Happy Anniversary

I am a romantic. Not just at heart, I am a romantic all the time, in every way in each of my toes, both eyes, and my brain. As P!nk said "I just love love." You may think that would lead to misunderstandings and disappointments and you would be absolutely correct. Until it didn't, until every romantic notion I had was elaborated upon and embellished until I was the most spoiled and doted upon heroine Harlequin ever saw. Antonio loved me. He loved me completely, protectively, endlessly, patiently, unabashedly, proudly, sweetly, and totally. There are few things in life that are certain, that I was loved and adored is one. 

Today is our anniversary. He told me the year we met that his birthday had been so awful that he decided to join Match.com so he would have someone to celebrate with next year. I saw his profile shortly after he posted it and messaged him the same evening, it took him almost 24 hours to respond. Given that we only exchanged a couple of messages on the 8th, I didn't think that it warranted "anniversary" status. His argument was either it didn't work and we wouldn't remember or that we knew right away that it was love at first type. As I would come to learn, I didn't always understand his methodology but he was almost always right.

Before we met in person, Antonio read my blog. Not just a few pieces, but every single entry. He researched the things I mentioned in them and thoughtfully talked about his ideas and responses to what I wrote. When he cooked for me, he always made my food and plate first because he liked spice and I didn't.  Most meals he prepared for me had hearts in them, whether he cut the salad veggies into heart shapes or the rice was in the shape of a heart, he never missed a chance to tell me he loved me. When I was struggling, he knew by the tone of my voice or look on my face what I most needed, he could read me so well. He knew when to be encouraging and firm and when the only thing that would do was for him to hold me. If I said "I love you" 3000 times in one day, he said it 3001. If I was angry, frustrated, or confused and was impatient or grumpy, he took it in stride and talked me through whatever was causing me distress. He celebrated every single win I had, from awards at work to that last .2 pounds that I needed to lose to reach my current goal. When I was sick, he'd be right there holding my hand, wiping my face, cleaning me up. When my wisdom teeth were pulled, he dripped water in my mouth and gently put Carmex on my mouth so my lips didn't crack. His love made me beautiful. He would sometimes hold my face in his hands and ask me just to look at him, just let him look at how beautiful I was. 

Happy heavenly anniversary, baby. Thank you for ensuring there was as much love in six years as there is for most people in sixty. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for being my biggest fan. Thank you for keeping me organized and together. Thank you for making sure each day had smiles and laughter, especially the hardest of them. Thank you for the gift of your rare and precious love. I cannot wait to celebrate us again when we are together. FAAD you are my heart and my love and I am honored to be forever your Chi. 

Celebrate?

I feel like it is important to note this date, to recognize the last six months. But they have been the most painful and difficult of my life and there is nothing to celebrate, no achievement to mark. I have dreaded this day as much as I dread the tenth of every month. Not that it is the worst day, that honor is given to the fourth. You didn't die then but that is the day you left. The last I held your hand, kissed you, heard you call me "Chi." It was the last day you could hear me tell you how much I love you. So, really, with all that sadness at every turn, why is today remarkable?

Even if today isn't much different than most, I am different than I was six months ago. Your death, the loss of someone so vital and paramount, has altered me. Many of the things I swore I could not do I see myself managing (not always well!). Much of what I found irksome or frustrating no longer crosses my radar, it all seems so insignificant compared to the loss of you. Memories are becoming worn, like a toddler's beloved blanket that is snuggled and rubbed for the comfort it provides. I no longer worry if I am repeating myself, I want everyone to hear again and again about how brilliant and witty you were. About your romantic streak that no one would guess but was the stuff of fairy tales. I want them to know how tender you were with our kitties and how happy you were when the first strawberry appeared in our window garden. The sweet you, like a little boy, when you woke up and the excited you when you learned something new and couldn't wait to tell me. I want to tell everyone how perfectly I fit under your arm and how your strong, capable hands became so gentle when easing a hurt or wiping my tears. I want them to know the depth and breadth of your love for and pride in your family. I want them to know everything about you so that you are forever remembered and honored, long after my soul and yours are loving one another in the next life.

So while six months without you is nothing to celebrate, you my sweet, dear, beloved man, are. Antonio your love gave meaning to my life. Your love uplifted, celebrated, soothed, and comforted me. Even when things were hard and we were not our best, you chose me each and every day. And in choosing me you changed my life for the better. Your love healed and gave hope, was unconditional and uncomplicated, and you my sweet man are someone I will cherish and celebrate every day. My soul cannot wait to be with yours again.

#avsii #faad #foreveryourchi

Photo April, 2016, our first restaurant date

Another Week of Missing You

Three weeks this evening. It has only been three weeks since you slipped away. Tomorrow evening will be four weeks since you went to the hospital. But four weeks ago tomorrow morning, you answered me when I said "Good morning, love." Four weeks ago tomorrow morning, I cut watermelon for you while you  savored a white nectarine. Four weeks ago tomorrow morning I could touch you and hear you and see you, four weeks ago tomorrow morning, you were here with me.

I heard your voice this morning, a recording you had made. In one of the videos, I could see your hand, holding a strawberry. My response was visceral, the hole you left inside me when you died echoing with your absence. Every time I wake there is that moment before reality hits. It isn't even a second, just a moment, before I remember you are gone. 

I love you, Antonio. I am not sure how to navigate this "new normal" without you. I am trying to make you proud: to "dig deep" when I want to give up (especially on the stairs!), to treat others with generosity and compassion, to remain curious and continue learning new things. But it is hard, baby, so very hard. I miss the way you could tell if I needed quiet, gentle encouragement or a kick in the pants. I miss starting my day laughing at the silly dances you did to be sure my day started with a smile. I can't drive the routes you drove, I can't eat food you liked, and don't get me started on music - if the song doesn't make me cry, it reminds me of a wonderful memory you made with me. I am confounded by the fact that you are simultaneously both every where and no where. 

I look for you all day. When Schrodie starts racing, running, and chattering in the middle of the night, I ask her to tell you I love you. When a feather was in my path this morning I smiled at heaven and thanked you for sending it to me so I knew you were close. The bits of magic I encounter here and there I attribute to you, too. You took such sweet care of me in life, I know you must be watching and protecting me. How lucky I am to have loved and been loved by you, you were a gift that I will cherish until I see you again. #FAAD you are #myheart and #mylove #avsii

My Antonio

His favorite color was green. He loved to garden, to nurture something from a fragile beginning to a blooming strength. He hung flowering plants by each of our windows and put together a plant stand for me. He gently repotted our monthly succulents and excitedly remarked as everything grew and bloomed.

He loved to cook - even if we were just having left overs, he took pride in everything from subtle fla
vors to presentation. Rum baked wings. Taco Tuesdays. Thanksgiving dinner. Christmas breakfast. Romantic pancakes on Valentine's Day. Crab feasts. Grilled ANYTHING. Birthday celebrations. His father's favorite Fettucine Alfredo. When he cooked for you, he was showing you he loved you. 

He was funny. A dry, subtle wit that would make you laugh long and hard - and any time you remembered something he said or did, it was as funny as it was the first time. He took notice if I was off or down and always brought my smile back. Always.

He paid attention to things that seem so little but meant so much. I mentioned my favorite episode of "Dr. Who" was when they visit Madame Du Pompadour. He arranged a trip to The Walters Museum so I could see an exhibit of her miniatures. Before we met in person, he found my blog and read everything I wrote. Everything. He liked his drinks very cold, but never put ice in mine because I don't. He walked on the outside of the sidewalk, put his arm across me if the car stopped quickly. He carried things and organized things and kept our lives running smoothly.

And on top of all that, he loved me. He loved my bed head in the morning and my grumpy, over-tired self. He loved me even when I was short-tempered and impatient. Only he could soothe me without patronizing. He knew my fears and worries and actively showed me how we would conquer them together. He knew my hopes and dreams and worked toward achieving them with me every day.  

When we first started dating, I told him he had never met a woman like me; he often reminded me of that and agreed. I had never met a man like him, either, though. A man whose enthusiasm was so contagious, even mathematical and scientific equations became interesting. A man whose strength was rivaled only by how gentle he could be. A man who both challenged me to do better, try again, not give up and also offered a safe place to fall apart. A man who embodied everything I needed home to be. 

I am so very lucky to have been loved by him. But I am even luckier to have had the privilege of being his best friend and to love him. Antonio, you were one in a billion, thank you for choosing me. FAAD, I love you.

Your Crazy is Driving Me Crazy!

I am not a fan of the word "crazy." I am guilty of using it now and then (I have tried to substitute "wonky" and people look at me like I am, well, crazy) but I don't like all the misconceptions it connotates. That is more of a disclaimer though than an actual topic...

Yesterday I talked about being "sick" and the perception others have of mental illness and of me. That led me to think about what it is like to have someone in your life who does have major depressive disorder or anxiety or any other mental illness.

I imagine loving me isn't easy, not as a friend, a parent, a child, a partner, or even sometimes an employee. I do believe I am worth it, I know that I am. I am fiercely loyal, and pretty witty. I am fairly intelligent and am well-read enough to be able to make small talk at cocktail parties and to know some Jeopardy answers. I am kind and empathetic and generous, traits I admire in others and strive to maintain.

Those who care for and love me do struggle at times. I am sure when Max was 6 and my depression was at it's worst, all he wanted was a "normal" Mommy who didn't do everything from her bed. I know I have caused my parents worry and concern; from middle school hospitalizations to current day romantic trouble, they vigilantly watch my behavior so they can help, intervene before all hell breaks loose. My wonderful best friend who has marched by my side for 32 years MUST be exhausted by me at times, but she has never given up on me. I am a good girlfriend, a good partner, but a highly emotional one. It has to be hard to hold a sobbing girlfriend who can't even explain what is wrong, she just says "don't let go." It can't be easy to have dinner reservations or plans to attend a party and then have them derailed at the last minute because she "just can't." And no matter how understanding an employer is, they need to know I'll be there and I'll get the work done.

I have weeks, months, even a couple years under my belt of normal. I go to work and pay my bills and laugh with friends and love my boyfriend. My hygiene is good (which, while depressed, isn't always the case), I remember birthdays, and show up with a smile even when I don't think I can. I think those periods are the ones that sustain those who love me. Those are the times that I bank so when I am feeling lost and in need of direction I have proven myself worthy of help.

Thank you to everyone who loves me, supports me, hangs in there with me. I recognize it isn't easy but am so very glad I am worth it to you.

A Disease By Any Other Name... is Still a Disease

Sometimes, I wonder what other people say when their mental illness rears its ugly head. I refer to myself as sick but that isn't right, not exactly. I don't have a fever or a cough. But I do have stomach pain. And my head hurts so horribly I wish I could decapitate myself. I am tired, too. More tired than the beginning of pregnancy tired. Tired to rival Sisyphus rolling the boulder uphill for eternity tired. Tired in a way that makes my bones ache and my eyelids feel weighted. But none of those things are technically sick.

I wonder, too, about the people that suggest taking deep breaths when I am in the midst of a panic attack. I try to be gracious, to educate, but I really want to say "You have no idea what it is like to have your heart galloping faster than a race horse and your blood feel like ice." And no idea what it is like to not know what you are afraid of, just that you are terrified. 

Mostly, I wonder about the people that suggest taking a walk and breathing deeply and counting my blessings as anecdotes for the crippling depression I feel. I am all for beautiful days and centered, cleansing breaths. I absolutely know that I am lucky, blessed beyond measure, that my problems are first world problems. But I also know that when my symptoms are at their worst it hurts to breathe. Getting out of bed to shower, brush my teeth, even use the bathroom takes forethought and planning - nevermind taking a walk to enjoy the changing leaves or blooming trees or a crisp winter day. And minimizing my disease as being "all in my head" only creates shame and limits my ability to ask for help.

When I am healthy - physically, emotionally, mentally - I am constantly aware of how I am feeling. I do self checks to see what hurts? Am I really tired or is this sleepy feeling something that needs extra attention? I am hyper vigilant about taking my medicine, in touch with close friends, and I do make time to feel the sunshine and deeply breathe the fresh air. Those are all things that maintain wellness, not things that "cure" depression. 

There is no cure. Not one. No amount of exercise, healthy eating, fresh air, meditation, yoga, or wishful thinking will make this go away. What does help those with depression, anxiety, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, personality disorders, and/or another mental illness is compassion. Education. Reduction of stigma. Understanding. Those all help, each one makes a difference. A difference I, and the many others who get "sick," will appreciate beyond measure.

The Power of I Love You

You might think, after 23 years, that celebrating my older son's birthday would be easier. That it would be a happy blip on February 20th that involved a little singing and a special dessert. You might think that and have every reason to believe it is true. But it is never easy. It is never just a "blip," never involves singing, never involves dessert. It is bittersweet, not just happy.

When Benjamin was born, at 12:30 a.m. after 32 hours of labor and, ultimately, a caesarean section, I was freezing. I had never been nor would I ever be, so cold. While I was exhausted from being in labor and tired of being pregnant (he was 18 days late), I was not ready to relinquish him. My body tried to hold onto him as long as it could.

Ben was adopted. He grew up in a home where he was loved and adored and cherished. He wasn't very far from me geographically. His parents provided me with detailed letters about his life and included photographs so I could see his smile and the cicada on his nose and how many people around him were beaming at him. Through these letters I learned about the technology being used to combat his hearing loss and that he loved batman and skateboarding and playing the drums. But I didn't know what his voice sounded like or what his favorite food was or if his hands still looked like my mother's.

I am lucky that I am able to communicate with Ben. We send text messages to one another and, recently, photographs. He sent one yesterday with his mother and thanked me for being gracious in receiving it and asking about his family. I tried to explain that it was gratitude, not grace, that fueled my interest. I shared with him a bit about my first interactions with his parents, that they had a "baby" phone and that he often had the hiccups while I was pregnant. And I thanked him for sending a recent photo that included his hand because one of the things I wondered was if I would recognize them. His response was one of the greatest gifts I could receive; he not only said "I love you" but he showed me. And his hands still look like my mother's.

What I learned from Grace

I never met Grace... I never even knew she was sharing my world other than the peripheral knowledge that my coworker, my friend, had a daughter. But in the two weeks since Grace died, she is someone from whom I learned very much. And someone I wish I had known. Grace was loved... adored even. She shared laughter and joy and silliness with those around her.

At her memorial, I was touched - literally - by other people in attendance. I hugged and held hands with people I hadn't seen in months, years. I was struck by the admiration for Grace by those who knew her. And struck by the impact she had on so many. I smiled when I learned she was a "Whovian" and wondered who her favorite Doctor was?

Her mother called her courageous, brave and while I don't doubt she was, I thought that most certainly her parents are brave. I don't know that I would have the strength to survive such a loss. And I thought of my parents and my struggle. I remembered my father gently telling me all he could do was hope I would hold on but he couldn't make me do anything.

Mostly I hoped that Grace could feel the love that those gathered had for her. That she knew she had made a difference and would be remembered, even by those who never had the privilege to meet her.

Ouch!

If asked, I would tell you that I have grown a lot in the last five years. That I have become more accountable, more confident, HAPPIER! I am most certainly a work in progress but have come a long way. Crying under my desk? Not on your life! Crying AT my desk? Only if I have been laughing a lot. Hiding in my closet? Nope. But there are some mistakes I am evidently destined to repeat until the lesson is learned... but I thought it had been?

Can progress only be measured by an absolute? Or do we allow ourselves the opportunity to re-examine and re-process events? Is anticipation of a different outcome a sign of maturation? Maybe there are no answers. Or maybe these questions are merely an excuse not to call myself a dumbass who did it again.

I want to argue that baby steps are still steps. And that each experience does build character and provide answers that we previously did not have. I want to soothe my hurt feelings by making note of all that is actually, really, I can prove that this is different, different.

But if I sit with how I feel, if I acknowledge my actions that were the catalyst for all this introspection, I have to take responsibility. I am in charge and I allowed my ego to get bruised.  And I walked in with eyes wide open (even if I was ignoring the little voice in my ear). And, in some ways, this is different because I can see that there is still room for growth. And accept that, maybe, I am not all the way there yet. Which gives me hope that one day, I will be.

What "thank you" can mean

Yesterday was my ten year anniversary at my job. It is the longest I have worked anywhere. Compared to many at my place of business, I am still a newbie; there are those here who have worked more than 20 years, a few more than 30. It is a good place to work and I count it as one of my blessings daily.

Something pretty special happened today though, I was able to say thank you to the woman who helped me get this job. Ten years and 3 months ago I had just been laid off and was a bit frantic. One of the first things I did was register with the Job Employment Center and Program offered by the County where I work. I met with a woman there weekly for three months. We revamped my resume for every different application I submitted. We practiced interviewing and I "checked in" with her. When I was my most discouraged she reminded me that I wasn't doing this alone and offered me encouragement. And today she walked into my office. And today she gave me a high five. And today she told me I made her day.

I hope she knows all that she made of me 10 years ago. I hope she knows that I learned from her and that I appreciate how well she balanced encouragement and "sticktoit-tiveness." She never let me wallow or feel sorry for myself but she never chastised me or treated my situation as something of my own making. She helped me better myself. And she helped me get a job I truly love. And today, today, I had the privilege of offering a belated but very heartfelt "thank you."

Domestic Violence is Deadly

It is time for my annual post about Domestic Violence. Some may classify it as a rant but really, it isn't. What it really is is an attempt to open people's eyes. Educate people about something that isn't talked about nearly enough. To make the struggles women have bigger than their breasts and the ubiquitous pink that is more prevalent than even Pumpkin Spice EVERYTHING. Okay, maybe there is a little ranting but not much, I promise.

Domestic Violence Awareness month began as a "Day of Unity" in 1981. It was aimed as connecting advocates who work to end the violence against women and their children. It was a nation-wide observance that evolved into week and focused on:

• Mourning those who have died because of Domestic Violence
• Celebrating those who have survived
• Connecting those who work together to end violence

Fast-forward 6 years to October 1987 and the first Domestic Violence Awareness Month. The "Day of Unity" is still celebrated, now on the first Monday of October (this year it is October 5).

The chance of a woman having invasive breast cancer during her lifetime is a little less than 1 in 8, but the likelihood of a woman being the victim of domestic violence is 1 in  4 - so twice as many women suffer at the hands of an intimate partner as do from breast cancer. Viewed through a different lens, not quite a quarter of million will get breast cancer, but 1.3 million will suffer at the hands of an intimate partner.

I am not trying to say that breast cancer is easy. Or should be forgotten or break-throughs neglected. What I am trying to say is that women are stronger when they are helping other women and a wonderful way to do that is to bring attention to domestic violence so that it decreases. When Susan G. Komen's family started advocating for breast cancer research and a cure it was a much more devastating disease. But pink-lidded yogurt and pink-ribboned NFL teams have opened many eyes - think what a wave of purple can do to open eyes to Domestic Violence!

While inundated with pink this month give a little thought to her cousin, purple. Wear purple on the 6th for Purple Day - any shade will work. And while you are building camaraderie and increasing awareness on your breast cancer walk, share some domestic violence facts with those who may not know. And maybe one day we will be celebrating that Domestic Violence has been cut in half. Maybe. One day.

Just a nurse?

I haven't written in a long time. Not that there haven't been many things on which I could expound. Not that there haven't been endless things about which I have an opinion. Not for any reasons other than being busy and enjoying summer and a teensy bit of writer's block that I am pretending to ignore.

But yesterday I caught up on the #showmeyourstethescope movement and I was awed. Stunned. Moved to tears and laughter. And not by the stupid women on "The View" who seem to be living under a rock of entitlement and idiocy but by the OUTPOURING of support for those that provide nursing care. I spent hours, literally hours, reading the posts on the facebook page  Show Me Your Stethoscope and learned a lot. About people who care and give and devote their lives to making other people's lives better.

You should visit the page. Read some of the stories, especially those by family members who have been touched by the kindness of a nurse. Or those from doctors who make it very clear how much they depend on nurses. I especially loved the one where the doctor stated he was a physician because he wasn't brave enough to be a nurse.

My mother is a nurse. She is now a provider (a nurse practitioner with lots of letters after her name) but the fundamental part of her training is still that on which she relies every day - caring about each and every patient. When my son was born and I was struggling to learn to feed him, he couldn't swallow all the milk in his mouth. I was 25 and terrified and pushed the call button. And I still get teary-eyed remembering the stampede of people who ran to my room, so many nurses they couldn't all get into the room. But I needed help and they came. Immediately. The nurses in the Emergency Room who knew my grandmother was dying but treated her like a queen anyway because dignity is a given for patients, not something reserved for only a few. And we, her family, were included in that treatment. I have a multitude of stories about the nurses who have touched my life and who I admire. And I couldn't do it, not for an hour much less a lifetime. It isn't that I don't care but I just don't have what it takes to do what they do - it is a calling.

So hug a nurse today, or say thank you to one. Support the companies that are supporting our nurses by not advertising on "The View" (Johnson & Johnson, McCormick, Party City, Snuggle, Eggland's Best to name a few). And read the stories on "Show Me Your Stethoscope" and be awed.

Just the beginning

MAXIMO: The greatest. 

When I was pregnant with Max, one of the definitions I read said "will do great things." We chose to name him after a grandfather and a great-grandfather. Not to burden him with expectations, but to bestow on him a connection to two men who personified being a gentleman's gentleman, men who had qualities we admired and thought would serve him well.

All that seems so long ago. The tiny person whose feeding and sleeping I agonized over is now 18. He went to his prom last week. He graduates from high school a week from today. He has a job and could care less about my opinion of the clothes he wears. He has learned to navigate (mostly) on his own. And I am awed.

A friend asked me yesterday how I dealt with my boy being all grown up and I realized I was doing much better than I thought I would. I am spending more time looking at his little boy pictures, but I also am thrilled by the young man who proudly picked out birthday presents for me (ones I really liked!). Remembering his pudgy hand in mine is bittersweet, seeing him in a tuxedo is awesome in the truest sense of the word. And as I told my friend yesterday, that grown up façade cracks now and again, particularly when he is sleepy or a bit overwhelmed. And he props his head on my shoulder - even though he has to duck to do so - and lets me be mom for another few minutes.

I take no credit for this wonderful young man, one who truly is the greatest and will continue to do great things. I can only continue to love him fiercely and be proud of all he is and will be.

The difference between "commando" and "No Panties Day"

I suppose there are a lot of names for going "sans culottes" other than commando but the only two I know are the ones I just used. I am sure you get my drift no matter which words you use to describe it and whatever you call it, whenever you do it, carry on and enjoy.

It isn't the issue of which undergarments you choose to wear that has me on my soapbox today but the ADVERTISED "No Panties Day" on June 22nd. The below meme was liked by someone on Facebook and I felt sick seeing it:

It really irked me that a man, most likely sharing from another man, and another man, on back, felt it was ok to announce to women that they aren't to wear underwear on a specific day of the year. It doesn't say "No Boxers" or "No Drawers," just "No Panties." And the picture implies that upon being reminded that she wasn't to wear underwear today, a woman should just drop 'em and keep walking for the express pleasure and enjoyment of whichever man/men requested it. And that she should obviously be wearing a skirt so short that there is nothing left to the imagination.

Don't get me wrong, not wearing underwear is a personal choice that men and women can indulge in as often or as rarely as they choose. I don't really care to share if and what I wear or what those I encounter throughout my day wear, either. What I find incredibly offensive is that there is a group of men who feel they have the right to get off on knowing, or thinking they know, whether or not a woman is wearing panties. If you aren't close enough to her to watch her dress, assume she has on a chastity belt for heaven's sake. And if there isn't a woman in your life that you watch dress each morning, consider that one very big reason may be because you support and advertise "No Panties" day! And then stop.

One last point - no, women don't care at all about a "No Boxers" or "No Drawers" day, you make your clothing decisions all by yourself like a big boy!

Shattered

Shattered

Smashed

Slivers and shards

All the pieces of my heart

You back away from the ruins

Hammer hanging limply at your side

I can’t tell if you are shocked

Or merely exhausted by the effort

 

My soul is whole

It begins to glow

Shine

Light a new path

And the broken pieces

Join

And heal

What you left as a disaster

Is now a mosaic

Lit from within

Not perfect

But

Beautiful

And strong