side effects

Well, here I am. Back home, minus a uterus. I like to think of it as the new, improved version. Heather 2.0, if you will.

I have been struck, utterly overwhelmed, completely awed by the outpouring of love and support from family and friends this week. I don’t know what I have ever done to merit such affection and devotion but I have been so thankful for the kindnesses bestowed upon me of late.

I woke very early Tuesday morning so to be at the hospital by 6:30. I moved about my bedroom by the warm light of a red-shaded bedside lamp, making sure I’d gathered all that I would need during my hospital stay. My husband watched me from his snug and warm place in the bed before stretching his hand out. I perched next to him and looked down, playing with his fingers. He leaned up and brushed away a rogue tear that had slipped down my cheek. “You scared?” I nodded. “It’s okay to be scared, baby.”

I called Brenda on the way to the hospital. I’d slept like a baby the night before the surgery and she’d slept not at all, watching my surgery in her dreams every time she nodded off. The day before, I’d made a joke that I was feeling confident about the surgery because Brenda would be there watching over me. “If I die when Brenda’s there, God really wants me. Because only God could stand up to Brenda and win. And even then, He might lose.”

My stepfather was waiting for me at the hospital. He’d gotten there before me despite the fact that it’s only a 10 minute drive for me and a 1 1/2 hour drive for him. And yet, I was not surprised that he beat me there in the least. He was that determined to be there for me.

The frantic flurry of activity that preceded the surgery is a blur to me. My parents and my husband’s parents were there. Brenda was there. My parents all behaved the same way they acted when I was in the hospital when I was twelve: My father stepped out of the room when the IV was started because he couldn’t bear it. My stepfather bravely looked on but told the nurse, “You have to be careful with her. She has teeny-tiny, fragile, little veins.”

A nurse slipped a pair of thigh high TED stockings on my legs after I’d shed all of my clothing and been enveloped in the voluminous, breezy hospital gown. Sharon called to ask how I was doing and I groused that I’d never felt so ugly and un-sexy in my life. She quipped, “You’re wearing thigh highs without any panties. What could be sexier than that?”

My doctor and scrub nurse popped through the curtain to wave and answer questions. The respiratory therapist gave me a breathing treatment and asked me several questions which I answered only to have her snap, “Don’t talk! Breathe!” My anesthesiologist, well-liked and personally chosen by me, introduced himself to my family and smiled down at me before pushing something into my IV. The last thing I remember was reaching out to my husband and feeling his warm hand clasp mine tightly.

************************************************

Through the murky haze of sedation, I could hear Brenda order, “Heather! Wake up!” She says I was lying there looking half-dead one moment, occluding my airway and white as a sheet, and bolting upright the next moment and rubbing my head. Like, rubbing my head really hard with the palms of my hands. And fighting with my hair, causing it to tangle and mat.

When I woke up enough to be aware, my hair was neatly french-braided. That’s the type of friend Brenda is to me. She gently braids my hair for me when I am too sedated to appreciate it because she knows it will hurt to brush out the tangles later.

I wish I could remember more about those first several hours. I know that Brenda never left my side and neither did Brad, once he was permitted to see me. I know that I insisted on speaking with Sharon when I heard Brad or Brenda giving her updates on my condition and that I drunk-dialed her at least once. I know that my father and stepmother, inlaws, and my step-father all waited until they could see my face and be reassured I was okay before leaving the hospital. I know my husband and my mother stayed by my side until I was awake.

I remember my friend Angie calling me very soon after I was out of surgery but I don’t remember anything she said to me. Jellyhead called me bright and early Aussie-time and I’d been out of surgery for a couple of hours by then yet I still don’t remember anything she said, either. It doesn’t matter. What I remember is feeling loved. Very, very loved.

I received seven bouquets of flowers. I received several cards and phone calls. After my father called yesterday morning and I was crying because I was in pain and tired and the doctor was keeping me an extra day, I was the recipient of a soft, plushy stuffed animal with bright balloons tied to his ear. When my stepfather heard I’d been crying, he nearly drove the 90 mile stretch over here just to sit beside me. He told me to “just say the word.” The word I said was, “No.” I was okay. I really was.

The outpouring of love and support has only continued since I’ve been home. My mother, who was an invaluable help to me this week bought me some soft, feminine pajamas and some fuzzy slipper-socks to wear while I am recuperating. The woman who’s worked for us for years declared on Monday that she was going to take very good care of me and she has — she has come over every day at 1:30 when she gets off of her other job and she’s cleaned and done laundry and picked my children up from school. I tried to thank her today and she shushed me, “You do so much for me too, Heather. I am doing this for you now.”

I may have gone into the hospital for a hysterectomy but it’s my heart that’s been most affected. This feeling of being absolutely, unequivocally, and unconditionally loved has been the loveliest side effect I’ve ever experienced.

what we do

This is what we do. It’s what we’ve always done. Not every night. Not every week. Sometimes, even, months go by without it.

After the kids are in bed, we retreat to the den. He sits on the couch. I sit on a cushion at his feet. I’ve taken a bath just a little while ago and my hair hangs wet around my shoulders. I cover my legs with a blanket because the ceiling fan chills me.

He turns on one of the TV shows we enjoy watching together. I lean back against the couch and he begins brushing my hair in long, slow strokes. Every now and then, despite his carefulness, there’s a tangle and I have to take the brush from him to expertly smooth it out the way only a woman who’s had long, thick hair most of her life can do.

After he’s brushed for a while, he lays the brush aside and lifts my hair off of my neck and lets it fall, feathering out across my shoulders. Then he gently runs his fingers from my scalp to the ends and sort of fluffs it in the process to help it air dry even on the very bottom layers.

He ends by lightly running the tips of his fingers over my neck and pulling my (now dry) hair back over my shoulders so it can hang down my back.

I move to the couch and curl up under the blanket with my feet in his lap and we have no discussion about what he’s just done for me. I don’t tell him how touched I am that he so gently and painstakingly brushes and strokes my hair until it’s dry just because he knows it feels good to me.

We don’t talk about it. We don’t keep score so that I feel I have to pamper him the next time we happen to be sitting together in the den. He never reminds me that it took him an hour to get my hair dry when he could have been doing far more important things. We don’t have to do or say any of that.

It’s just what we do. It’s what we’ve always done.

deserving

Driving home from the all-you-can-eat pizza buffet last night, my eldest son looked side-wise at me from the passenger seat and noticed that I was smiling, seemingly for no reason. “Why are you smiling so big?” Inquiring minds demanded a reason for his mother’s inexplicable happiness.

Busted for grinning without a license, I murmured, “No reason,” and hummed along with the radio, careful to avoid scrutiny for any inappropriate glee. Not that I am usually unwilling to share any happy thoughts with my children. It’s just that, at the time, I wanted more time to enjoy my reverie with minimal interruptions.

The culprit behind my smile was the memory of a phone call received earlier in the day from one of my oldest friends who’s expecting a baby. Her news was exciting–she’s showing all the signs of impending labor.

We squealed a little, spoke of epidurals (and how they should probably be administered in the 8th month just so nobody gets screwed out of her fair share of perineum-numbing nectar infused straight into the epidural space), and mistily recalled the births of my two sons and her daughter.

I reminisced, “Remember, Angie, when you called me moments after L was born and said, ‘I’ve got my baby girl!’ and burst into tears and I started crying too and we sat and sobbed in happiness on both ends of the phone?

“And remember how I called you right after I delivered Crash to tell you all about him and how the nurse kept trying to take my temperature and blood pressure but I was too busy talking to you?”

The thing is, those stories, sappy though they may be, are 100% true. Yes, I cried in happiness with her and yes, we spoke within moments of our children being born and even while the nurses and doctors were still working busily around us.

Also, I loaned her the crib both of my children slept in and it gave me great joy and fulfillment to know that our babies rested their heads upon the same mattress and that Angie and I leaned over the same bedrail to croon soothing lullabies to a restless infant.

Memories like those and so many others are what make me feel like my personal policy of never letting any of those I love grow too far from me has been worth it. Angie’s been my friend for nearly 20 years and there are many who seem surprised that we’ve remained so close for so long.

What they don’t realize is that it has been no easier for us to keep in touch than it is for anyone else. Sometimes it has been easy, like back when she had high speed internet and sat behind a desk all day and we could fire off e-mails to each other at the speed of light.

Other times, it has been more difficult. We’ve spent money we didn’t have to spend weekends together. We’ve organized long distance wedding and baby showers for each other when it would have been easier (and completely understood) to let someone who was in closer physical proximity deal with it. We’ve stopped to speak on the phone when we really should be running out the door for the next activity in our busy days.

But all along, even when it was most difficult, we held on to one another. I think the reason it worked for us is because we hold to each other– not selfishly, not out of a sense of despair or a feeling that we can’t live without each other–but because we are so determined that our friendship be our greatest gift to one another.

I know that I have so much love and generosity and gentleness and kindness to offer her and I would never, could never, deny her the honor of being loved so selflessly and so unconditionally.

And speaking from experience after years of having her loving friendship bestowed upon me, I think I can safely say she feels the same way.

It’s simple. I deserve her. And she deserves me.

And she deserves that epidural in the eighth month, too.

I’m fairly ambivalent about celebrating my birthday most years. I don’t know exactly what it is that causes some anxiety for me every year.

Maybe it’s that I am always pleased when my friends and family remember my birthday but am not sure how to respond to a big, hearty “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Of course, I always say, “thank you,” but that doesn’t seem right either because I didn’t do anything. I was simply born 32 years ago. It was no great accomplishment on my part. Maybe my mother should be the one getting gifts and phone calls and cards and letters. (Not really. They’re mine! All mine!) Also, I always hate it when someone forgets about my birthday. Not so much because they forgot, but because I know they are going to feel bad when they realize they forgot. And really, it’s okay. I don’t expect anyone’s world to revolve around me — not even on my birthday.

Anyway, I always go into my birthday with an equal mix of anxiety and excitement and this year was no different. Last night, though, I was struck by the realization that, for many years, there’s been someone who has smoothed out the roiling emotions that plague me and made each birthday enjoyable and special.

And that person is my husband.

Shortly after midnight yesterday, Brad curled up next to me and silkily sang into my ear, “Happy, happy birthday, bay-bie . . .” in that silly-but-still-somehow-sexy way he has of flirting with me. When his alarm woke us at 7:00 and I shrieked and jumped out of bed (because I was supposed to wake up at 6:00 and be at the hospital to give an in-service at 7:30), he calmly got up and went about the business of waking the boys, packing lunches and whatnot. As I attempted to run past him on my way out the door, he lazily snaked an arm around my waist and pulled me to him to give me a good-bye kiss and a calming word to start my day.

At lunchtime, he complained not at all when I requested to eat at my favorite pizza joint even though I make him eat there all the time and he is sick of it. When he got home after work, he lavished attention on me asking, “How was your day, baby? Was it as wonderful as it should be?”

After dinner with my parents at my favorite Mexican restaurant, we went back to my father’s house and enjoyed a pralines and cream ice cream pie with caramel and chocolate topping which had Brad bought earlier in the day to surprise me, because he knows I love to have a birthday cake.

Afterward, we came home and I was the recipient of a special birthday neck and shoulder massage while watching one of my favorite shows. I was tucked into bed with tender care and fell asleep with his arms around me.

Brad’s attentions were not the only good parts of my birthday. My friends and family stepped up to the plate and made me feel very loved. But it is nice to know that the person who has treated me with such tenderness for my past twelve birthdays is the same person who will be around, God willing, to make the rest of them just as gentle.

respectful exploration

Earlier this week, I read Talk Before Sleep by Elizabeth Berg. I read the book years ago and have thought of it often. I couldn’t remember the title or the author of the book. What I remembered was the feeling I had from reading the book. I love it when a book affects me that way. I think writers have such an enviable power in that they can so easily manipulate emotions. I almost always prefer books to movies because seeing an actor portray a scene on screen has never been as powerful as the same scene portrayed in my mind as I read. The reason is, when the story plays out in my mind, the characters and situations are always familiar to me because, naturally, I draw on my own experiences and emotions when weaving together a mental image. It’s comforting, somehow.

Talk Before Sleep is a story of two women who are best friends. Ann and Ruth share an enviable and solid bond. They understand each other. They love each other. They are completely and unabashedly devoted to one another. They tenderly care for one another, especially when Ruth is diagnosed with terminal cancer. The book’s focus is, what would you say if you knew you didn’t have time on your side?

One lesson I took away from the book, whether or not the author meant it, is that I can soften myself and be unapologetically affectionate with the people I love and it doesn’t make me any the weaker. In fact, it makes me stronger.

Some believe emotional armor involves building walls around the heart and holding those who try to get close to us at arm’s length. I have come to understand that, for me, emotional armor involves pulling those I love close to me and disclosing my feelings. After all, the point of wearing armor is to stay safe, is it not? What could possibly be any safer than honesty and communication in a loving and respectful friendship? Trusting others has a curious effect; they tend to value it so much that they would take a bullet rather than betray the trust you have willingly placed in their hands.

This quote seemed especially powerful to me:

. . . it wasn’t something that diminished me, but rather made me fuller, and richer. I saw that every person is a multifaceted and complex being, worthy of respectful exploration and discovery; that this longing we can’t name and try to cure with relationships might only be us, wanting to know all of our own selves.

I felt that a great truth had been illuminated for me. I felt like I could finally realize and understand the value of the many friends who’ve come through my life. I have a tendency to form very close friendships rather than casual acquaintances. I have childhood friends and friends who were teachers when I was in junior high and high school. I have friends from Nursing school and friends from work. I have friends who are seventy years old and friends who are twenty years old and countless friends whose ages fall somewhere in the middle. I have friends that I see every day and friends that I see once a year. Friends made in “real-life” and friends met via the Internet. All of them are dear to me and all of them have taught me more about myself.

I like the term “respectful exploration”. I like it because it takes into account that we all have our handicaps, our scars, and our boundaries that dictate how emotionally involved we are willing to become in any relationship. But I have learned that being respectful of those same boundaries can eventually result in the the deepest form of trust. Respect breeds respect. Gentle, respectful exploration in a relationship can yield such beautiful results.

Myself, I am thankful for the friends I’ve made in my life and so glad that, although they were respectful of my personal boundaries, they were also wise enough to gently push some of those boundaries until they were more like lines in the sand than concrete walls. In retrospect, I realize that every time I have held a friend at arm’s length or built a wall to keep myself safe, I have denied myself the opportunity to know myself better.

And that’s a shame. I happen to like me.

Weekend

I’ve tried to write several posts over several days and each time have gotten exasperated and given up. The reason, I think, is because I know what I want to write about but also know I don’t want to irk, annoy, or bore anyone. I still want to write about my trip to Cedar Point or, at least, observations surrounding my trip to Cedar Point and the series of events leading up to my trip. And if it bores anyone? Oh well, it’s my blog after all.

When Sharon writes about our trip, she paints a vivid picture of the beach and the lake and the roller coasters and even the gift shop. She makes it easy for everyone to enjoy and appreciate how beautiful the scenery and surroundings were on our vacation. When Melonie writes about the trip, she easily recalls the fun and laughter experienced during our two days together. She calls to mind the inside jokes that we all share now and will always associate with those two days spent driving around in a big Cadillac and traipsing about our hotel. And Laura? Well, Laura memorialized an evening spent giggling over Italian food and wine by writing a hysterical and ingenious poem.

Me? I appreciate the unique talents of each friend and love reading their posts and reliving the weekend. But I still have things to add. And, of course, my perspective adds yet another dimension to the telling of our story. Naturally, my perspective includes mushy and sentimental observations and violates Melonie’s rule: No emotional, hand-holding posts! Sorry, Melonie.

I came away from my weekend with my friends with an overwhelming feeling of gratitude. I am so grateful to have such lovely friends and feel blessed to have met them at all. It takes my breath away just a little to realize that none of us ever knows when meeting someone new if that person is someone who will have a profound effect on our lives. To think that I could have missed out on such a wonderful friendship — well, it’s something I can’t even bear to think about.

We live in an age where it is increasingly common to meet friends and spouses via the Internet. I was always skeptical of such relationships in the past. In fact, if you had told me a year ago that I was going to fly across the country to spend two days with three women I had never seen in person, I would have laughed in your face. I never would have believed it. But, I did make a very close friend over the Internet and I did spend the weekend with her and it wasn’t awkward or uncomfortable at all. Rather, it felt like we had spent lots of time together and were just taking up where we’d left off. And the reason is, we aren’t “fellow bloggers” or “cyber-buddies.” We are friends. We’ve nurtured our friendship for over a year now. I daresay we know each other better than we know some of our “real-life” friends.

Spending the weekend with my friends was surreal. I think we all had just a little niggling fear that we would spend the entire three hour drive to Ohio in awkwardness. What happened instead is that we fell into easy conversation and, about fifteen minutes into our drive, as we chattered and giggled, Melonie said facetiously, “Gee, it’s a shame we aren’t all getting along better.”

There were relatively few surprises. Sharon and I tended to be reflective, sensitive, and just a little too happy to see each other for Melonie to handle. Melonie and Laura were vivacious and funny and gave us hell. I would have been completely entertained, even if I’d never spoken a word, just by watching the interactions between Sharon and Melonie and Melonie and Laura.

I’ve talked a little bit about the weekend in other posts. You know about our dinner at the Italian restaurant with our waiter who spoke heavily accented English and grinned at us every time we started giggling because he was honestly just a sweet-natured, nice guy. Sharon and I ventured out of our room late at night for an ice cream sundae and had an adventure that left us both with aching sides from laughing so much for so long. When we went to brunch Sunday morning, Sharon and I refused to eat until they brought out newly washed plates and Melonie and Laura quoted from “Brokeback Mountain” across the table from one another as Sharon and I rolled our eyes. Later, Melonie dragged Laura onto roller coaster after roller coaster as Sharon and I floated in a double innertube inflicting the infamous sunburn that she is still sporting now–two weeks later. When the afternoon waned, we began making our way across the sun-baked and twisting lanes of Cedar Point only to end up in the First Aid station where I sat next to a cot soaking washcloths in ice water and laying them across Sharon’s neck and chest in an attempt to revive her from semi-consciousness while Laura and Melonie set off on a noble quest to locate the Cadillac and cool it off for our friend, le petite fleur.

What you don’t know is how, every time I tried to pay for anything, there were protests from the others and, if I’d been any less stubborn, they would have paid far more than their share. They are a generous bunch. You don’t know how Melonie tries so hard to act tough but still can’t conceal her very kind and tender heart. You haven’t heard how Laura made me laugh just about every time she could see I was on the verge of tears and how she proclaimed, “I like hugs!” just moments after meeting me and gave me a big ol’ hug. You didn’t hear the concern in Sharon’s voice when I had to use my inhaler and she worried, “Are you okay, Heather. Are you?” You didn’t see how she smiled the moment she opened her eyes Sunday morning.

But the moment when I realized just how special the weekend had been and just how closely I had bonded with my friends was when we pulled up to my hotel in Pittsburgh. I’d already been crying for a few minutes by then and Sharon sat beside me softly shushing me and holding my hand. We all tumbled out of the car and pulled my luggage from the trunk and I tried very hard not to cry more as I hugged Melonie and Laura (yes, Melonie broke the No Hugging rule). Sharon walked in to the hotel lobby and announced my presence, “Heather is here! It’s not her fault she is late! Do you still have her room?” The surprised clerk answered, “Yeeees. Of course!” I think she half expected a red carpet to be rolled out for me to walk across. We pulled my luggage into the lobby and I turned around to say goodbye to Sharon only to end up clutching her into a hug and crying into her shoulder. I cried out of sadness that I won’t see my friends for a long time, yes. But my tears also came from a place in my heart that was just so grateful that we’d had such an amazing two days together.

I couldn’t watch as Sharon walked out and the three of them climbed back in the Cadillac and drove away. I kept my back turned for several minutes before I could look out to be sure they were gone. Big crocodile tears rolled down my face as I checked into my hotel room and the cute little clerk asked worriedly, “Are you going to be okay?” I just nodded my head and sniffled. I was going to be better than okay.

It is impossible to put a price tag on the weekend I spent with my friends. A few tears is a small price to pay for the memories that were made. We’ve had to defend our friendship more than a few times simply because we met in an unconventional way. Now no one can say that we’ve never set eyes on each other or ask how we could possibly know that we aren’t dealing with a serial killer or rapist who only wants us to think the other is a pretty redhead from West Virginia. But more importantly, we’ve proven to ourselves that our friendship is just as solid and real as any friendship founded in the “normal” way and that it was worth some of the difficulties we’ve endured.

It was wonderful. It was magical. It was reaffirming and life-changing. It was everything we thought it would be and more. And it was so damn much fun!

I salute my friends Melonie, Laura, and Sharon. They really know how to make a girl feel at home.

OP-RAH!

Cedar Point

I trekked across the country this weekend on a journey to see my friends. The trip was long and frustrating. In order to get there and back, I spent time in Texas, Illinois, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, Ohio, and Florida. I spent one hour and thirty minutes in a plane on a tarmac in Florida while a storm raged outside with flashing lightning and deafening thunder that shook the plane. The storm was quite rude and I ended up missing my connection to Houston which meant that I also missed the last flight available to my home and had to stay the night in Houston. I asked the front desk clerk for a 6:30 AM wake-up call and somehow I got a 2:30 am wake-up call instead. My luggage stayed at the airport so I had no make-up, no toothbrush, no hairbrush, and no change of clothes. Anything that could go wrong seemed to go wrong.

If I had known how difficult it would be to get home and how tired I would be, I would still have done it all over again. I’d do it again a thousand times. That’s how lovely the weekend was for me.

I’ve replayed the weekend in my head a million times and tried to decide what I would write. My first impulse was to not write about it at all because it was so special that I wanted to keep it all to myself. But I didn’t want to make it seem unimportant either. It’s a conundrum.

I thought about telling you about the excitement that coursed through me when I stood in front of my hotel and saw Sharon, Melonie, and Laura waving excitedly with big grins on their faces and how I caught all of them in a big hug before they could protest. I thought about writing about how I got carsick as we drove out of West Virginia and into Ohio and laid my head on the middle arm rest and Sharon fussed over me and moved my hair off of my neck. I could tell you that the rental car agent was arrogant and that Sharon and I stood over him and glowered and that I swear that’s why we ended up with a Cadillac instead of a Mazda or some such.

But really what I want to document is the fun and the laughter of the weekend as well as the tenderness and poignancy. When I look back, I want to remember that my stomach hurt when I woke up Sunday morning from laughing so hard on Saturday. I want to remember walking along the beach with my friends and swimming in the pool under the night sky. I want to remember the tranquility of floating along in a raft all afternoon with my friend and never running out of things to talk about.

The weekend was so wonderful and almost seemed life-changing in a way. There were four very distinct personalities present in that big Cadillac and they seemed to mesh perfectly. We laughed with each other and learned from each other. Or so it seemed to me.

I’ve struggled for two days trying to say exactly what I want to say about how special the weekend was for me and how much I enjoyed the company of three such lovely women. Then, I saw an article that discussed Oprah Winfrey’s relationship with her best friend. She said,

“Something about this relationship feels otherworldly to me, like it was designed by a power and a hand greater than my own. Whatever this friendship is, it’s been a very fun ride.”

That’s exactly how I feel.

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Read Sharon’s post about the weekend.Read Melonie’s post about the weekend.

Read Laura’s post about the weekend.

near him

As my husband and I sat in the car in the drive-thru lane at Chick-fil-A today, I turned to him suddenly and clutched his arm.

“You can never leave me!”
“Ummm . . .okay. Why the sudden proclamation?”
“Because I can’t function when I can’t be near you.”

It’s true.

Ask any of my friends and they will tell you that I should be nicer to my husband. They will tell you he is hen-pecked. They will tell you that he worships the ground I walk on despite the fact that I boss him around incessantly.

Yeah . . . well, I have a reputation to uphold. I’ve sworn all my life that I would never be subservient to a man. Right up until a few days before my wedding I swore I would never get married. And always, always, I promised myself I would never come to need someone so much that I might feel incomplete without them.

The only problem with that is that . . . well, I fell in love with Brad. That little glitch blew all my plans to hell. Love? Who’d have thunk it?

Brad had to work all night last night on some sort of upgrade or server change or something. He went to work at 9:30 pm and thought he would be home by 4:00 am. So I left the hall light on for him and the light in our dresser and, once I was so sleepy that I could reasonably expect to fall asleep and stay that way, I went to bed.

But Brad didn’t get to come home until almost 9:00 this morning. I had already taken both children to school and was sitting in my first meeting of the day by the time he finally rested his head on a pillow.

The moment I woke up this morning, I knew I should just crawl back under the covers and hide. I had no husband curled next to me to snuggle up and wish me a good morning. I had no one to talk to about how well I had slept and the dreams I had. I had no one hogging the bathroom while I was trying to get ready for work. I had no one asking me to pick out a shirt for him to wear to work.

I took on the morning all alone. I went head to head with the youngest child who is especially churlish in the mornings. I loaded both children into the car and set off down the road 30 minutes earlier than I would have if my husband had been home to take the oldest child to school as usual. I fielded questions and answered yay or nay to requests presented by the children.

“Can we plant my flower seeds today?”
“Maybe. It depends on what time I get home.”

“Can we watch TV this afternoon?”
“Probably not. It is a beautiful day. Play outside.”

“Can we go see Poppy?”
“It depends on how he is feeling today.”

I dropped one child off at school and trekked across town to the other child’s preschool. I sent him merrily on his way and went straight to the hospital and to my stepfather’s hospital room where one look at my mother’s pale face and unruly hair told me that he had not had a good night. He had suffered pain. He’d had his drains removed. My mother said the scene resembled that of the Forty Year Old Virgin having his chest waxed. My stepfather screamed like that when the drains were pulled. Then he’d gotten sick and thrown up which caused unbearable pain. When I arrived, he was sleeping soundly as the pain and nausea meds have the happy side effect of inducing a coma-like state.

As I was standing over him, his eyes fluttered open and he blinked twice before focusing on my face and asking, “Do you have your stethoscope? There is a gurgling in my side and the other nurses can’t hear it.” I fetched my stethoscope, reassured him that I could only hear normal bowel sounds and ran off to my morning meeting.

I sat at the desk after my meeting feeling particularly weighted down by responsibilities and worries. And then? I cried. And then? I drove home and crawled in bed with Brad.

He was sleeping so soundly that he barely stirred when I slipped into bed. I scooted to the middle of the bed, laid my head on the same pillow he was resting upon, and curled up next to him with my knees bent just behind his knees and my body curved in a perfect parallel to his. As I settled in next to him, he reflexively moved closer to me.

And finally, I felt like my day had begun. I no longer felt all alone. I no longer felt so different from everyone else. I felt my muscles begin to relax and, for the first time, realized I had been clenching my jaw all morning. I went from being so keyed up that I couldn’t sit still without tapping my foot on the floor or drumming my fingers on the desk to being so relaxed that I drifted off to sleep effortlessly.

Two hours later, we woke up and rolled toward one another to say good morning. We exchanged the banter we would have if he had been home this morning. And then we forced ourselves out from under the warm covers and away from our soft mattress and once again dressed for the day ahead. It was one o’clock in the afternoon and it felt like my day was finally getting off to a good start.

So, we let our friends tease us about my bossiness and Brad’s abject adoration. But it’s because we know the truth: if I can’t be near my husband every morning, I can’t make it through the day. If I can’t talk to him and touch him, I feel like my internal compass is spinning. If I don’t curl up next to him every night, I feel incomplete; like the best part of me is missing.

But I do have a reputation to uphold. So, shhh. Let’s go on pretending that I am the mighty she-ra that everyone believes me to be.

Our Anniversary

Today is my ninth wedding anniversary. My mother and father were only married for nine years before they got divorced so nine years is sort of a milestone for me.

I can honestly say that there has never been a day in the past nine years that I regretted marrying my husband. He is everything I want and need. He is loving, kind, funny, sensitive, sexy, respectful, hard-working and very laid-back (which is a great counter-balance to my Type-A personality). He makes me feel smart and beautiful. He makes me feel honored and cherished. I know that he will never give up on our marriage. I know I will never give up on our marriage. We are a team. We used to tell each other all the time “You Complete Me”–just like in Jerry McGuire. We knew that it would sound cheesy if anyone ever heard us, but it is truly how I feel. I am always happier if he is home. When he is away, I can’t sleep. If he is away for more than a couple of days, my brain ceases to function. I forget things, I get over-emotional, I berate innocent clerks at McDonald’s because they won’t take my debit card (that is a story for another post). I just need him. I really, truly need this man.

I love to watch my husband play with our two little boys. They worship the ground he walks on. They can’t wait for him to come home every afternoon. They beg him to wrestle on our bed. They squeal with delight when he flips them through the air at the swimming pool. He is so patient with them. He taught Bump how to water-ski just this past weekend. He carried Crash to the car when he fell asleep at Bump’s baseball tournament last night. He is the father that every little boy wishes he had. I am lucky to have had two children with him.

So, today I will be extra-sweet to my husband and make sure he knows how much I love him. I will make sure he knows that I feel blessed to have him in my life every single day.

Latent Homosexual Female Bonding

So, on Sunday morning, my husband and I were still in bed and I heard both of my boys get up and walk in the bathroom. They have this habit (I have tried to break them of it) of peeing into the toilet at the same time. I know–you don’t have to say anything. It is just strange. Anyway, I hear them start peeing and then I hear the younger one say to the older one, “Mine’s longer than yours.” That’ all I have to say about that.

Here is my question: Do you have any girlfriends? Do you understand the value of a really great girlfriend? (Okay, so that’s two questions!) Is there at least one girlfriend in your life who knows all of your embarrassing stories and knows exactly how close you have come to the absolute end of your rope? Is there one with whom you can have a nice, big, knock-down-dragout fight without worry of permanent damage to the relationship? One who still makes you margaritas despite having seen you drunk and knowing it is not pretty? One who will psychoanalyze you for hours and not take offense when you return the favor in kind? One who will agree that your ex-boyfriend is a twisted, hypocritical pervert who deserves to spawn ugly children? I happen to have a couple of girlfriends who live up to these high standards and these are my thoughts: I am lucky and I wish every woman in the world had girlfriends like mine! Not really a profound, world-changing observation, I know! But, if you have a best girlfriend, you know that relationship is profound and silly, intense and laid-back, simple and complex and basically just one of the greatest blessings on earth! Some of my girlfriends are mushy like me and will appreciate this post. Others are not mushy at all and will be slightly embarrassed when reading this post ( she will call it latent homosexual female bonding—which it is NOT!) But it is MY blog and I can post mushiness whenever I feel like it!

I only exercised about half the time I should have on my elliptical tonight, but I still burned 100 calories. That’s nothing to sneeze at, right?