Serving the Queens

05 March 2013

Fifteen

Dear Big A,

Fifteen.

I have to pause and take a deep breath as I try to wrap my mind around this moment, this day. I remember when you turned five that I was thinking, "In five more years, she's going to be ten, five years after that, she's going to be fifteen" and on and on. At that point in time, the concept seemed impossible. It still does, except this morning you blew out fifteen candles on your birthday pancake and there I was, drifting between five and fifteen and stunned, still, with the realization that I have no idea where the time has gone.

I know I tell you so many times that I think that you are amazing. I know that hearing it from your mom isn't the blanket of comfort to you that I mean for it to be. I'm aware that me loving you doesn't solve anything for you; that it isn't the salve that can heal the wounds that come with being a teen; that it doesn't make things easier. I know that my kisses don't make things better anymore and that your belief in my magic is gone. My saving hope is that your belief in your own magic remains.

Could you bear it, one more time, me telling you of how much I loved you the moment that I saw you? I know that you cannot, but I think that I cannot tell you it enough. You sliced my world apart; cut me to the core and filled it with such a light that I was momentarily blinded. I still feel that each time I look at you. "How can something so wonderful be mine?" And then I remember that you're not mine, that you are yours and then I hope that someday you will feel something so powerful that it moves you to beyond anything that words can describe and you will think, "That is how much she loved me."

So many times within the past year I have seen you from afar and not recognized you. I knew who you were, of course, but to see you, really see you, that slayed me each time. You are so beautiful, so composed, so gifted that I have to remind myself of the moment that I met you, that you were a part of my being, because I cannot imagine having created and nurtured someone so wonderful. I'm sorry for all of the times that you felt that I didn't think you were anything but my world. I'm sorry that you feel that I push you too much, that I wasn't happy with something that you did--it's just that I want you to see how the world is in your hands and all of the potential that you hold--it's much different than where I am at now in my life; my world being in the hands of you and your sister.

Today I couldn't stop myself from thinking that in five more years, you will be twenty. You will be gone from our home, out making your way in the universe. I know that you will come back, but that it will never be the same, nothing is ever the same anyway, so that doesn't bother me so much anymore. What makes me ache is how much I miss the little you, your precious cheeks and legs and how you would lay on my chest and sleep all night.

I don't think of time as passing and the moments being gone so much as I think of it as the moments remaining there forever, each second living on within its own universe. That thought soothes me some, thinking that those precious minutes exist still and that I can visit them, feel them, smell them whenever I wish. The trick is not staying there reminiscing too long, for I want to make sure that I participate in today and tomorrow and each gift of time with you that I have.

I love that we can speak fluent sarcasm with each other and know that it's a language of love. I love that you can sing the words of my favorite songs. I loved that last night when we were singing in the car and you said something about being embarrassing and got out to run into the gym and I rolled down the window so that Little A and I could belt out, "Born and raised in south Detroit", I could see your face in the glass door and that you were laughing. Your beautiful face grinning from ear to ear made even the saddest corners of my soul smile.

Fifteen, Big A. You are my sunshine; you always have been from the moment I laid my eyes upon you.

Happy, happy birthday my love.

Love always,
Your Adoring Mother

Written at 3/05/2013 10:58:00 AM by Jenn.

1 serving the queens

29 January 2013

The Edge

"You figured what? You'd just get out of there and bounce right back?"

I shrugged, wiped away my tears that seem to always be threatening to fall and said that I just thought I would feel better.

"You probably feel better than being dead. It's been a little over a month. A month. Think of that."

"I think of it too much, I think."

"You're a carrier. You carry things. Some people might be able to go through what happened to you last year and go on like nothing happened, but I don't know any of them. Some people carry things, some people don't. Nobody would walk out of what you did unscathed."

"I feel assaulted. By everything. Like a layer of protection has been shorn away and now I feel like I have nothing left to protect me."

"Then protect yourself."
______

I think of the first surgery.

I think of that first moment, a cold shroud of dread being woven over me as I sat and listened to a doctor and nurse talk outside of what they thought was my earshot as they reviewed an X-ray. "Yes. Right there. Solid. She'll need to be referred out."

I remember how cruel I thought the surgeon was; irritated that I was asking questions.

"Look, it's this simple. I cut out the roof of your mouth. I hopefully cut out all of the tumor. I sew the roof of your mouth back on. If I can't get it all then we will have to reassess. Your questions don't answer anything that you want to know."

I nodded. And cried. That's all that I did.
_____

I think of the second surgery, eight days later. 45 minutes and it would be over, they said.

I was woke up in recovery over five hours later.

"Massive bone deterioration. Did you have an infection? You'll need a new hip within a couple of years. We are going to hope that this works."

I was supposed to be back running in a couple of months, instead, I wasn't cleared to move for a month. Then I was allowed to swim; the irony of it--all of my nightmares of drowning; how even in the shower when the water splashes my face I startle and now, my only solace was getting in the water.

I remember one day, I finally put on a face mask and went under, pulled myself down to the bottom. I watched the bubbles rise slowly to the surface and I thought, "I could let go". But then Little A jumped into the pool, her goggles on, eagerly swimming over to me. I broke back up, panting for breath.

I remember looking at my leg when I stood, how blue it got. "It's not working right," I said. "You're paranoid," he said. "I am," I thought.

It's easy to think you are something when you don't know who you are anymore.

So I let it get bluer and angrier. The third surgery happened after that; when they opened me up, looking for a tied off artery or vein.

"Nothing, I'm sorry," my doctor said as I wept. It was obvious something was wrong, but they couldn't find it at the hospital close to home, so again, I had to leave home.
_____

After the fourth surgery when they replaced my hip so many things happened. There was paperwork that wasn't signed so when I got to my room, I couldn't have any medications or food. I remember screaming in pain, screaming, literally. I ripped off the covers and stared at my leg; the bandage was oozing; there was fluid everywhere. It hurt so.fucking.bad.

"Why can't another doctor sign the paperwork so I can get some medicine? Why can't you fax it to where he is now?"

After a couple of hours, a stony silence settled over me and I refused to talk. The pain had settled in and I wasn't going to beg again. It was then that I realized I had a roommate. I heard her coughing. I covered my leg back up.

I remember the face of the resident that told me it was his fault that I hadn't been able to get any food the previous day. His face was smug and he was fat. He wasn't sorry in the least. I remember wanting to punch him. I remember thinking, "I bet you ate last night when I couldn't get a goddamn ice chip."

I remember actually trying to raise my good leg just to see if maybe I could kick him.

"You're irritated," one of them said. "No shit." I answered. None of them knew what to say to this crazy person with the wild eyes and wild hair who was cursing at them. And I laughed. I laughed until I cried.

"Up her pain meds to 1.5 and get her some Ativan," he told the nurse.
______

My roommate and I soon pulled the curtain that separated us and began talking. I worried about her too much to not talk to her. She had few visitors and she would be taken for tests and not come back for hours. Before I ever spoke to her, I would wait until she was back to fall asleep.

She came in for pneumonia and found out that additionally she had breast cancer. We were close to the same age. I quit complaining to her about my leg, but I kept reminding the nurses about the fever that I had and they kept feeding me Motrin.

"I just don't feel right," I said when they told me I was going home.

The next thing I knew, I was almost dead, but I was still alive. It's a weird place to reside.
_____

It's hard now. My body doesn't fit me. I stare at myself in the mirror, hard, and try to find something that I recognize or like. I keep going through the motions because it's too hard to explain to people why I don't feel like going through the motions. I try to reach out to those that I wanted to see before I thought I was going to die, but I don't blame them for not having time. We always think we have time.

I want to yell out to everyone; to tell them how close we all are to being or not being, but I stay quiet, mostly; trying to save my energy for what I do know: The A's, my work, my favorite books and I figure that one day I will adjust my rearview mirror and recognize myself again.
_____

"The wind shows us just how close to the edge we are." Joan Didion

Written at 1/29/2013 04:18:00 PM by Jenn.

5 serving the queens

17 January 2013

A Letter To The A's Following 40

Dear A's,

I always write a birthday letter to you on your birthdays, but I figured for this milestone that has just passed that I would write a letter to you following my birthday.

40 is different; an age that I'm sure feels a million miles away from your beautiful faces; I hope it always does.There are things I want to tell you, sitting here at 40, realizing how time does really does pass and immortality begins to wash away as the moments that add up to a lifetime march across the decades.

First, you are my entire world. It's crazy that I know that an entire galaxy exists around me, yet you hold it all within your hands. I hope that you never love anyone this much, but I hope that you are always this loved. I know that if you have children, you will understand what I mean when I say this--unless you do, don't try to dissect what I've said--the words will never make sense to you.

I want you to know that it's OK to take chances. And fail. And get back up and try again. Ignore what everyone else says and listen to what you hear within you; follow that course with all that you have, no matter where it takes you. Just always get back up again. It's with the falling that we learn to rise.

I beg of you your patience with me as you grow. My direction is, sadly, but truly, what most well-meaning parents direction is made of--the realization of how truly each moment matters; how the smallest of actions can do or undo almost anything--an entire life can hinge on the tiniest of circumstances. I would urge you to do it, whatever it is that you fear, whether that means jumping from an airplane or reaching out for a hand in front of you, speaking in a moment that won't ever come again or simply allowing yourself to be loved.

Whatever it is you choose to do, do it with wild abandon. Be the scrappiest player on the court, be able to hold intellectual conversations and keep an open mind, but be able to hold your ground when you know from the deepest parts within that they are right. Laugh--loudly, cry when you need to and always understand that not everyone can do those things at the same time. Study the times when you feel the very happiest and know what it is that made you feel that way; don't let go of those things.

It's not easy to sometimes hear the loudest of sounds around us; sometimes you have to listen from within. It's an acquired trait and I've seen it in both of you; please, wherever you go, whatever you do, do not forget that compassion and pass it onto your children should you choose to have them; it would be the greatest trait possible to pass on.

Hug more. Hate less. Your energy is your energy--only let you decide how you use it, but do know that you only have a certain amount and you can use it positively or negatively, I pray that you choose positively.

Books! Don't forget books. I hope that you always let the magic pull you in. You cannot recall how religiously I read to you from infancy, but I know that you've both realized the magic and worlds that are within them.

It's alright to be an introvert. It doesn't mean being anti-social, but it means that you are alright on your own--and that is the thing that I want you both to be, more than anything--good with being with just you. Whether that means always having someplace or something for just you, or whether that means simply choosing to never anchor yourself to someone or something, I want you to know that it's OK.

Baseball. I want you to remember baseball, but I want you to be able to watch it without crying when you recall all of the Detroit Tiger games that we attended. It's tricky; I haven't figured it out yet. I can tell you that one of the strongest dreams that I had while I was fighting in the hospital was me riding in a pick-up truck with my Grandpa, Ernie Harwell was on the radio. It's why I couldn't watch the Tigers the year after he was gone. It's why I cry still, three years after he's been gone, when the Tigers are on. It's why I keep reminding you when we go to the games to shut your eyes and listen; study the field; stop; to remember the moment. Because those are the moments that you will realize at 40 that were the best moments of your lives. You won't know that until time passes and you will wish that you slowed down to remember.

I wish for you every happiness, but enough sorrow to understand that there are those that know nothing but that. I wish for you enough challenges along the way to make you stronger; smarter; your very best and enough knowledge gained from those challenges to make you happy; so very happy that you never feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, but realize that there are those that feel only that and a heart wide enough and bright enough and big enough to help them.

Realize that there is not enough good you can do in the world. Take off your coat when you see someone without one on the street of a city that I hope you roam and give it to them. Open doors for everyone, with a smile. Pay the toll for the car behind you when you can. It will come back to you; I promise it will; sometimes when you least expect it and most need it.

Realize that beauty lies within almost everything; sometimes you have to look for it, sometimes you just feel it. Make sure that you, too, sleep with your daughters, should you have them, under the stars on a warm summer night on a trampoline. Feel free to watch them as they sleep under the very galaxy that they hold within their hands.

Do not listen to those that tell you that you can hold your child too much, let them sleep with you too much or love them too much, for time passes quickly and before you know it they may stand taller than you and you will wonder where the time has gone, and no matter how much you held them, you will find yourself wishing that you'd held them more.

I love you both so very much.

I love you more than love.

Your most willing servant, always,

Mom

Written at 1/17/2013 09:54:00 PM by Jenn.

2 serving the queens

14 January 2013

On Turning 40

Today is the last day of my 30's. I'm home today because Little A is sick with the flu. It's sunny outside; I wish I could lace up my shoes and go for a run; make my lungs ache the way they used to after a long run in the cold instead of the way that they ache now.

I didn't spend the last year in my thirties as planned. When I added it up in my ever-thinking brain, I spent about two months in the hospital and most of it laid up because of my hip. Two surgeries later and I finally have hope; sometimes that is what springs from the darkest of nights.

After my 2nd surgery, the day after I came home, my temperature was 102.9. The following day 103.2 with a racing heart and difficulty breathing; the next day with an ache in my back that I said pain was radiating from. The next day I had to promise the visiting nurses that I could get to the hospital faster than them calling 911.

It wasn't the emergency room that was so bad; it was what followed about 6 hours later when nurses and a doctor ran into the room. I was being moved to a bed for more tests; when I got back, the doctor sat down on my bed and reached for my hand. "You're very sick, you are septic."

"Am I going to live," I asked. I expected him to answer yes, but instead he said that I had a big battle ahead of me and didn't say yes. It was an odd sensation; like a whirling inside, spinning fast, yet slow; hearing voices, remembering moments, recalling regrets, all at once, with The A's wrapped around all of it.

I had to call my parents. I remember the conversation, asking my mom if my dad was home. I tried to sound casual, but my mother wasn't buying it. I told her that I was in the hospital and sick; that I was septic. "Are you going to die?" "I don't know". She wanted to talk to my husband; when I woke up my parents and closest friends were there. I had IV's in both arms and the room was dark. The fight began.

I asked for my computer; not out of boredom, but to type up letters to say goodbye. I did this periodically, between waking and sleeping. I worried about the A's. I worried about my parents. I worried about my sisters. I worried about my friends. I wonder if I should just send the letters despite making it; that's the hardest part, the wondering.

I wanted to go home; I wanted to be with my family, but at the same time, not let my family see me. I wept each day as the infection grew. Each time I awoke, my mom was there. Each time they tried to draw blood, it took so long as my veins rolled around me and IV's blew out of my arms. I wept each time until they finally gave me a PICC line; entered in by my elbow and run to end near my heart. When they pulled it out of me, I asked to keep it; a reminder of what I'd done, just in case I lose my nerve or hope again.

I had dreams; dreams of my grandfather, dreams full of light. Dreams that I was swimming deep within the ocean.

I wasn't afraid to die; I just didn't want to. Those are two very different things.

Each day my lungs filled with fluid; I would say the lung tap was the worst that I endured there, but truly, it was a visit from Big A that was the worst when she broke down and wept and wept and wept. I wanted to take all of her pain and place it within me. I know that this is not how it works.

I wonder now, why I pushed her so hard to grow up. She's a freshman excelling in advanced classes with a 4.0 GPA; in three or four years, she will move away to make her own way. I tell her each day how much I love her. Each day I wish for more time. Almost each day, I cry from being so happy or seeing something so beautiful that it makes me ache and want to share it with her and Little A. I want more time with her. I will not get it.

The day I came home, it was easier to let go of the people that weren't really friends; it was easier to see appreciation in each sunrise, easier to let things go, easier to breathe, figuratively, although each day the breathing does come easier.

Tomorrow when I turn 40, my grandmother turns 80. I never would have imagined us spending birthdays apart, yet we will. I've loved sharing our birthdays over the years, but I can see dreading them in the future. So much of me was woven with her; by her, and yet here we are, so many miles apart. I wonder what it will be like if I get the opportunity to grow that old and not be with the people I love the most.

I thought I was going to dread tomorrow. Rather I am grateful for it. For a new chance; for a new day; for a new birth at 40. Here is to 2013; to 40; to The A's; to life in general.

Written at 1/14/2013 02:03:00 PM by Jenn.

5 serving the queens

14 October 2012

Never Without Tears

I called for her again today. The A's laugh at me when I call them by the name of the other, or when I stand, dumbfounded, trying to recall someone else's name as my ability to remember dashes in and out of shadows within my mind.

I'm not sure that they've heard me call for her; it always seems to be when I am alone, lost in some other thought, some other habit, some other time when the most natural of my impulses take over.

It's been three years now, so one would believe that when I do call out her name the seconds that follow wouldn't bring such a rush of emotion; the waiting for her to come; the realization that she is gone, still, a punch to my gut, a knife in my heart, a tear falling to the floor that I wipe away with my foot.

It's hard to let go of such a soul that you love so much. I remember laying in my bed for months prior to our goodbye, daring God that if he existed to prove himself by letting her go peacefully into the night rather than forcing me to make the decision. I remember the way that the dawn of one of the darkest days of my being began to rise; I remember her laying beside me, as she had for sixteen years, I remember thinking, "I cannot do this."

It was a beautiful fall day, which is probably why I tend to call for her more in the fall. We spent it outdoors together, me tenderly lifting her so she could stand and sit, until finally I needed help to lift her for the last time.

Little A swears that she still comes to visit her in her dreams, although she was only a toddler when we said goodbye. Big A refuses to speak of her, for she doesn't like to talk about the things that make her ache inside.

I still see her, sometimes when I'm dreaming, sometimes when I am awake. I still cannot say her name or speak of her without crying. I suppose that is what love does to you when you love completely and have to say goodbye; smashes you in ways that make you able to go on, but never in the same way. I wonder if perhaps it isn't Time at all, but rather the weight of those losses that make us feeble and ache as we grow older; unable to move under the burden of the goodbyes.

I believe Edna St. Vincent Millay described it best when she said, "Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell."

Until we meet again, Jessie, my love.

Written at 10/14/2012 05:19:00 PM by Jenn.

2 serving the queens