May 2020 | A place we keep returning to. A place that feels like our own. A place that we’ve left two times in a row with a new kitty in tow; a stray that’s found us, and we let in. Last time it was Lola, this time, Sol. Memories withstanding the heat and the…
This will be the last Father’s Day I get with my dad on this earth. I realize in saying that both the blessing and the curse. My heart has been heavy for months and the processing of it all has me questioning how far I’ve really come in healing — like I have a toolbox full of tools but haven’t found the one to do the trick.
I’m reading a book right now that’s written by a Buddhist monk and talks about the middle way. When I reflect further on the tools I have in conjunction with this idea of a middle path, I begin to consider that not everything is meant to be fixed. Maybe the goal isn’t to conquer anything but to just be with everything. The middle way.
This year started with my dad helping coach Sonny’s t-ball team. His symptoms started with his balance — I sent the coach an email suggesting he not invite my dad out on the field, that he’s better off assisting the kids with getting their helmets on and finding their bats. We spent months taking him to appointments, lab draws, virtual visits, networking with friends of friends who may lend us the answers we were searching for. And then we got the answer we were searching for and I immediately missed not knowing — A diagnosis only one in a million receive. No cure. No treatment. Rapidly progressive. Always fatal. And just like that, the impermanence of life showed up on our doorstep.
My dad was a doer, never a talker; his actions have always spoken louder than his words. He’s humble to a fault and wonderfully idiosyncratic — the only man I know to eat yogurt using a writing pen or put tortilla chips in his cargo pants pocket or nap face down halfway in a room and halfway in a hallway making whoever finds him wonder if he’s just been murdered. He’s incredibly honest and as loyal as the day is long. I miss him so much already.
Ordinarily my dad would read this Father’s Day tribute with happy tears in his eyes, beaming with pride; he’d sift through the comments and light up over comments left from both old friends and complete strangers. Even with so much of him gone already, he still lights up in ways that remind me that he’s still in there.
“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.” -Pema Chodron
Dad, I love you.
The other week I turned down a guy that asked me on a date. He’s the first person that’s asked me on a date since my divorce. Because of this, I felt obligated to say yes. And I did, initially.
I’ve questioned how dating would go down for an old school gal that’s not into dating apps. Not yet, anyway 😉
My neighbor, who is a dear friend, mentioned to me the other day how she’s hoped for me to find a partner — one that’s deserving. The other day my friend told me she wants me to get my groove back. Another friend asked me if I was interested in dating at all.
Not intended pressure, but rather a hope rooted in societies view that to be happy, we must be partnered. To be whole, we must be paired with an equal half.
And yet, we’re not born as half a human. We’re whole, on our own.
I can see how this may read as a single woman’s plight to justify her alone-ness. Siri wants to autocorrect aloneness to loneliness and I have to correct her while I laugh at the irony. The two – alone versus lonely – are vastly different. I hear Dr. Dog in my head,
And we’re sitting in the rain
And we’re feeling like the weather.
You could say that we’re alone
But we’re lonely together.
I’m far less lonely now than I was when I was married.
The truth is, I’m not into dating another because I’m dating myself. I really need this time to be with me. I’ve been through a trauma that has resulted in so much confusion, self-doubt, and feelings of unworthiness. I’m acutely aware of my broken pieces; of the gaps in my chain, the holes in my field. Putting in the time and work to heal feels like the ultimate act of self-care, of self-love.
My mantra that I say to myself, especially on the nights where I’m awoken from my own racing heart, is “you are enough”. But it’s not enough to say it, I also have to act on it — to treat myself with respect, compassion, and love.
How does self-worth translate into different actions?
It means saying no when I feel a societal obligation to say yes. And it means giving the time, attention, and nurturing I’m led to believe that I owe to others, to myself.
It seemed fitting that the same day I turned down the date, a dear friend sent me a text about wanting to go to Mexico and asked if I wanted to go check it out with her.
I’m paying much more attention to the intention that drives my actions; taking notice of what I say yes to and what I say no to. Learning to love myself truly is turning out to be the greatest love of all.
Now excuse me while I exit stage left to go jam hard on Whitney Houston while I pack for Mexico.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how my body knew things my mind wasn’t ready to accept; how I was taught to disobey my inner-knowing. I read recently that our unconscious mind sometimes knows things before our conscious mind is aware. I’ve been keeping that as a seed in the back of my head.
My labor with Sonny started with my water breaking. It was the first time in labor that my body sent me a direct, unmistakeable, message.
Hooper was 11 days late and had to be induced, sending my hopes for a home birth down the drain. Instead, I endured pitocin induced tetanic contractions in the absence of an epidural and was wheeled down the L&D hall, completely nude, on all fours, screaming while simultaneously confronting the fact I was being taken to the operating room. Just after opening my mouth to allow the anesthesiologist to assess for any dental abnormalities prior to any intubation, Hooper was vacuumed out of me with the one, final chance they gave me to deliver him naturally.
Van was closer to two weeks late and my labor with him started with contractions and while the phase preceding the pushing phase was rather short, I pushed and pushed – at home, in a tub, out of a tub, in any and every position – to no avail. I ended up in an ambulance on the way to the hospital where a big burly man did CPR-like compressions on my abdomen that ultimately delivered Van.
With Sonny, my body completely took over. It’s almost as if it had something to prove. I was told not to push in the car. I was told not to push in the elevator. I remember them struggling to get me in the bed to get me “set up” to deliver. I also remember them checking me to see how dilated I was and it felt like the room completely paused when the nurse who checked me announced I was only 6cm. The rush seemed to completely stop. I could feel the room looking down on me as if I was exaggerating, as if I didn’t know and couldn’t be trusted. I felt as defeated as you can feel when you’re in the throes of laborland; meaning it was a momentary disappointment because my body knew what they didn’t. I was listening to my body and nobody else. I can distinctly remember tuning everyone out and solely concentrating on Sonny. I felt like pushing, so I pushed. And ten minutes after being told I was 6cm, Sonny was earthside.
I’m starting to remember these times of knowing. They come in waves and erase the fog. Windshield wipers of the soul. I’ve known, I’ve always known. Our bodies are our best messengers. I’m leaning in so hard to my body these days, rooting myself in my center, making amends to my inner-knowing.
Dear Sonny,
Today, you are five. It’s not lost on me that you’ll likely not remember our family ever being anything other than it is today. We were looking at photos the other day, like we do before one of you turns another year older, and you were surprised to see your Papa in our photos, in our home. I had to remind you that at one time, our family looked different than it does today. And that’s okay. I remind myself when I remind you.
I used to feel a lot of grief about the fact you wouldn’t remember the “before”. Now, it brings me some comfort. A blank slate. Less lost.
You’re graduating from the age that I remember to be the hardest of all and we’re welcoming the hope that 5 will bring less tantrums, greater self-restraint, more understanding.
I asked your brothers what their favorite thing about you is and they both said that they love that you skateboard with them. Van added that he loves when you “cooperate”. Both of them hate when you scream.
You love the pool and are now able to swim. You eat copious amounts of salami and watermelon. You hate Jimmie but love the cats. You tolerate having your hair braided and let me trim your hair, too. You ask to play hide n’ seek daily and always hide in the same spot, under my bed.
You’re learning to make sense of boundaries and need reassurance often that rules don’t mean I don’t love you but rather the opposite. We hug our way through the hardest of life’s lessons.
You still sleep in my room. I have mixed feelings about it.
Your uncle Chris recently described you as “authentic” and it’s stuck with me the way truths tend to embed, ingrain. You’re true and pure and warm. You’re also loud and strong-willed and figuring out what’s acceptable.
I wanted you. I fought to have you. And I’m so happy you’re here. May you always know you’re loved, wanted, and accepted.
Happy Birthday.