Category: Uncategorized

Sandpaper

The last few weeks, I have felt like sandpaper, inside and out.  I know I’m a little depressed, as this month marks the beginning of the anniversaries.  We plan a scuba diving trip, we find out we’re pregnant, we cancel the scuba trip, we lose the baby, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.  The pain and depression the miscarriage anniversaries bring to the forefront feel like sandpaper on my soul.  Everything scratches and chafes until I feel completely raw and overexposed.  That feeling makes me, in turn, abrasive to everyone around me, loved ones included.  I know I’m angry, and I know that I am taking it out on innocent bystanders, but I am largely helpless to control it.  This results in further disaster and even more sandpaper scratches all around.

I’m not at all saying I am not responsible for my irritable actions; I know I’m usually wrong when I’m “acting out.”  But I now have far greater sympathy for the “devil made me do it” defense.  It is not fair to punish anyone else for my pain,  yet I continually find myself in that exact situation.  There are days I could strangle coworkers with relish, and road-rage is an understatement.  Over the last year I have gained growing control over the rage part of grief that is so easy to fall into.  To me, anger is the easiest of all the accompanying emotions to name and experience for several reasons.  It is perhaps the easiest negative emotion to identify, and it is simple – clear even.  Sad and depressed seem to feel more complex or at least more faceted than anger.  Anger is also the easiest to redirect – you can be angry because someone cut you off in traffic without admitting that you’re angry at God or yourself over the loss.

The same things that make anger the easiest to acknowledge also make it the most dangerous one for me to deal with: I don’t have to identify its source to express it.  Sandpaper begets sandpaper…

In spite of the pain, there are some benefits to sandpaper.  Grief is initially all rough and jagged edges.  I’m no expert, but from experience I know that the timelines are different for everybody and every situation, and the rough, jagged edges come and go in cycles.  But the constancy of the emotions does eventually take the edge off of them.  Now I CAN say, “Okay, I am sad because this situation reminded me of Hannah.  I need to write or call someone to talk or stop and breathe before I go into angry mode and/or depression.”  (And yes, I do use “and/or” in my internal dialogue; I think it’s a geek thing and/or I like to leave my options open.)  I don’t think the pain really goes away or even lessens all that much.  I think the repeated exposure teaches us how to accept it and move on with it, sanding off the peaks and valleys until there is a smooth, beautiful surface.

Sandpaper begets beauty as long as it is properly applied.  This is a lesson that I am learning at dunce speed – I should be wearing the conical hat and writing it on the chalkboard several hundred times.  I know what the sandpaper does to me; why do I ever rough anyone else up when I’m feeling badly?  I, of all people, should be applying salve to the wounds around me instead of inflicting them.  I’m trying.  I am at least becoming more mindful that most of the time there is an underlying cause to a lot of the rudeness we all encounter.  Some people are just rotten, but most of the time, we are just sandpaper burns in search of a little balm.  My goal is to apply it liberally from now on and leave the sandpaper to work on my own jagged edges.

“The Promise of Sunset”

I love the promise of a sunset –

everything bathed in golden promise.

It is:

A brilliant, gilded crown of benediction for the ended day

that whispers of glory to come at sunrise.

A flame of hope to last us through the night.

A glimpse of majesty to come.

A memory of blazing color to act as a talisman –

                holding our nightmares at bay,

                warming our sleeping hearts,

                reminding our ids that morning awaits on the next revolution.

God Sings for You

One of my favorite Bible verses is Zephaniah 3:17: “The Lord your God in your midst, the Mighty One, will save; He will rejoice over you with gladness, He will quiet you with His love, He will rejoice over you with singing.”  From college on, whenever I have nightmares or feel afraid, this is the verse I have turned to for comfort.  I try to imagine what song he might be singing over me or what his voice must sound like.  While I’m sure that “normal” people imagine a voice like Michael Buble or Sarah Brightman, I always hear my dad’s voice when I close my eyes, and it’s the most beautiful sound I can imagine.  My dad doesn’t have the best singing voice, so if you’ve heard him sing, you may wonder at my imagination; his motto has always been, “You can make up for quality with quantity.”  But my dad sings with all his heart, and that’s how I imagine God must sing, too.

“Finding My Roots”

I have been lost for a decade, wondering
Who I am and why I am here.
To date, I have only found purpose
in my work, not knowing
where else to look.
But my trunk is rooted deep
in family, deep in God,
deep in Glory and Mystery and Love.
One has only to observe
my branches to note
that I am a work in progress:
a tree branching and growing
to new heights and new directions.
I am the fruit of my labors
and a branch of the True Vine.

Dear Monday: Is It Over Yet?

Today is one of those days that makes me want to give up, to curl into a tiny little ball and disappear.  What made today so awful?  Nothing and everything.  It was one of those days were nothing goes horribly awry, yet nothing goes like it should either.  You wake up half an hour late; work is frenzied, but not overly productive; you absorb a hundred tiny things that aren’t really all that bad, but they still make you want to pull your hair out and run, screaming like a little girl all the way.  Sound the retreat and hope for a better day tomorrow.

Perhaps the most terrifying thing about a day like today is that you know you will very likely repeat it tomorrow; it will be Groundhog Day or 50 First Dates without the romantic ending that breaks the interminable cycle.  I wish had some magic pill, some wise words, some specific Bible verse that would end the malaise.  Unfortunately, I know literally hundreds of verses that could clearly illuminate the bad logic that makes me dread days like today.  The unfortunate part here is that I am rarely equipped to use them within the context of my own life.  At any point today did I stop and think, “What Biblical words could resolve my anxiety?”  Of course not, or I wouldn’t be writing about it here.  I did think, “I can’t quit yet.  In one more hour it will be… lunchtime, and I can take a break to eat… 4:00, and I probably won’t have to deal with any more customers… 6:00, and I can put on my padded shorts and bike away the funky mood.”

Just get through it, and tomorrow will be better because you didn’t give up today.  It’s so easy to feel like a casualty and let depression hold you still.  I think still is a far more appropriate word than down; down, for me, is generally set off by a distinct event, a date, a sense memory that floods my brain and body with all the horrible memories of loss.  Still is the temptation of a day like today; if I just stop trying, it would be easier than this.  Down has room for improvement; still is limbo.

Lest I sound too depressed, as a sign that I am “not dead yet” (read with your best Monty Python voice), “I’m feeling much better” and able to point out to myself what went RIGHT today: I did get all of my clothes on in the right order before leaving the house, including deodorant and coffee; I did not let the anti-virus program outsmart me on the new computer install; I did my weird happy dance when my impossible fax finally went through; I biked almost 7 miles over what could pass as cobblestone training terrain, AND I didn’t crash; I only thought once about how ridiculous I look in spandex and Oakley-style sunglasses; I didn’t go home and cry like I wanted to all day; I stayed with it, and it didn’t kill me.  A year ago or a month ago, I wouldn’t have been able to find a single positive thing about a day like today.  So tonight I’ll do my wierd little happy dance that tomorrow won’t kill me either, and it will be better than today because I am growing again.  By the way, that photo is the face my cat makes when he’s had his own version of Monday – I know, it’s like we were separated at birth…

The Peloton: A Life Lesson from le Tour

I started watching the Tour de France for the first time ever last year.  I have a possibly unhealthy competitive streak shared by my siblings, and two years ago I talked my best friend into training for a triathlon with me.  We had a blast, and I learned that bicycle riding is not as easy as I remember it being as a kid, and there is far more technique involved in staying upright as an adult klutz.  I decided to watch the pros to learn about drafting and mountain climbing and making turns at death-defying speeds.  I spent about two days researching the lingo as I watched: peloton, breakaways, yellow jerseys and polka dot jerseys were all foreign concepts to me.  Every day I learned more and more about the team strategies and determined that the Art of War was perhaps the most appropriate primer for better understanding of grand tour competitions.

There are hundreds of dramatic moments in an epic race like the Tour de France.  As a compatriot competitive spirit, some of my favorite moments are the breakaways.  One man will start pedaling away from the peloton (the main group of riders; the word also roughly translates into “big stick”) and a few brave souls will join in.  These guys will ride ahead of the peloton for as long as they can, and a very few will actually stay ahead through the finish line.  Usually, though, the peloton lets them gain a lead of about 2 or 3 minutes until close to the end.  At 25k to go, the peloton goes into chase mode and brings the strays back into the fold; it’s like the Borg on bicycles, and it’s fascinating to watch.  I sit there, legs flexing along with the riders’ pedal strokes, half cheering for the escape artists to go all the way, half cheering for the peloton to catch up.  If you ever watch the last 30 minutes of a stage race, you’ll be hooked, too.

Last night I was watching the Stage 4 coverage on Versus, and they had this beautiful camera shot of the breakaway.  Three brave riders against the “big stick” holding bravely onto their shrinking lead.  Then the camera pulls back and refocuses; about a half of a mile behind the breakaway was the peloton looming closer and closer.  I could almost feel the dread these three men must have felt when they peeked over their shoulder.  It was inevitable that the peloton would swallow them – soon.  As creepy as I may have made the peloton sound, they have a brilliant purpose.  Most of the riders stay with the group because they share the workload; together they can maintain speeds a breakaway group can’t maintain without a LOT of pain.  The riders have a drafting system like geese flying in formation; the lead rider does most of the work while his teammates ride easier behind him.  They each take a turn at the front, and each team is protecting their best hope for a win, propelling him to the front of the line or helping him catch up with the group if he had to stop for a problem.  That process is just as fascinating to watch as a breakaway; there are riders on each team who will never win a race because their entire purpose is to get their best rider to the front.  Even though the breakaway group employs the same system of drafting, and they are fairly effective, they do a lot more hard work than the peloton will.

There are hundreds of life metaphors there, but the one that struck me as I watched that particular camera shot was that we are always stronger as a group.  Just like the peloton, the body of Christ allows for us to draft when we need a break and requires that we do our share of the work.  I was attempting a breakaway for the last few years, and it was about as succesful as most of the Tour de France breakaways.  It ended with me completely wiped out and desperately needing help more than ever, and, like a Tour breakaway, it was a misery of my own choosing.  Of course there were a lot of reasons – grief and depression are isolating emotions – but it wasn’t necessary.  I was letting myself drown when all I had to do was ask for help.  There is great strength in connection; we humans were created for connections.  If you find yourself in a horrible, lonely place, you have to make yourself reach out – talk to at least one person, even if you have to call your entire contact list before you get a live person.  Leave a comment here or on some other site so that someone can reach out to you.  Trust me, they won’t hate you, and you are not a failure for needing other people.  You are actually a more successful human if you can ask for and accept the help that you need.  Build yourself a team that will help pull you along, and someday you’ll find yourself in a position to pull another teammate back to the fold.  Just think of the peloton and rethink “Walk softly, and carry a big stick.”

“Ritual”

So far a lot of the writing I’ve posted has been pretty serious, but anyone who knows me knows how much I love to laugh.  This short story is a walk on the lighter side and based on a real story my neighbor shared with me.  I’ve always joked that God must have a sense of humor because he made me.  And then my husband and I adopted three dogs and two cats.  If you live with animals, you have living, breathing proof that God loves to laugh, too.

“Ritual”

“Well, I think my dog got married last weekend.”  My neighbor and I often share what most people might consider odd conversation topics, but that line could be the most tantalizing opener yet.  So I had to answer: “Exactly how does a pug get married?”  The story that followed, of long distance love and pug noses snorting with passion, answered that question.

Sammy is a female pug who lives with her human owners in Alabama.  Like all good southern girls, Sammy was taught good manners appropriate to her breeding and that just the right amount of sparkle on your collar is an absolute necessity.  Sammy, with her pink, sparkle-studded collar, always went with her humans to visit their parents in Miami.  To Sammy, Miami was like a foreign country – everything was different.  The smells were completely different from home; even the grass was strange.  And Sammy could swear that the pug next door to Mama Human barked with a Hispanic accent.

These trips were the highlight of Sammy’s year; it almost made the annual veterinary examination the week before bearable, as it marked the beginning of the week-long countdown to the car ride and vacation.  Sammy reveled in all things Miami.  The sweltering heat didn’t bother her – after all, it’s hot in Alabama, too, but Mama and Pa Human had a pool.  She loved basking in the sun until her skin was too hot to touch and then running the length of the diving board to build up to her flying leap into the pool.  The instantaneous cool rush streaming through her short fur was sublime.  Miami was perfect!

Well, it was perfect, until the Cuban family moved next door a few years ago.  Sure, they were great neighbors for Mama and Pa Human: they helped each other with their yards, they swapped recipes and shared baked goods, they took trips together, and they spent almost every weekend cooking out around the pool.  But it seemed that the Cuban Humans never taught their pug proper etiquette.  Castro (his humans thought it was hysterically funny to be able to command the communist dictator, “Sit, Castro!” or “Shake, Castro!”) was the epitome of machismo.  He commanded attention; he was entitled to scratch through any patch of grass he deemed worthy; his nostrils flared with male pride, and his very stance reflected strength and virility.  Too bad his humans had him neutered, snorted Sammy.

Just the smell of Castro in the yard next door would send Sammy into a blind, barking rage.  She would charge the fence line as if she could intimidate Castro into a retreat by yapping so furiously that her already bulging pug eyes looked ready to pop out of her head.  The undaunted Castro would saunter over to the fence and lift his back leg in an act of obvious nonchalance toward the enraged Sammy.  Sammy was then forced to respond in kind – of course, a lady would never lift her leg, but she could squat defiantly.  And so this hiking, squatting ballet would continue until either the humans halted the proceedings or until the pugs had to refuel at their respective water bowls.

But something was different this year.  Perhaps it was the blooming scent of hyacinth, but the air was crisper, cleaner, sparkling with something electric.  Something new and exciting was taking place with each sniff and snort.  Sammy’s anger had been replaced with desire, and Castro could no longer be nonchalant.  These new, heady feelings took over the hike-squat ballet, this year’s performance drawing the pugs closer and closer to, dare we say, love.  Each day of her vacation, Sammy would go straight to the fence, ignoring the pool in favor of lying down close to Castro’s yard.  She’d wait there for hours until she caught Castro’s scent when the sliding door opened.  They yipped joyously at the sight of each other before performing the hike-squat ritual.  And each day when their ballet tanks were emptied, Sammy and Castro would lie down facing each other, snouts touching through the chain link fence.

This ritual continued daily, invariably the whole week until Saturday.  Apparently sensing that Sammy’s humans would be leaving the next morning, Castro decided to take his courtship to the next level of pug commitment.  This time when they had exhausted their aquarian resources, Castro hunkered down to present something more solid to his would-be bride.  Then he scratched his back legs through the grass in an invitation to Sammy to respond in kind and “consummate” their relationship.  Sammy’s eyes watered at the overwhelming odor of Castro’s offering as she, too, hunkered down to demonstrate her solidarity.  Then, truly emptied of all but their deep stirring emotion for one another, Sammy and Castro laid down for one last nose quivering nap by the fence.

“And that is how pugs get married,” my neighbor finished her story with a flair.  I’m not sure I can ever view my own marriage vows the same way again.

To My Amazing Friends

I started this blog about two weeks ago, but I was too afraid to tell anyone – not my family, not my friends, not even strangers at the grocery store that I seem to be able to share oddly personal moments with.  But yesterday I finally asked about a dozen of my friends and my beautiful sister to read and give me some feedback.  I was instantly terrified.  I am racked with self-doubt all the time.  It’s a little bit crazy, but the second I say something or write an e-mail that discloses my emotional status, I immediately regret it sending it.  What if I worded it badly?  What if they think I’m crazy, or silly?  What if they hate me for my weakness or idiosyncracies, of which I have more than a few?

Yesterday, I was like a little kid waiting for Santa, constantly running to see if there were any new developments under the Christmas tree since the last peek – only for me, it was checking my Blackberry every few minutes to see if anyone responded, as if everyone I sent a message to must have immediately read my blog and responded.  And the most amazing thing happened: within an hour, I had a message from one of my dear friends, and she told me she loved it.  Reading her short and beautifully sweet message, I knew I would “go public.”  God used a few words to quell my crazy fears and prove that he has truly blessed me with amazing friends.  Their love for my (and mine for them) is just a tiny speck of the love that we’ll know in heaven.

It has been an indescribable experience the last two days.  Maybe somebody I invited to Mabbat really hates it but just won’t say it, but the people who responded already were so encouraging.  Your words have alternately caused me to grin like a fool, cry, thank God for putting you in my life, and laugh with joy!  You have spoken some of the most beautiful things I have ever heard, and I am still astonished at them.  And to my sister: you are the most amazing of all.  You have strength that I have always envied, both emotionally and physically, and your determination has always inspired me, no matter how much I picked on you!

I want to say, “I wish I had known I would get that kind of support when it seemed to hurt the worst,” but I realize two things immediately in saying that.  First, I was too afraid to ask for help, so I didn’t.  I’m not sure how much I’ve changed much in that regard.  I struggle to speak the right words unless I’m writing them, so most of the time I still find it incredibly hard to say, “I’m not okay today.”  I know without doubt that I could have had all the help and support that I needed, but I was in too dark and isolated a place to be able to ask for it.  This was entirely a black hole of my own creation, and it was the worst kind of self-centeredness I have ever known.  It’s also really tempting to fall into when I have a bad day.

Second, second-guessing and wishing to change the past are completely ineffective pastimes.  My second-guessing is the exact psychosis that made me afraid to share this blog with anyone.  We all find ourselves wanting to change some part of our past at some point, but we only have to read Ecclesiastes (or if you prefer, listen to the Byrds) to realize that every era in our lives has a purpose, some more obvious than others.  Focusing too much on the past and its pain is a large part of the depression that kept me from moving forward at all.  Not that I am running yet – I stumble a lot and daily – but I am learning how to let go of the past, a skill I know my husband will be ecstatically grateful for.

Weirdly, confidence has never been my strong point.  I’m guessing that a lot of my friends will find that odd because I know a lot of them think it is a strength I possess.  Good, bad or ugly, I often follow the fake-it-til-you-make-it maxim.  But really, I’m a wimp at heart, and it makes me even more thankful to be surrounded by such amazing people.

“The Seat of the Scornful”

I’d always considered myself to be
something less than scornful.
Scorn implies pride
of a magnitude
I never knew I possessed
until one day
I looked down
and was surprised
to find myself firmly seated
above the scoffers and derelicts.
Resting comfortably
on my self-righteous perch,
pretending to be
much grander than
humanity.

*from Psalm 1

Anniversaries

This month begins the two-month span of three of our baby-loss anniversaries.  Since 2007, we have followed the same pattern about this time every year: in late July or early August, we will discover that we are pregnant; by mid August or early September, we will have lost the baby.  I dreaded last August with a fear and anxiety I had never felt before in my life.  This year’s fresh perspective has made it easier not to worry like that again.

The only kink this year is that my sister-in-law is due to have her first baby in September, and I will be invited to and expected to attend at least four baby showers, maybe five, during the season that marks my losses.  I already love and adore my soon-to-be niece, but all that joy is tinged with indescribable pain.  On one hand, I know I’ll be a great and fun aunt; on the other hand, I know I would be a great mom, too.  I love that my parents-in-law are so excited about this baby’s arrival, and I hate that we couldn’t experience that same joy with any of our baby announcements.

I am trying to blaze a new path this year by not worrying, by resting in faith, but I still stumble into the same questions.  What should that look like in my life?  How do I both embrace the joy of a new arrival and respect the grief I am still processing?  These are the times I wish complete avoidance worked as well for me as it does for my dog; on second thought, no matter how hard he tries to hide, he still gets a bath in the end…