The Things I Miss

I miss the gym, especially the camaraderie of doing the group fitness classes.  Of sweating and seeing other people sweat and feeling like a rockstar for a brief moment when the class is done.  I miss running on a treadmill and people watching and seeing my "gym" friends - people that hadn't necessarily crossed over into social friends.  When this all ends, I'm going to make that happen.

I miss driving.  Obviously I can still drive, but there isn't really anywhere to go except the grocery store.  I miss driving downtown to do my mediations - with traffic, it was usually a 45 minute drive.  I would listen to music the whole time and sing loudly and zone out and think about things.  I miss waiting in the carpool line at school - that 25 minute forced solo time where I would play on my phone or call a friend or listen to more music.  If I got there early enough, I could position myself at the front of the line and spy on the kids playing on the playground, occasionally finding one of my own children.  I loved getting that brief secret view into their lives, when they didn't know I was watching.

I miss concerts.  A few weeks before lockdown, I went to a White Ford Bronco show - it's a DC based band that plays 90's music.  I went with a group of 6 or so, three of my best friends and two of my oldest friends and my sister.  I knew every single word to every song.  When they played "I Would Walk 500 Miles" by the Proclaimers, I jumped up and down and legit peed my pants.  It was a result of too much to drink and a lack of bladder control after birthing three children.  The next day we all laughed about it on a group text chain and made plans to go to another show in April, that wasn't to be.

I miss shuffling my kids to all of their various activities.  I would often complain about our Saturdays, how my husband and I would have to divide and conquer and even at times get a babysitter to get the kids to where they needed to be - band performances and basketball games and soccer games and rock climbing.  The truth is though, I liked being busy.  I liked watching my kids have fun with their friends.  I liked catching up with the other parents.  I liked feeling like part of a community.

I miss childcare.  Specifically, I miss Michele - I call her a babysitter, but really she's a member of our family.  She has been watching my kids since Colin was born, six and a half years ago, and my kids ask for her daily.  I joke at times that they like her better than me, and perhaps they do - she engages with them in a way that I don't often do myself- playing board games with them, getting on the floor with them, really being present.  Way back when I started this blog, I wrote about Betty, my childhood nanny who I still love and adore.  I always wanted to find a "Betty" for my kids, and somehow, by some miracle, I did.  I know Michele will be in our lives for the long haul.  But in the meantime, the kids miss her desperately.  So do I.

I miss plans.  People that know me often joke that I'm always over scheduled - I have weekend plans filled up for months out.  But that's just how I roll - I love having things to look forward to and having game nights and making hard to get dinner reservations and planning trips.  Oh, how I love planning trips.  We were supposed to be in Japan at the end of March - a trip that had been in the works for years.  We were supposed to go to Cape Cod for the summer.  We were supposed to go to Spain (sans kids) in October.  Maybe some of these trips will happen?  I don't know.  I'm not counting on it.

I miss my innocence.  On March 11, three friends and I took an Amtrak up to Manhattan to see the taping of a podcast with Andy Borowitz and Alec Baldwin.  About two hours into the trip, the show was cancelled.  We were annoyed, but still determined to have a fun night, and we did.  We went to dinner and a piano bar and stayed up way too late, making for a painful early morning train back to DC the next day.  On the morning of March 13, I went to yoga.  A few hours later, I got an email that my kids' school would be closed the following two weeks.  The shit storm had begun.

I miss my kids' innocence.  For the first couple of weeks, I think the kids looked at this as spring break.  They sat on their iPads and watched a bunch of TV and seemed to be oblivious to the world collapsing outside of our house.  But then distance learning started, and they realized something was different.  And wrong.  And the tears started.  The questions.  The anxiety.  There is no doubt that this global event will have an impact on their lives, and there's not much I can do about that. And I hate that.  I hate it so much.

I miss my friends.  I miss them so much it hurts.  I know how lucky I am to be with my family right now, to have them here and healthy and be safe.  But it's not enough.  I never realized how much I rely on my friends for happiness until now.  And maybe that's not healthy?  Who knows. But I want to see my friends and embrace them so tight and run away somewhere for a weekend.  I want to get drunk and reminisce and cry happy tears that this is all over.  I've been a zoom slut as of late, jumping from zoom to zoom (and once again, over scheduling myself), and that helps.  But it's not enough.  There's something about physical presence - some energy that you get from others - that just doesn't translate through a computer screen.

When this is over, I want to throw a party.  A huge party.  In our backyard.  With a DJ and catering and the whole bit.  I want all of my favorite people to be there.  I want to fly people in.  I want to celebrate freedom of movement and people being together in the same space.  I want to grab everyone and hug them a little longer than would otherwise be socially acceptable.

I want to dance and pee my pants.

It's Not a Silver Lining - It's a Revolution

I have an acupuncturist that doubles as a therapist.  Let me explain.  

Her appointments are approximately 90 minutes.  For the first 45 minutes, you talk to her.  Like a therapist.  For the second 45 minutes, you lie on a bed with needles all over your body, the location of which I presume is based on your conversation with her.  I'm not sure, because I've never asked.  

One of my closest friends had been seeing her for years, and had been trying to convince me to go, but I was hesitant.  I've done therapy, and I wasn't particularly in need of more at the time (little did I know).  And I'd much rather get a massage than lie on a bed with needles in me for 45+ minutes. To me, that just sounded boring.  

But it was one of my 2020 resolutions to try new things, and so I made an appointment.  The appointments take place in her home, in one of two rooms she has set up with two chairs, and then the bed for the acupuncture.  The first session was standard and not particularly noteworthy.  The first 45 minute "talk" session was slightly awkward, and I wasn't quite sure what I was supposed to talk to her about.  I gave her a general overview of my life history, and when she asked why I was there, I was stumped.  I actually wasn't sure why I was there, or what it is I wanted to get out the whole thing.  I think I muttered something unauthentic and generic like "anxiety" and "trouble sleeping."  Which doesn't make me all that different than the rest of the population.  

She put the needles in and I laid there for 45 minutes and that was it.  I went on with my day.  And then something weird happened.  

I started getting anxious.  Super anxious.  And I hadn't even been anxious prior to the appointment! I had just said "anxiety" as a BS answer that seemed explanatory enough for why I showed up at this woman's home for therapy and acupuncture.  And over the next few days, it got worse.  This general feeling of unease and disorientation as to what the fuck was happening to me.  I would start crying at odd times.  My heart would start racing which was only exacerbated by the heart monitor on my Apple watch, which would actually provide evidence that it was doing just that.  And in a cruel twist of fate, I started having trouble sleeping.  Go figure.

By the time I ended up back in her home the following week for my second treatment, I was a blubbering mess.  A crying, blubbering mess.  The kind of cry where you are crying so hard you have to cover up your face with your hands because you're embarrassed about the ugly contortions your face is making.  

She didn't seem surprised.  Instead, she seemed pleased, and said something like:  This means the treatments are working.  Your heart is starting to open.  This is part of the process.  

I didn't take solace in that, and I couldn't even pinpoint what it was I was sobbing hysterically about. But in retrospect, I think I was just really scared.  Because something was shifting, or at least beginning to shift.  

She gave me a tissue to hold while I went through the second part of the session, the lying with the needles.  And I needed the tissue.  I cried for 45 minutes straight, by myself, on the heated table on the second floor of this stranger's home.  It sounds strange, but it was this weird, poignant moment. And it felt good.  Being in a room, by myself, lying down, and just letting the tears fall.  Even if I didn't know what they were about.  

After that I felt lighter.  Better.  Hopeful. The anxiety symptoms went away abruptly (though they would eventually return, intermittently).  I just felt at peace.  

This was in January, and I have gone back every week since.  

I don't know what it is this woman does, but it's something that taps into something deep.  I've had various groundbreaking revelations in my talks with her - more so than I've ever had with any therapist.  I'm not going to go into detail about those revelations at the moment, because I'm still processing them myself.  But suffice it to say that I always feel good after my appointments with her - ALWAYS. 

I think she came into my life at the exact perfect time.  I was ready.  

She isn't doing sessions at her house anymore, for obvious reasons coronavirus related.  And when the world basically shut down, not being able to see her was one of my biggest sources of sadness and disappointment.  I mean, how can you do acupuncture virtually?  

You can't, but you can talk virtually.  And since that was half of our time together anyway, I jumped at the chance to continue working with her doing phone appointments.  My first one was today.  

Suffice it to say, I feel lighter.  Better.  Hopeful.  

I was discussing with her some of the silver linings of this whole mess.  The fact that I'm spending more time outside.  That we are doing more family dinners together.  That I'm face timing people I haven't spoken to in years.  That I'm texting less and talking on the phone more.  That I'm feeling gratitude for small things - for pizza delivery and outdoor workouts and good music and the fact that my kids still like to cuddle with me.  That yesterday, while driving home from an outdoor workout, I had an overwhelming urge to write on this blog again and did just that.  

She listened to me for a while, and then she said:  It's not a silver lining - it's a revolution.  

What an absolutely perfect thing to say.  And how true.  

I truly believe that the ramifications of this weird world we are living in - this scary reality - will be long lasting.  And maybe they will be good ones.  Having your world turned upside down, and having everyone you know have a similar experience, changes you, and will change the way we operate.  Why do I text friends instead of talking on the phone?  Why don't I always schedule a couple of hours a day to enjoy the fresh air?  Why am I so afraid to reach out to people I haven't talked to in a while?  Why don't we do more family movie nights?  Why didn't I ever hike the Billy Goat trail, when it's only a couple of miles from my house?  Why don't we always eat dinner on our back deck, just the five of us, when it's nice out?  Why did I find the idea of spending just one entire day at home, without leaving, such an awful prospect? 

I, like many of us, have largely been "fed from the outside" (her words) in order to find contentment and satisfaction.  I thrived on being busy.  On going out.  On being out.  On consuming.  What do we do when that outside has been taken away? 

That is all of our challenge, I think.  And it truly is a revolution.  

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My Bubble Has Burst

It was going to be a magical night - literally, and figuratively.  Our last night in Disney World, we had plans to go to the "Very Merry Christmas Party" at the Magic Kingdom.  The lines were short and the mood was festive and we even caught the end of the Christmas parade.

A bottle of bubbly was chilling back in our hotel refrigerator, waiting to be uncorked when it was announced at some point that evening that Hillary Clinton would be the first female President of the United States.  It would be a historic event that I would share with my family, and with dear friends who were also on the trip with us.  

I was on the boat back to our hotel when I got the text from my best friend asking if I had seen the news.  What news?  I responded.  That Trump may take Michigan and Wisconsin.  It was then that I knew something was going very wrong.  I was educated during this election cycle, and I knew the swing states and what that meant.  If he had Michigan and Wisconsin, then there was a good chance he would take Pennsylvania and Ohio.  And a few others.  And I was right.  

The whole thing happened so fast.  I broke out the bubbly, but only because I needed a drink to watch the news unfold.  Hours earlier, the news media was so sure of her win.  By the time I turned on the TV back in my hotel room, you could see the writing on the wall from the way John King was talking. And when Vance Jones gave him impassioned, impromptu speech about what he termed the "Whitelash," I shed my first tear of the evening.  It wouldn't be my last.  

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I'm the first to admit that I have a love affair with the Clintons.  It began back in 1992, when for the first time in my life, I become fascinated by politics.  I was from a liberal, Democrat family in the heart of suburban Cincinnati, and the majority of my friends' parents were voting Republican.  I was 13 and awkward and not the most popular girl in school, and in some ways it filled a void for me. I recorded the debates, and the inauguration, and I vowed to be President someday.  Or at least work in politics, for someone like Bill Clinton.

Seven years later I would follow that path straight to the White House as a summer intern, but by that point, it wasn't Bill Clinton that I wanted to work for.  It was his wife.  When I filled out my assignment preferences, my first pick was "Office of the First Lady."  I can't pinpoint why, but over the years, the subject of my admiration had moved from the President to her.  I respected her intellect, her passion, her tenacity, and the fact that she had withstood more public criticism and shame than any other public figure I had seen in my lifetime.  There was talk that she would run for Senate, and if she did, I wanted on the bandwagon.

I had hoped that my White House internship would be a life changing experience, but admittedly, it wasn't.  I felt like a fish out of water in Washington.  I didn't know anybody, and I didn't know how to respond to the namedropping and ladder climbing and manipulation that went on, even amongst the interns.  It scared me, frankly, and instead of rising to the occasion and getting back in there after my college graduation, I cowered.  I moved to England for two years.  And then I went to law school. And the rest is history.

During my days in law school, and even more so when I started my first big law job at Skadden Arps, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't constantly questioning my direction.  Why had I abandoned my political aspirations?  Why wasn't I in DC, working for something I felt passionately about?  Working for Senator Clinton?  Or at least trying to?  I don't know the answer.  Perhaps it was fear, risk aversion, a sense that that ship had sailed on without me, and that I was in too deep to a different career.  I felt lost.  In any event, once I had my children the decision was easy - I would be a stay at home mom and leave a job I was never passionate about in the first place.

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In the aftermath of the election, there's been a lot of talk about bubbles.  And my God, do I live in one.  Half of the American people voted for Donald Trump, and I can honestly say that I only know two of them.  I live in Bethesda, Maryland, right on the outskirts of DC.  In DC proper, Hillary Clinton received 93% of the vote.  In my county in Maryland, she received 76% of the vote.  I don't know a single person in the DC or Maryland area that voted for Trump - at least, they wouldn't admit it if they did.  And I suppose I don't blame them - in my community, admitting such a fact would be shameful.  Myself, and those around me, viewed Trump as racist, sexist, ignorant, and dangerous.  If people disagreed, they didn't make it known.

In Bethesda I live amongst the 1%, and I am one of them myself.  I live in a new construction home in a nice neighborhood.  We send our three kids to private schools, and have access to excellent healthcare.  I was in the incredible position to be able to quit my job and stay at home with my kids when they were young.  Someone comes and cleans our house once a week.  There is an expectation that my kids will go to good colleges and get good jobs.

It's hard to remind myself of how lucky we are at times, because where I live, this is all normal.  Our friends are doctors and lawyers and government employees and professionals.  They are African American, gay, Muslim, and hail from various different countries.  We aren't extravagant, no one owns their own jet, and no one really views themselves as "rich," even though I am sure were are considered so by objective standards.  I drive a Honda minivan, will only buy retail if something is on sale, and have never owned a designer bag.  But we don't stress about money.  And I know that if a crisis occurred, whatever that would be, financially we could weather it.

I know this isn't the normal America.

I have read about the depressed parts of the country - where there are no jobs and factories are closing and heroin addiction is rampant.  I drive through these communities on occasion, when I drive through Pennsylvania or Ohio on the way to visit friends.  I shudder and think about how fortunate I am when all I have to do is pass through.  And I have to admit, I don't feel all that comfortable there.  A month ago, when en route to my 20th high school reunion in Ohio, I was aghast at the number of Trump signs in the yards.  Who are these people?  I thought to myself.

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In the days since the election, I have been reading voraciously. And a few articles have answered that question I posed back in October - who are these people?

I've been comforted to realize that most of the people who voted for Trump aren't the racist, sexist, bigoted people that you see on the news at Trump rallies.  Instead, they are economically depressed, left behind, and desperate.

Today, in an Op-Ed for the Washington Post, Debbie Dingell, the House Representative for Michigan's 12th Congressional District, wrote the following:

The ordinary working man or woman in this country isn't asking for a lot.  They want to make a decent living.  They want to be able to provide for their family, buy a home in a safe neighborhood, put food on the table, go to the doctor when they need to, afford their medicines and educate their children.  What many don't understand is how these things are in danger of becoming unattainable for too many Americans.  

Reading this jogged my memory of something I read back in June by Michael Moore, about the Rust Belt and the "5 Reasons Why Trump Will Win":

From Green Bay to Pittsburgh, this, my friends, is the middle of England - broken, depressed, struggling, the smokestacks strewn across the countryside with the carcass of what we used to call the Middle Class.  Angry, embittered working (and nonworking) people who were lied to by the trickle-down of Reagan and abandoned by Democrats who still try to talk a good line but are really just looking forward to rub one out with a lobbyist from Goldman Sachs who'll write them [a] nice big check before leaving the room.  What happened in the UK with Brexit is going to happen here.  

It's easy for me to feel self righteous when I have the ability to.  When it comes to political issues, I focus on what I feel are social ones.  These are deal breakers for me.  Racism?  Sexism? LGBTQ rights?  Restricting access to abortion?  Restricting access to healthcare?  Gun control?  These are important to me, and I vote accordingly.  The fact that a Democrat in office may mean that we pay more taxes is irrelevant to me.  I feel that the amount of money we would lose out on is worth it for the greater good.  Economic considerations are the last on my list when it comes to politics.

I have the luxury of feeling this way.

But what I have realized in the past few days is that most people don't.

David Wong, in his article entitled Don't Panic, said it best:

That sick feeling some of you have right now?  [Trump supporters] had that for the last eight years. Call them racists if you want - some of them definitely are - but mostly they're regular people who want jobs, security, and safety.  Part of [the] bubble effect is that we're often shielded from "the other side" just enough that only the loudest, craziest assholes leak through.  Some of you never had a single polite conversation with a Trump supporter, but did hear about hate crimes and the baffling Reddit spammers and Breitbart bigots.  You didn't think Trump could win because you didn't think half the country could be crazy assholes.  Well I've got good news: You were right.  If you focus on the racism and ignore the economic anxiety, your intentionally blinding yourself to much of the problem. It doesn't matter how much you hate them; their concerns must be heard and addressed or else this will happen again.  

I have to believe that most people who voted for Donald Trump are decent people.  I don't understand how they could support such a candidate, but I want to.  I want to learn and listen.  

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As a woman, I never experienced blatant workplace discrimination.  Law firms do a pretty good job of recruiting women, at least at the junior levels (becoming partner is a different story), and they walk the PC walk.  But they don't always talk the talk.  And when it came time for me to have children, and ask for a flexible work schedule, I was ashamed.  I was embarrassed.  I felt that asking for more of a balance was an admission of a lack of loyalty and passion for my job.  That I wasn't being a "team player."  Men didn't do that, that's for sure, and I didn't have any women mentors to look to who had paved the way.  Though my request for part time was eventually approved, it was met with resistance.  And in some ways, I never fully recovered from that.  It was easy to eventually quit.

Since leaving my job, I have become much more aware of struggles women face in the workplace, in raising their children, and in ultimately re-entering the workplace.  It's tough out there, and we women get little support.  Little support from employers, from fellow women, and from the government - the United States is the only developed country not to offer paid maternity leave, and the options for affordable childcare are deplorable.

And as a mother,  I also started noticing some other things.

I started noticing that there were "girl" sections and "boy" sections in the toy store, and what was marketed to each.  Girls are mothers, caregivers, and beauticians.  Boys are train engineers, builders, and mechanics.

I started noticing that in Disney movies, the women are always scantily dressed and pining after "Prince Charming."  I mean, have you really taken a look at Ariel lately?

I started noticing that terms like "throw like a girl" and "cry like a girl" are derogatory by their very nature.  I was shocked and appalled to realize that at a young age, my boys would balk at the color pink because it was a "girl color."

When I breastfed my three babies, I started noticing that there really wasn't a convenient place to do so in public.  I endured nasty stares from random strangers, and the insinuation that I was doing something vulgar or wrong.  I started noticing that I was the one that always had to change the baby's diapers when we were outside of the home, because men's public restrooms never have changing tables.

And as I started thinking about re-entering the workforce, I realized that this "break" of motherhood I had taken was really frowned upon.  I started thinking about "resume gaps" and salary reductions and a general notion that I had jumped ship and no one wanted me back on.

I started realizing that patriarchy is alive in well, in subtle and not so subtle ways.

When I initially started admiring Hillary Clinton back in the 90s, it wasn't because she was a woman. But when she received the Democratic nomination for President, the fact that she was a woman was especially thrilling.

I watched most of her speeches and every debate.  I watched her outfits get analyzed and her rare demonstrations of emotions be judged.  I watched her be criticized for the infidelities of her husband.  I watched her get threatened with imprisonment, be faced with her husband's mistresses at a live debate, and be called a "nasty woman" to her face, and her not even flinch.  She stuck to message, stuck to the issues, and handled it with grace and dignity in a way that I never could.  And what choice did she have?  Could she vehemently defend herself?  Get angry?  No, a woman can't do that.  A woman who did that would be a "bitch."  She would be "unstable."  Or, I suppose, a nasty woman.

Throughout the campaign, there was constant talk of how hated Hillary Clinton was by a large portion of Americans.  For the life of me, I don't understand why.  Because of emails?  Because of an attitude problem?  Because of allegations of corruption for which she has been cleared?  Because she was stoic and strong and rehearsed?  Because she's changed positions on issues, like every politician to ever run for office?  I'm not saying she doesn't have her flaws, but there is a hatred towards her that eclipses hatred for any other politician in our modern time.  Is her biggest flaw that she is a strong, independent woman?  Is that too hard to handle for men and women alike?

Here's how I view Hillary - This is a woman that has devoted her life to public service and endured scrutiny, abuse, and humiliation, and she kept on going.  She is smart, she is strong, she is experienced, and she is inspiring.

Hillary Clinton is a hero and I will make sure that my kids know it.

She would have made a great President.

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On election day I woke up in a sleep deprived, hungover haze, and gathered the kids and luggage and went to the Orlando airport, to take our flight back to DC, and back to reality.  Once we had made it through baggage claim, my father called.  We spoke briefly, but it was enough.

The tears flowed, and I had to sit down and have a big, ugly cry.  And I couldn't stop them.  Walking to the gate, running to the bathroom, boarding the plane.  I looked around at everyone else and everyone seemed to be carrying on as normal.  Checking their phones, buying a coffee, pulling their luggage.  I wanted to scream out - DON'T YOU ALL REALIZE WHAT HAS HAPPENED?  DON'T YOU REALIZE THE WORLD HAS CHANGED?  HOW CAN YOU ALL BE ACTING SO NORMAL WHEN THE WORLD HAS BEEN TURNED UPSIDE DOWN? 

This isn't to say that people weren't reeling inside.  I'm sure many were.  But I was desperate to find someone else who looked distressed, who looked shell shocked.  I wanted to hug a stranger more than I ever have in my life.

Instead, I took out my phone and scrolled through my Facebook feed.  I found solidarity there.  I joined every Pantsuit Nation Facebook group I could find.  But there is something to be said for personal contact.  For not hiding behind our phones and computers.  For getting out there and comforting each other.  And so yesterday, I went out sporting my Hillary T-shirt, which had ironically arrived the day after the election.  Just in case someone else needed to know that they weren't alone.

In dealing with my sadness the past couple of days, my first reaction was to hide my tears from my children, who are too young to really understand the ramifications of the election.  I didn't want to scare them, and I didn't want them to see me being "weak."  But eventually, I changed my mind.  I want them to see this.  I want them to remember this.  I want them to say, when they are older, that they remember the day Donald Trump was elected president.  And that they remember their mother crying.

I come from a long line of political activists.  My paternal grandparents were both communists in the 1940s, and loved to brag that each of them had their own FBI file.  My Dad participated in the March on Washington when he was 19 years old, and went on to protest the Vietnam War and join the Peace Corps.  My great aunt and uncle were marching in protests until they got too old to march anymore.

My Great Aunt Evelyn

I've always felt strongly about political issues, but I've never taken it to that next step.  I've thought about it, and I've planned on it, but it just hasn't happened.  Part of it is the fact that I didn't feel there was a need to.  Civil rights, women's rights - that was already taken care of, right?  Gay marriage? Check.  Gun control?  I can't make a difference anyway.

I'm not proud of my complacency and my willingness to live happily ever after in the little bubble I've been residing in.

This week, my bubble has burst.

I don't wish failure upon Donald Trump's presidency.  I hope that he renounces the bigotry and racism some of his supporters have shown.  I hope he backs off on the various threats he has made during his candidacy, like banning Muslims, building a wall, punishing women for having an abortion, and prosecuting Hillary Clinton.

But if he doesn't, I am going to do what I can to fight.  I'm not sure what form that will take, but I vow to do it to the best of my ability, even if it involves time, money, and sacrifice.   I alone cannot change the world, but I can, as Gandhi so eloquently put it, be the change I wish to see in the world.

I start with this post.  Numerous times times during the past few months I considered writing about the election, but I hesitated because I didn't want to delve into politics on this forum, and didn't want anyone to feel ostracized.  Fuck that.  This is just a small blog with a small readership, but it's my space, and shame on me for being silent.

None of us can afford to be silent anymore.  Particularly in the next four years, we must make it our mission to understand each other, to speak up and defend those who are vulnerable, and to make personal sacrifices to fight for what is right.

To those who aren't in a bubble, and who have never been in one - I promise you that I will stand with you for the next four years, and as long as it takes.  You are not alone.

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One Foot in Front of the Other

Adulthood throws curveballs, that much I've learned.

In my twenties I was naive enough to think that I had it all planned out, how our life would go.  And why wouldn't I?  I was doing everything right, checking the boxes.  Kids and job and health and suburbs and nice vacations - smooth sailing.

At first, blips in my steady line would literally sweep me off my feet.  Family turmoil, peanut allergies, post partum depression, sudden deaths in relatively young relatives - it would all become overwhelming in a way that I could barely cope, for the short term.  The loss of control over my life trajectory, and the reminder that I really had no control, would send me into a tailspin, complete with insomnia, anxiety attacks, and a general malaise.  I like to think, thanks to therapy, medication, and just the wisdom of getting older, that I can now handle these blips better - that I am more accepting, more in the present moment, more at peace.

My husband had a seizure last October while he was on a jogging trail, and it came out of nowhere. He was discovered by fellow joggers and taken away on a stretcher, when he called me from the ambulance.  My first view of him at the hospital was jarring - he was out of it, bloody, and bruised.  No, no, no, I remember thinking, This is not our life.  This is not how it goes.   MRI's, CT scans, and EEGs followed, all coming out normal.  I impressed myself with my sense of calm throughout the whole ordeal, and had an odd sense of confidence that everything would be fine. And it was. After six months, we exhaled.  He started driving again.  Onward and upward.

My husband was drowsy and a bit detached on Sunday night, but after some marathon conference calls, I couldn't blame him.  He was stressed, and hadn't gotten much sleep the night before, thanks to a law firm cocktail party, where both of us had indulged in one too many.

Was that what did it?  The alcohol?  The lack of sleep?  The stress?  

We both got into bed at 9pm, and engaged in the bad habit of scrolling through our phones, eyes scanning the electronics.  The TV was also on - lights flashing, noises coming from all sides.

The flashes?  The sound?  

I showed him a political quote someone posted about Donald Trump - "If you ever wonder what you would have done in 1930s Germany well then my friend here is your fucking chance to find out."

I don't get it.  He said.

Annoyed, and convinced he just wasn't really paying attention to me, I tersely responded, What don't you get about it?  

And that's when he left.

He let out a loud groan and his eyes rolled into the back of his head.  His muscles tightened and he rolled into the fetal position, then quickly straightened out, and started shaking.

I think I called out for him.  I think I put my hands on him to try to rouse him.  I'm not sure.

But I know what I did next.  I ran out of the room.  It was a pure fight or flight response.

I wanted out.  I wanted to disappear, I wanted him to disappear.  I didn't want this to be happening.

I stood outside the room for 5 seconds, came to my senses, and ran back in.  There he was, still convulsing on the bed.  His face was beginning to turn white.  I picked up the phone and called 911, and clearly remember saying: My husband is having a seizure.  Send someone.  Please.  

Later, numerous doctors would ask me how long the seizure lasted.  I can honestly say I don't know. Two minutes?  Ten minutes?  Time stopped and then moved slowly and then quickly again.  I know I turned him on his side.  I know I went downstairs to unlock the door for the paramedics, put the dog in a closet so she wouldn't run out, and closed the children's bedroom doors so God willing, they wouldn't wake up when the ambulance got there.  I remember continually asking the 911 operator, Where are they? and then apologizing for my hysteria.  I remember crying.  I remember my heart racing out of my chest.  I remember feeling faint and willing myself to remain calm.  I remember the immense feeling of relief I felt when the paramedics arrived.  By then, he was starting to rouse.

What is your name?  What day of the week is it ? Who is President of the United States?  

He could not answer any of their questions.

They carried him downstairs on a stretcher.  I had the wherewithal to give one of the paramedics my husband's phone, knowing that when he came to he would want it, and it would be a way to communicate with him.  I closed the door, texted our babysitter, and then waited, in a quiet house, for her to arrive so I could go to the hospital.

I called my sister in law.  I paced.  I dry heaved in the bathroom.   I gathered some clothes for my husband to bring to the hospital, since he was carried out in his underwear.  I ordered an uber, because I didn't trust myself to drive, and thanked God that my children slept through the whole incident, and would be none the wiser in the morning.

When I arrived at the ER, I was directed to his room, and realized it was the same room he had been in 11 months prior, when he experienced his first seizure.

I was blissfully ignorant that first time around.  Convinced that this was a freak accident, a blip, something to get through and deal with and then put behind us.  I was stoic and calm then, having had the benefit of my own ignorance of what it exactly was that my husband had just gone through.

This time, I had seen it with my own eyes.  He was there, talking to me.  Then he wasn't.  His mind - the essence of who he is - was taken over by electrical impulses in his brain that went haywire, taking him away from consciousness, from reality, from me.  The fact that he came back from that, from the involuntary writhing body I saw lying on our bed, is a miracle in and of itself.

I wrote a post last year about my husband's first seizure, and in it, I quoted a non-fiction book I had just recently read, Do No Harm - Stories of Life, Death, and Brain Surgery, authored by a neurosurgeon.  Having witnessed my husband literally lose his mind, it now takes on new meaning:

"In neuroscience it is called the 'binding problem' - the extraordinary fact, which nobody can even begin to explain, that mere brute matter can give rise to consciousness and sensation."  

As I sat in an uber on my way to the hospital, I couldn't get that sentiment out of my head.  All we are are our brains - and those brains are so vulnerable.  In an instant, it can be lost.  No matter how much we kid ourselves, we are not in the driver's seat.

I've been on zoloft for three years now, but there's no anti-anxiety medication that could have quelled my nerves that night.  And as I walked through the ER hallways and passed elderly people groaning, patients hooked up to machines, and heard the sirens wailing as another emergency patient was brought in on a stretcher, I don't think I had ever felt so unsafe in my own skin.

We're all going to die.  Someday.  When?  How will it happen?  Will these people die tonight?  Will I?  Will my husband?  What's to stop that from happening?  What's to stop anything bad from happening? Pain and death are inevitable, and I go through life pretending I'm invincible.  What a fool I have been.  Where can I go?  Where can I hide? How dare I bring my children into such a scary, ruthless, painful world? 

I've been through enough therapy to know that these thoughts were irrational, if not expected.  But as I watched my husband doze, passed out from the Ativan they had given him, my mind and heart raced in a well synchronized dance.  I willed myself to cry, knowing that crying helps release the anxiety, the pain, the fear.  I did a little.  Just a little.

The doctor put my husband on anti-seizure medication, and sent us home that night.  My sleep that night was fitful to say the least, and I was haunted by visions from the evening.  One vision in particular has been replaying through my head constantly - my husband looking at the computer. His blank stare.  His eyes rolling back into his head.  My slow motion realization that holy shit, I think he's having a seizure.  His muscles tensing up.  The moment I lost him.

I never, ever want he or I to go through this again.  But I am working on summoning the bravery to face the reality that more likely than not it will - statistics say that if someone has two seizures, they have an 80% chance of having another one.  

This reality has left my husband and I reeling over the past couple of days.  There are the practical implications - no more driving, and no more drinking.  But then there are the questions of how one lives a normal, predictable life, when in a moment's notice, it all can change.  My husband is at the whim of the electrical currents in his brain, threatening to go haywire and taking away his mind.  And so am I.

And so we embark on the quest of learning to live with uncertainty, knowing full well that in reality, life has never held any guarantees.  Coming to peace with that will be my work, and as a recovering control freak, it's work I need.  I know this.

But I'm not too proud to admit that I'm dejected.  I'm sad.  And I'm so, so scared.

For now, it's one foot in front of the other.   And finding grace, and peace, in each step.

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The Last Birthday Sleepover

For each of my sons, starting on their third birthdays, one of the "gifts" I give them is a sleepover in their bed.  Sleepovers in my bed don't happen all that often, but me sleeping in their bed is a true treat.  And as much as I complain the next day (about being kicked in the stomach, sleeping on a six inch stretch of bed, and being awoken at 5:30am), I really love it too.  When I awake during the night, during one of the many nudges and jabs, I take the time to stare at their sleeping faces and just admire it - remembering the baby that it once was, and the little boy that it has become.

Braden turned 8 last week.  Sleepovers are still something he desires, but this year he opted to sleep in our bed, with both my husband and I.  I have to admit I was a bit slighted at first, and reluctant to share him, but happy to be in a king sized bed.  That night, before I fell asleep, I went through the ritual of staring at his face, and for the first year it was nearly impossible to recognize the baby in him.  That infant face of my firstborn, the way he cried and pursed his lips and fell asleep on my chest. The notion was almost impossible to reconcile - who was that and who is this and how can it possibly be the same person?

Braden is no longer an infant, a toddler, or even a little boy.  He's a kid with long lanky legs that hang to my shins if I ever happen to pick him up (which is getting nearly impossible these days).  He is complicated and philosophical and creative and stubborn and completely his own person.  I've learned in my 8 years of motherhood that I can't take credit for who he is - his intricacies and achievements and failures are solely his own.  He is at times a reflection of myself, with his deep thoughts and anxieties, and at other times a stranger to me, who I get to rediscover each day as he evolves into the person that he is meant to be.

I still lay with Braden each night before bed and we talk about his day, and he professes his love for me.  He always has been one with words.

Gradually these words have taken on a more mature form.   They are no longer gibberish (Me love mommy); instead they are thought out and eloquent.  I am so lucky to have you as a mommy.  I never want to leave you.  I love you more than anything in the world.   He writes these words too, but his handwriting isn't so wobbly anymore when he writes me love notes or makes me cards at school.  And now, with his 8th birthday, his words have taken electronic form - it took him about 2 hours to get accustomed to his new iPod Touch that he got for his birthday, and his first text message to me read: "Can you take me to school today because I love you so much so so much mom."

(His words of aggression can be just as poignant, but I'll save those for another post.)

That boy is the love of my life (along with his two brothers), but I am fully cognizant of the fact that I won't always be his.  Someday the whispers of sweet nothings will stop, as will the love notes, and the love texts, and the birthday sleepovers.

This year I had to share him, and one year, maybe next, he'll decide he doesn't want to sleep next to his mother anymore at all.

I'll understand his decision, but oh how I'll miss it.

Happy 8th birthday to my baby boy, Braden.  What a beautiful ride it's been so far.

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Hello Out There

You know how when a friend calls you, and you keep meaning to call them back, but then the longer it gets you almost get too embarrassed to call them back because so much time has passed, and then you are filled with shame and question whether to just end the friendship because you've left it too long and you're just a shitty person?

That's how I've been with this blog.

It's been over two months since I have written, which is stark given that I used to write every day.

Here's the honest truth - over the past year, this blog has felt more like a chore than a joy.  I've been feeling so much pressure to deliver unique posts, with good writing and deep thoughts and wry humor.  I'll start writing and then realize that it's crap and then not want to open my computer again, because it's just another thing on my list to do.

Then, this morning, sitting in a coffee shop listening to my "writing music" list on Spotify and finishing up a freelance project, I got the urge to write.  Even though I don't really have anything to write and I only have 28 minutes to do it, here I am.  This won't be an insightful, witty post you forward around to your friends.  But, I'm writing it anyway.

The truth is, life has been overwhelmingly busy lately.  Having three kids has caught up with me. There's always a swim practice to attend, a camp pick up, an illness, a deadline, a house to clean, a barbecue to buy food for, 3 pounds to lose, gym classes to go to in order to lose said 3 pounds, three meals to prepare, numerous trips to Johns Hopkins with two kids now in peanut allergy trials, essays to write for writing classes I'm taking, mammograms to schedule, books I keep meaning to read, friends to call back (see above), assignments to grade for online classes I teach, school PA meetings, skin care regimes to stick to, sunscreen to apply (on 4 bodies), and a thousand other things including daily bathing and sleeping.

I'm not complaining, really.  These things are necessary, and some I've brought on myself.  And in fact, I've been happier in the past 6 months than I have been in a long time.  I've been going out a lot with friends (stay tuned for a post on the best night ever at a bar with a 90's cover band) - more than I ever have since having children.  I suppose in some ways, after 8 years I am coming up for air a bit and rediscovering a semblance of a social life.  I've also taken two writing classes now, where I've met some of the most incredible people, and I've actually published one piece, inspired by a blog I wrote on here in what seems like forever ago.  I've planned a bunch of vacations and trips (look out Napa Valley, my husband and I will take you by storm in September).  I've had a ton of visitors to our Bethesda abode, including my childhood best friend last month, and my best friend from London arrives on Sunday.  I've gone to Philadelphia to see the Zack Brown Band with my best friend from college, and my husband and I saw Richard Marx at the Birchmere last month (you read that right).  In between all of this, I've managed to get pretty good at yoga.  I can do a headstand and the crow pose and I am so freaking proud of myself.

But I also struggle... daily.  Parenting has gotten harder and harder, and the physical challenges of toddlerhood have turned into emotional ones as my kids enter grade school.  Two nights ago, after losing my shit on multiple occasions, I went to bed telling myself what a horrible mother I was, and envisioning what my kids will say about me in therapy someday.  It was a low point, with an internal voice saying - You're fucking your kids up.  You're failing.  You aren't cut out for this.  You suck.

The next morning, I took a deep breath and forgave myself and started a new day.

But shit, this is hard.  In between all of the sun and fun and good stuff, it's still really hard.

I worry.  I cry.  I try to stay in the present and get angry at myself when my mind wanders to those places that are painful and don't do anyone any good.

I'm not ready to stop writing this blog.  I've got so much more to say.  I'm going to try to say it more often.

Thanks for sticking with me.

When the World Becomes Scary

I was living in London on April 20, 1999 when the Columbine shooting happened.  It was all over the London tabloids.  And I remember it not primarily for the horror of it all, though that's of course its legacy.  I remember it because it's the first time that a world event scared me.

Perhaps I was more naive than most, but at age 20, I was impervious to the news.  It flowed off of me.  Back then, I was young and indestructible and everything in the news happened to "other" people.  I had come from a protected midwest city and gone to a protected college town and finally to London, a place, notwithstanding its peppered history, that was a safe haven among the plethora of other places to study abroad as a college student.

And maybe it's because I had been living for a few months in a place where guns were actually illegal, but Columbine scared me.  I actually had nightmares about returning to the United States and being gunned down.  It wasn't the first of my irrational fears, and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but it left a mark on me.  These innocent suburban American high school students weren't immune to harm, and neither was I.

Two years later I was living in London again on 9/11.  I was at the LSE library, searching for jobs, when I came across a curious news story on the internet.  The World Trade Centers were on fire.  I turned to the person sitting at the computer next to me, a stranger, and told him that planes were crashing into buildings in New York.  He thought I was crazy and changed seats.  That night, scared as to what was going on in the world and at my mother's recommendation, I avoided the tube and took the bus home, adding 45 minutes to my journey.

That night I was harassed by friends and family urging me to come home.  Come home to what?  I thought.  How do you know home is safe?  How do you know London is not safe?  Where is safe? The whole world seemed like a scary place that day.

I made the decision that night that I was going to stay in London.  And in doing so, I would have to set my fear aside and just come what may.  It was a release of control uncharacteristic of me at the time, but one of emotional survival.  I needed to live my life, and so I did.  I rode the tube, I frequented tourist destinations, and when I went to Egypt that spring, against the urging of loved ones, I did so with the same attitude.  It's not that I was oblivious to risk, it's just that I weighed it and then moved on.  That old adage of the most dangerous part of your travels is your drive to the airport?  It became my mantra.  I felt fear, but did it anyway, and it paid out in spades.  My years in London were some of the best of my life, and my trip to Egypt was fantastic.  I went home to live in Manhattan, work in Times Square, and ultimately move to Washington, DC.  Not exactly a path of the terrorist risk-averse, but it's where life has taken me.  When I hear of a terrorist attack, I take a minute to feel the fear go through me, to reason with myself, to mourn, and to move on.  Life is scary, the world is scary, and we can either live our life constantly aware of that fact, or we can just live.  I try my hardest to do the latter.

But my resolve was put to the test on March 22 - the day of the Brussels bombings.

A Recurring Dream and a Plea for Support

Throughout my life, I've had several recurring dreams, most of which are pathetically typical.  The loose tooth dream, the I am enrolled in a college course I forgot to attend dream, the plane crashing dream (in which I never die).  But I've also had another recurring dream for the past two or so decades that is unique to me - it's one where I have a conversation with Elliott.

Elliott is my first cousin - my dad's sister's son.  We have always been very close with my aunt and her family, and have spent summers in Cape Cod with her since before I can remember.  She had kids later in life, so when she had her first adopted son, I was ten years old.  In an irony that is not all too rare, when she adopted her first son, she was actually pregnant with her second.  And approximately six months later, her second son, Elliott, came.

I was in love with both boys.  I was at the age where I was just beginning to feel maternal, and confident and cocky enough to "take care of them."  I changed diapers, I gave bottles, and I held them.  I remember my sister and I fighting vigorously over who got to hold the "bubba" first.

My sister and I with Bubba #1, David.  Check out those glasses!

Thankfully, there were two, so my sister and I could hand off.  I have vivid, clear memories of holding my cousin Elliott, the younger one.  He was so smiley, so happy, and made such good eye contact.  He was such a joyful baby.

Elliott at 6 months - happy, smiling, and looking right at me.

Thirty years later, I am haunted by these memories.  Because in a mere few years from the above photo being taken, Elliott wouldn't make eye contact anymore.  At age 3, he was diagnosed as autistic.

I was young, so I don't remember the details, but I do remember my dad telling me that they thought Elliott might be deaf, because he wasn't talking.  They were going to do some testing, and take him to doctors.  And some time after that, he received the devastating diagnosis.  I didn't really understand what that meant - back then, autism wasn't a mainstream diagnosis that one encountered, or worried about.  And really, if you have never seen an autistic person, how can you really know what it means?  For me, I learned about autism by being with Elliott, year after year.

At first it wasn't completely obvious.  Lots of kids don't talk, and lots of kids have tantrums.  But as Elliott got older, the diagnosis of autism began to take form.  He learned to talk, but would not engage in conversation.  He would not look anyone in the eye.  He would have complete meltdowns over the most random of things - bananas, cold water, loud noises.  As he grew taller and got acne and his voice grew deeper, his mental state lagged.  While his contemporaries were moving on to girls and friends and sports, Elliott still loved playing with toys and watching Barney.  And in any event, he had no interest in friends or girls.  As Elliott likes to say, he prefers a "party of one."  And now - at the age of 25 - he hasn't changed much.  The toys, the shows, the tantrums - the epic tantrums - they've all remained.

I can't even begin to imagine the struggles my aunt has gone through to raise Elliott and give him all of the care that he needs.  There are no breaks, no respites and no end ever in sight.  Elliott requires constant care and supervision, and my aunt has devoted her life to making sure he receives only the best.  She has endured a divorce, a lawsuit against the state to get Elliott the care he is entitled to, and countless aides/teachers/therapists in and out of her home on a constant basis for the last quarter of a century; not to mention the hundreds of thousands she has spent on his therapy and care.  Her life revolves around Elliott - plain and simple.

But through it all, she loves him more than life itself.  And so does our family.  Some of our favorite all time stories are ones we call "Elliotisms."  Ones where he would pick food off a stranger's plate at a restaurant, where he would walk past kids on the dock in the pond and push them off (!), where he would blow out other people's birthday candles (including mine!), and where he would eat 10 Dunkin Donuts in one sitting.  We've all learned the lesson that if you don't laugh, you'll cry.  And Elliott can be pretty hysterical and charming.

The amazing thing about Elliott is that there is more to him than meets the eye.  He is smart - crazy smart, in that weird savant kind of way (give him a date, he'll give you a day of the week).  He is emotional - he used to be obsessed with weddings, and took home a copy of my wedding video and watched it over and over again.  And whenever I see him, he hugs me.  Mostly out of obligation - he has been taught how to be polite and how to mimic social customs, but I also know he cares about me and feels comfortable in my presence.  For Elliott, that's a small circle, and I feel privileged to be a part of it.

And then there's the recurring dream... The one where Elliott and I have a conversation.  I never can recollect what the conversation is about, so I don't think it's ever been something super deep.  But that feeling of able to connect with him - to talk to him, to make eye contact him, to understand him... I do yearn for that.  So I suppose that's why I have dreamed about him so often, for so long.

As my aunt gets older, the inevitable questions arise.  What will become of Elliott when my aunt is gone?  I won't even get into detail about the pathetic state of services for adults with autism, but suffice it to say they don't exist.  And so, as my aunt has done for all of Elliott's life, she is taking things into her own hands.

A couple of years ago, my aunt founded the Greengard Center for Autism, in an effort to address the needs of autistic adults.  Located in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, the center offers a day program (and soon to be residential program) for young adults with autism to receive ongoing education, access to recreation, a social community, and opportunities to find meaningful work.

My aunt has recently leased a property for the center, but it is in desperate need of renovations. She has started a Go Fund Me campaign to help cover some of the costs.

I've always made it a point not to use my blogs as a means to plea for solicitations, for whatever cause, but for this I need to make an exception.  This may be a small center, in Portsmouth New Hampshire, for a handful of autistic adults.  But what it stands for is so much more - autistic adults need services, assistance, and support.  And now, the autism epidemic is coming to a head.  All of those children diagnosed in the past 25 years - 1 in 68 (1 in every 42 boys) - they will all become adults.  As a community, and as a society, it's our job to ensure they are taken care of - because their parents will not be here forever to take care of them.  My aunt's hope and dream is that this center will serve as a model for other communities across the country (and world).

Look, the world is crap these days.  ISIS and guns and a fascist Republican presidential hopeful. But if you are willing, a donation to this campaign - no matter how small- will make a real difference.

Elliott, my aunt, and my whole family thank you!

My aunt and Elliott, at our house this past Thanksgiving.

Here's the link to the Go Fund Me Page - https://www.gofundme.com/greengardcenter

Update: Thank you so much for your generous donations!  My family and I are truly humbled.  In an effort to ramp things up, the person in the DC area who donates the most gets a night out for cocktails with me (drinks on me!).  You can email me at butidohavealawdegree@gmail.com with your donation amount and email address.  AND THANK YOU!!!

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In an Instant

A few years ago I read Joan Didion's memoir, The Year of Magical Thinking, which chronicles her struggles the year after the sudden death of her husband.  In it, she details how her husband collapsed and had a massive heart attack right before her eyes, while they were sitting at the kitchen table having dinner.

"Life changes fast.  Life changes in an instant.  You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends," she wrote.  

That quote struck me enough to stick with me, some three years later.  And this past weekend, it was one of the things I first thought of when in a mere instant, my life changed as well.

One minute my husband was running on the Canal tow path, getting in an 11 mile run before our half marathon in a few weeks.  The next minute, he was flat on the pavement, being awoken by an EMT asking him if he could remember his name or address.

Who knows how long he had been lying there?  Assuming someone found him instantly, called 911, and then another ten or fifteen minutes for the ambulance to get there - 20 minutes?  Twenty minutes of him seizing, and then lying lifeless on the pavement, bloodied and bruised.  Fast asleep.

When I received the call from the ambulance I was lying in bed with my five year old - encouraging him to leave me alone and watch his movie so I could nap.  I was looking forward to a lazy afternoon and an evening of entertaining friends at our house.  And with that call - in that instant, it all changed.

Unbeknownst to me, while I was lying in bed with my son with Aladdin playing in the background, my husband was lying alone, having a grand mal seizure on a gravel path, and a stranger was summoning help.

How could that be?  How could I not know?

I in turn summoned my village.  I texted my close friends and asked whoever received it to call immediately.  Two minutes later I had arranged to drop off my kids, and a few minutes after that my sister had arranged to pick them up later and bring them back to my house, should I be at the hospital overnight.    I arrived at the hospital shortly after that, with my husband conscious, but confused, and so began the medical jargon.  CT scans and EKGs and blood sugar levels and anything and everything and it all came out normal.

My husband had never had a seizure before, so this was all new to both of us.  And in yet another circumstance, I was reminded that although modern medicine is incredible, in other aspects doctors don't know anything, and can't answer the most important of questions.

Why did this happen?  Will it happen again? 

Don't know, don't know.

There are practical implications.  For one, my husband can no longer drive, at least for the time being.  This is a huge inconvenience, but not insurmountable, and we will make due.  We are lucky that we live in an area with a vast network of public transportation, and that someone invented uber.

There are the big questions.  Seeing Daddy walk in the house bloodied and bruised after a visit to the hospital was unnerving for my two older kids.  We have reassured them that Daddy is fine, but my seven year old seems anxious and knows something larger is amiss.

There's the fear of the unknown.  Of why and how and what the future holds and what we should do about it.

There's the introspection.  This incident has reminded me that life is short, life is unpredictable, and life can change in an instant.  It's made me ponder life and death and how we're all just our bodies and our brains, and how weird and bizarre is that?  It reminded me of a quote from a book I, coincidentally, just read: "Do No Harm: Stories of Life, Death, and Brain Surgery," a memoir of the career of a neurosurgeon.  He writes:

"In neuroscience it is called 'the binding problem' - the extraordinary fact, which nobody can even begin to explain, that mere brute matter can give rise to consciousness and sensation."  

That brute matter - our consciousness - our brain- how can it just turn off?  Or fire uncontrollably? How can it make a 34 year old man who is jogging fall flat on his face, to the ground, unconscious, in an instant, and jerk uncontrollably?   There's a scientific explanation that my rational mind can understand.  But yet, deep down it's mystifying and unreal and not something I can grasp.

Lastly, there's the gratitude.  That he's okay and home and well and that things could be much, much worse. There's an indebtedness I feel to the random strangers who found him on the ground, who stopped, who called 911, and who stayed there until the paramedics arrived.

Who are these people?  My husband has a vague recollection of people looking on as he was carried off by a stretcher, but no memory of who they were or what they looked like.  How odd that complete strangers can play such a large role in a pivotal moment of your life, and then you never see them again?

Both my husband and I would like to find these people to thank them.  So, for people in the Maryland/DC/Virginia area, if you wouldn't mind forwarding this post around, we would greatly appreciate it.  The incident happened on Saturday, October 24th around 1pm on the Canal Tow Path, near Carderock.

Overall, my husband is fine, I am fine, we are fine.  We are happy.  We are normal.  We are going forward.  It's just another one of life's many twists and turns, and there's nothing to do but go with it with a smile.

The Big Questions Begin

Children come into this world ignorant.  And what a beautiful thing!  Ignorant of war and prejudice and pain and death and all of the yucky parts of being alive.  If they are lucky, they are in a world of family and fairies and forever.

Slowly but surely, reality creeps in.  Shots at the doctor.  Mean kids on the playground.  Being left with a babysitter.  Wondering how the baby in mommy's tummy actually gets out, or what would happen if an airplane's engine stopped working mid-flight.  Pain, shame, abandonment, curiosity, fear.  It comes gradually, but it comes early.  And as my six year old has become more aware, the questions have begun.

The innocence of these questions tugs at my heart.

Last year he asked why it is that some people have "brown" skin and some people have "yellow" skin.  And why it is that some people's mommies and daddies live in two different houses.  And why some kids have two mommies, or two daddies.

These questions are typical, and I tried to answer them in a simplistic, honest way.  People have different skin colors just like people have different hair colors.  Sometimes mommies and daddies decide they don't want to live together anymore and that's okay.  And some girls marry girls, some boys marry boys, and some girls marry boys.  Anyone can be parents.

But the death questions tend to trip me up.

My Living Proof

Whenever I look back at the pictures taken immediately upon all of my childrens' birth, I am in disbelief that it actually happened.  Was that really me?  Was that baby really in my stomach, and I actually got it out?  And is that teeny little baby really my son - the one that talks and walks and climbs in my bed every morning?  For each of my three children, someone (my husband?  a nurse? who knows?) captured that initial meeting - the look on my face when I looked at them for the first time.  My expression is authentic and true - pure joy and amazement.  Each of those three moments are the most incredible of my life, and I'm so thankful to have the photos to look at.  Because in my memory, it's hard to believe that it was actually real.

Braden - 2008

Casey - 2010

Colin - 2013

In this day and age, people don't really print out pictures anymore, but I do.  I print out a hard copy of every single photo taken on my iPhone and camera, and then I put them in an old school photo album.  Our living room built-ins contain these albums, all arranged in date order.  I don't look at them very often, but I feel incredible peace at having them.  And I treasure them.  I always tell my husband that in case of a fire, that's what we have to go for, and I'm serious.  On the rare occasion that I have lost photos (usually on an I-phone or through some computer glitch), a depression hits. All those hard copy memories - gone, and lost.

But of course, photographs can't capture everything.  And I've learned that I shouldn't waste the moment taking photos.  There's a fine line between living in the now and restoring it for posterity. I've backed off a bit as the years have gone by, so of course, as expected, child number 3 has the fewest photos of anyone.  But I still am vigilant about picture taking (made all the easier with the advent of the I-phone), and picture printing.  To be sure, I'm no photographer, but it doesn't matter.  What matters is who is in the pictures - not the lighting or the positioning or the depth of field.  Me, my kids, my husband, my family.  Now.

I've wondered lately why I am so obsessed with taking and keeping photos, and who exactly I am keeping them for.  Are these my memories?  Or my children's?  Or both?

Thursdays in Baltimore

Every other Thursday, Casey, my four year old, and I head to Baltimore for our 1:30 appointment at Johns Hopkins.  I should be be thankful for this - so incredibly thankful- because we travel there for a peanut allergy clinical trial that very few people are able to participate in.  If all goes well, at the end of three years, Casey will be, for lack of a better word, "cured."  And that's huge.

But going to Baltimore from DC so often has proved to be a pain.

Every other Thursday, I pick Casey up early from school.  I take him to the McDonald's drive through and get him a happy meal.  And then I battle traffic for the hour drive up 1-95, drive through the swanky and then the mean streets of Baltimore, and arrive at the kingdom that is Johns Hopkins.  Casey takes his dose, we sit and watch TV for an hour before we are cleared to go, and then we come home, and battle the traffic once again.  And before I know it, two weeks fly by and we are back at it again.  Back to Baltimore.

In the midst of everything else going on in my life, I generally grimace when I realize it's another Thursday.  Because it's just SO MUCH on top of everything.  On top of normal school pick ups and activities and napping babies and other doctor's appointments and diaper rashes and teaching a class and furniture delivery windows and feeding the family 3 meals a day.  On our Baltimore Thursdays, I usually leave the house at 11am and get home at 4pm when all is said and done. That's 5 hours out of a day that is extremely hectic as it is.

This morning was a doozy.  The babysitter showed up at 11am to watch Colin, my 14 month old, and as soon as I was getting ready to walk out the door, I realized I couldn't find my car keys. ANYWHERE.  I ended up having to take the babysitter's car to pick Casey up, have my husband meet me at Casey's school to give me his spare key, go pick up McDonalds, drop the babysitter's car back off, switch cars, and then head to Baltimore 15 minutes past the time I had planned (and I hate being late.  HATE).  I realized as I was getting on the highway that I had forgotten to call my oldest son's school to let them know he needed to go to aftercare, since I would be in Baltimore when school let out.  I then realized that I didn't have blue tooth in the car so I could not make said call.  As I glanced at my phone to connect the Bluetooth (which did not ultimately work), I realized I had 6+ emails from students from a class that I am teaching, all of whom wanted immediate answers.  Then the babysitter called.  The cleaning people had arrived, and they couldn't find the check I had left.  And Colin wouldn't go down for his nap and was crying hysterically and what should she do.

I had to exhale.

I had to drive to Baltimore.

Casey slept the whole way.  And I thought.

When the Baby Leaves Him

I've never completely understood the exact time frame of the baby terminology.  When does one go from newborn to infant to baby to toddler to child to kid?  At the beginning, people tend to use the labels interchangeably.  But as children grow older, the options for terminology dwindle.

My six year old and four year sons can hardly be considered babies or toddlers anymore - they are pretty set at the term child, or kid.  But when did that happen?  I assume there was a time that they were in "transition."  But right now when I look at them, I no longer see a baby.  In fact, when I see pictures of them as babies, it's hard for me to reconcile that they are the same person - that that baby I once held in my arms has morphed into something so different.

Colin turned 1 last week.

I still call him a baby.

He still has those adorable a baby thunder thighs, complete with symmetrical thigh wrinkles where the fat has buckled.  It is still hard to find his neck under his big baby head and pudgy cheeks.  He still smells like a baby and his hair is silky and smooth after a bath.  He babbles and coos and slobbers.  I still nurse him, and while doing so he likes to caress my cheek or poke my mouth.  He is still small enough that I can hold him comfortably on my hip for long periods of time, and he still falls asleep on my chest every other night or so.  And when I put him down to sleep and peer in his crib, he looks like the most peaceful sleeping baby.

But there are signs.  Signs that the baby is leaving him.

Robin

I write this blog so people out there will read it, obviously.  

But I also write this blog for myself - because it chronicles my life.  It's something that I, and my kids, can someday look back on.  

So let me memorialize that yesterday, Robin Williams died.  And I am seriously sad about it.  

I can't figure out why.  

It's not that I'm a huge Robin Williams fan.  I like his movies, but I haven't seen them all.  But generally, I would say that I definitely like him.  I mean, what's not to like?  He seems like a genuine, nice guy.  And he's funny.  Definitely funny.  If I ever caught him on a late night show, I would watch.  Because he was wild and unpredictable and entertaining.  

His suicide was a shock to everyone, including me.  But why - because he was funny and rich and entertaining and a nice guy?  Because he had children and a mansion?   It's not like depression only hits melancholy, unsuccessful, childless, people.  But I guess we like to think it does.  Because that's what separates them from us, right?  We have our shit together.  They don't.  So we would never do anything like that.  

That line of thinking doesn't work when considering Robin Williams.  

The first time I knew someone that committed suicide was in high school.  A classmate shot himself in his friend's driveway.  The whole community was devastated.  I wasn't particularly close to the the victim, but it was hard to take in at age 15.  I just didn't get it.  I didn't understand how things could have been that bad, or how he could have done such a horrible thing to his family.  He must have just been crazy, I thought, and extremely selfish.  I didn't think about or understand depression or mental illness back then

As I have gotten older, I look at things differently.  And though I am lucky enough not to have anyone close to me suffer from severe depression or suicide, I have known of acquaintances and friends of friends who have taken their own life, including a law school classmate of mine.  

And I don't think they are crazy, or selfish.  I think they are sick.  

I have never been suicidal.  But when I was in the throws of post partum depression with my second child, I certainly felt crazy.  I had no control over my own thoughts and I couldn't eliminate feelings of utter despair.  Why?  Why was I feeling that way?  I would try to rationalize with myself that I was still the same person, that I had everything I had ever wanted in life, that there was nothing for me to be afraid of.  Rationally, I knew I shouldn't feel the way I was feeling.  But I couldn't make it go away. I couldn't enjoy one minute of life.  And the guilt, my God, the guilt I felt for that, was overwhelming.  I was a horrible mother and a horrible wife and a burden and a general failure to everyone around me.  

I never had the thought, I want to kill myself, but I certainly had the thought: I can't live like this.  

I am SO lucky in that my mental illness was extremely short lived, and was for the most part, hormone dependent. After just a few short weeks of being on an anti-depressant, the fog started lifting.  And though I have had a couple of bumps in the road, I have never again felt the despair that I felt for those few weeks right after my second son was born.  

What I experienced was a treatable, small snippet of mental illness.  For those with longer-term, full blown depression, I can only imagine that what they are feeling is worlds deeper than what I experienced. And in that way, I can relate to how I can't live like this would eventually turn into I don't want to live anymore.  

Can you imagine what Robin Williams was going through in those final moments?  The agony, the solitude, the anxiety, the despair?  Is that what my high school classmate was going through?  Or my law school classmate?  Or all of the people that fall victim to suicide?

It's too sad to really, really go there.  I don't know that I can.  

But I'm sad today.  

RIP, Robin Williams. 

My Everything

I was 19 when I first felt the lump on my left breast.  I was young then.  I didn't worry about hardly anything, and I didn't worry about the lump.  I asked my doctor about it during a check up.  He felt it and told me it was "probably fine."  Life went on.  The lump remained.

After I had my first son, ten years later, I remember consciously feeling for the lump and realizing it was gone.  I wasn't quite sure when it had disappeared but I remember feeling relief.  Being 29, I wasn't as carefree as I had been in my late teens.  I still felt somewhat invincible, having just created a life and birthed a baby, but a general wariness had begun to rear its head in me.  Not even thirty, I had already known of a few acquaintances - my age- who had been diagnosed with cancer.  Some survived.  Some didn't.  A tragedy and a rarity, for sure.  But still, the idea that contemporaries of mine weren't immortal was unnerving.

Five years went by.  Then I had my third child.  I breastfed him, like my other two, and, like the two times before, I endured chronic clogged ducts.  They were an annoyance and a pain.  When I felt one coming on, I would submerge myself in a hot bath and massage my breast, trying to dislodge the clog.  It was then, during a bath in April, that I felt it.  The lump.

It was back.