Uppercase Woman

ASSHOLE (that would be me)

So, I've been kind of an asshole lately.

No, really. Don't rush to post comments telling me I'm not, because truly, I am. In the last few weeks I can find a half dozen places where people were unfailingly generous to me and I was dismissive or casual about their kindness--and even worse--where I acted or felt as if their generosity was my due.

From Sarah's father offering us an old TV for free for our trailer in the Poconos and my failing to call him to thank him or arrange to pick it up, to not calling Charlie's aunt (for two weeks) to thank her for my nice birthday present, to accepting an offer from a blog reader to help me get a discount on my flight to BlogHer (and also arranging the same discount for Sarah so she can go with me--on her own dime, natch) and not paying her in a timely manner and thus losing the discount (and pissing her off). Not to mention not remembering to thank my mom for babysitting, or writing something so casually dismissive in my blog that it hurt a whole group of bloggers. I won't even talk about how rude I've been to Charlie and how unsupportive a wife I've been lately.

Part of this I can blame on being an alcoholic. There's a saying in recovery that fits me perfectly; "When an alcoholic walks into a room and is greeted with cheers and joy, she feels normal. When an alcoholic walks into a room and she is treated normally, she feels left out." In my years of addiction and drinking, I suffered mightily from the idea that I would be magically plucked from my drab life into one of wonder and fame simply because I was awesome. I never felt I needed to actually DO anything to deserve the wonder and fame, it was--again--simply my due.

This is why recovery places such an intense focus on achieving humility. Because we drunks generally believe that while we may be a giant piece of shit, we are the giant piece of shit at the center of the motherfucking universe. I have to work double and triple time to keep my ego at a reasonable level--both positively and negatively. And guess who hasn't been making that many meetings lately?

Um, that would be ME.

Secondly, I realized today that some part of my callousness is related to our old pal Fred (you know, the crack addict I met at church that Charlie and I spent six months trying to help to no avail). After the cell phone incident, I made the decision that I was walking away from Fred until he was really and truly asking for help to recover from his addictions, and that as long as he planned to keep trying to keep using drugs as part of his life, he would not be part of mine (or Tori's). Charlie was going to continue to sponsor him, but once I told Fred he couldn't come to the house when I and the baby were home, he simply vanished completely.

I don't do well with letting people go. In fact, in order to let go of Fred, I didn't realize I'd done what I always do in times of grief (because grief is what I feel about Fred); I emotionally shut down. It didn't start right away, but it happened. For the first two weeks after he disappeared, I had dreams about him. Horrible dreams, where he'd been badly hurt and needed help. It was awful. I didn't know how to cope with all the feelings I had, so I simply shut down.

In the past I would have simply spent three days not getting dressed and eating cheetohs and watching television to deal with my grief about Fred. Eventually, though, I'd come out of it, and my feelings and emotional balance would return to normal.

But since I now have a child, I cannot take that "time out" to grieve. Nope. I have to be on, be happy for her, play with her, and generally participate in life. So this time when I shut down, it was somewhat incomplete and, in a way, sneaky--I didn't notice it had happened. At least, I didn't notice until I had this whole series of incidents of me being a callous asshole in the last couple of weeks, and as they began to pile up and increase in number I had to stop and go, shit, it's not the other people: it's ME.

I write all this not to explain myself, or even to ask for sympathy (in fact, I'd feel better if a lot of folks just said--yeah, Cec, you've been kind of a dick for a while). But this is my blog, and this is my space where I go to work this shit out. Writing about it helps clear my head, so forgive me for making you all my emotional dumping ground.

Today I'm off to a meeting, and then I'm taking myself to a movie (because I also know that I really DO need to take a bit of time to be alone to refresh). Tomorrow I'm also going to a meeting. Hopefully, in a few days and working to open my feelings back up--and maybe even after shedding a few tears (why is crying so hard for me?), I'll be more myself, and the world will be back in perspective: I am neither a piece of shit, nor am I the center of anyone's universe. God willing.

More Things To Worry About (but trying to practice gratitude anyway)

So a woman shared this awesome meditation tool with me recently. She takes each letter of the alphabet and lists 26 things for which she is grateful, each day, one for each letter. I've been trying to do it each night as a tool to help me fall asleep (since I'm such a lousy sleeper).

It's hard. The first letter, A, is tough. What starts with A? I find that I usually end up being grateful for the abundance in my life. After spending so much time around someone that was homeless, it's pretty easy to see that I have great abundance. But besides things, I have an abundance of love and happiness in my life that I have such gratitude for--even now, as I find myself growing crankier and crankier these days thanks, I think, to the birth control pills I'm taking to relieve my migraines (which don't seem to be helping; in fact, they may be making it worse).

I have to work to recognize my abundance. I'm not sure why; maybe it's from growing up poor or maybe it's just how I'm wired, but there are really only two times I feel flush with abundance. First, when I come back from a big grocery store trip and the house if full of food (that, I'm sure, is from my childhood; seeing a full gallon of milk in a crowded fridge makes me feel safe like nothing else). Second is coming back from the library with a huge stack of books, knowing that at least for a few minutes a day for a few weeks I'll be able to bury myself in other magical worlds (I panic when I have nothing to read).

But when I started this blog a few years back I had no idea how much it would also make me feel full of abundance. I went to a baby shower on Sunday and I found myself thinking back to my own baby shower and how weird it must have been for some people to sit there and watch me open present after present from strangers on the Internet, and how incredibly moving it was that these so-called strangers took so much time to make me things and buy me things. It was so amazing.

And now it's equally amazing to see that Tip Jar filling up! Oh my god. I already have enough to pay for the (rather hefty $300) registration fee for the BlogHer conference, and am about 2/3 of the way to paying for my flight. YOU GUYS ARE THE BEST. Thank you so much!
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Now on to more typical blog fodder.

You've all heard about the vanishing bees, right? Honeybees are vanishing without a trace from 24 different states across the country. This isn't just about a national honey shortage, folks: we're talking about $14 Billion worth of crops not getting pollinated. YIKES.

But have you also heard about the missing salmon? The Chinook Salmon that run from California to Oregon to Canada have, well, vanished. Their numbers have been declining for years and now they've just up and vanished completely.

Charlie is obsessed with the giant island--TWICE THE SIZE OF TEXAS--made entirely of 3.5 million tons of plastic. PLASTIC. Here's a cheery little movie about it.  How lovely is that? This has made us MUCH more diligent with our recycling, I tell you what.

Or how about the giant chunk of ice that just broke off Antarctica? The 160 square mile one? But you know, according to certain people in the White House, THERE'S NO GLOBAL WARMING.

THIS SHIT is why I have to mutter a 26-item long gratitude list to myself to get to sleep at night. This is terrifying. Toss in to that the rising costs of oil and the way that's impacting the costs of food, and it's a wonder that anyone can sleep at night.

My state primary is happening a week from today. I'm still wavering between Obama and Clinton (Clinton is NOT winning me over lately; even with Obama's recent statement of fact gaff, he's looking more and more like a stand-up guy and she's beginning to look like a carnival act). But damn it, whoever we vote into office has GOT to begin to address this. I mean, God's sending us all kinds of burning bushes here. What's it gonna take for us to notice?

Fears, Real and Unfounded

So, 50 out of 51 people can't be wrong: I have put up the tip jar. *cringe* I'm telling myself it's ok for several reasons. One, it is almost my birthday. My 40th birthday. So, maybe I can just pretend you are all giving me a birthday present. Cause that wouldn't bother me.

Two, I've given plenty of money and gifts to bloggers I love over the years. And I will continue to do so. Whenever I can. Because, yeah, I get so much out of reading blogs--more than I do out of most novels, magazines, movies or television shows--that it is well worth it. When I send a blogger a baby shower present, I do it because it feels like we're friends--so when you guys say that to me, I get it. And after all, some of you I have been emailing for over FOUR YEARS.  So OK, I get it already.

Third, and I haven't spoken about this here because, well, it's tough to draw that line about personal vs. professional. I mean, I'll tell y'all about my uterus, no problem--but I don't really talk about the work stuff. But I'll tell you this little bit without getting into too much detail, because while only one person said it, you know another gazillion folks are thinking it: hey, dude--didn't you just go on a looooong vacation, and hey--aren't you buying a second house?

Guilty as charged. Boy, I have some deep money shame stuff--let me tell you, growing up as a poor kid, you always feel guilty either spending money or asking for it--so it's hard to not feel defensive. But yeah, we did take our first vacation since the cruise we took right after we lost the twins recently. And yeah, we decided to invest a bit of money in a mobile home in the mountains (a very, very, very small amount of money). And we did both of those things fully expecting my major freelance client to remain near full-time for the rest of the year.

Nothing official has been said about that changing. But I haven't been given as much work this last month. And I'm worried. For the last 11 months that I've been working freelance, I have applied for at least five jobs a week, worked at least five contacts a week, and sent out several queries a week.

I'm getting nowhere*.

So it has become clear to me in this last few weeks that if I want this life to continue--this life where I'm able to be home with my daughter--I need to pursue every avenue necessary to make it work. So, six months ago when we were looking at our lives and our schedules and planning things like vacations and buying mobile homes, I considered going to BlogHer and decided that this year I didn't NEED to go. Well, obviously, in the last month that's changed. That's why I've decided it's so important now. I've got to shake something loose.

My friend Julie (have you met my friend Julie? She's one of my heroes; she quit her job to write a novel--how cool is that?) recently talked about working to keep her dreams alive; she said "It feels like I'm fighting for my life."

I feel exactly the same way. OK, OK; I know that I can be a bit overly dramatic (it's why you all love me, right?) and I not trying to blackmail you into giving me money. But I felt like if I was going to ask something this huge from you, you deserve to know WHY it matters to me so much that I would ask.

Does that seem fair? I hope so. The tip jar is up there on the top right. Just click on it and follow the instructions. Or don't. I will love you either way. Should I get more than I need, I will donate any extra to the Preeclampsia Foundation, of course (unless you'd like it back--just let me know).

You all have the biggest hearts of anyone I know. I promise that if ever get to write a book and get it published, it will be dedicated to you. All of you.

*I must confess, I just tonight got one freelance lead that is so exciting that I'm squealing with glee. But I don't want to jinx it, so mums the word for now.

Scarred Hands

The Sunday after Easter is often the time, in Christian churches, when the story of doubting Thomas is told. If you are like me and are either a really shitty Christian or not a Christian at all you may not know that the phrase "doubting Thomas" comes from the story in the bible where the apostle Thomas refuses to believe that Jesus has risen from the dead until he, personally, "sees the wounds in his hands and touches the wound in his side." Naturally, as it works out, Jesus shows up yet again and the lucky bastard does get his proof and is gently admonished by Jesus who says, "Blessed are those who have not seen and yet still believe."

Of course, this is where the rest of us are. We are the ones who have not seen, whether it's Jesus or whatever form of God or God-like spirit you want to believe in. Imagine how much easier it would be to believe? It seems to me that the apostles had it rather easy, eh?

I've been a pretty strong doubting Thomas since the boys died. Worse, I've been all "Yeah, God might exist but he doesn't love ME." It's been an uphill battle changing my own mind about this the last few years. My minister on Sunday closed his sermon with a story that touched me profoundly. He told about a young boy living on the frontier with his grandmother, and how one night their house caught fire. Because it was a frontier town, there wasn't much of a fire department, so although the grandmother tried to rescue the boy on the second floor, she was overcome by smoke and perished on the first floor. The boy was upstairs yelling for help as a crowd gathered, not knowing what to do. Finally, a man in the crowd pushed his way forward and began climbing up the iron drainpipe to rescue the boy. The drainpipe, of course, was searing hot from the fire, but the man managed to get into the room, put the boy on his back, and climb back down while the crowd cheered.

After the fire burned out, and things had settled down, a town meeting was called to decide where the boy would live. The whole town came to see to the boy's fate. A farmer stepped forward, and said, "I'll take the boy; I can teach him a valuable trade!" Everyone nodded with approval. Then the town's teacher stood up and she said, "He can live with me; I'll make sure he gets a wonderful education!" More heads nodded. The town's banker stood up self-importantly and said, "I'll make sure he lives in the largest house in town!" Everyone seemed to think that was splendid.

Finally, the meeting leader asked if there was anyone else. There was a pause, and then, from the back of the room a man stood up and said, "I can't offer much. I can't teach a trade, or provide a big house or a great education. All I can offer is my love." Then he pulled his hands out of his coat pockets and showed the scars covering them and of course it was the man that had climbed the drainpipe and rescued the boy. The boy ran into his waiting arms, and the meeting was over, because the decision had been made.

...

This story was, of course, compared to Jesus. My minister compared the burns on the man's hands to the scars from Jesus being nailed to the cross. I must confess, while I remain steadfast in my refusal to fully succumb to the allure of Jesus-ness (Jesus-ocity?), I was moved. Deeply moved, and deeply humbled.

I realized that God doesn't promise us much; not big houses, not great educations, not even the rescue of our loved grandmothers that burn to death below us--or, if you will, the loss of our twin boys. But God did sacrifice something--I'm not sure what (Christianity says God sacrificed his son; interesting parallel there, no?) to bring us that love.

Oh, it's been such a long time since I could feel that so clearly.

I hope I'm telling this right. It's so hard to communicate it effectively. I've been trying to impart a tiny piece of this truth, or maybe this hope, to our friend Fred (remember Fred? the guy from my church that was working for us?) who is continuing to struggle. He's not struggling so much with his sobriety these days, but that's only because he has no money to buy drugs with.

I've been trying to explain to him the idea of pride, and the idea of humility. I've had some good lessons in humility lately, such as my unattractive reaction to the woman that attacked me last week (respond, don't react--I'll file that one away), and the gentleman that took me aside at one of my meetings and asked me to share more kindly about my husband (ack), among others. For me, my spiritual journey is a constant battle of humility and pride.

Fred's battle with pride seems unlikely, considering that he's homeless. He was kicked out of living at the church (for good reasons I won't get into here). He briefly went into a rehab, but left after a few weeks. He recently was offered a dishwashing job but had a communication issue with the boss (primarily because he doesn't have a phone and uses ours) and took that as a reason to not take the job), and actually said he was better off sitting outside on a bench than washing dishes.

I got so angry with him. When I told him to practice some humility, what he hears is he has to eat shit. When the jobs he wants won't hire him, he says to me, "Do I have a sign on my forehead?" and I think, yes, Fred, you do, you have one that says, I won't take any shit and that make bosses not want to hire you. He cannot see that the situation he's in is one of his own making and that he has to bow his head and act humbly if he wants his life to change. Even though the only time he eats is when he's here (I just found this out yesterday, and it makes my heart hurt). Even though he gets maybe five hours of sleep a night at the shelter.

He cannot see God's love. He does not see the scarred hands. All he sees is the lack of the nice house, and the good education, and the job. He only sees deprivation. He refuses to see the abundance, although it's hard to blame him--it's got to be difficult to see abundance when you only eat four or five times a week and you are living on the street.

I do not know how to give this to him. I do not know how to impart humility. I do not know how to give the gift I've been given--the ability to see past all the pain, and instead see the joy. I have been given a great gift! I have such an amazing life, and somehow, after all my railing against it, all my self-pitying bullshit, I still have God's love. What a wonder.

But no matter what I do, I cannot take Fred's face and force it into the light. I do not see good things for him right now. I do not want to withdraw my helping hand, yet I do not know how much more I can do. He sees our helping hand withdrawing and it only makes him more bitter, more sure that God has rejected him.

It's hard work, being the only tenuous connection someone has to God. Especially when you aren't sure if that is what you are actually doing; if instead, what you might be doing is helping someone continue to tread water when they should actually be swimming to shore.

But I digress. I wanted this to be a happy post about how I felt so sure that I could once again feel God's love; and it is, and I do. Oh man, I really, really do. But that makes it all the more clear that some people don't feel that same love, and that hopelessness I feel from Fred is so stark and awful I can almost not bear it.

So, I'll ask a favor of you all. Pray for him. Think good thoughts for him. Because I think the end of this road for him is coming; either he will turn toward the light or he will turn toward, well... the place that addicts and alcoholics go when they don't: jails, institutions, death. But I hope he turns.

Because MAN is this a great place to be.

Unbalanced

So, I've been fuming ranting and raving stewing considering the whole last 48 hours on this blog.

I've been thinking about what would happen if any of the candidates actually DID come and read my blog post about losing Nicholas and Zachary and why it made me even more a believer in keeping abortion safe and legal (and rare). Then I started to think about how it would be if they read the comments, and then what I posted the next day, and I began to feel, well, frankly... embarrassed.

I'm not embarrassed by you guys--your comments were fine. I'm embarrassed at my behavior, at my cattiness, and at my reactionary response to the few people that asked me that simple question: why didn't I get a c-section? Of course the answer seems obvious, on the surface, either to those of us that have been through a similar situation, or have watched women like us go through it, or have a medical background, or have the Google MD that comes from years of infertility and loss.

But you know what? That does NOT describe everyone who reads this blog any more. There are a lot of people who come here who never had any trouble conceiving (and some who haven't even yet tried) who might honestly just not know the answer to that simple question: why didn't I have a c-section?

Instead of being calm and rational, and what I like to call the "Good Cecily" that handles discussions of the loss of my twins in a reasoned and sensible manner and just answers the question asked, I instead reacted to what I perceived to be the unasked questions or the unstated judgments. I didn't hear a simple "Why didn't you get a c-section?" I heard, "Bitch, why didn't you try harder to save your son's life and have a c-section?"

And you know what? NOBODY SAID THAT. I leaped to conclusions--many of us did--and instead of responding, I reacted. I got angry. I behaved badly. I engaged in an email debate that got ugly. And worse, when the person I engaged with extended what might have been an olive branch I could have possibly grasped onto (admittedly, it was a small branch, slightly wilted, without any actual leaves), instead of trying to bring peace to our discussion, I set the fucking branch on fire.

Additionally, I turned my back on the 110 supportive and positive comments I got and instead focused on the single commenter that was negative. How rotten is that? How ungrateful? How small minded and stupid?

I can't give a reasonable excuse for why this happened; I'd love to blame the hormones (seriously, this is the worst PMS I've ever experienced, and WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PERIOD ALREADY?) but that's not the only reason. In general lately I have been focusing on the dark and not able to see the light. I find that when my surface is scratched these days, what is underneath is bitterness and fear. I'm not letting love in. I'm not letting God in. I'm not letting the light in.

So I'm not sure I should be representing ANYONE to our candidates.

I want to apologize to those of you that asked a simple question and got shouted down. Please, forgive me for not just answering what you asked and instead assuming you were saying something else entirely (and even if that WAS what you were thinking, that is SO not my business). I hope you will continue to come here, and continue to ask questions, and continue to express your point of view even if it differs from mine and from many readers of this blog.

Now, please don't give me a bunch of accolades and tell me how awesome I am for saying this. I'm not big-hearted, or brave, or tolerant, even, particularly. Truth is, I'm mostly kind of an asshole and sometimes I let it show here in the blog. This was one of those times. I'm working on it.

Now. Back to the puppies.

Just When I Thought I Was Getting Better...

Yesterday I took Tori to the YMCA to swim, which she dearly loves. She comes over to me and says, "Swim? Water?" and my heart melts and we get everything together and go on over to the pool and swim. It's some of our best time together, and I forget that if I put everything aside and make it ALL ABOUT TORI the time we have together is wonderful and perfect and she is just a dream.

She's fearless at the pool, jumping in while holding onto my hands, going fully under with each jump (yes! really!) and coming up giggling. She then grabs onto the side of the pool and clambers out, all by herself, and does it again. This amazes all the other mothers at the pool, and I felt very smug (they asked, "How old is she? And I said, smiling, "Oh, she'll be two in June") watching the moms of four-year-olds timidly putting toes into the water as they went down the stairs.

After about a million jumps Tori was getting tired and sitting on the stairs and kicking and playing, and then sometimes she'd get bored and go jump for a bit and then go back to the stairs and I was heading back to meet her at the stairs when I saw it: poop in the pool.

Not a big ol' poop, just little frayed bits of poop. Now, I'd been diligently checking her swim diaper because about four or five days ago after swimming we'd headed into the showers and I'd been surprised to find a gift there in her diaper, so I'd probably checked it about a dozen times while we were swimming yesterday. Once I saw the floaties, I checked it again. It was spotless--clean as a whistle.

A few minutes before I spotted the floaties a dad had come in with a year-old boy, and he was the only other kid in the pool in a diaper. It may have been him. It might have been an older kid. But it wasn't Tori.

But the other moms? They all thought it was.

Everyone had to get out, and we all went to the showers. There had been a large birthday group in the pool, and they were all in the showers too, glaring daggers at me. I took Tori's diaper off, and I put it outside our little shower cubicle so they COULD ALL SEE IT WAS CLEAN. Some saw it, and their gazes softened. But not all of them. Not at all. The mother of the birthday boy, especially, was viscous--if gazes could cut, I'd have been sliced to ribbons.

What bothered me wasn't so much the glares. I mean, there was only five minutes left of swim time anyway, no one really lost anything, and every kid was so dipped in chlorine it wasn't like anyone was going to get sick, and it was probably about a teaspoon of poop-substance at most anyway. Oh, AND IT WASN'T TORI.

What bothered me is HOW MUCH IT BOTHERED ME. I was SO EMBARRASSED. I wanted so much for those other moms to KNOW it wasn't me, it wasn't MY KID. Jesus, I'd never seen any of them there before, chances are I won't again, so why do I care? Of course, it's entirely possible that the mom of the birthday boy was more worried about the party than she was worried about me. But still.

Sheesh. And I thought I'd grown up.

Another New Year Begins...

I've been finding myself feeling more rueful than usual as this year draws to a close. This is the last year I'll be in my thirties--I'll turn 40 this spring--and while that is generally rather meaningless, I can feel the shadows of a midlife crisis circling.

I have such a good life; I have a man that loves me unconditionally and passionately. A daughter that is perfect, charming, adorable, and enchanting (do you know what she's just started doing? Every time I tell her I love her she comes and gives me a hug. Could she be any cuter?). I have the best dog ever™. A cat the mostly uses the litter pan, and doesn't ever bite Tori, not matter how hard Tori pulls on her tail. A best friend many people would kill for. A mother that loves Tori and lives close by. A new car. A nice house that gets nicer every minute that our buddy Fred keeps hanging around fixing things.

But I find myself feeling a bit sad about stupid things; I no longer have the power to draw men's glances across a bar (OK, maybe it was just the big "slut" sign on my forehead, but I did have that power at one point). I have reached that age where most people see a "ma'am" instead of a "miss." No one would ever card me for beer or cigarettes (and I no longer indulge in beer and cigarettes, which I also find myself missing a bit today). It's unlikely that I'll find myself in the flush of new love again; and while I have something so much more amazing now--a deep and abiding true love that cannot be matched--I sometimes miss the days of burning so hot that I out shined the sun.

I'm firmly entrenched in the middle of my life now. I'm no longer at the beginning. I can see, now, why people have affairs (calm down, Charlie, I am so NOT going to have an affair), or buy fast cars, or take up rock climbing (I might, however, take up rock climbing). It feels a little bit, now, like I've done it all--like there's nothing new to explore. I've already lived six or seven different lives, some of them in different parts of the country. I am now simply placing one foot in front of the other, waiting for the next thing to happen.

There is great joy in this, of course. I now actually have the ability to live in the moment, to find the hope and magic in the mundane. I no longer feel the compulsion to change the world--and, honestly, that is so freeing. Changing the world is a big job, and I don't really want to have to do it. I have the capacity to sit still now, to listen to a piece of classical music and really hear it without the impatience of youth demanding that it fucking end all ready. I can enjoy just laying in bed with my husband, our arms loosely entwined, feeling content to just be. I can sit on the floor with Tori and watch her push the triangle through the triangle shaped hole over and over again and applaud it each time with equal enthusiasm because I have the patience that nearly 40 years of being on this planet has given me.

But sometimes it's hard to just smolder when you used to burn. It's one of the joys of growing old, but one of the big lessons in humility that comes with aging as well. I know I don't want to be like those people you see trying so hard to stay on fire with the surgeries and the crazy hair and make-up and inappropriate clothes. I am trying to let my skin settle comfortably around me, and just trust that it belongs where it falls, even if part of me thinks perhaps it should still be up a tad (ok, a lot) higher.

Because the truth is, as I head into 2008--a number that is as completely unspectacular as my life is--I have everything I want. I have a perfect life. I have become an ember instead of a flame, and I am learning to be content with that. I plan to head into the new year with only this one resolution--to continue to trust that my skin does, in fact, fit me. I wish the same for you as well.

Happy New Year, everybody. May you find happiness in the skin you're in.

Miracles

Recently I was forced to use the bed sheets that got so stained on the day Tori was born. I don't think I realized that I was avoiding them; while they'd of course been washed (several times) the giant remnants of blood stains from my placental abruption remain, although, funny enough, they don't seem as big now as they did on that day (most of the blood I lost that day came when I actually stood up and it all landed on the carpet, the hallway floor, and worst of all, in the toilet bowl).

I had to use those sheets because they were the last clean ones, and the nice 300 thread count ones my mom gave me when we bought this house I have actually worn a massive hole into with my feet by tossing and turning. So Charlie and I went sheet hunting and found, hidden in the back corner of the linen closet, the abruption sheets.

I find that it's generally not a good idea to look too closely at my life. If I step back too far and take a good long look I get a bit overwhelmed by the huge number of miracles that have been required to get me to this point. So why am I talking about miracles in the same breath as the placenta abruption that nearly killed both me and my daughter? Well, I guess, because it DIDN'T. We all survived. Tori is alive today, fully capable of dismantling the DVD player (cutest face ever--when I found her gleefully yanking wires out of the back of the player).

Tomorrow Charlie and I, barring any unforeseen events, will celebrate twelve years sober. This is made all the more poignant by the fact that our friend from church (the gentleman that built us the lovely bookcases) hasn't experienced quite the same success with sobriety. After doing some additional work for us, he disappeared for a bit. He's back now, feeling pretty beat up, and OH MY GOD am I glad that's not me. We're working on getting him some help, but you know, you can only help the willing. But the good news is--during the time he worked for us, Charlie and I got to reconnect with our programs and remember the early days of our own recovery. Our sobriety is stronger than ever before. WE didn't drink. And that, my friends, is yet another miracle. I have faith that our friend can find sobriety, and peace, and accept the help he needs and become a miracle himself (say a prayer for him, would you all?).

These days Tori's insatiable curiosity paired with her nearly inexhaustible energy has worn down my patience just a little bit. Someone said to me the other day, "Surely she winds down, doesn't she?" But the truth is, no, Tori doesn't; she just runs and runs and runs until we look at the clock, see that it's time, and put her in her crib. Then she takes her binkys (one for each hand, of course) and plops down and crashes. But right up until that moment, she is going strong. So there are moments, now, when I just cannot get up and chase her down again to get the television remote out of her hands (she calls it the "dote!") because after all, chasing her is half the fun for her. Toss in the new temper tantrums and you'll find quite a bit of exasperated TORI!'s going on at our house.

But neither Charlie or I forget, not for a minute, what a miracle she is. Those few minutes a day when she'll come and sit with me on the couch while we watch some terrible TV show (the phone...the phone is RINGing...), or when she flops down on our bed at night and laughs and laughs, or when she leans over and kisses the dog--those are the best moments of my life. Tori fills my days with a thousand tiny miracles. I could not possibly be more happy.

...

Sitting on my desk right now is the paperwork Charlie and I need to fill out to send our last eight embryos off to Harvard for stem cell research. The work being done there is on Alzheimer's, which Charlie's mom suffers with, and since she funded our IVF cycle it seems appropriate. Although we have let go of the idea of having other children--especially using my body--we still let the papers sit. But after the holidays, we'll tackle it. We'll let those embryos go off to hopefully grow up into miracles for lots of sick people everywhere.

...

When I was going through IVF and then the Frozen Embryo Transfer that led to Tori, I would often sneak into the Catholic Church near my job and spent some time praying in front of Mary's shrine. I'd checked in with a recovering priest who said it was cool that I do that, even though I wasn't Catholic. But this week in church we read from Luke 1:26-38. This is where the Angel Gabriel breaks it to Mary that she's been knocked up by the Holy Spirit (perhaps I'm being a tad sacrilegious). But he also mentions Mary's cousin Elizabeth who is six months pregnant with John the Baptist as evidence of miracles-- as the bible says, "Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month. For nothing is impossible with God."

So what I want to know is, where the hell are the shrines to Elizabeth? Clearly she would be a perfect candidate for the patron saint of infertility. But according this site, the actual patron saint of infertility is some woman that always wanted to be a nun but got married and had kids under duress (and had kids, apparently, without difficulty). That hardly seems fair, does it? Elizabeth is apparently the patron saint of expectant mothers, at least.

The reason I mention all of this is that while my miracle is currently alive and well and attempting to pick up the cat so she can put her in the doll stroller, some of you are still awaiting yours. I offer, then, a completely irreverent yet heartfelt prayer to Saint Elizabeth that this is the year for your miracle. May each of you be as blessed as I am. Perhaps you should all hide your cats.

...

I may not have a chance to post again until after the holidays. If you celebrate it, well then, Merry Christmas. If not, well--have a great whatever. :)

Fear/Faith

If you are part of a spiritual community, whether it's a church or a twelve-step group, you've probably had some asshole tell you that fear is the opposite of faith. Maybe it's true. I don't fucking know. But the fact is, we are not angels, or gods, or even dogs who can rest assured that our food bowl will always be filled no matter what. We are human, and being afraid is not abnormal. It is built into our DNA, after (hello, fight/flight reflex). Fear is, in fact, a God-given resource that helps keep us safe.

However.

Lately I've found myself absolutely paralyzed with fear. Most of it is surrounding the work I've been doing, and my fears that I am not going to make it as a freelance writer, and that in fact my writing sucks and what on earth was I thinking quiting my job? I am such a LOSER.

This is NOT normal.

My head is a sick and crazy place to live. Most the work I do to maintain my spiritual well-being is designed to keep me out of my head, to instead direct my energies outward toward helping other people and trying to be the best person I can be and letting go of everything else. But every now and then I can't stop myself. I descend into insanity, and every phone call is bad news, and every email rife with double meanings (none of which is good).

It's a terrible way to live.

Luckily, I have people in my life that know what to do to force me to snap out of it. I called my primary spiritual adviser today and she suggested I work on my issues with faith, and that I take some time to make a gratitude list. What's a gratitude list? Well, it's a third grade level trick designed to put me in a better mood. When my head is full of craziness, a gratitude list helps me put things in perspective, and remind me of the good things in my life (note: it doesn't always work. I would not suggest trying to create a gratitude list when you are, say, in the hospital after losing your twin boys. However, for more run-of-the-mill fear, it's awesome).

So after I hung up the phone, I took some time to yell at God for a moment, and then I listed those things I'm grateful for. Like the fact that Charlie is 100% behind me being home, and working as a freelancer, even though it means we no longer have a regular paycheck to rely on and now stalk the mailman on a regular basis in hopes that a check will come so we can pay bills/buy groceries/buy me some new fucking pants. Or the fact that Tori is not only here, and healthy, but pretty much the cutest baby that ever walked the earth (shut up, she is). And the fact that I have an amazing best friend who totally listens to me when I'm crazy and never laughs at me. Or the fact that I have another good friend that listens to me and DOES laugh at me and helps me remember that I am crazy.

While I was in the midst of thinking about all these things, I was washed with a wave of gratitude for all of you. My professional work now is writing, and I have felt a little shaky in my abilities of late. But then I remembered you guys, you amazing people that come here every single day and read whatever drivel my brain produces, and then say nice things to me about it. Holy shit, I am the luckiest woman in the world! Why on earth am I afraid?

Everything will be fine. I am a good writer, and I will find a way to make this work. Thank you for reminding me.

Not long after I had that moment of realization, I tuned into my local NPR station only to hear Dan and Dave Simpson, two local poets (they live in my town, even) that happen to be blind, being interviewed. Dan read this amazing poem (ah, I wish I could find a copy online for you all) about faith and being blind. The poem said something about being at the book store and buying books with blank pages (pages written in braille, of course, can look blank from a distance) and "paying with a bill the grocery store clerk said was a twenty."

Man. When God wants to tell me something, s/he drops an anvil on my head. Talk about faith! Talk about gratitude! Talk about perspective!

Shit.

Right now (I just almost typed "write now", how Freudian of me), I am mid-leap. I am flying through the air, hoping that jumping was the right decision, praying that instead of falling to the ground in a broken heap I will instead either land safely or a net will magically appear. Is there anything more terrifying?

The truth is, even mid-leap, my life is pretty fucking wonderful. And I couldn't possibly be more grateful to be reminded of that fact. Thank you for being part of that.

So, tell me; what are you afraid of? And what are you grateful for?

Anger

Last week at a really awesome recovery meeting a woman put words to a chronic condition I suffer. This condition causes me to snap at Charlie for no reason, slam doors hard enough to make pictures fall off the walls, and occasionally throw shoes. It's a condition called "inner crazy woman."

My inner crazy woman is very powerful. She's also irrational, cunning, smart, and every now and then absolutely fucking right. This is where the danger lies: because she is sometimes correct, and calls attention to important issues that need addressing (usually in my relationships with other people), I allow her way too much leeway and give her way too much credit. And she comes out when I'm angry.

The topic of this particular meeting was anger. Anger and I have a deep and rewarding relationship. I have come to realize this lately because when I fly off the handle--which I do entirely too frequently--I actually have a few minutes after the outburst where I actually feel a little bit stoned. I suspect this is why it is said in recovery meetings that "anger is the dubious luxury of normal men" (ignore the sexism, it's from a book written in 1939). For those of us that found getting drunk and high to be the be-all and end-all of life, that buzz you get from anger can be intoxicating--and therefore dangerous.

In one of those great deep moments of irony, as I left the meeting I got trapped in the pick-up line of cars for the church's preschool (most recovery meetings are in back rooms and basements of churches). I didn't realize what was happening, so I actually got out of my car and asked the woman at the head of the line if she could kindly put her car in one of the nearby parking spaces (there were spaces available, but there was no way for me to get around the line of cars), which she did. But the woman in line behind her merely pulled up into her vacated space.

This completely infuriated me.

To make matters even more annoying, once the preschool teachers spotted the car seat in my car, they kept knocking on my car window to ask me who I was picking up. When I said (growled), "I'm not picking anyone up, I'm just trying to LEAVE!" They laughed. LAUGHED. And one said, kindly, "Well, next time you know to park across the street so this doesn't happen!" I was incredulous. I said, "You do realize that you are not the only thing happening at this church right now, right?" She looked confused and said, "But this is the pick up line!" As if that explained everything.

I was stuck for over a half-hour. I had to call three different people to calm down. THREE. Charlie, Sarah (who is my sister in anger), and my good friend Dave. Dave said, sympathetically, that the best moments of his day--the time he feels the most spiritual and content--are in the mornings while he's having his coffee... before he sees anyone else.

Naturally, I lost my hard-won serenity from the meeting completely.

Anger is my favorite coping tool. I do not do other emotions easily. Grief is tough for me. Depression? I don't get depressed. Instead, I get brittle, sarcastic, cruel. Often, I've used those emotions here on this blog. I can be very, very funny when I'm angry. But I also hurt people. And worst of all, I'm hurting, and using anger to lash out and protect myself, and ultimately? It doesn't help a bit.

I was thinking about that today when I was visiting yet another story hour. I realized, as I watched all the other women there, that we are all on the defensive. We are worried about what our kids are doing, how they are behaving, if the other moms there think we're lousy parents. Since I've processed all of your wonderful responses to my last post about story time, I have changed my actions. I am making sure I make eye contact and say hello to every mother (or father) there, but leave it at that. I'm not pushing. I stopped worrying about how I was dressed, how Tori was dressed, and how I acted. I just relaxed. And you can guess what happened, right?

I have several lovely conversations today. I met a mom of IVF twins just a little older than Tori, and another mom overheard our conversation and jumped in because she'd just gotten a negative beta from her fourth IVF attempt. Tori was wearing her (almost too small!) "My entire life is being blogged" t-shirt, and another mom spotted it and told me about her sister's blog and how much she loved keeping up with her sister's family that way.

It was a wonderful time.

I have to watch myself. When I felt hurt, rejected, depressed --whatever-- I don't react normally. I react with anger in all its various forms--sarcasm, bitterness, snideness, eye rolling, whatever. I need to slow down when I find myself being angry and examine the root cause, because it's usually something I can't control (except, of course, how I respond to the situation). I need to breathe, relax (arg) and just let shit go. As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "For every minute you are angry, you lose sixty seconds of happiness." I don't want to give up any more of my happiness. Not one more minute.

At the meeting tomorrow, I'll park across the street and let the moms pick up their kids from preschool unmolested. I'll try to leave my inner crazy woman at home with Charlie. Where she belongs. Heh.

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P.S. Last call to suggest a new name for this blog! Post a comment here, and I'll put up my favorite five to vote for next week!