Thoughts on Death While Eating a Junior Bacon Cheeseburger at Wendy’s

A week ago, I had the distinct impression that I am going to die soon.

To clarify, Mormons use the word ‘impression’ lightly sometimes, and I believe I’m using it lightly here. At least, I hope I’m using it lightly. I mean, I am pregnant, which we all know can lead to irrational thoughts, and I’m hormonal, which leads to emotional outbursts. This all leads us to the moment when I was sitting across from my beautiful girls at Wendy’s, of all places, and I started sobbing.

Well, sobbing could be a strong word. I was quietly weeping. Tears were blurring my vision and a lump filled my throat to capacity as I tried to memorize every detail of my girls’ beings:

First, Claire: Her large, increasingly dark eyes. Her paint-chipped fingernails – a different color on each nail. Her long, silky hair pulled back into two amateur French braids.

Then, Avery: Her almond-shaped brown eyes with long, curly eye lashes. Her small face that somehow is still the full-face of a toddler. Her unruly curls slipping out of her pigtails to frame that face just so.

And, I cried some more. All this while Claire and Avery licked the last bits of chocolate frosty from their spoons.

Recently, it became clear to me for the first time that if a family is separated by death that it isn’t only the people who are left behind who mourn. Before the girls were born, Dustin and I would occasionally discuss what the other would do if one of us died. I always insisted that I wanted to die first. No way was I getting left behind on earth to finish out the rest of this life without him. I now believe with all my heart that those who pass on miss us just as intensely. Especially if that death was premature. And, the thought of being separated from my children for the rest of their lives . . . Well, it paralyzes me and causes me to sob in Wendy’s.

Nowadays, if Dustin and I talk about dying and what to do about it, I apologize to him beforehand and reiterate how strongly I love him, but he will just have to go first. I simply cannot leave my children without a mother.

I won’t.

This finds us back at the beginning of this babbling post. Last week I had a powerful thought that I could die at any time. (I guess that’s just a fact anyway.) Today, I shared the thought with Dustin. He laughed at first and then asked me to stop talking about it. But, I couldn’t let it go. I told him that if I do die that I’m going to haunt him. I’m not giving up without a fight. I’ll need him to get married fairly quickly to a woman who will love my children. A woman who will love him. How does one replace oneself? I almost wish I could hold try-outs now. Hmmmmm.

So, now you know what the pregnant woman eating a frosty at Wendy’s is really thinking about.

You’re welcome.

The Ten-Week Grudge

    April Fool's Day 2008 - The day before the grudge began

Once, I was mad at Dustin for 10 weeks straight.

Ten. Weeks.

Luckily, the day before the 10 weeks began was just about perfect.

It was April Fool’s Day 2008. Dustin and I spent a lovely afternoon on the campus at University of Washington. We were there to admire the famed cherry blossoms. This became a tradition ever after. Each spring we caravanned to campus with various friends to view the beauty of God’s creations. Thirty, one-hundred-year-old cherry trees line a grassy walkway. If you stand atop the staircase above them you can capture a breathtaking photo of the massive trees frothed in all their blossoming glory.

We did this. In the photo, my very pregnant face is the first indication that Claire would be arriving sooner than later; however, when I look at the picture now I think of the powerful onslaught of hormones that were about to be released with our first baby the next morning. That day, in that photo, I loved Dustin madly, and could never think of being angry at him for longer than an hour. Less than 24 hours later, through an all-night labor and 3 hours of pushing, I was livid. I remained so for two and half months.

Suddenly Dustin could do no right. He was exhausted after Claire’s birth. He was exhausted. He said, “I was standing next to you all night, Sal. At least you got to lie down.” Then, we got home, and he didn’t know how to change a diaper, and he thought I should nurse Claire every time she cried. Can you believe he voiced an opinion on when to feed the baby? Also, during any night waking, he was useless and fuzzy, fumbling fingered. You know what I mean.

So I was mad. But, that’s not all. I just felt mean toward him. I didn’t really like feeling that way, but I couldn’t seem to make it go away. It was like there wasn’t room enough in my heart for the new, encompassing love I felt for Claire and the comfortable love I had for Dustin. I had to make a choice.

I chose Claire.

Oh, how I loved Claire. Claire had made me a mother! A mother! Something that only a short time before had seemed mountains away. I held her close, rocking her in my mahogany rocking chair. I pompously loved her more than any other mother could love her newborn child. My hormone-laced tears would flow freely when certain thoughts crept in. For instance, the fact that she would someday be bigger than a newborn had me in convulsions. I had pitying thoughts toward other women who actually chose to never have children. Who would do that? I thought as Claire and I rocked in our pretentious chariot. I vowed to treasure every. single. moment. I had heard too many older mothers vocally long for the younger days of their children. I would not be one of those mothers. I would value these days even if it killed something else entirely. Possibly even my love for my youthful husband.

Nevertheless, as big and encompassing as this fresh-skinned love for my child was, I missed loving Dustin. I missed feeling tingly with love for him. I missed our late night movies and bowls of ice cream. I missed wishing he would come home early from school. In effect, I was longing for days of yore with my husband just as those older mothers long for a visit to their grown children’s childhood. All they really want to do is hold those small children again and tell them, “I love you even though you spilled an entire gallon of milk on the carpet and it smelled for 8 years until we could afford to replace it.” But, they can’t because the adult children laugh it off now and can’t even remember the incident. So the mothers remain tortured in their longing for resolution to their long-ago outrage.

So, ten weeks into being a mother, I was lounging placidly in our living room as the gray, Northwest sunshine poured in through the windows. I was thoroughly enjoying the delightful rolls of babyhood and patting myself on the back for doing it with such gusto. At this precise moment, I had a thought about my husband who was sitting at the kitchen table:

“He’s going to get older, too.”

Hmmm. What was that?

“Right now, Dustin is young, but someday he will be old and you will be nostalgic for your youthful love just as you will yearn for your babies. Enjoy his moments of youth, too.”

My universe was silent as the powerfully gentle thought crushed through the hormones glazed across my usual forgiving nature. Then, panic bubbled out from inside my heart. I was missing something. I had a front-row seat to Dustin’s first days of fatherhood and I was ignoring it. I was shoving it to the side to make room for my own swollen ego.

I turned my head, just slightly, to see my husband working studiously over his books and laptop. Less than a year into graduate school, a new baby and a hormonally unstable stay-at-home wife weighed on his sloped shoulders. Swallowing the sour milk taste of mother pride, I set Claire in her swing. Slowly. I glided the few steps from the living room to the table. Dustin didn’t even look up. In the past, he recognized my closeness unconsciously and relaxed his tense shoulders for the certain shoulder rub. But, not now. He must be used to not being touched. I reached out to massage his right shoulder. Then I grabbed the left. He started. Just a bit.

“Dus?”

He looked up at me, maybe warily, maybe hopefully.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

His face showed relief and fatigue at the same time, “You don’t need to be sorry.”

“But, I am. And . . .”

Again, he looked up.

“I love you.”

“I love you, too, Sal,” he squeezed my hand on his shoulder.

Then, Claire gurgled. Dustin understood the conversation was over and turned back to his work, but I restrained myself. Instead of rushing to be a part of her babyhood moment, I massaged the youth back into my husband’s shoulders until they were no longer sloped. I silently renewed my vow to cherish each moment, but this time I was thinking of my time with Dustin. Only then, did I go to Claire who was happily sucking her fingers.

She hadn’t missed me at all.

    University of Washington campus, April 2012 - 4 years after the ten-week grudge

"I Want to Go to There" - Liz Lemon, 30 Rock

source: Pinterest

When I was a kid I wanted to serve a mission. This was mostly so I could travel somewhere exotic. My top two choices were Australia and Japan so it comes as no surprise that I’ve been pinning photos of Japanese flower gardens on Pinterest while whispering, ‘I want to go to there,’ in breathless fascination.

I think walking through the celestial tunnel of violet haze pictured below will be 1000 times more beautiful in person than the photos can even begin to profess. According to a friend who has walked through this tunnel, it is pretty amazing even if it did take 2 hours by bullet train to get there. (Not to mention the 12 hour plane ride, 2 hour bus ride, and 30 minute taxi ride. It’s not exactly accessible. J)

source

                                                        Kawachi Fuji Garden in Kitakyushu, Japan

I think when I walk through this tunnel someday that I will feel like this music makes me feel today:

                                           http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzF_y039slk

It doesn’t hurt that this video was filmed in paradise.

Like Somewhere Over the Rainbow there really is something better than the here and now. As good as the now can sometimes be, this is really not as good as it gets. Every now and then we get a glimpse of it, don’t you think?

(You might have to follow the youtube link to see the video. Enjoy!)

A Lemonade Day

I spent a lemonade day at Cannon Beach last February.

Avery was there with her soft, fluffy curls.

Claire was there with her short, silky locks.

Dustin was there – the only one with properly combed hair.

The sandy beach stretched before us, its blank canvas calling to us just like a clean magna-doodle cries out for Claire and Avery to scribble. We each ventured forward to make our mark. Dustin led out with a steady stride. He left an accurate map to follow with his evenly weighted footprints. 

Claire swept lightly across the matted sand leaving paintbrush-like strokes in her dancing shadow. 

Avery explored on tiptoe with a staccato rhythm close behind. Up, down, up, down. Her fluffy hair bounced and waved, glowing in the light. Her footprints were more like miniature hoof prints spaced only inches apart. I was last in the trickling line. I drank in the sweetness slowly. I paced myself so I could savor each second, tasting each part of the eternally unique afternoon recipe, which was this:

Add one bright sun to a clear breeze. Blend smoothly with the open sky, bright colors, and fuzzy curls into a flawlessly flavored lemonade day. 

For anyone else wishing they could see the ocean today. Cheers!

Debbie Downer Much?

Hello.

I need to apologize for being a bit of a Debbie-Downer lately. I just re-read my last two blog posts. That’s how I know that it’s true. Well, that, and I feel so much more like my positive, rose-colored world Sally-self these days, that it’s painfully obvious that I was not that Sally-self for some time. Probably since last July when we moved away from some of our best friends in the world and away from one of the most beautiful, eclectic, sensory, savory cities in the world.

I love you, Seattle.

When I was in high school, I had a friend give me the compliment (insult?) that I was like Prozac for depressed people. He was most likely referring to my overly upbeat personality and my unusual knack for being happy regardless of the situation. Mostly, that ability is still intact, but sometimes it isn’t. I hate it when it isn’t. I would so much rather be happy about no flowers than be moaning about the wrong kind of flowers if you know what I mean.

So, I’ve been pondering this dilemma for several weeks, maybe even months. First, I was down because I missed my friends and the familiarity my life had in Seattle. Then, I was down that I hated our rental house. Then we bought our in-progress dream house, and I find out I was pregnant that weekend, which meant that I started throwing up right away. After ten weeks of this, I was pretty cranky. Then we traveled, the kids got sick, we got sick, we got the flu . . .

See? See what I mean? Rose-colored Sally-self would see some silver lining in every single thing. Debbie-downer Sally couldn’t see past the end of her nose. (Does anyone else love Mary Poppins as much as I do? Past the end of his nose?)

In Relief Society a couple of weeks ago, we had a lesson on joy versus happiness. It was fabulous. One woman made a last-minute comment about feeding thoughts. She had found that whether she had a happy feeling/thought or a negative feeling/thought, she would feed it with more of the same. She had discovered that she was always feeding one or the other, so when a negative thought would creep in, she would do everything in her power to feed a positive thought instead.

For example, pretend your husband arrives home from work having stopped by the grocery store. He picked up milk and bread. Three cheers for an awesome husband, right? Until you get mad that he didn’t call and ask you if you needed anything. Because you did. You needed something. You needed eggs and cheese, too, right?

This woman is saying that now you have a choice. You can either replay in your mind that husband should have called you and, if he did, then you would have the eggs and cheese you needed. As it is, now you have to go out shopping during the dinner rush just so you can make dinner for you own family. Either that, or you’re eating cereal for dinner again. Everything is husband’s fault. He’s the reason you don’t cook healthy meals for your family. In fact, he’s the reason you still haven’t lost that extra 10 pounds from baby number x. Because he doesn’t call you enough!

OR: My gosh! My husband went to the grocery store! I hate going to the grocery store! Especially I hate buying milk because it’s so heavy and awkward and cold. Now when I go to the store later, I won’t have to buy milk! Awesome! Husband rules! So glad I have husband and milk and bread.

Since I heard that comment in relief society, I’ve tried starving negative thoughts while feeding a positive one. Once. I realized a negative thought was creeping in, and let me tell you, a negative thought can sometimes last for days. How is that even possible? Well, it’s true. Anyway, the negative thought was creeping in, and I thought of this wise woman’s words, and instead of ‘feeding’ the negative thought, I gave my thoughts a very weak tea. Then a little piece of a cracker. Then a chocolate chip cookie.

Then I felt better. It worked.

Do you think this would work for you? Any other tips to overcome a negative attitude? What works for you?

Gratitude: Life Without Cancer

Claire has been sick this week. It’s some virus that includes a low fever, a runny nose, and a nasty cough. She’s miserable, and frankly, so am I. This is the first illness she’s had since finishing treatment in September. This is the first time I haven’t had to run to the hospital for her fever in more than two years. That part is really nice, but kind of scary, too. I’ve grown accustomed to having nurses and doctors hover over Claire when she is sick. They are so concerned and attentive that I have often played the part of, ‘she’ll be fine.’

This time, however, I am the only one to hover, and apparently, Claire now expects to have her needs met quickly when she feels so awful. It has made for a very difficult week with a very whiny, needy child.

Caring for sick children is one of life’s challenges that few of us avoid. In fact, Avery was sick right before Claire and still has lingering symptoms. Even so, I’ve handled Avery’s excessive crying, violent coughing fits, and snotty face with relative ease. With Claire’s sickness came powerful, even crushing, memories of our chemotherapy and cancer days. These memories are so ingrained into my short years as a mother that my actions, and Claire’s actions, match the extremity of what we went through then. I suddenly feel like I’m on the front lines again.

Those days must not be distant enough.

It turns out that I am a terrible mother when I am on the front lines. My system goes into overload mode, and I only recognize VERY serious concerns. I downplay everything else – any discomfort Claire may be feeling is nothing unless it includes leg and head pain or a fever. The coughing that causes her to throw up is just an annoyance. The constant sniffling is too loud. The whining for something, anything, to relieve her suffering is inexcusable. I am back on the front lines that quickly. Unable to cope, my nerves paper thin.

I am ashamed of myself. And, yet, I am in awe of myself. Of Claire. Of Dustin and Avery. How did we do this for two and a half years? Claire and Avery have been fighting constantly since Claire’s first symptoms arose 6 days ago. They used to do that for two weeks out of every four throughout treatment. Claire went two days without eating one single thing. She used to do that for several days after clinic chemo each month. She is easily annoyed and incredibly rude to all of us. Again, this was expected for two weeks out of every month back in those days.

Home life is wretched when Claire doesn’t feel well.

I have now enjoyed 4 months of Claire cancer, chemo, and steroid free. This sickness of hers is a strong reminder to be more appreciative and grateful for her health than I have been. These past four months have been a dream (aside from the morning sickness, which I am happy to report is gone! Yay!). Claire and Avery play like the best of friends. Arguments have been rare. They both treat me nicely. Claire has had a healthy appetite and energy enough to play all day. She is growing. So is her hair! J We have done without violent mood swings. We have done without increased sensitivity to light and sound – specifically Avery. We have done all this without missing a beat. We have done this without expressing enough gratitude.

Because, do you know what? Life isn’t easy without cancer and chemo.

It’s not easy, and I forgot to remember that just because it’s not easy, doesn’t mean it’s not WAY, WAY better. We only need to get through another few days of this dreadful cough and icky feeling, not months or years, so even now, I vow to remember that I am extremely grateful for Claire. More than that, there are not words to express how happy I am that chemo is over and that Claire is healthy.

Waiting for Better

    
About eight weeks ago, we discovered that we are pregnant. I had been feeling weird all week – moody and annoyed. The Saturday morning of General Conference, I finally took a pregnancy test. You already know that it was positive, but after taking fertility meds for two-and-a-half years to get pregnant with Claire, I am much more familiar with the negative results on that little piece of plastic than I am with the positive two lines. In fact, I’m so familiar with only one line that when it was positive for Avery, and again for this third child, I didn’t believe it. Dustin didn’t either. We expect my body to behave abnormally, so when it performs the way it should, we are stunned to put it mildly. We are stunned and thrilled. Then, the ‘morning’ sickness kicks in, and I have a pretty dang hard time being happy about anything.

I am such a baby when I don’t feel well.

Even now the morning sickness continues, and I am sitting on the couch waiting. Waiting for it to be over. Waiting to feel good again. Waiting to enjoy food again. Waiting for the baby to get bigger. And, I’m driving myself nuts because one of the things I learned most acutely throughout Claire’s cancer treatment was to never wait for anything to get better. Better is relative, and better just might be what you have right now.

So, here I am trying to give myself a pep talk. My talk to myself for eight weeks of morning sickness and fatigue has been something like this, “But you didn’t even have to do fertility! Isn’t that great?! And, you’ve always hoped there was another little one meant for your family. Now you know that there is! And, you better not miss out on this time with your beautiful girls, Claire and Avery. They’ll need to know you love them extra-special once this baby arrives, and well, you aren’t doing so much in that department right now. Come on! Better is now! You already have better!”

And, I think of Claire a lot, and how awful she felt for so long only she had no idea that she would ever feel anything different. She barely complained, and the minute she felt better, even minutely, she was playing with as much energy as she could muster.

I know the morning sickness will sincerely get better around week 15 or 16, so I have a few more weeks to go, and I’m thinking I should revel a little in the fact that taking a nap on the couch every afternoon while the girls watch Bambi is to be expected. That could be ‘better,’ right? A nap everyday? Plus, I pretty much only eat carbs right now, which are my favorite anyway, and I shouldn’t feel guilty for that at 13 weeks pregnant, should I? That could my ‘better’ today. No guilt about not eating my vegetables? Pre-nates should take care of the deficiency, right?

I guess my real point is that even with the pep talk and thinking about the positive side, I’m still waiting for better. I have a hard time motivating myself to do anything more than laundry and nightly meals when I’m feeling so crummy, and even those simple things seem overwhelming.

Still, better is just around the corner.

We’ll talk more then.