive shoes, or a trip to Italy.
Does this sound the rant of a whiny, spoiled bitch or the request of someone who just wants to be recognized? Why am I feeling so sad as I write this?
Before I start sounding like a spoiled brat, let me share a little backstory.
Even though money is tight, our kids never go without. In fact, they have most of the same accessories and accouterments as all of their friends. Not to mention they are well-fed, housed, clothed, and educated.
Even though money is tight, I can always manage to find a way to make special things happen for everyone else. New guitar for Father's Day? Check. Choir trip to Chicago? Check. Rounds of golf, trips to the salon, concert tickets, and gift shopping cards for birthdays? Check. Private school? Check. Yankees tickets and Cardinals tickets for Father's Day? Check. Surprise honeymoon to Las Vegas? Check.
In the long run, special things don't cost as much as you think they will, and the memories you're making during those special times far outweigh the expense. I want a Christmas present this year, and I want my family to put a lot of thought into it. I have never asked for this before. I have no problem living small. My car is 10 years old, my wedding ring is extremely modest, my wardrobe consists of jeans and t-shirts, and we subsist on a steady diet of chicken. But somehow, some way, a part of me feels a little slighted.
Maybe I wish that everyone put as much thought into something for me as I do for them. I enjoy surprising the people I love. I count my blessings on a daily basis. I am shown much love in a variety of ways, some small and some big. But once in awhile a girl just wants jewelry, expensive shoes, or a trip to Italy.
Does this sound the rant of a whiny, spoiled bitch or the request of someone who just wants to be recognized? Why am I feeling so sad as I write this?
Sep 18, 2010
Unspecial: Part I
The mother of my daughter's friend and schoolmate died on Labor Day weekend. She was 39. I didn't know her well, but here's a rundown of her last few months of life:
June 2010 - Pregnant with their 4th child. Preterm labor while on a family vacation. Baby in NICU, and mom's deteriorating. Doctors discover that she has endocarditis (look it up) and will need open heart surgery. Mom and baby flown back home and installed in same hospital.
July 2010 - Baby recovering. Mom getting worse. It is discovered that mom has colon cancer that's metastasized to her liver. Mom's open heart surgery is canceled, and she begins chemo. Family's 3 other children living with their aunt while dad stays with mom and baby.
August 2010 - Family's home is burglarized. Thieves steal car, computers, jewelry, basically anything not nailed down. Baby recovering nicely. Mom not responding to chemo. After 6 rounds of chemo and genetic testing, it is determined that mom's cancer is some weird genetic mutated variety that is untreatable.
September 2010 - Mom succumbs to liver failure secondary to metastasized colon cancer. She is survived by husband and 4 children, ages 2 months to 6 yrs. Children undergo genetic testing to determine if they carry the same cancer gene as their mother.
So there that is.
There's been a tremendous outpouring of support from the community, and everyone has rallied around this family. There was a spaghetti feed that raised over $70,000, not including the donation fund set up at a local bank. One of mom's former coworkers (now retired) has moved in with the family to care for the children. Apparently mom stepped up to help this woman after she had a stroke years ago, and now she is returning the favor. Angels are everywhere.
I could go on about how those children will never know their mother. Or about their widower father raising 4 small children. Or about the blinding speed of their downhill slide from family vacation to funeral. But everyone's already written that. It's the obvious story. It's heartbreaking.
What's utterly ordinary is that this kind of gut-wrenching drama (and much, much worse) plays itself out all over the world, day in and day out, everywhere, all the time, and it just is. There's nothing remarkable about this woman or this family that makes them any different from you, your neighbor, your coworker, or me. Nothing. And that is the truly horrifying part. It could have been me. It could have been my husband. Or my mom. Or my kid. I am not special. There's no protective shield around me that reflects and redirects the bad juju to someone else. To "them." When bad things happen, it always happens to "them." I realize now that I am them. I just haven't taken my turn yet.
Almost four years ago (can it be 4 yrs already?) my friend Penny got cancer and died. Her son was 11. I have a photo of the two of them on the day she died. She was divorced and worked at a bank. Her son lives with his dad now.
Three years ago my buddy's girlfriend was killed in a murder-suicide at the department store where she worked. My buddy already had the ring and was going to propose on Christmas. We had gotten together with them a week before she was killed.
Last year a good friend of my husband's died. I knew her casually. She had just become engaged and bought a house. She was found dead at home (undiagnosed health condition). She was a political activist and had a bright future ahead of her.
Three good people, to be sure, but I only tell their stories to illustrate a point.
It can be anyone, anywhere, anytime. They were all ordinary, regular people like you and me.
Them. We are them.
Part II to follow...
June 2010 - Pregnant with their 4th child. Preterm labor while on a family vacation. Baby in NICU, and mom's deteriorating. Doctors discover that she has endocarditis (look it up) and will need open heart surgery. Mom and baby flown back home and installed in same hospital.
July 2010 - Baby recovering. Mom getting worse. It is discovered that mom has colon cancer that's metastasized to her liver. Mom's open heart surgery is canceled, and she begins chemo. Family's 3 other children living with their aunt while dad stays with mom and baby.
August 2010 - Family's home is burglarized. Thieves steal car, computers, jewelry, basically anything not nailed down. Baby recovering nicely. Mom not responding to chemo. After 6 rounds of chemo and genetic testing, it is determined that mom's cancer is some weird genetic mutated variety that is untreatable.
September 2010 - Mom succumbs to liver failure secondary to metastasized colon cancer. She is survived by husband and 4 children, ages 2 months to 6 yrs. Children undergo genetic testing to determine if they carry the same cancer gene as their mother.
So there that is.
There's been a tremendous outpouring of support from the community, and everyone has rallied around this family. There was a spaghetti feed that raised over $70,000, not including the donation fund set up at a local bank. One of mom's former coworkers (now retired) has moved in with the family to care for the children. Apparently mom stepped up to help this woman after she had a stroke years ago, and now she is returning the favor. Angels are everywhere.
I could go on about how those children will never know their mother. Or about their widower father raising 4 small children. Or about the blinding speed of their downhill slide from family vacation to funeral. But everyone's already written that. It's the obvious story. It's heartbreaking.
What's utterly ordinary is that this kind of gut-wrenching drama (and much, much worse) plays itself out all over the world, day in and day out, everywhere, all the time, and it just is. There's nothing remarkable about this woman or this family that makes them any different from you, your neighbor, your coworker, or me. Nothing. And that is the truly horrifying part. It could have been me. It could have been my husband. Or my mom. Or my kid. I am not special. There's no protective shield around me that reflects and redirects the bad juju to someone else. To "them." When bad things happen, it always happens to "them." I realize now that I am them. I just haven't taken my turn yet.
Almost four years ago (can it be 4 yrs already?) my friend Penny got cancer and died. Her son was 11. I have a photo of the two of them on the day she died. She was divorced and worked at a bank. Her son lives with his dad now.
Three years ago my buddy's girlfriend was killed in a murder-suicide at the department store where she worked. My buddy already had the ring and was going to propose on Christmas. We had gotten together with them a week before she was killed.
Last year a good friend of my husband's died. I knew her casually. She had just become engaged and bought a house. She was found dead at home (undiagnosed health condition). She was a political activist and had a bright future ahead of her.
Three good people, to be sure, but I only tell their stories to illustrate a point.
It can be anyone, anywhere, anytime. They were all ordinary, regular people like you and me.
Them. We are them.
Part II to follow...
It's Calling Me
Blogging, she calls me. I've been on hiatus for awhile, but I've been drawn back in by the need to get "it" out. Much has happened, mostly good, some meh, but I don't feel like rehashing it. Onward and upward. I think my writing skills have dropped off significantly, which is a shame. I'm searching for an issue, a prompt, something to spur my creativity. I'll think of something soon. I hope. Any ideas?
May 5, 2010
Open letter to my friend's daughter
Dearest Baby,
On this fabulous occasion of your baby shower, I wanted to write a letter from one adoptee to another…
Being adopted is something that you can’t understand unless you are. Most of the time you are pretty normal, and life is business as usual. Once in awhile you feel different, but not in the way that people might think. I never felt different because I didn’t grow in my mom’s stomach. I never felt different because I didn’t look like my dad. I fought with my brother like a regular kid. I loved my grandma just like a normal kid. But once in awhile I felt different.
Some people don’t get it; they think being adopted is weird. Adults try to tell you things to make you feel special, but they always miss the mark. You’ll hear the clichés like “You grew in your mom’s heart instead of her tummy” and other sappy things. Nice sentiments to be sure, but people who write that crap aren’t adopted. Adoptees are in an exclusive club. You can’t join unless you are, and you can’t explain it to people because they just don’t understand. We’re extra-special, we’re more than normal. Our parents wanted us. REALLY wanted us. We have the unique experience of non-biological unconditional love, and it’s sublime.
The flip side of that is knowing that you have a dual history. There are always the questions you can’t ask, the questions that will break your parents’ hearts even though they’re expecting them. “Where did I come from?” “Who’s my real mother?” Real mother is the term you use as a kid before you have the language to say “biological mother,” before you have the awareness or understanding that calling your birth mother your real mother breaks your mom’s heart. Don’t ever feel guilty for having these questions. They are normal. They are part of your history, and you are entitled to that. Hopefully your parents will understand.
I was (and am) definitely different from my family. I am wild, impatient, impulsive, curious, and very unlike my parents. I don’t have my mom’s insight or my dad’s fortitude. My folks and I couldn’t be more different in temperament and personality. It was a challenge for my parents to raise such a foreign creature. I continually confounded them, and I think I scared them a little. They have always shown me the greatest love, but sometimes they didn’t understand me. Who is this person that they called daughter? It took me many years and lots of hindsight, but now I know that I landed exactly where I belonged.
It took parents like mine to raise a child like me into a happy, healthy adult. I have met my birth family, and I adore them, but if I had grown up with them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. My parents were a steadfast rock in my whirlwind life, and without that North star, I would be lost. They taught me values, goals, love, life, and God. They loved me enough to turn me loose and allowed me to make my mistakes. They took me back and let me lick my wounds without saying, “I told you so.” They were and are amazing, and I wouldn’t want to know life without them.
So I’d like to welcome you to lifetime membership in a pretty cool organization. You’re exactly where YOU belong, and knowing your parents as I do, I don’t know who is luckier, you or them.
On this fabulous occasion of your baby shower, I wanted to write a letter from one adoptee to another…
Being adopted is something that you can’t understand unless you are. Most of the time you are pretty normal, and life is business as usual. Once in awhile you feel different, but not in the way that people might think. I never felt different because I didn’t grow in my mom’s stomach. I never felt different because I didn’t look like my dad. I fought with my brother like a regular kid. I loved my grandma just like a normal kid. But once in awhile I felt different.
Some people don’t get it; they think being adopted is weird. Adults try to tell you things to make you feel special, but they always miss the mark. You’ll hear the clichés like “You grew in your mom’s heart instead of her tummy” and other sappy things. Nice sentiments to be sure, but people who write that crap aren’t adopted. Adoptees are in an exclusive club. You can’t join unless you are, and you can’t explain it to people because they just don’t understand. We’re extra-special, we’re more than normal. Our parents wanted us. REALLY wanted us. We have the unique experience of non-biological unconditional love, and it’s sublime.
The flip side of that is knowing that you have a dual history. There are always the questions you can’t ask, the questions that will break your parents’ hearts even though they’re expecting them. “Where did I come from?” “Who’s my real mother?” Real mother is the term you use as a kid before you have the language to say “biological mother,” before you have the awareness or understanding that calling your birth mother your real mother breaks your mom’s heart. Don’t ever feel guilty for having these questions. They are normal. They are part of your history, and you are entitled to that. Hopefully your parents will understand.
I was (and am) definitely different from my family. I am wild, impatient, impulsive, curious, and very unlike my parents. I don’t have my mom’s insight or my dad’s fortitude. My folks and I couldn’t be more different in temperament and personality. It was a challenge for my parents to raise such a foreign creature. I continually confounded them, and I think I scared them a little. They have always shown me the greatest love, but sometimes they didn’t understand me. Who is this person that they called daughter? It took me many years and lots of hindsight, but now I know that I landed exactly where I belonged.
It took parents like mine to raise a child like me into a happy, healthy adult. I have met my birth family, and I adore them, but if I had grown up with them, I wouldn’t be the person I am today. My parents were a steadfast rock in my whirlwind life, and without that North star, I would be lost. They taught me values, goals, love, life, and God. They loved me enough to turn me loose and allowed me to make my mistakes. They took me back and let me lick my wounds without saying, “I told you so.” They were and are amazing, and I wouldn’t want to know life without them.
So I’d like to welcome you to lifetime membership in a pretty cool organization. You’re exactly where YOU belong, and knowing your parents as I do, I don’t know who is luckier, you or them.
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