Pondering heart aches both physical and mental

October 16, 2006

Look who is off of computer restriction!  Me!  Me!  See?  I am the boss of myself and no one tells me what to do.  I decide when to get online and when not to.  (But if you tell Clint I was online, I will cut you!)

First, a medical update because that will tie into the rest of this entry.  As of now, my heart is looking physically well.  It is beating strongly and pumping as it should.  My blood pressure–ironically enough– was too low for them to give me meds like nitroglycerine tabs when I was having chest pains.  Did you know your resting heart rate can actually be 45 and you can still be functioning?  And ohhhhh can we talk about how much I loved the oxygen!  And how it makes you actually able to breathe.  To breathe.  It was amazing.  So far the seventyeleven pints of blood they have taken are still not enough and they are bringing me back for me because “Gee, we just can’t seem to test for more than one thing per vial and well, we know you have a lot of blood in there.” The only thing that showed up on this round of tests physically is a lesion on my liver.  They say it is nothing to worry about.  Nothing to stress over.  To consider like a birthmark that has probably always been there.  Ummm…okay.  So, if or when we meet, don’t ask to see my birthmark.  It will totally make you vomit.

What they do know without question is that I am on the brink of a nervous breakdown stress-wise.  That 80% of this is exhaustion, stress and probably a bit of PTSD (post traumatic stress) after Mom’s death.  They are trying new meds to see if they help.  (So, far, not so much.) The chest pains?  Still intense and they do interfere with daily life.  The dizzy to the point of hitting the ground?  Yep.  Still there playing peek-a-boo.  That pretty much makes this a situation of “avoid all stress you can for 2 weeks while we madly dig through all of our medical journals to figure out what the other 20% of your health problems are.”

Avoid all stress.

Who wants 3 kids?  Want to come over and clean my house?  Want to come sit down and schedule soccer, girl scouts and gymnastics?  Anyone up for cooking dinner?  Every damn night?  Paying bills?  Working?  Writing?  Editing?

Avoid all stress.

Could someone please explain that one to me?  How?  I am serious.  (I would say dead serious, but with all of the ER visits and chest pains and such that I have had in the past few weeks, I am SO not seeing humor in that.) Suggestions to mentally de-stress?

Which brings me to the blog.  No.  I am not quitting.  How could I?  I love writing and love what I have built here.  I am not quitting.

I’ll be honest with you, though, when I tell you I wasn’t sure if I was going to come back to blogging anytime soon.  But the thing is, I love writing.  I have loved blogging.  But what is going on out there?  You see, when I started to blog, it was fun.  I loved the people I was meeting.  It was like Camp HappyWannaShowDaLove All the Time singing Kumbaya at the end of the week.  And even though that is still out there, it appears to be less the norm.  (I am looking for it.  Show it to me.) What I see are blogs that are popping up whose only purpose is to criticize and find fault in other blogs.  Blogs that are out there to make fun of other bloggers.  Blogs that decide it is entertainment to find a blog and decide to randomly rate them and say they are not worthy for whatever reason they deem at the moment.  (Don’t like the design.  The header was ugly.  There was a misspelling.  They talked about something the “reviewer” didn’t find interesting.) Or they make it entertainment to just hate on another blogger.  For the purpose of hating another person.  That is entertainment?  Something bad happened to someone so let’s point, laugh and see how badly we can make them feel?  Huh?

And then there is the personal aspect.  An example would be telling someone you barely know and have met and spoken to for maybe 5 minutes that she is “phony” “is very uphappy and needs help” and that obviously the laughing, happy person was “not the real her.” Why?  What inside a person makes them think that this is either appropriate or necessary.  Don’t get me wrong.  There is a time and place for frank honest discussions between friends.  But to barely know someone and say things even more horrifying than that to them? I don’t get it.  Call me naive, but I really don’t get it.  I don’t understand going behind someone’s back talking about them and then going back to that person and pointing out (inaccurate) faults that you feel you know when you have no idea who that person is in her real life?  Well, it is just mean.  And, well, more importantly why?

And there is a lot of mean out there right now.

And a lot of sadness.

“Avoid all stress.”

So maybe you won’t leave my blog forever if I continue this short leave of absence.  Or maybe you will.  (I hope you will stay.) But until we know exactly what is going on with my health, I cannot afford to hang out in Camp ImaGonnaTryToHurtYou.  It just isn’t good for me.  (We will know more medically soon. I will let you know when I am back in hospital for more tests.  Currently I am scheduled to go in about a week or so.) I love blogging.  I loved being a part of Camp HappyWannaShowDaLove All the Time.  But right now, I am trying to keep my health from getting any worse.  Because I am pretty sure that if I hit the floor at Kroger one more time with my teenage son, he will run away from home.

And your comments you’ve been leaving for me?  Thank you. I wish I knew a better way to say thank you. Thank you for being kind, my friends.  Thank you doesn’t seem like enough, but that is all I know to express my gratitude.  Thank you from the bottom of my strongly beating, but aching heart.  I love you guys!

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2,996- 9-11 Tribute: Daniel John Lee

September 11, 2006

——

Dan Lee boarded a plane early Tuesday morning so he could be at his wife’s side in California as she gave birth to their second child.

The 34-year-old Van Nuys man was on American Airlines Flight 11. His wife, Kellie, spent the day praying he had missed his plane. But the set carpenter for the Backstreet Boys tour had not.

The couple had been together 10 years and married for six years, his wife said. He still opened car doors for her and kissed her over the table at restaurants. Although he traveled the world as a roadie for acts including Yanni, ‘N Sync and Barbra Streisand, Lee called his wife three to four times a day to tell her he loved her.

On Thursday, Kellie gave birth to a healthy baby girl. She gave her the first name the couple had picked out together–Allison. But Kellie gave her a different middle name, Danielle, to honor her late husband.

Lee was a carpenter who worked on the crew of pop musicians the Backstreet Boys. He had been using a two-day break in the band’s touring schedule to travel from their date in Boston back to Los Angeles to spend time with his wife.

Danny Lee was determined to be at his wife’s side when she gave birth to their second child. The roadie for the Backstreet Boys had permission to peel away from the band’s tour after Monday’s concert, and after a long night breaking down the stage in Boston, he caught the first flight home to Los Angeles the next morning.

Kellie Lee, however, spent most of that day praying her husband had missed American Airlines Flight 11.

Thursday morning–two days after Danny died when his hijacked plane slammed into the World Trade Center–she gave birth to a healthy 8-pound, 12-ounce girl, Allison Danielle.

“I had a hard time being happy,” said Kellie, 32, who was in a hospital bed holding her gurgling newborn. “[But] I’m all teared out at the moment. . . . He would’ve held my hand. He would’ve been in the room.”

Van Nuys resident Danny Lee, 34, was remembered as a sweet man. Friends said he’d been enamored of rock ‘n’ roll and a life on the road since his teens, but put his family first. Tuesday morning he’d called Kellie, as he always did, to say that he’d be home soon and that he loved her.

“In the touring business, we’re out here to do a job, but when there’s family at home that’s the No. 1 priority–and for Danny that was especially true,” said longtime friend Brian Crouch, a roadie with the veteran rock band REO Speedwagon. “I’d see him call Kellie every day.

“But he wasn’t an early riser. They’d probably just finished the load-out from Monday’s concert, and I’m sure he’d gotten a couple of hours’ sleep and got out to the airport, waiting to see his little girl get born. That’s just the kind of guy he was.”

On Thursday after the attacks, mother and child were resting at Encino-Tarzana Regional Medical Center after a routine caesarean section. Relatives and friends said Kellie had been in shock over her husband’s death.

Gathered around her in the hospital room were her parents, Tom and Sandy Whitford, and her older daughter, Amanda, 2, who has her father’s wavy hair and does not understand that he is gone.

“I told her, ‘Daddy isn’t coming home,’ “ Kellie said. “She said, ‘Yes he is. In five minutes, he’ll be back.’ “

Tom Whitford said his daughter is worried about an uncertain future as a single mother. She had recently lost her job as an office worker, and she and her husband were planning to make a new start in Erie, Pa., where her parents live.

“Right now she’s flat broke,” he said. “She has no ####. She has nothing left. But today, she’s holding up great.”

Danny and Kellie, who would have been married six years the following month, had struggled with the decision to move to Pennsylvania, but felt it best that she be close to her parents while he was touring. He’d traveled as far as Australia and Asia as a set carpenter for the likes of Yanni, Barbra Streisand and ‘N Sync.

Friends said the couple met 10 years ago at a rock show back when Danny was playing drums in a band.

Whitford said it took awhile for him to get used to having a son-in-law in the music business, but he eventually came around.

“I knew he worked hard. I’d heard where he sometimes worked 21 hours a day on that job. We did share a game of golf a couple of days ago and we had a good time.”

Lee was still planning to move with her daughters to Erie in the weeks follwoing 9/11, Tom Whitford said. One of Danny’s employers, Mike Hirsh, owner of L.A. Stagecall, said he was sending workers to load load her truck, and other friends talked of establishing a fund for the girls.

Lee’s mother, Elaine Susino, lives in Palm Desert. He is also survived by two brothers and a sister.

“We’re holding up,” said one brother, Jack Fleishman of Los Angeles. “We have a lot more closure than a lot of people have in this. At least we don’t have to wait up to see if he’s lying in the rubble, like a lot of people do.”

After Monday’s show in Boston, the Backstreet Boys’ crew moved on to Toronto. Before Wednesday’s performance, they called their crew onstage and told the audience how the week’s events had affected them directly and asked for a moment of silence.

“Man, I’ll tell you, we’re all just devastated out here,” said tour manager Marty Hom. “What we do out here is not really important–it’s entertainment. What he was going home for, that was really important.”

Daniel Lee was returning to Los Angeles to witness the birth of his second child. He had gotten a 10-day leave as a stage carpenter for the Backstreet Boys and, after a long night Monday dismantling the stage in Boston, he boarded Flight 11.

Hours earlier, he had called his wife, Kellie, to remind her to be at the airport to pick him up.

He was excited about the birth, which was to be by Caesarean section. The couple had chosen Sept. 13 as the date, to make sure he could be there. “He would have held my hand,” Kellie Lee said.

The scheduled birth of his daughter went on as planned. Allison Danielle Lee was born at 8:10 a.m. Thursday. The 8-pound, 11-ounce baby girl not only shares part of her daddy’s name, but also his nose, her mother said.

Those close to the 34-year-old Lee said he was serious about his work, sometimes putting in 21-hour days. As a roadie, he had traveled as far as Australia and Asia, and had worked with Neil Diamond, Yanni, ‘N Sync and Barbra Streisand.

But his family was top priority. He called home every day, friends said.

The couple met 10 years ago at a rock show in which “Danny” was playing the drums. Oct. 7 would have been their sixth wedding anniversary.

—————–

The following was a tribute written by a friend of a friend for Daniel John Lee:

A tribute to a friend of a friend

a strong lady in the storm

She still stands proud

Our flag is still there

Still flying

—

Roadie Warrior

By Claudette

We met at the hotel bar last night about 11:00pm. Of all the things I thought I might do while on tour with the Boys of Pop, planning a memorial service was not one of them.

It takes about 200 people to put on a show the size of the Backstreet Boys. There are riggers, carpenters, electricians, lighting and pyro technicians, wardrobe, and a whole team of production folks to coordinate the logistics. They are what the outside world would call “roadies.” I guess I should say “we” are what the outside world would call roadies. A lot of this crew has been together since the Millennium tour a couple of years ago. The really big one that put the BSB on the map of pop sensation. I, being the nubile tour-sponsor-roadie, not in the thick of it like the rest, have only just recently gotten to know the crew. They are really an amazing group of people.

Sometimes, when I have an extra minute during the day, I sit in one of the arena seats and just watch the action. At any given point there is someone climbing high in the rafters, someone leading a crew of local hands assembling parts of the stage, and someone else mastering all the pyrotechnics that make the show go boom in ways I will never ever understand. These are all the same people that just ate toast and cereal with me or laughed about a favorite Simpson’s episode the night before. Many people have families who we get to meet when we pass through home cities, or who visit the tour during a long stay in a city. As cheesy as it sounds, though, the people who you tour with quickly become a different type of family - they become the constant in the very surreal and inconsistent world of concert motion.

Anyway, we had just finished three nights in Boston, making up for the shows we missed in July when AJ entered rehab. It was actually great to be back in Boston. This time around, we all knew exactly what to expect with setting up the show, so it went oh-so smoothly. Plus, we were looking forward to heading North for a day off and three nights in Toronto. You know how much I love Canada. So, on Monday night, after the last show in Boston, we got into our busses for the overnight drive to Toronto. If all had gone as planned, we would have woken up across the border ready to change our dollars for loonies and enjoy a day off before our first show on Wednesday. It didn’t quite happen like that.

Tuesday, September 11. By now, you all know what happened. What you don’t know is that one of our carpenters, Daniel Lee, was aboard the first airplane that crashed into the World Trade Center. Daniel was taking two weeks off to be with his pregnant wife who was due any day. Actually, I think today’s her due date. It was hard enough to believe the live coverage on CNN was anything other than a gross Bruce Willis flick intended to rile the audience against some foreign terrorist - but to imagine that someone who you’d just seen the night before was on that plane is unfathomable. I watched several crew members break down unabashedly in our hotel bar, where we sat watching the details unfold. I did something I don’t normally do - get rip-roaring drunk. Cosmopolitans seemed the only appropriate response to the ludicrous events in New York and DC.

We got through yesterday’s show, which was an amazing feat. The managers debated about whether to cancel the show, and everyone was mixed about what would be the most appropriate response. The consensus seemed to be that “keeping busy” would somehow help the pain. The Boys went on stage and asked for a moment of silence for Danny. I have never seen an audience of 15,000 so quiet. Carolyn and I did not do our Pop promotion last night, either. How could we go on with our silly shtick like nothing had changed?

I volunteered to organize a memorial service for Danny on Friday before the show, which is what put me back at the bar last night at 11:00 pm. I asked for a couple of crew that knew him really well to help me. I just want to make sure I do it right. If we do nothing else but come together as a group to acknowledge the personal tragedy, that will be a start.

These past two days have been traumatic on so many levels. I had to excuse myself from the lunch table yesterday when a fellow crewmember commented that perhaps it was finally time to “kick out all the foreigners.” I also excused myself from a conversation where, after I pointed out that we have been bombing the Middle East for years, a crewmember responded that we just “need to try harder.” I understand their pain and you understand my politics, and this is a hell of a time for me to learn patience and restraint.

I am saddened that at this time in history, there is no Gandhi, no MLK, no Mother Teresa to help guide the world through what could be one of the worst moments in history. Even the Pope couldn’t seem to say much beyond the obvious. I’m sitting here listening to the music of the Sufi mystic Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, wishing he, too, was still around. It helps that he is singing in Arabic. It helps that I can’t understand what he is saying. Sometimes there are just no words for sadness.

With much love,

Claudette

—-

Technorati tags: 2,996, 9/11, Daniel John Lee, tributes, 2,996 project

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Can someone please stop this wheel?

July 19, 2006

Have you ever watched a hamster on a wheel who starts running faster than he can actually keep pace with?  You know how one misstep will send him careening out of his wheel and slam him into the wall of his cage?  I am that hamster.  Not with the “stuff” I have to do.  We all have “stuff” to do that keeps us busy and sometimes overwhelmed.  It is with the things I cannot control.  The wheel that keeps spinning and spinning with no apparent plans to stop anytime soon.  I don’t know how much longer I can run.

Let’s look at the past year.  We won’t focus on the near scares, the almost happened or the “minor medical emergencies” that we were able to enjoy.  That would take too long.  Let’s focus on the Big Wheel Spinning. 

July 20, 2005 Mom goes into the hospital for a “routine” surgery.  Nothing goes right from then on.  Traveling back and forth and back and forth all the while being force fed despair and hope in equal parts.

December, some punk kid calmly tells a teacher and principal that he has plans to kill my son and there is NOTHING the school or police can do about it.

January, Mom–my best friend and role model– loses her battle and dies. 

March, my son suffers from extreme anxiety and depression issues compouded by his ADHD and our world again is put into a tailspin as I try to help him get his footing as I stand on thin ice myself. 

July 2006, Dad has a heart blockage and again we have the waiting room fear take over.  While there is much rejoicing that all is well now, the toll has been taken on the mind, heart and body. 

Last night, my uncle died.

I am running.  Running.  RUNNING.  But this wheel I seem to be on is going too damn fast for me!  If I take my eyes off of it for one nanosecond or lose my carefully timed steps, I will be flung from it.  And, people, I don’t know if I will be strong enough to endure the impact when I crash.

Last night it all just hit me, overwhelmed me and gave me such a heavy heart, I am having trouble shaking it.  I dreamed all night of issues I cannot face when I am awake.  For the first time in years, I dreamed about my mother-in-law and spent most of the night in my dreams trying to fix that situation and somehow reverse the outcome.  I dreamed of friends lost, dreams shattered and hearts broken all night long.

Today, I am exhausted.

Is there some force out there waiting for me to cry Uncle?  Something waiting to hear me yell, “I give up!” If so, here I am.  I Give Up!  You win!  See me here with the white flag?  Begging you to stop!

Even things I am looking forward to are tainted with caution flags.  Rather than be over the moon excited, I sit and wait for the other shoe to drop.  Wait for the phone call that will tell me “Not so much a good day today, Jenn.” Wait for the next thing to happen that ruins, prevents or slams the brakes on the excitement I want to let loose with.

I am exhausted.  Can someone either run on this wheel for me or find a way to slow the damn thing down?

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And then she exhaled

July 12, 2006

Thanks for well wishes, your margarita dances, your naked boogies, your prayers and your postive thoughts.  Dad did end up having angioplasty and had a stent put in.  He was literally saved from a heart attack that was bound to get him. And soon. I was even able to see the video images of his catheterization where the blood flow was blocked and another spot where his heart has created it’s own bypass around another stent he had put in years ago.  The body is an amazing thing, let me tell you.

He is doing very well.  I was already able to bring him HOME.  That I cannot believe.  But am so grateful I wept while driving.  Which, let me tell you is NOT a good idea when driving your heart patient Dad on the freeways in Houston. I’m just sayin’.

So I am again able to exhale and breathe. 

Thanks again, you wonderful people.  I adore you all! 

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Words to live by, words to cling to

July 6, 2006

Today it has been 6 months since my mother died.  (Just typing that nearly made me gag.) I try so hard to live in a world that pretends all is well.  But on days when it hits me like a ton of bricks, it is not easy to forget.  It’s never easy to forget, but sometimes it is a bit easier to pretend. 

I miss her.  I miss her so much.  Silly things make me want to pick up the phone and call her. I found myself reaching for the phone the other day when I long lost character on one of her favorite shows popped up again.  A character we both laughed at and adored.  My immediate thought was, “I have to make sure Mom is watching this.” And it hit me.  I put the phone back down and sighed.  No one else would get it. 

Hard times make me want to be with her.  Times when I am hurting or scared or frustrated and need to ask her opinion.  Times when I want to cry and just let down my guard, but I realize that the only one who would really get it is my Mom.  The hardest times are when I just want my Mommy and there is no reason.

Motherhood.  Motherhood makes me miss her more than anything.  I want to ask, “Mom, did I ever do this?” or “Mom, how would you handle this?” and especially “Mom, was it this hard for you, too?”

I stood in my closet today and pulled out a shirt of hers.  I held it to my face and inhaled her scent.  I want to preserve her scent.  I want to always be able to close my eyes and hold something of hers to myself and be brought to her in memories.  I closed my eyes and just let the memories of her wash over me.  The tears flowed before I was aware of them. 

When I think of her, I have to push aside the last 6 months when she was so sick.  But the truth is, in those last 6 months so many life changing things passed between us, I could never wish them forgotten.  Times when a lifetime of feelings were shared with a long look passing between us.  Words you forget to tell people you love on a day to day basis were spoken.  I can’t forget those times, but I also don’t want to rememer her so sick. 

When I go to pull her up in my mind, I also try to push away the past few years when her MS began to win its battle over her body.  It frustrated her so much.  So, I do all I can do to take myself to the times when she and I hung out and laughed.  The times when she and I were more best friends than mother and daughter.  I remember her humor, her laughter, and her ability to get through anything with a laugh and an attitude that made everyone else around her feel like it would all be okay.  “This too shall pass,” she would say.  I would roll my eyes, yet every time I needed to hear it–which was every time things were hard– sure enough, she would reassure me.

I need to hear it now from her.  You have no idea how much I need to hear right now from her that every thing will be okay.  It has taken six months to feel like we are all getting back in our groove.  It seems as if we are finally feeling like maybe things will smooth out for all of us for a while.  But then life has a way of reminding you that you are not the one in charge of how things work out and what things fall into your life. 

Anniversaries like this are tough.  Days when I feel lonely and more than a little scared, I want to hear her tell me that this too shall pass.  I want her to put her arms around me and tell me that no matter what happens, I will be able to face it head on and and be fine. 

I miss her.  I know I always will.  Yet, I have been reassured that time will help it become less intense.  But for now, I am just going to cling to her words that this too shall pass.  And pray that she is once again right on the money.

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Looks like a sleepless night coming my way

June 8, 2006

It’s late.  Or early. I suppose that depends on where you live or your perception on things.  For me– as I start this– it is 2:11am.  Early? Late?  It doesn’t matter.  I am not sleeping.  Sleep is something that has always been a battle-zone for me.  At some point (my Mom used to insist it was in the womb), my body decided that night-time is not for sleeping.  It is for creative thoughts.  Worrying about life.  Rearranging furniture.  (That last one used to freak my Dad out when he would wake me up in the morning and not know exactly where my bed would be.) I am just not a good night sleeper.

I used to be so frustrated by this.  I would fight with Sleep and beg Sleep to take over for the night.  Apparently, Sleep does not like you to sass it or call it nasty names in frustration, as it will then keep you up at least an extra hour or two. So I try to take advantage of the middle of the night silence and the time I have on my hands.  Many of my friends can attest to the fact that several emails they receive are time-stamped well after midnight.  Blog posts, as well.  My book?  75% of it has been written after midnight.  (If my agent is reading this, honest…that is GOOD!  My morning writes are pure drivel.  Trust me.) However, though I extol the virtues of midnight productivity, it is not always easy to be up, alone and thinking.  It is the thinking that gets me every time.

I will give you a night in the life. 

By 10:00pm, I am yawning.  By 10:30, my eyelids are heavy.  I grab the opportunity that I believe Sleep must be giving me and race through my nightly rituals in order to be snuggle in bed before the yawns abandon me.  There is a sheer bliss of cool sheets and a Down pillow.  Trying not to seem like a careless and rushed mistress for Sleep, I usually open a book and begin to read.  It is my little way of saying to Sleep, I am here and waiting whenever you are ready.  Shortly thereafter, I’m aware of Sleep’s gentle touch and I begin to feel that softness as my eyes slowly begin to close.  I turn off the book-light, bookmark my page and set it on the nightstand.  I welcome Sleep.

Sleep then says to my eagerly awaiting mind and body, “Not tonight dear, I have a headache.” Just like that any chance of embracing Sleep in the next hour or so is useless.  My mind begins to race.  Did I lock the door?  Is the alarm on?  Did I feed the cat?  Wait…I don’t have a cat!  That makes no sense!  Am I crazy?  I must be because why else would I think about a cat which reminds me that I need to make an appointment for the dog at the vet. Wonder how much that will be. Which bill is it that is due this week?  I really need to find it and pay it.  When is it due again?  I am wide awake and thinking.  Ugh.  The thinking.

It has been especially hard lately It is not the door, the bills or the non-existent cat that my mind dwells on.  It is my Mom and my final moments with her.  Mom and the way I miss her.  Mom and the reality–the hard, cold, brutal truth– that she is gone. Forever.  Which leads to that heavy weight upon my chest and heart.  As bad as those heartbreaking thoughts can be, when Sleep refuses to snuggle and my mind goes to a place my heart does not want to be, there is another voice that resonates throughout my mind.  An insistent voice.  That is the voice of the addict in pain.

It is in these midnight hours that I am at most risk of a slip.  Or a slide. Or a go directly to addict hell.  Do not collect $200.  Just slip back into your addiction.  I will admit it.  Even after 6 years, I can jones for a fix with the best of them.  My Addict Mind begins to tell me that there is a way to feel better.  Just a little pill or two won’t hurt.  You know how to get them and you sure as hell know you can get them this late.  You’ve done it before.

At this stage of the game, there are no longer thoughts of Sleep or Mom or anything but a fix to make it better.  Yet, I know it won’t give in.  Not on this night.  So I take my betraying, wandering mind back to memories of rehab.  What would so-and-so in group tell me to do? That leads me to think about rehab and recovery.  Want to know what I picked up in rehab?  Smoking.  I have since quit.  Several times.  But when life kicks me down, Sleep eludes me and my Addict Brain betrays me, my mind goes to the almighty smoke.  Why?  Because I relate it to my recovery.  I relate it to getting through the hardest time in my life. I relate it to not using drugs to numb myself.  I realize it doesn’t make a lot of sense to most people.  I wish my brain was wired differently.  But, alas, it is not.  So, now that I am fully awake, I miss my Mom, want to drug it up and need a smoke.  Can you see why I might possibly be totally pissed off that Sleep is such a fickle companion of mine?

But tonight–and as any addict knows, I can only give you now– I will not slip.  I will not smoke.  Instead, tonight, I will blog.  I will send off emails.  I will make lists of things I need to do in the next few days.  Tonight I will not neither fight with Sleep nor pretend I don’t want it.  I will simply wait for it to come to me.  Ready for me this time.  Then–and only then–will I be offline. 

Because I know what could await me if I don’t.  And that is not a price I am willing to pay simply because Sleep won’t have me yet.  I can wait.  And I will win.

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THe Humpty Dumpty of heartbreaks

May 16, 2006

Mother’s Day was hard.  Well, at first it wasn’t because I decided to pretend it was any other day.  I have become very good at that since Mom died.  Pretending. With so many firsts coming up, I can pretend that it is another day when in fact it feels like it is anything but that.  I did a pretty job of it, too.  I let the kids do what they wanted.  I watched DVD movies (avoiding all mention of Mother’s Day and commercials taunting me with “Have you called your Mom today?”) Clint was out of town.  Clint is always here on days of significance, so it was so easy to pretend it was any other Sunday.  But it wasn’t. 

Gabriella leaped into my bed when she woke up and snuggled up close.  She laid her head on my chest and put her tiny, preschool, still-warm-from sleep toes on my legs and just wrapped herself into me.  I pulled her as close as I could and I cried.  I cried because I know that I am so blessed to have a little girl to pass on the mother/daughter things to.  I am blessed because my boys are everything to me.  I am blessed because in what I have with my daughter reminds me of what my Mom and I shared.  And I cried.  Because it reminded me of what my Mom and I shared.  In her sweet innocence, she asked me why I was crying.  I told her because my heart was so full it was overflowing with tears.  She lifted her head, looked in my eyes and put her hand on my heart and said, “That’s because Grandma is in her your heart and she loves you so much.  And everyone you love….like ME…is in your heart, and it is just so full with so many people there, right?” I could barely nod.  How did someone so young become so wise?  How can I keep her so innocent and pure of heart?

After we got up, I was able to make the day normal.  I was able to act as if nothing was wrong.  That nothing was special about this regular Sunday.  My aunt called to check on me.  I told her I was fine.  My brother called.  He was told I was fine.  Really, I am JUST FINE.  Now if you will stop asking, I can do a much better job of pretending.

Do you know what place is the hardest place to be on Mother’s Day and when the hardest time to be there just so happens to be?  The grocery store at 9:00pm the night of Mother’s Day.  Typical of the ways of my children, one of them realized they needed something for school in the morning, so I decided to run out and grab it that night, rather than in the morning.

Walking into the store and heading towards what I needed, I froze.  Do you know what is left that time of night on Mother’s Day?  The picked over flowers that are starting to wilt a bit and were not the best of the bunch.  A few scattered cards that no one chose that year.  Some helium balloons that are slowly losing their air and looking rather pathetic and wrinkled.  The leftovers.  The cards that won’t be going to anyone’s mother that year.  The flowers that should be bringing a smile to a Mom’s face, but won’t be going home that night.  The balloons that will eventually deflate before a Mom has a chance to see it and smile.  They all should have gone to someone’s mother.  Some Mom should have had those things.  Been sent the cards, or the flowers or the balloons.

I just stood there frozen.  I should have bought flowers.  I should have bought a card.  I should have bought balloons.  As I stared at the remnants of the unchosen tokens of love, I began to cry.  They represented all that I could no longer do for Mom.  They were in my face reminders of the years ahead that I will pass by displays like this and never have the need to browse for that perfect card for Mom.  Or find the most beautiful flowers.  Or get that balloon that will drive the dog crazy and make her laugh.  And I cried.  Not the dainty, pretty cry that actresses or other women can pull off.  No.  I stood there in the middle of my local grocery store and sobbed the kind of body wracking sobs that you cannot hold back no matter how hard you try. 

It could have been one minute or five before I felt a hand on my shoulder.  I made no attempt to stop.  I couldn’t.  I just spread my arm out at the surrounding area, then on my heart and then again at what was all around me.  The woman put her hands on my shoulder and just said, “Mine died 3 years ago and I still hate this part of the store on this Day.” And she hugged me.  I am normally not one to hug a total stranger in the middle of my local grocery store, but at that moment, it was all I could do.  I pulled myself together as best I could and thanked the woman.  She patted my back and told me she knew the look, the face and the tears all too well.  With a squeeze of my shoulder she was gone.  I shook my head as if to clear it and finished what I had to do.

Back to pretending everything is okay, I checked out and went home.  It was obvious I had been crying, but no one said a word.  They can tell when I need them to not call comment to it.  Like I said, I am good at pretending.  Because, and I ask this because it terrifies me, what if I don’t?  What if I let all of this pain and anguish and anger and fear and misery come out?  I am afraid it will completely shatter me. 

Then what?  What if it does shatter me and I cannot figure out how to get those pieces to fit back together again? What if they don’t fit back together again?  I have no idea what I will be left with.  No idea what the pieces that survive will look like or function like.  Worse, what if it shatters me and I am never “me” again?  I don’t know how to do that.  I don’t know how to let it all out yet still know that somehow it will be okay.  That somehow the pieces of my shattered heart will find a way to piece themselves back together again.  I just don’t know.  So I don’t let it happen.  Not all at once.  And not when I feel it will overwhelm me.  I just don’t.  I just can’t.  What if the pieces just don’t fit anymore?

Then what?

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Sleepless nights

May 4, 2006

I am not the world’s best sleeper (at night).  I have had insomnia for as long as I can remember.  I have learned to adapt.  I think the worst part of it would have to be those nights when my brain won’t turn off and I begin to worry and stress about life–both the important things and the insignificant.  The daily important “How are we going to make ends meet this month and still get everything paid?” or the ridiculous “I cannot believe I said that out-loud to that person 10 years ago!  They must still think I am an idiot.” Late night mental mind beatings have no time restrictions.

However, last night I was overcome with a major case of feeling sorry for myself.  As the tears started to flow, I got out of bed to just let it happen.  Sometimes when you keep things bottled up too long, you just have to let it go.  I’ll be honest enough to say that I have joked it off, brushed off anxiety to others and given the standard “I’m fine” to people who ask.  For the most part I am.  I have been so busy I have not listened to that little voice inside me begging me to release some of that pent up pain and frustration.  Last night I listened.

I crawled out of bed and went into my family room.  I wrapped myself up in the comfort of an afghan that my mother crocheted when I was a tween.  I needed to feel her with me.  I wanted to know why at this moment I was feeling so sorry for myself and what I could do about it because I do NOT like that feeling one bit.  If I can get to it, I can beat it.  As I sat there analytically trying to come up with a reasonable explanation, the smart ass part of my brain kicked in.

“Hello?  Have we met? You are seriously trying to figure this out,” snarked my wise-ass brain central.  “Let’s get this straight.  With the past few months you have had, you are sitting here trying to logically figure out why you might be feeling like a good cry.  Excuse me, but are you a dumb ass, honey?” (You see, in the South even the smart-ass part of your brain calls you sweetheart, darlin’ or honey.)

Then the tears began to fall.  At first, the angry tears.  The why me? tears.  The this sucks and is so unfair tears.  As I raged against the world and the situations that are breaking me, the anger started to subside.  I glanced at my coffee table where two new books that I recently received in the mail sat and mocked me.  Both came at the same time.  Both memoirs.  Both mother-daughter memoirs.  They mocked me.

And then the real tears flowed.  The painful ones.

I know it has only been a few months since Mom died.  I would be foolish to think that I would be over that already.  I mean, I know that.  But sometimes it still hits me in the gut like a sucker punch.  I miss her.  I miss her more than I would have thought possible.  At 36, it feels too young to lose your mother.  At what age does it feel “normal” to lose your mom?  46?  56? When I am grandmother?  A great grandmother?  When does the label “motherless daughter” fit?  I am guessing never.  I am feeling never.

But I go on.  I go on because I have no choice.  I go on because that is what you do.  I go on because there is life to be lived.  Children to raise.  A home to care for.  I throw myself into my work because it helps me feel better.  It helps me feel like there are things I can do that are productive and make a difference.  But I also know there are going to be nights like last night where it all feels so wrong and it feels as if my own skin doesn’t fit.  And when those times come, I suppose I need to just learn how to wrap up in my afghan and cry it out. 

And so I did.

And so I will.

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Part 3- The breakdown of “Birthdays, boxing up and breakdowns”

March 28, 2006

First, if you are coming here from the Kidd Kraddick in the Morning show after he read my blog online, welcome. I can tell you it was a shock to turn on the radio and hear my own words being read on the air. What an amazing man Kidd is to share that with you all and to show concern about how I am doing now since I never finished the 3-part series updating anyone.  Thank you for coming by to check on me.  I have already been so overwhelmed by your emails of support and encouragement.  It really does mean a lot.  Thank you , Kidd, for asking how I am doing now and for checking on me.  You rock my face off! 

I knew this part of the series of entries would be the hardest to write.  The breakdown.

Everyone has times when they know that they are in a dark place.  A place where they are sad or depressed.  You can see it.  Sometimes you can see your way through it and sometimes you can’t.  It’s like getting sucker punched in the gut and having the wind knocked out of you.  For a moment you can’t breathe and it feels like you never will.  But, someone tells you to throw you arms up in the air, slow down your efforts to breathe and take a breath.  Just breathe.  And slowly the air begins to fill your lungs again and you know you are not dying.  That you will be okay.

Sometimes something happens–like Mom dying– and you have that same feeling.  The wind has been knocked out of you and you wonder if you are dying.  If you will ever breathe again.  But this time, I didn’t even have the strength to throw my arms up and take it slow and breathe.  Just breathe.  Suddenly, the fear, the desperation and the intensity of the helplessness overwhelmed me.  I couldn’t do it.  The wind has been knocked out of me.  I can’t breathe.  I can’t see a way to be able to throw my arms up and just be able to breathe.  I don’t have the strength.  It is terrifying.

It is times like this you wonder how other people do it.  How do they move through the fog and haze that is grief and just breathe?  I have always thought the hardest thing in the world for me was to ask for help.  It still is.  But I learned this week, the hardest part is accepting the help you haven’t asked for but so desperately need to have.

Last Friday I got a call from a friend of mine.  Of course, I ignored it because I was in bed trying to shut the world out.  Something told me to listen to the message.  I have not talked to this woman in a while.  Our children used to be in a playgroup when they were toddlers, but as they grew up, we grew apart.  But her message said she was coming over.  Right then.  I panicked.  I did not want anyone coming into my home.  It was definitely not “company ready.” (You know the difference.  The way your house looks when someone is coming over and how it looks when you know you are going to be alone.  There is a difference.  At least for me.)

Before I knew it, she was at my door telling me she was coming over to help me get up, get going and get to cleaning. 

I looked at her with my fists balled at my sides and told her I was fine and that I had sick kids at home and she really shouldn’t be in the house. 

“I’m a nurse.  I don’t care.  I’ll take my chances.” And she pushed by me and stood and looked at me.  I looked back trying to will her to go away.

I began to become more insistent that she leave.  She became more insistent on staying.  I was literally begging her to go insisting that I was fine and didn’t need anyone’s help.  Somehow I was not convincing through my balled up fists and tears.  It was then that she grabbed me by the shoulders and firmly told me that this bullshit of saying that I was fine was over.  That I was not fine and that I needed to let her help.  In defeat I let her into my home. 

And it was like standing naked in the street.  Exposed.  Ashamed.  Fearful of what she would think.  Afraid to let anyone see that fine was the least accurate description of me.  She was going to see my dark places, the dark corners that I would not let anyone into.  I was humiliated and thankful at the same time.

“We’re going to start cleaning.  You are going to get moving and do something that has physical results that you will see.  You need to get up and be productive or this dark place will swallow you up and you will not be able to get back out again.  Let. Me. Help. You.”

“No.”

“Let. Me. HELP. You.”

“NO!”

“Jenn, let me help you.”

I gave in and began telling her it was silly and she could only stay a minute and that, really, it was just that the kids were sick and I got a little behind.  I talked and talked about nothing in order to not think about the humiliation I felt at needing someone to help me with the simple act of just getting up and doing something.

So, side by side we began to scrub down my kitchen.  I hated every second of it.  I could not stand accepting help.  Especially when I needed it so badly.  After an hour or more, she stopped what she was doing and looked me in the eye.

“Jenn, you need to go for a walk.  Get out in the sunshine and leave your house.  Now.  You need to go get some fresh air and be a part of the world for a while.”

For the first time since she arrived, I unclenched my fists, looked her in the eyes and asked her in desperation, “Am I really that bad?  Am I?”

Taking me by the shoulders she looked into my eyes and said the words I did not want to hear.  “Yes, you are, Jenn.  You are that bad right now.”

I began to sob, grabbed my dog and went for a walk.  I had to come to the realization that I was not fine.  That I was not “making it through this” on my own.  I walked and cried and felt so frustrated.  If someone who isn’t super close to me is seeing how deeply dark my life had become, what am I doing to my family and friends?  When they say, ‘How are you?’, do they really want to know or is it just a question you ask someone who has gone through this?  I was confused and terrified.  And still desperately trying to catch my breath.  The wind had definitely been knocked out of me and I had no idea how I would get through this.  Ever.  Would I ever just breathe easily again or am this going to kill my spirit?

I came back home in silence and began to scrub more vigorously.  I would scrub and sweep and dust the pain away.  After 4 hours of working side by side throughout my house, I realized what this amazing friend had done for me.  She showed me that I needed to slow down my efforts to be “fine”.  To ask for and accept help getting through this. 

She did what I couldn’t do myself.  She grabbed my arms that felt so heavy and burdened and lifted them into the air for me so I could take that first breath and know that I would breathe again.  A simple first step.  But a crucial one.  It was all I had to do right now. 

Just breathe.

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Part 2-The boxing up part of “Birthdays, boxing up and breakdowns”

March 21, 2006

Over the kids’ Spring Break, I decided it was time to go back to Houston.  I knew Dad was ready to take care of some of Mom’s things and I felt I was ready to help him.  So we loaded up the kids, the dog and every electronic device I could get my hands on to entertain the kids on the road and we headed to Houston.  Never in my worst fears did I imagine how much of a punch in the gut it would be to drive into Houston.  Never in my life had I ever gone there and not seen my Mom.  Never.  Even in the last 6 months when she was so sick, my first stop was the hospital.  Being home meant seeing Mom.  It was what home meant.  As soon as I hit the outskirts of Houston I began to cry.  As I passed the cemetery where she is buried, I began to bawl.  By the time I pulled into my Daddy’s driveway, I was a sobbing mess.  It was all I could do to get out of the van and cling to him crying.  I kept apologizing for it and for not being stronger.  (Much to his hushing me for saying such nonsense.) All I could sputter through my sobs was, “But home means seeing Mom.  I can’t see Mom.  I need to see Mom.” The kids were wonderful.  They went in and let the dogs play.  The called my sister to let her know that I was there.  As my Daddy and I stood in driveway and I let the flood of tears flow and drench his shoulder.  I had no idea that going back home would be so hard.

Home is where you go when you need to recharge.  Home is where your compass is when you have lost your way.  Home is where you get wrapped in the warmth that is your childhood and everything is okay…if for only a moment.  But this was this first time in my life that Home didn’t include Mom.  And I felt as if a cannon had ripped through my heart.

I got through that first day.  I was apathetic and numb and spent a lot of time just sitting with Dad and not talking.  Just being there.  Just feeling the absence of part of Home.  It was feeling her presence and her absence all at once.

As the days wore on, I knew I had to take care of the task I came to do.  Boxing up all of Mom’s clothes, purses, shoes etc.  My sister and I decided to just jump into it.  To take as much emotion out of it as we could and just objectively look at outfits as if we were shopping.  It worked for some items.  But for many outfits, it would evoke a memory or emotion that we could not separate ourselves from.  We made 4 piles.  One for me. One for my sister.  One for my aunt and cousins.  And one to give away.  Guess which one was the smallest.  The give away.  I could not imagine a stranger wearing Mom’s clothes.  They were Mom’s.  Because I am the same size as many of Mom’s outfits, I would continually put things into my pile.  My sister would look at me and shake her head.

“Jenn,” she would say, “That is butt-ugly and out of style.  Put it in the give away pile.”

“But I remember…”

“No.  You just can’t take all of it.  You know you have to do this.” She would gently remind me.

Even so, I managed to come home with 4 full bags of clothes.  Many of which I will probably never wear. But for now, I can pull them out and hold them close and still smell her perfume.  In time, I will have to go through the whole process again and give many of these things away.  But I needed to hold onto so much still.  I suppose Dad was ready.  It looks like it was the little girl in me that was not.

But if I thought clothes were hard, they were nothing compared to purses.  Ladies, are you with me on this one?  Our purses hold a multitude of secrets and gems.  My Mom’s were no different.  So many things in her purses would bring me to tears.  Many times laughter through those tears.  I found things that I knew would immediately be transferred to my purse and probably not be pulled out until my own children are going through them.  And then they will laugh through their tears at the very same items.  It was heart wrenching.  It was touching.  It was hell.  It was healing.  It was something I would not wish on my worst enemy, yet something I was honored to be able to do.  A contradiction in emotions and actions.  Getting rid of things and growing closer to her.  Finding things that showed me how similar she and I really were.

I can honestly say that week was one of the hardest weeks on me emotionally.  I broke.  I don’t mean I cried alot and came home sad.  It broke me.  It shattered me.  It immobilized me.  It took my sanity and slammed it against the wall to see if it would stick.  As I slowly watched it slide down, I knew this was more than being sad.  More than being depressed.  This was that time in your life when you either cry uncle and get help or you go down in the depths of that darkness and possibly never return.

I cried uncle.

That is the breakdown.  I will tell you about that next time. 

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