Bleak

It began as a small dark spot. A small deep inky distorted spot on the left, about a quarter of the way down. An oily spot. A rancid spot. A spot that used to smell like wood stoves, good coffee, old books, sawdust, and rainy days. A spot that, instead, became the origin of decay, rot, chaos, anguish, and a dash of insanity. A spot, that in it’s evolution, made me question the fabric of my being, the full depth of sadness, and the dark bleak void where my heart used to be.

I almost stopped writing there. Really, it’s the most human story there is. Most of us grow up, live our lives thinking we know what it is to be loved, find out we didn’t, go about jaded for a while, and then get lambasted by something bigger and more vivid than anything we ever imagined. There are feelings. All consuming feelings. Feelings that you only thought you had experienced, that you thought you understood. You find yourself returning to a childish level of enthusiasm for everything. Nurturing this passion,…..this consuming co-education of learning each other, caring for each other, filling all those holes left behind by previous tenants who pulled the art off the walls. Never in my life had I felt so….real. Real in my own skin. Real in the eyes of someone else who accepted and encouraged my authentic self. Real accepting them as they were. Real being US. It’s as if my heart grew flowers.

It’s the oldest story. And you likely already know how it ends.

The decay started after several drinks with his friends, when he announced that they didn’t need to know how smart I am. I became an embarrassment to him because of his own embarrassment with me. No harm was meant. I was only answering the question “So what do you do for a living?”. That was all it took though. After such a long time, all it took was some fragile masculinity. He felt I had somehow betrayed him in that small moment. As if he thought I was trying to be more than him. Trust was broken. Words were spoken that cannot be unsaid. The flowers died….and that small dark spot fruited and grew, spreading like a disease.

I’d never known that kind of love before him. We were good together. We laughed about the same ridiculous things. We could talk about anything. We helped each other….but really did we? Was it truly reciprocal or were we both just infatuated with being seen and accepted? Regardless, sadness is a deep velvety pit with really steep walls. The residents are charming and remarkably good at reminding you of how unlovable you are, how broken, how difficult, how selfish you can be. They are good at reinforcing blame. They pour you drinks and keep the lights low so no one can see your tears….but there’s no one there to see them anyway. Those are the darkest times. Food doesn’t have taste. The music is all minor key. The sun is just too damned happy. Often I wasn’t sure if I wanted to return from the melancholy. If you’re lucky a friend will stage an intervention when you’re on the borderline of seeing how far self pity can go. One day a friend will says, “I’m worried about you. I don’t think you’re okay.”

I won’t bore you with the malaise of the next year. I will only say that I tried, failed, tried, failed, and tried again. I cried…..a lot. I put myself out there, if only to prove to my friends that I wasn’t on the verge of self harm….though I probably did frequently drink more than I should have whilst home alone in my feelings. There are still bouts of reminiscing….photo memories that pop up, certain songs, memories of places and things no one but us has ever seen (maybe I will write about those too?)…but most days I’m okay now. I’m still learning how to find my joys in small things again. Time spent alone is no longer for self pity. My mind is quieter and though that dark spot isn’t completely gone, I’ve found that decay grows pretty mushrooms and there are probably flowers in spring. The bleak can’t last forever while the sun is that damned happy.

Though pared down to it’s bones, I’ve never written it before today – spurred by a writing prompt – the word “Bleak”. I have never been in as bleak a state as I was during that time, and I know there are others struggling similarly. I KNOW it is not as simple as this brief passage portrays. The darkness can be overwhelming but you are not alone!

Please, if you’re struggling, ask for help. Accept help. Know that you are NOT hard to love and you bring value to this world by being in it.

Help is available:
USA: Call 988 or visit https://988lifeline.org/

Wants and Needs: An early quarantine pondering

Full disclosure: I’ve been sitting on this one for several weeks, since late March perhaps….it just didn’t seem like the time, and since it was written, the person from whom the following question was asked has deleted and blocked me form all social media platforms, broadsiding a certain faith I had in lifelong friendships….and here I am – still celebrating every day, nourishing a new relationship, and beginning to find that balance of….happy??  It feels lovely.

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Standing by the river on a sticky hot day last summer, you asked me, “So what do you want from a man?”

When you’ve known someone this long and are doing your damnedest to maintain an image of calm, control, and self confidence, you go for the simple tangibles.  You draw the picture.  Tall, strong, beard, good hands, not overly present. I want my space. I want my time.  I want him to stay out of my routines and not tell me how to do me.  I want …as if planning a shopping trip.  Filling check boxes of what a capable single woman is supposed to need…..as if assembling a Mr. Potato-head doll.  Sadly we will never know if Mr. Potato-head was smart, present, capable, and kind, or if he was a gaslighting alcoholic with mismatched ears.

What DO I want? It’s been just over a year.  I’ve done the dating thing. It’s kind of fun, but not always easy.  Some of them I will absolutely never see again and others are likely reading this.  Some of them taught me what I don’t ever want.  What I will not tolerate or allow the diminishment of my own value for.  Others showed me what I didn’t know I needed, or was trying to convince myself I could do without.

I don’t NEED a man to do things for me.  I have already proven (to myself) that I can do everything it takes to run this adventure alone.  I can open the jar lids, move the large heavy things, climb the ladders, run the power tools, build things, move earth, and do it all again the next day.  I can.  I have learned that just because I can doesn’t mean that I want to do all those things alone forever.  One particular instance showed me that two people can clear and organize a barn far faster than I can motivate myself to do it alone. It was humbling and grimey, and at the end of it I cried, not because of the things that had been taken to the dump, but because of the gratitude of not having to do it alone.  That day I learned about letting the pride go.

I don’t need a man to spend every day or night with me.  When I build that nest of pillows in bed at night, sometimes it would be much nicer to have an actual warm body behind me, an arm casually tossed over me, and a kiss on the forehead.  It would be nice to have someone there when the quarantine has been long and the nightmares are too vivid.  It would be nice not to be alone ALL the time.  In this admission I compromise with myself that as introverted as I am, on occasion I need the touch and companionship of another person.

I want open and free communication.  Speak your truth and allow me to speak mine.  Share your joys, fears, frustrations, flirtations, and curiosities.  Don’t sit in a space of shame or apprehension of something you want to know or talk about.  I promise I won’t either.  Voice the desire.  Voice the need.  Speak when you need time or space.  I promise I will as well.  Know it’s not always comfortable, but that is how growth happens and in that we grow better together.

Mainly – and above all things – I never want to feel like an afterthought to a man ever again. Not to say that I need constant affirmation – no – but little gestures are amazing.  I want open communication. I want to know that I am thought of and that my thinking of them is not a burden.  It takes less than 15 seconds to text a wink emoji.  In that one tiny yellow cartoon face is the appreciation of being thought of.  A 10 second voice mail hello when you know the other person is working and their phone is on mute.  A funny meme on Instagram.  A note taped to the front door.  I don’t need a man to buy me things or take me places.  I have all that I need in this world except someone that I can show daily that they matter…in small often silly ways.  Someone to laugh with.  Someone to brainstorm a scenario or share a frustration or celebration.  Someone to wish goodnight whether they are laying beside me or not…but above all, someone who never makes me feel like I am work to them, and who allows me to authentically be my weird, nerdy, affectionate self.  Someone who will explore topics and places with me.  Someone who brings debate and experience to the table knowing that there are topics we will likely never agree on.  Someone who is authentically themselves every day, who may one day come to love my authentic self as well…..but also help me lift heavy things and do grimey chores…together.

Control in the Quarantine

Week 3 (or is it 8) of social distancing…week 2 of working from home…  What day is it?  Have I washed my hair this week?  I’m almost out of toothpaste.  When was my last real meal?  It feels like it’s been a year.  I wonder if I’ll remember how to drive?  The dog loves me more than ever and the cats wish I would leave.  What started as a loose string on my hoodie sleeve is now a full on hole.  What is normal anymore??  Where are the people I love?  Does anyone miss me?  I’m blissfully pathetically sarcastically obnoxiously alone….but it’s okay.  I’m built for this solitude….I think.

Janet Jackson, Halsey, and Puddle of Mudd have all sang songs about Control.  Sometimes it’s about owning it.  Some times it’s about relinquishing it.  Sometimes it’s about whether or not you actually have any of it.

I have said, from day one, that I’m going to be totally fine in all this.  I have adequate food and had just purchased a whole pack of toilet paper as the social paranoia for paper goods set in.  I suppose you need 96 rolls of toilet paper when the shit actually hits the fan. I’m generally low social interaction and can talk myself out of going to most any get together.  My friends know it’s unlikely they’ll see me, but they invite me anyway – and for that I love them.  Myers-Briggs says I’m INTJ.  Capable. Independent. Structured…Truth be told, I’ve spent the better part of the last 20 years alone in one way or another so add to that..Adapted.  Or so I thought.

A friend of mine recently posted on social media:

Last year I had to jump start my old riding mower the last 2-3 times I used it.  I knew I was going to have to replace the battery, and when I went out to take the battery off I found there was also a flat tire.  I made a very quick (socially distanced and hand sanitized) trip to town, had the tire repaired and got a battery.  I got home, put the wheel back on, hooked up the battery – hopped on – turned the key……..nothing.  Not a click or anything.  I could have cried.  Listened to the mansplaining of a few well-meaning friends.  Yes. There is gas in it.  Yes. It is in park.  No. The blade is not engaged.  Yes. The choke is on. I fiddled and poked and checked connections.  I tested the new battery on my solar pump.  It worked.  I gave up.  I’d push mow.  I’ll show the universe who is in charge.  This mess is getting mowed TODAY!!  I fired up the old Husqvarna push mower and indignantly started mowing the trim around the house.  I got to a narrow spot the riding mower can’t get into and, as if to rub my nose in my indignance, there was a dull thud and the mower came to an immediate halt.  The blade drive belt had snapped….and eff my luck!!  Head hanging in defeat, I pushed the mower back to it’s home and sat on my back steps to have a one woman pity party.

Finally my one of my neighbors saw me despondent over TWO mowers and came over.  He checked all the same things I had, tested the battery power and the switch, the starter, and stood there baffled too.  “It’s gotta be the solenoid…unless the fuse is blown.”….viola – about 5 minutes later.  New fuse. Engine roars to life and I whoop loud enough to be heard over it!!  JOY!!  It felt amazing to have control of that machine again.  

I took off around the yard, basking in the sun on my shoulders and the breeze in my hair.  I was going to tame the jungle of my yard.  The grass was up to my knees in places, and although I’m not very tall, I was relieved that I wasn’t going to have to push mow after all.  I glance off to the right to watch the river of grass clippings come out of the …..what??  I was riding along, blades engaged, and not a bit of grass being cut.  My stomach lurched.  Had my pride gotten the best of me already??  I parked, set the brake, disengaged the blade, checked the belt….everything was fine except it just wasn’t engaging.  The lever that pulls the pulleys to tighten the belt was locked.  Deep breath.  WD-40 carefully applied….peace in my heart and a will for this to work….and it did.  An hour and a half later it’s not a pretty mow – as first mows often aren’t – but it was done.  I had found control of something.

I shook off the grass, and as I looked over the rolling contours of my *almost* acre it occurred to me that it wasn’t really the frustration of the thing – it was that for some time now Covid-19 has made us all felt vastly out of control of our lives.  Some people act out in defiance, ignoring the distancing and restrictions, shopping, using playgrounds and public spaces. “I’m not afraid!  I’ll show them.  I do what I want!!”  Some of us turn inwards naturally, focusing on control of our environments more than ourselves.  In that moment of the failed key turn I lost control of the thing that was to be my visual reminder that I had a grip on something – that SOMETHING in my life was normal and beautiful and mine to see done.  So when it was done I made it a point to step out of ‘control’ and into ‘gratitude’.  I realize that although I am capable of solitude and quiet, of not being around people for long periods of time, of being a very successful hermit – I’m one hell of a control freak when it comes to myself and my space.   That’s not a bad thing…but it’s a thing that, for the next several weeks, is something I should keep in mind so that my neighbors don’t find me in the back yard crying over snails in the fish tank or a hole in my favorite hoodie.

I hope you are all well in these trying times.  Find your small joys.  Pour yourself a basic adult beverage and call it a Quarantini just for fun.  Don’t forget to breathe. Smile every chance you get.  After all –  we’re all in this togethere.  Feel free to leave comments on where your control feels frayed.  These are times to be a community, even if it’s just to share our awkward moments.

Unsent letters

If I care about you I’ve likely written you a letter.  If you’ve made a mark on my life I’ve likely written you a letter.  If you’ve broken my heart or helped me over heartbreak – I’ve definitely written you a letter.  If you are part of my growth, if you are a random stranger who made me smile, or the man who kisses me sweetly on the forehead – I’ve written you a letter…..and I’ve never sent any of them.

I write letters as a type of diary of the thoughts and things I would say to you if I had the chance – or the courage.

I wrote to you about that scorching August afternoon.  The Appalachian Fair. 10th grade with the roar and thump of The Himalayan in the back ground, the smell of frying funnel cake and the acrid stench of body odor from the crowd around us.  The trickle of sweat on the back of my neck as you grabbed me from behind and licked that the sweat off my spine.  I wrote about how I knew it was never going to work and how I knew we wanted different lives – and 26 years later I found it in a shoebox. I was right.  You’d likely have killed me – quite possibly and not hyperbolically.  In that letter I processed my own forethought on self awareness and intention.  Frenetic energy of youth and maturity of understanding boundaries.

I wrote to you about a tiny apartment with a concrete floor, cold nights, and a small electric wall heater.  The thin paneling walls and the shower with the incredible water pressure.  I painstakingly documented your addiction and my role in defending you publicly while privately trying to protect you from yourself.  I thought I could help you.  I thought I could fix you.  I wrote letters about the days that became years and I wrote about the cold in the November air and the cold in my heart the day I moved away without telling you….because I’d read all those letters and recognized you’d lost yourself and I’d lost myself in you.

I wrote letters to the man who loved me more than I could love him – but for whom love was lies.  I write to the man from whom there are no secrets, and for whom love seems the most natural thing on earth.  I write about my hesitations and my fears.  I write them honestly, but not so honest as to show him…yet.

I wrote letters to myself – dissatisfaction, frustration, hurt, love, fear, encouragement, gratitude…and decisions made over and over on paper but never acted on.  Boundaries thrown down like grenades that blow up on the next page.  Intentions laid bare, then smashed by disregard or unreciprocated interest.

I wrote to the ones who encouraged me – the ones who loved me every day, even when I was hard to love.

I wrote about things that I wanted and things that were never to be.  Love.  Loss.  Lessons learned.  I wrote about things that were – beautiful, honest, harsh, difficult, humbling, and overtly human.

I have binders and books of words never read by the eyes for whom they were composed…but read again and again.  Maybe they were only ever composed for me. Maybe they are an autobiography of sorts.  Chapter after chapter of interpersonal relationships.  Book after book of my own growth and experience.  A reminder of how to recognize the red flags, and how to bask in the glow of acceptance and love of the ones who take every bit of me as I am.

Perhaps one day I’ll share one with you….or maybe the thoughts will live as ink on faint blue lines on college ruled paper, forever meant only for me.

 

The Other Shoe

I’m not sure where this is going except to say that this dating thing is hard.

Perhaps I should also call myself The Artificial Optimist (hmm…potential next pseudonym??).  I want things to go well.  I want things to be happy and fulfilling.  I put on the calm encouraging face.  Try as I might, and I genuinely DO try, I just expect that things won’t stay that way long.

As I type this, I am experiencing an odd sense of deja vu – almost as if I’ve thought this process through already.  As if  the script is written and I’m just playing a well rehearsed role.  There’s the eerie anticipation that I’ve put myself out there, shared my feelings, cautiously exposed my soul, opened my mind to consider a new relationship – and I stand here waiting for the air to be knocked out of my lungs, the chair pulled out from under me as I’m sitting – all the metaphorical comparisons of the humiliation and pain when ‘the other shoe drops’.

Is it going to be that I’m not enough?  or that I’m too much?  Is it some off-putting tendency or habit? or a more sinister dangerous bend?  Is he too comfortable in his personal darkness and velvety mental anguish?  Are his demons more intriguing bedfellows?  Does he find my spiritual leanings offensive to his conservative belief systems? Am I too independent of a woman for him and his gender role stereotypes? Is there a vice that is more alluring than the prospect of a future with me?  Are my walls too high?  Are my boundaries too rigid?  What’s it going to be this time?…or the next?…or the one after that?  Solitude sometimes looks delicious on my table set for one….but then I realize that’s not healthy.  I’m sitting here in my living room, and aside from the old lady dog’s tranquil snore by my feet, the only sound in the house is the soft gurgle of the fish tank.  No chaos.  No noise.  No quiet whispers.  No shared secrets.  No sound of a hand tucking that wisp of  hair behind my ear.  No song to slow dance to in the kitchen.  No scrape of the spoon stirring a pot cooking dinner for two….sometimes…just sometimes…I get a little sad and a little lonely.  Then I start to think about ‘the other shoe’….and wonder if maybe we should just leave our shoes at the door.  If there are no expectations we can’t let each other down.  But no expectations means no boundaries and no boundaries means chaos….but what if barefoot chaos could turn out to be a beautiful thing??  What if the idea scares the hell out of me?

 

The metaphorical cup

We’ve all heard that expression “That’s just not my cup of tea.”, or the more modern take, “You may not be everyone’s cup of tea but you might be someone’s shot of tequila.” As it comes to dating I am a whole cabinet full of cups.

I’ve been one man’s shot of Irish Whiskey – just enough ginger and sass to be intriguing but not something wanted every day….another man’s sweet red wine – the welcoming and nurturing of a Greek hearth goddess that leaves your head pounding and full of questions in the morning….a vodka mixed with ginger ale – just enough sweet to balance the bitter….a draught of craft beer – selected by the young man who thinks himself mature, or the cheap beer desired by the grown man who fancies himself young. I am all of these things and more.

To someone I am a wicked potion- witchcraft and a hex, while to another a tincture of the earth to sooth and heal.

I might be one man’s Earl Gray, intellectual but safe. Another may find me a dark Chai – too serious and unpredictable.

I am an infusion of Skullcap and Valerian – not boring, but certain to put you to sleep comfortably. Perhaps an elixir of garlic and cucumber seeds – to purge the things that are eating you from the inside.

Some days I’m a splash of fruit punch – bright, sweet, and energizing. An orange soda – refreshing and effervescent. Other days a dark coffee – intense, and brooding, but awaking the senses.

Most of the time I’m just water, moving like a mountain stream, bouncing from rock to rock, flowing through situations, adding something or washing something away with me. A cool clear pool to sooth a discomfort. A cold drink to cleanse the palate or wash away a stain. On rare occasion I heat, flood and scour, boiling a lie or overflowing with little control of my own pain and frustration.

In a sense we are all water – no matter the situation, moving in and around each other, navigating mental and physical obstructions and continuing to a greater destination. Move and flow….and along the way give and receive energy from each interaction. As I continue to explore this new world of mine I acknowledge I may not be everyone’s cup of tea – but I have a cabinet full of cups and many refreshing offerings.

You break. You mend.

Prelude:

I am not a romantic.  I am not hopelessly drawn to a happily ever after.  I have never wanted marriage and white picket fences.  Those just weren’t the cards I chose.  I never even dated much.  Don’t get me wrong.  I have had boyfriends.  There was the decathlete from the university track team in my freshman year of undergrad.  He, in fact, also had several girlfriends.  There was the handsome fraternity president with his wicked charisma, witty humor, and the intoxicating aroma of cigar smoke that I still love to this day.  There was the toxic one I ended up moving to Virginia for, and moving away years later without saying goodbye.  Then there was the most recent.  I have, in previous writings, referred to him as ‘the not husband’.  We ran into each other the day after I moved back from Virginia, and we just kept hanging out…for fourteen years.

I will begin by saying that I have no malcontent for him. I believe it takes too much energy to hold onto hate and anger when I’d rather live in peace and gratitude.  It had been fourteen years – and A LOT of life – family tragedies, cancer, surgeries, job changes, moves, and time…LOTS of time.  After healing from my surgery it began to become clear to me that we had grown into different people, and had been drifting apart for a very long time. I finally decided to stop waiting for him to come home, resentful of his work and smelling of cigarettes.  I decided to stop watching him self destruct from anger and frustration, and a habit that had already taken his kidney.  I decided after far too many tears, that it was not fair for me to care more about his health than he did, and that it was time to prioritize my own wellbeing and happiness….so last fall I started to do things that bring me joy.  In January we discussed, and in March he moved out.

There have been moments….moments meant for the pages of self help books, some for girl power novels, and some less beautiful moments that are more along the lines of Adam Sandler-esque romantic satire.  I will say that dating at 42 is far different than dating in my 20’s…and there was an actual gasp when I realized the last time I dated I was in my 20’s.  Where does time go??

Chapter 1:  The time immediately after

The separation of the stuff, the purge and the reclamation.
I buried the elder dog by myself in January.  It took four and a half hours.  It was 33 degrees and the ground was frozen almost a foot deep.  I cried and dug and cried and dug.  A 70lb lab mix needs a large deep hole.  It was the worst day of my adult life and I did it alone.
I bought new towels – Plush beautiful towels that match the small blue detail in the shower curtain.  Sometimes it’s the little things.
I planed, cut, sanded, stained, and anchored shelves in the dining room, mud room, and both bathrooms – a project I’d asked for help doing since we moved in.  The bathrooms have shelves for the towels and a plant or two and my collection of science geekery is now displayed in the dining room.  Though a simple project, I sat back, drank a beer, and saw the results of my own work.  That was a good day!
I gave him the couch he broke by plopping down on it repeatedly, and bought a couch with a chaise that goes under the window so the cat can lay on it and watch the bird feeder…then I had a panic attack about becoming a cat lady.
I put art on walls that had been bare for 7 years…some of it is my own.
I nursed the big orange kitty through urinary crystals and kitty Valium….and for a moment debated if people should take kitty Valium.  He needed it worse than me.
I figured out how to repair the riding mower that he’d always discouraged me from touching because it was ‘big and top heavy and has the turning radius of a tank’.  I’m a mowing wizard now….and I learned that it’s okay to ask for help weed-eating.
I took on the giant tiller – the one thing I was actually afraid of – and tilled the garden without becoming a skid mark in the yard.  I planted a slightly smaller garden, but it’s growing beautifully and is feeding me well.
I pulled out the power tools and replaced the seats in the wooden Adirondack chairs…and remembered that I love power tools.
I had moments celebrating new skillsets and the results of my sweat and overcoming the trepidation of self doubt…and I had moments of profound “What the hell am I doing??”  I am learning that I can do damned near anything, but that it is okay to ask for help. My to-do list is still lengthy.

Yes, that all sounds very self centered, but this is my journey and my learning curve.

Coming soon:  Chapter 2 – Dating (because people are brave behind computer screens).  I mean really?!?  What woman doesn’t appreciate the random unsolicited dick pic?? (Apologies to some of you – it is what it is.)

Post Eviction – Week 1

I really did mean to do this a day or so after surgery – but this experience has taught me that sometimes it is okay for things to happen at the pace they occur and no faster.

Days 1-3 – Winning
I felt pretty amazing!! Okay, so there was a little surgical discomfort but everything was manageable. I have 6 incisions, and was informed that surgery took a little longer than planned because I had substantial bowel adhesion from my appendectomy. All in all, I felt great. Pain was easily controlled with ibuprophen every six hours. I take a fantastic cocktail of laxative, flax seed oil, and probiotics – henceforth to be referred to as pro-flax-lax. {Back story: After the appendectomy my digestive tract didn’t ‘wake up’ for a while and I discovered that flax seed oil is a very persuasive intestinal lubricant. (Hey – not over-sharing. There IS a woman out there who NEEDS this information!)} The only time I took the ‘hard stuff’ for pain was at bed time, mainly so I would sleep deeply and not be woken up by my bed-mate’s snoring. I had surpassed all the mile markers, moving well, figuring out how to use my arms and legs to get up and down, instead of those core muscles we train ourselves to utilize. Walking, eating gut healthy foods, and no naps. I had it all under control. I was warned by a number of well meaning friends, that I would feel an emotional void where my womb was. That there would be a period of separation or mourning my womanhood. For my circumstance that turned out to be a bunch of well meaning blah blah. I’m sorry if they felt that loss. I, however, did not. This surgery was, for me, the end of a 30 year bodily stand off between me and my girl parts. It was a hostage situation and my doc was the hit man (woman). I win!

Days 4-5 – The Wall
I met that metaphorical ‘wall’. Two days of being home a lone. No one to entertain. No one to tell me to get out of bed – so I didn’t. I woke up long enough to feed/water the dogs and cats, let the dogs out the back door, feed and medicate myself, potty, then back to bed. For two days.
Day 6 I woke up to my momma calling to see if I wanted to go to the bulk food store a few miles away. Okay. I need to shower and do something other than sleep. We were only gone about an hour. While we were away, the elderly dogs got into the recycling AND trash. I couldn’t fix it. My 70 year old mother had to sweep and clean up that mess. Apparently, and not discovered until much later, the cats flipped their litter box, peed in the mess (and the dogs grazed in it)…and again, I couldn’t fix it. Somewhere in the middle of day 6 (after I had returned to my one woman pity party nap time) I noticed that the supply line for the toilet had a little leak. I couldn’t fix it. I couldn’t fix a damned thing!! I became very frustrated – very very frustrated.
The fella came home from a 12 hour day in food service to a drippy toilet, cat litter all over the floor of the mud room (sans poop because the dogs had done their part to help), laundry from the day before, and me standing over the laundry he brought up, crying because I couldn’t do anything else than fold the damned laundry – and OH MY GEEZ!! Is it hot in here??
So apparently estrogen rules the world – or at least makes it a more bearable place. Six days out of surgery and I finally ran out of estrogen to become that sad, angry, bat-shit crazy woman you see in the sitcoms. With absolutely no hesitation, and because I value my relationship and my own sanity, I quietly stepped into the bathroom and applied my first estrogen patch. I am not ashamed. I have a far better understanding of why my menopause aged customers were scary mean and able to drop horrible berating comments without pause. I have walked the edge of that abyss. I have seen the dark side….and there were no cookies. Two hours later I felt like I was myself in my skin again. I know this person and I’m okay with her.

Day 7 – Redemption day
Today made up for the last few. I woke up at 9. Ate. Took my ibuprophen, and pro-flax-lax (because it works!!), went out with the dogs, tidied up the kitchen a bit (because today I don’t feel totally useless!), took a 1/2 mile walk up the road and around the church TWICE! I watched an entire movie without falling asleep. The fella and I went to the park and walked a nice (flat-ish) trail by the river. We came home, made supper, and watched The Walking Dead like a normal couple. Today wins! Today is what tomorrow will be like – and many more tomorrows, because I am fortunate. I am fortunate to have a patient and persistent support system. I, however, am a stubborn, hard-headed, and proudly self reliant woman who HATES asking for help.

The websites and brochures tell you what to expect. How to prepare. What to do the day before/day of/and days after surgery. What constitutes an emergency. What they don’t prepare you for is how to get over yourself. Not a single article or blog that I read prepared me for how to let go and let someone else. Nothing tells you how to ask someone to go to the bathroom with you the first day, just in case you have a hard time getting back up from the toilet…or in the event that you use the last square of toilet paper. (Yeah, that may have happened.) Not a single blog prepares you for the fact that leggings are comfortable (and the light compression is nice), but they are really hard to get from ankle to knee with six incisions in your belly…but damn it! I’m doing this! Blogs didn’t prepare me for hearing my fella, the nervous caretaker, ask if I need a new pad.

The hardest part of this experience has been getting over my own pride. This life lesson: humility. Being a hard headed, proud, self sufficient woman is a beautiful thing. Having someone – or if you are fortunate – more than one someone who can help you, will help you, who does help you with no hesitation or parsimony…that is a beautiful thing.

Week 1 – Humility and Gratitude

Planning an eviction

If I search long enough, I can find it in my heart to appreciate the attempted kind sentiment, but please, stop telling me you’re sorry.

Please stop telling me you’re sorry I don’t have kids. Please stop asking me who is going to take care of me when I’m old. Please stop telling me you think I’ll change my mind or have regrets when suddenly I wake up and want all the babies that I prevented from entering the world when I agreed with my doctor that I need a hysterectomy. Please just keep all that to yourselves and hear me when I say, “Not your body. Not your choice.”

I have been on birth control for more than half of my life. Don’t mistake that as half of my ‘adult’ life. No, half of the time my heart has beaten on this earth I have been chemically maintained. Twenty-two years exactly – 22 years of chemical regulation because my body just won’t cooperate with the textbook idea of what is ‘supposed’ to happen. I’ve had cysts, uterine fibroids, breast fibroids, periods of ungodly proportion that resulted in numerous ruined clothes and public humiliation. I’ve had stabbing abdominal pain that dropped me to my knees wearing chest waders in a wetland. I’ve had night sweats and cramps, and all of this leaves you feeling quite unsexy. Most recently my body developed an affinity for violently fast aura migraines…which while on birth control is substantially NOT okay.

My doc agrees it’s time. I’ve been nudging him about it for years, and this week he unanimously agreed. We are planning an eviction.

“Are you going to be upset at the prospect of not having your own genetic..” Before he could get the entire question out of his mouth I cringed and said, “Absolutely not.” We laughed. I’ve never wanted kids. I never thought the world would be a better place for having more of my genetics in it.

So now the decision has to be made. What do we take? What do we leave? And they’re being remarkably open about including me in that decision. My gyno referred me to a surgeon in the practice. She specializes in ‘minimally invasive’ robot assisted laparoscopy. She says uterus is on notice, but it’s up to me about the ovaries. This is not an easy decision.

Part of me says ‘all or nothing’. You can’t plan an eviction and allow them to leave two cars in the garage, right? The surgeon emphasizes that this option increases the risk of bone demineralization and heart disease, and decreases life span…but we all have to die from something I guess.

Absolutely no part of me says let the ova-twins stay. It is quite likely that the headaches are largely hormonal, and in fact hormonal enough to demonstrate themselves around the edges of my birth control…but research says it’s ‘best’ because it allows natural decrease of hormones and onset of menopause….blah blah blah.

What about one?? A person can live perfectly well with one arm, leg, lung, or kidney…and all of those things are generally WAY more necessary than an ovary. This is my current solution. Leave one. Leave me one little beastie that can pull the load, making enough hormones to keep me sane and ‘normal’, but more importantly allow me to keep my mind intact.

I can rationalize my way to an answer in favor of any of these using research articles. Perks of a nerd brain. However, one word awoke my moment of clarity. “Dementia”. According to The Mayo Clinic, women with ovaries removed before natural menopause have a substantially higher rate of early onset dementia. I fear few things as strongly as not being fully in my mind. I don’t mind living less time if I live it well. If I’m going to be alone in my old age I need to know that I’ll still have the good company of my own mind. This is my non-negotiable factor.

If you’re reading this, and you are pondering this decision, read the science. Read the blogs from people – active people who WANT to feel better. Take notes. Know what to ask. Know what to expect. Have realistic expectations. Figure out your non-negotiable factor. Make the decision that fits YOU and NEVER feel sorry for your choice. I’m happy for me. I’m happy for you. I hope we both receive the solution we need, and see the improvements we have waited so long for. Most importantly, tell your story to other women. We gain nothing from Puritanical silence about our anatomy. Share the knowledge.

The Ornament

I can’t even explain it, but Christmas tree day is always melancholy.

It’s a very deliberate process, the excavating, assembling, and decorating of the feeble old pencil tree.  No lie, every year when I pull the tree box out of the attic crawl space I am certain a living creature is going to leap out of the box and start gnawing on my face. It’s the 20th year I have opened the tree box without incident.  That’s the beginning…opening the box.  Pulling out the stand…fluffing those God-awful scratchy branches…and ever so carefully, oh so gently, unwrapping all of the ornaments.

It’s a very deliberate process. Every ornament has a story.  Some are from my childhood, picked out by my momma.  There’s the red and gold drummer, commemorating my time in high school drumline.  The wooden building block has my initials on it.  There are photo ornaments of me and the not-husband, and one for each of our dogs.  I have the ornament my parents bought for my first Christmas, and ornaments that were given to me by family friends who are long since deceased.  The blown glass fish, pig, pickle, mushroom, chameleon, and skulls.  The green glitter bats.  Each of them commemorate a place and time.  There is one ornament though…one that is amongst my most valued possessions.  It is the first ornament out of the box and on the tree – front and center – every year….until this year.

I made this particular ornament when I was in 5th grade.  The mother of a classmate let us pick a ceramic ornament to paint.  I picked a Madonna and Child.  I painted her in blue, holding her swaddled child in an earth colored wrap.  With the tiniest brush she had, I painted the closed eyes of the sleeping Christ child, and the down-gazing eyes of his adoring mother.  I can still smell the paint, and remember how my hands shook a bit because I was so nervous I would mess it up…but I didn’t.  It was beautiful, and that Christmas I gave it to my Grandma.  I remember she unfolded a paper clip to hang it on her small tree.  When the tree came down, the ornament wasn’t put away.  She kept it near her in the china cabinet right behind her chair.  I was so proud I had given her something special.

She passed away while I was in undergrad.  One of the few belongings of hers that I have is that ornament, which still hangs by the same paperclip that her hands unfolded to hang the ornament the day she received it.  Every year.  Every single year.  Every December I carefully unwrap the cloth from around it, hold it gently between my fingers and remember the best Christmases of my youth.  If I close my eyes I can smell the familiar smell of her house, taste the homemade Chex mix, and hear the football game in the background.  There is an intangible sense of familiarity, warmth, and security that will never be recaptured as in that snapshot of sensory memory.

Today was the day.  I always put up the tree and ride the emotional rollercoaster while I’m home alone.  It’s ritualistic.  Make some good coffee, play some non-holiday music, and start unpacking.  It’s the same every year…except this year I couldn’t find the ornament.  It was supposed to be on the top of the box…wrapped and placed right on top…but it wasn’t.  *insert mini panic attack*  I’m the only one who touches any of this stuff.  No one helps me.  It’s here….so I put up the lights (and found two broken bulbs – maybe I’m not the only one??).  I put up the *broken* lights and started editing ornaments.  We have a kitten, nothing is sacred.  No blown glass.  No bells.  Nothing breakable on the bottom three feet.  Eventually my mind let go of the nagging question.  The tree was progressing, and viola! There it was.

Logic dictates it was my own doing, but I have no idea how Grandma’s ornament ended up where it was.  Perhaps she was providing me a lesson.  Perhaps she was nudging me to stop anticipating sadness, to stop being so rigid in my routine…and to live in and embrace the moment because it will all turn out alright.  The not-husband brought me replacement bulbs.  The Star Wars ornaments are all hanging.  The family pictures ornaments are all there.  I made some little flowers out of felt and saturated them with lemongrass and cinnamon oils to keep the cats out of the tree….and I placed Grandma’s ornament front and center, right where it belongs.  All is right with the world,  All is as it should be.  Now I will work on embracing and engaging in the rest of the holiday.  It’s not an easy time of year when you want it to be what it was.  I’m learning to enjoy what it IS.