Adventures in Lost

 Today Ellie was supposed to graduate with her Masters of Science in Nursing. After she passes her boards she will be an Adult/Geriatric Acute Care Nurse Practitioner. But it was cancelled.

I was reflecting on all of the losses that we’re all experiencing. There are so many. Not only the loss of life. That’s a story for another time. I’m talking about all of the losses. The high school wrestler trying to be a four time state champ. The college senior excited about her last time to get to play softball at this level of competition. The underprivileged basketball star whose coach had lined up scouts to come watch him play so that he’d have a shot at going to college. Prom. Yearbook signing. Kindergarten spring play. MLB Baseball. Even the funerals for those who have died during this terrible time.

I’m reminded of my favorite story of my nephew, Bridger. My sister and her husband were out of town and my parents were taking care of Bridger, about 4, and Caid, about 2. They had gotten happy meals at McDonalds that day, and the toy that came with it was a really awesome Star Wars Storm Trooper. Bridger was so proud of it, he came in and showed my husband Sawan and me, who happened to be at my folk’s house. We oohed and ahhed. It was bedtime, so the kiddos started the bedtime routine, and fifteen minutes later, Bridger was completely distraught because he couldn’t find the Storm Trooper. So we formed a search party. Mom and Dad took the upstairs, Sawan and I took the downstairs. We moved couch cushions, we looked under furniture, we tried to think of what a four year old could have possibly done with the toy in the last 15 minutes, but we didn’t find it. Finally, my dad took a knee in front of the crying Bridger and tried to get him to retrace his steps. He said, “Ok. So, you had it when you came in from the car.” Bridger nods. “Then you showed it to Noey and Sawan.” Bridger nods. “Then you went upstairs with it?” Bridger nods. Dad says, “Do you think you know what you did with it after that?” Bridger nods in the affirmative again. We all breathe a collective sigh of relief. Why hadn’t we started with this tactic? “Oh! Well, what do you think you did with it?” In a loud sob he cried, “I think I LOST it!” It was so cute and heartbreaking and hilarious all at one time. Sawan was so tickled. When I try to remember the sound of Sawan’s laughter, I go to this memory for it.

When I recounted this story to Bridger’s mom, though, she didn’t think it was as funny as I did. She explained to me that Bridger thought that Lost was an actual place. It’s something he said all the time. “Where is it Bridger?” “Mom, I told you, it’s Lost.” 

When people talk about loss and death and grief and people dying, everyone has different language that they prefer. I know lots of widows that hate it when people refer to their husband as “lost.” “He was not a set of keys,” says one of my widow friends of her husband. My personal distaste is for the term “passed.” Because to me, I think that he was not gas. My dead husband was not a fart. So I say that I lost him. I like to think of him going to Bridger’s place. To Lost, where all of our favorite needed or loved things go. He’s there, hanging out with Bridger’s Storm Trooper.

But, I thought about this Lost place for the first time in a long time today. Maybe Lost is a place for experiences, too? Maybe all of those losses that we’re experiencing here are being enjoyed by those that we’ve Lost. Maybe Sawan and his homies got to watch this year’s Opening Day. Maybe he’s getting to watch cutie pies in plays and awesome softball games and triumphant wrestling matches and come from behind wins. Maybe he’s getting to cheer rights of passage and comfort the grieving. And maybe, just maybe, he’s getting to watch Ellie cross the platform, and he’s standing up and doing that whistle thing with his fingers really loud. ‘Cuz I know he would if this all were true.

Crazy Health Stuff- Update 5

I’ve been meaning to post an update for a while now.

For those of you just tuning in, my crazy journey began about two years ago with pretty serious unexplained weight gain (I’ve gained more than 50 lbs.), along with several other health things, like I was exhausted all the time. This led me to see a doctor, then I was referred to a specialist, then I had some major health insurance woes, then I was diagnosed with a non-cancerous pituitary tumor, then I finally got the right insurance that took affect in January of this year. I’ve done multiple rounds of tests over the last two years that make them think that I have something called Cushing’s Disease, an endocrine disorder that means that my body is producing too much Cortisol. Cortisol is responsible for fight or flight—so my body constantly stores any calorie as fat because it’s afraid I’m going to starve, and also I’m always exhausted because I’m constantly revved up like I’m in flight mode. It also includes things like body acne. It's really a treat, let me tell you.

Here’s the latest:

Last time I reported that the doctor needed me to stop taking one medication and then re-take a urine test. It came back with the same results that I had while on the meds, indicating that the issue has nothing to do with said medication.

When my doctor called to give me those results she told me that they would schedule the more invasive test, and that I had been the topic of discussion at their monthly conference. Apparently, the whole group of specialists and surgeons and everyone involved in the pituitary clinic at the hospital get together and talk about the crazy cases once a month. I have it on good authority that for me to be their topic apparently means I’m famous.  I will happily sign autographs.

I'm excited to go get my head examined!

It took a few weeks to get the test scheduled, and I finally had my test on Wednesday, which was yesterday. It took pretty much all day. Here’s how I understand that it works: They sedated me, and then inserted a catheter into my veins and took fluids from around the tumor site. Then, they injected something else in the pituitary gland (in my brain, where the tumor is) and took more fluids. This will tell them for sure if the pituitary tumor is causing all of the cortisol issues in my body, or if there is some anomaly elsewhere.

The doctor performing the test was this cute old man in his late 60’s, and he looked like the dad in “Bread and Jam for Francis,” which was one of my favorite children’s books about a family of badgers. As usual, the doctor told me after the test that I had “weird anatomy” in my brain. I’m always the rare case that they’re like, “He-ey, I’ve never SEEN this before! Do you mind if I get my med student/colleague/mother-in-law in here to take a look at this?” I guess there’s one part that usually only takes seven minutes and it took him 32. The whole test part took about two-ish hours and then I had to be in recovery for four-ish hours. I had to have a “responsible adult” pick me up, so Ellie was my hero as usual. I think that they asked her things like, “Do you have a good job? Do you pay your taxes? Have you kept your dog alive? Do you make your bed?” and stuff like that to make sure she is responsible. It’s a good thing Ellie was there because I was pretty out of it. I don’t remember much of recovery or of the rest of the afternoon. The only part that I really remember is asking Dr. Francis’ Dad if I could see what it looked like inside my brain, and he texted me photos. It’s pretty cool.

Inside my brain from the side (that's my cartilage piercing in my right ear that you see in the photo). 

Inside my brain from the center. My nostrils look like eyes on a scary moth creature.

I’m pretty sore today, and I have a crazy headache. But, I have headaches all the time so there’s no telling if this is from the test or just a stupid headache. My guts do feel a little bit like someone tried to drive something up to my brain via my veins.

Mostly I’m just stoked to finally be close to getting some real answers. I’ll keep you posted!

Father, in "Bread and Jam for Francis"

Crazy Health Stuff- Update 4

Yesterday afternoon my fabulous mama hung out with me at the doctor’s office. All. After. Noon.

I had an appointment with one of the pituitary specialists in the clinic that I went to in early January. Since that appointment in January I have done two rounds of the three types of cortisol tests, not because it would have been necessary to do two sets, but because the orders were wrong on the first set. Lucky me.

After the last appointment I was super discouraged, because I felt like they were telling me that I probably didn’t have Cushing’s, and it really occurred to me for the first time that it was possible that they weren’t going to be able to figure it out and fix me. That I may just have to live like this for the rest of my life.

Yesterday the pituitary specialist seemed to think that Cushing’s is still the best possibility for what I have. She told me I looked “cushionoid.” Which is, I think, a real word.

So, even if this requires surgery, which still completely freaks me out, it at least feels good that they have a clue.

Next steps mean that I have to quit one of my medications for two weeks because they’re just a little afraid that it’s affecting the cortisol levels, and then redo one of the tests. If that comes back with consistent results to the previous tests, then they will do one more test before surgery. They’ll go in to the area around the tumor sight, and take fluids from there. As I understand it, if those show high cortisol, then they will do surgery.

So, that’s the skinny. At this point I don’t even know how to feel. I think I feel cautiously optimistic, even if I panic when I think about surgery. I think it feels good to know that they have a clue about what’s wrong with me.

I’ve spent quite a bit of time at LabCorp for these tests. On Valentine’s Day, I went in early to have my blood drawn, and I ran into this guy. He had a seriously awesome mullet, and when he took his jacket off to reveal a cut-off t-shirt and suspenders, I thought I should maybe ask him out. I settled for taking a selfie with him in the background.

Health Saga Update- Number 3

I had my doctor’s appointment last week. I have such mixed feelings about it that I didn’t feel like I was ready to write about it.

Here’s what happened:

When the appointment began, I gave the doc a brief history and then told him the place I was at with the last endocrinologist (she thought I was ready to see a neurosurgeon). He said, “I don’t think we’re there yet.” When he looked at my test results they looked too normal to him. And, I think because he was trying to encourage me, he told me some horror stories about the surgery. It didn’t quite have the affect that he was hoping for, though, because I think that surgery is still really likely in the future, now I’m just completely freaked out about it instead of not scared at all.

I feel like I’m painting him as a monster, and he wasn’t. He was actually nice and compassionate, and I liked him. He just didn’t tell me what I wanted to hear. He also said that he would like me to see one of the more experienced doctors in his clinic (two of the doctors there are world-renowned), and that he wanted to run the tests again. So I spent another day sitting at home, keeping my pee in the fridge (for the fourth time in a year). I wonder how many more times I have to do that, because, gross. I turned in the “specimen” along with a saliva test yesterday, and am doing the blood test this week. I should have the results in a week or two at the latest.

I asked him what else it could be if it wasn’t Cushing’s Disease. He offered some suggestions, but, (at least what I heard him say was) that sometimes depression can look like this, and had I been depressed? “Actually, no.” I said. Then he told me that it’s a lot harder to take weight off then it is to put weight on. That was when I started to lose my mind. I understand that he would think that. I know that I used to judge people that looked like me all the time. I just didn’t understand what they could be going through. So, while I felt compassion for them, I think that in the back of my mind I thought they were lazy and undisciplined. If they would work out and eat right, it would get better. So, I told him that. I told him that I knew that I would always struggle with my weight because I was genetically inclined to be overweight. But, most of this weight was put on with me eating 1200-1300 calories a day (and I could have shown him my food journal) and working out five days a week. I think he believed me, but that had pretty much exhausted his ideas for what was wrong with me, so it feels like a step back, since I have no answers and before I felt like I did (the answer was: You have Cushing’s. You need surgery.)

The plan moving forward is to see what the results of this round of tests are, and then he and the other doctors in the practice will talk about it and then get me scheduled for an appointment with one of the more senior doctors. So, I’m overall really discouraged, but I do feel like I’m finally at the right place so that moving forward I will actually see some progress.

I feel like I should also give a shout-out to Ellie, who came with me to the appointment even though she had food poisoning and was trying not to puke the whole time (she made it!). I’m so very lucky to have such amazing support.

Sorry, that was a lot of words to say that nothing happened. But that’s the scoop and I’ll keep you posted.

Also, I’m starting back at school on Friday. When I was planning for a surgery I decided that I would only take one class, and it’s Comp. So maybe I’ll have some fun writing samples to post on here. Love to all of you!

Health Saga Update- Number 2

There has been so little movement on my health stuff since October that I haven’t bothered to update here. I still have very little to add, but thought I’d at least let you guys know that I haven’t fallen off the face of the earth.

I was supposed to go see a neurosurgeon last October, but between the surgeon and my insurance I couldn’t get an appointment and I honestly didn’t try that hard. I knew my insurance would change in 2018 and that I would want to see a surgeon from the new clinic. I finally have an appointment on Wednesday at the endocrinology clinic that I tried for months to go to, and they’re in network with my new insurance plan, so hopefully things will get a lot easier. It still feels like I’m going back a step, but now whatever they recommend should actually be feasible under the new plan. Fingers crossed!

Health Saga Update--number one

I know I’m posting an update on the same day that I put up the original post, but I had written it a week ago and forgot to put it up. It was easier to just do it this way rather than edit. Sorry about it.

I got the results of the last saliva tests. The way it works is I have to put this thing in my mouth between 11 and midnight two nights in a row, keep them in the fridge, and then turn them into the lab.

One of the samples tested at the very highest point of normal, and the other one tested in the not-normal range.

Woo. Hoo.

That was enough for the endocrinologist to recommend going to a neurosurgeon.

I’m stoked. I know that it seems strange to be rooting for bad test results so that I can have brain surgery. The thing is, it means that they have a clue about what’s wrong with me and we can make a plan. After a year and a half, that’s excellent news.

My Health Saga

I’ve been meaning to write this post for a while. I’ve got some crazy health stuff going on and so many of my people have wanted to be updated. I thought that I could maybe just post updates on here and then it would reach everyone at once.

I’ll start at the beginning. It’s long, so if you know this part or don’t want the details feel free to skip around…

In March of 2016 I hurt my back at Orange Theory. It felt like it always felt when I would “throw my back out,” but this time I kept not getting better. Finally, at the beginning of June 2016, I went to a doctor. He told me that I had actually torn the ligament that connects my hip to my spine. He was hoping to avoid surgery, so he prescribed physical therapy and a three-week course of prednisone (steroids). I am one of those lucky (insert sarcasm) people that, as soon as I even think about skipping a workout, I gain a pound or two. I continued eating pretty healthy, but I was gaining weight like it was my job. To put it in perspective, I gained 7 lbs. the month that I did the Whole 30 (like paleo, but less fun and more intense, and people usually lose 10-ish pounds when they do it). I was finally cleared to get back to working out in September. I was so stoked, because I was thinking that it would take time, but I should start to see a downward trend on the scale.

Except I didn’t. I kept gaining at the same rate. In October I went back to the doc. She ran a few tests, and one of them came back with results that looked like Cushing’s disease. It’s a super hard to diagnose, super rare endocrine problem that is sometimes brought on by steroids, sometimes brought on by a tumor either on the adrenal glands or the pituitary gland. It has to do with out-of-whack cortisol levels, which is your “fight or flight” mechanism. Symptoms include weight gain in a particular pattern (mostly in the belly, with skinny arms and legs, but a round face and a “buffalo hump” on the shoulders), headaches, adrenal fatigue, and body acne, so basically it’s just a whole lot of fun. I was referred to an endocrinologist, who explained to me that it takes time to diagnose, because the tests have to be judged against each other, basically. So we would have to run tests, wait a bit, and run more. Then, my insurance company said that even though they had originally said they were, these doctors weren’t in-network, so they weren’t going to pay for them. That meant I had to start with new doctors. By the time I finally got to see an in-network endocrinologist, it was the beginning of May 2017.

The new doc, which I actually liked better than the other one, told me that there was no way that this could be steroid induced, as the last endocrinologist had suspected, because my last dose was in August 2016 and my cortisol levels would have started to improve immediately. That left tumor caused.

In June I had an MRI. Let me just take a minute here to thank Jesus for Valium. MRI’s were discovered, I think, to use in place of being drawn and quartered. So, I got to get tortured for about an hour and pay almost a thousand dollars for it. FUN! Back to the story, though, when the results came back they had found a small adenoma (tumor) on my pituitary gland (in my brain). I heard brain tumor and did a minor freak out, until I realized that it was non-cancerous and I also remembered that I was widowed at 30 and survived so I’m basically resilient.  The kind of tumor that it is occurs normally in 10% of the population, so they needed to run a few more tests to make sure that it was Cushing’s disease before they would recommend surgery, the only cure for Cushing’s. If it isn’t causing Cushing’s it can just stay in there, because in most people an adenoma like mine is totally harmless and it’s not a good idea to cut into my brains if it’s not absolutely necessary.

There are 3 types of tests for Cushing’s (blood, urine and saliva), and I needed two out of three to come back with abnormal numbers. The blood numbers are always abnormal, so that was good (I guess?). We did another round of urine and saliva tests. That’s a treat let me tell you. This might be over sharing, but the urine one requires keeping all of my pee for 24 hours. In the fridge. Gross. In the end, the results on one were totally normal and the other weren’t normal, but weren’t abnormal enough. The endocrinologist told me that my case was basically too crazy and she didn’t know how to treat me. So, I could do one of two things. I could wait a couple of months and then we could run the tests again, or I could go to a research facility. I didn’t want to wait.

At that point it was July, and I started trying to get my insurance to cover a research facility/specialty clinic. Trying to get the clinic and Cigna, my insurance, to cooperate with each other required being on the phone with one or the other of them daily, sometimes both, from July until the last week of September. After all that, Cigna’s decision was that they wouldn’t cover an out of network doctor because they had people in network that could treat me. (Really? Cuz the in-network doctor said she couldn’t treat me.)

I did a number of things. I cried and threw a fit. I filed a complaint with the insurance commission. I went back to my in-network endocrinologist to formulate a plan.

She told me that I should just wait for open enrollment and start with a new insurance company for next year. I am going to do that, even though it infuriates me because it means that those f*ck3rs at Cigna win. She also ran another set of tests, now that it’s been a couple of months (that was her plan B back in July). I’m still waiting on results.

And that brings us up to date. It’s frustrating. It’s time consuming. It makes me feel impotent. And, I already don’t feel good. I’m exhausted all the time, and I feel fat (at this point I’ve gained about 45 lbs total, which is more than 1/3 again what I weighed back in March of 2016 when this whole thing started), and I always have a headache. I’m pretty sick of it and just want to get better. There are things I want to do, like go out at night with my friends (with adrenal fatigue, I'm always too tired). Like put on my socks (it’s hard with all this extra weight in the way!). I don’t give up. We’re gonna get this thing figured out.

Here's a visual. The above two were taken about a month before I hurt my back.

This one was this summer. 40lbs. later.

I think I've maybe dated all of the men in Denver.

So, do you guys remember that post from a million years ago where I had gone out with that one guy from eHarmony? With most guys that I’ve gone out with once, I forget their actual names and in my mind I call them whatever attribute stood out the most. I called this guy The Short Guy. Before we went out he acted interested but wouldn’t actually call, he would only text. I mean, that’s pretty par for the course in 2017, but in 2012, it was still somewhat unusual and gauche. I remember being so frustrated that he wanted to text back and forth and when I told him that I didn’t think texting was an affective way to get to know someone, would he like to call me? He pretty much said, “no,” but still asked me out. Anyway, after we met (and I found out he was lying about how tall he was, among other things), he accidentally really liked me. I told him that I wasn’t interested. I was really nice about it. 

Then, and I am not making this up, my phone texted him without my consent the next day. In my defense I will say that this was in my pre-iphone days. I don’t know what happened. I think my crappy phone randomly shut off, then when it powered back up it sent a text that must have been a partial from when we were texting back and forth. It was not even a complete thought or sentence. I can’t remember, but I think it was something like, “but then.” He texted back immediately to see if I had changed my mind "but then" wanted to go out. I had to say “no” again for the second time in 24 hours.

That’s as much as I told you a few years ago, but there’s more to the story.

I think his name was Mark. Or Marc. Or something like that. It was a name that several people I know have. Six months later, even though I thought I had deleted his number, and had switched phones and phone companies, his number popped up when I tried to call one of the other dudes with his name. He immediately knew it was me, but it took me awhile to figure out that I had not actually reached my mortgage broker’s voicemail, as I had intended. Mark texted me right after the call, of course, and after I figured out who he was, he asked me out again. Poor guy. I mean, it was totally my fault, and I could see how it would be confusing, and probably felt like fate, but I wondered how many times I was going to have to turn him down. Because, about six months after that, we were both on a free dating website and he asked me out a fourth time. Again I had to say, “no thanks.”

At the time his status was something like, “single, never been married.” The other day, on a different website, something like six years after I went out with him, he showed up as, “divorced.” With a kid. 

This is no surprise. Because, my life is a movie and this is an excellent fluffy arc to add humor to the bigger story, whatever that ends up being. If they actually film it, I think someone like Danny DeVito should play his part. But, it’s official: I’ve dated all of the men in Denver and now I’m starting back at the beginning and cycling back through. I just hope I don’t end up going out with The Spitter again. Because, gross.

Eight Years

Eight. Years.

It feels like yesterday. And also like a different lifetime.

I still remember the way the light looked on the morning that I kissed him goodbye, not knowing it was our last kiss. The sun had that beautiful butterscotch hue to it as it flooded the kitchen of our little condo, the rich color that only August sun has. I had on a too-big green give-away t-shirt and still had my TMJ mouth guard in. He scolded me for being out of bed early on my day off, but I wanted to make him coffee before he left for school. It was so--ordinary.

I would be widowed by the time that lovely sun set.

***

I find myself reflecting on the last eight years. What lessons have these years taught me? Among other things, this:

I learned how to grieve. Well, I know I’m still learning, but I learned early on that grief is a relentless teacher that never really takes a break, only changes, but can apparate back to it’s original form and back again in the same moment. I learned to give myself grace about timelines and linear “progress” and anything else that felt like expectation. I learned to give grace to others; too, even if they had expectations for my grieving that I could not meet.  Some of the support I got was tremendous (saints, I tell you!). But, it’s also amazing to me how few of the people in my current “inner circle” even knew me eight years ago. It’s hard for me sometimes that they never even knew Sawan, this man that changed me so fully and completely by his presence and then by his absence.

I learned that there are no guarantees. I was not promised a husband that would live until we were old. I was not promised children. I was not promised an easy life. (I was also not promised other marriage benefits-- like orgasms, or someone to do the “dude” things like changing the furnace filters and taking out the trash and opening all the jars.) I was only promised sufficient grace. You know, just enough grace to get by. Over the years I recognized that so much of the time I enjoy not merely sufficient grace, but rather an extravagance of grace.

I learned that life isn’t going to look like I thought it would. It isn’t even going to look like I thought it would once I realized I had to re-think life. I’m still learning to get over that and just live. I’m learning to live like this is my one wild and precious life, and I won’t squander it by merely surviving.

***

And where was I before the day

That I first saw your lovely face?

Now I see it every day.

And I know that I am the luckiest.

-Ben Folds from The Luckiest (which was “our song”)

It was pretty great while the luck held, Baby. I miss you every day.

Lonesome

Today, in my “memories” on Facebook, where it shows all of the posts you’ve ever had on this same date, from previous years, I had a status from 2009, less than a month before my husband died.  “I get ready for work so much faster when there’s no one around to pester.  It’s kinda lonesome, though.”  Sawan was out of town, fishing with my Dad, I think.  He was not a morning person, and hated it when I woke him up as I was getting ready for work.  So I of course woke him.  Every day.  If I had only known.  Less than a month later I’d be forever lonesome in my morning ritual.

It’s that time of year again.  I used to love summer, and now I merely survive it, especially the brutal 7 or 8 weeks between our wedding anniversary, July 1^st, and the anniversary of the day he died, August 24^th.  His birthday is thrown in there on August 2^nd, just to really make it hard.  It’s been almost seven years since my husband died but as the days get closer to the same length as that hateful day, my body remembers, and even though so much time has passed, it’s still hard.

I walked through Costco tonight.  The Halloween costumes were out.  It’s been a long time since an image like that has made me cry, but suddenly my eyes just leaked.  Will I ever get to have a little person to put in one of those?  It’s looking more and more like the answer is “no.”  On days like today I grieve for the loss of the life that I thought I was going to have.

Most days I’m ok.  Most days I remember that I’ve found my new normal.  I even have found a way to enjoy myself again.  I laugh a lot.  I don’t feel sad every single day.  Not even in this gross 8 weeks. 

But today, I’m just not that ok.  I long for the days when I thought that one morning without him was too hard, and when I still believed that it was my destiny to have a small, costume-clad person holding my hand.

The Bod

I’ve been crazy busy living life, but when I told a client in my chair this story the other day, she said, “You should write a blog.”  I told her, I do write a blog (you know, in the loose sense of the word, I should have said I sometimes write a blog).

Right before Christmas, I met a man.  What makes this remarkable is that I had just made a statement, the day before, that I was done for awhile.  Benched.  I felt a bit creeped out by men in general and needed a break.

And then I met this guy.  I was at an event at church, one of the happy hours for the 30’s group.  I was actually there to avoid being home because of a (before mentioned) creepy man situation (but that’s another story for another time), even though I was benched.  Anyway, we ended up having a 30 to 45 minute conversation, which is rare in that setting, and had a ton of things in common.  He was handsome (my friends came to call him The Bod), was soft spoken, and super kind.  Because of the fact that I was “done,” I was just totally being my authentic, unfettered self.  I wasn’t trying to impress him.  It came up that I was a widow (because I was benched, my guard wasn’t up), and in a totally non-weird way, he asked about the story and I told it.  He was compassionate.  At the end of the conversation he told me to find him on Facebook, and mutual friends overheard that, and had been observing our long talk, and got excited.  This meeting had potential.

I found him on Facebook, and we exchanged messages over Christmas, but nothing substantial. 

After New Years, a friend of mine had a birthday and a big group of my friends, including the Bod, went out to celebrate.  We had a lot to drink, closed the bar down, went to get food afterward, and then he kissed me in my car.  I was shocked.  Other women had been throwing themselves at him all night.  I had actually been having an internal dialogue with myself all night:  Don’t fall for this guy, Noel.  Church guys are weird.  They can be such pussies.  He’ll never make a move.  You don’t want to be part of the harem.  So when he actually did make a move, I was shocked!  In a good way.  My internal dialogue changed to: Oh, it’s on.

And then the next day I saw him and it was like he was giving me the Heisman (as in, the body language that the trophy shows).  We finally had a conversation a week later, where I totally gave him an out:  We had been drinking a lot.  We don’t really know each other.  Blah Blah Blah.  But, he assured me that he had felt a connection, that he had meant to kiss me, but that he wanted to take things slow, base a relationship on friendship.  He wanted to get to know me.  Internal dialogue: Well, I don’t typically do slow, but that hasn’t been working for me lately.  Sure.  I could try slow.

After a couple of weeks of more awkwardness, with just enough hint of connection to keep me guessing, I sent an email.  I kindly told him that he’s not the type that I normally date, so if this is slow, I can be patient, but if he’s not interested, well, basically, could he help a sister out and just let me know?  He responded saying that he wanted to talk about it in person, and could we get together the following week because he was out of town?  “Sure,” I said.

But then he didn’t follow up, either via email or in person when I ran into him twice that week.  So, I felt mildly disappointed, both in the fact that he clearly wasn’t interested and also in the fact that he was, after all that, exactly what I had been warning myself against the whole night before we kissed.  But, whatever.

The problem is, we’re part of the same friend group.  So, a couple of weeks later, after seeing him a few times and not talking to him, he asked me if we could grab coffee or a drink.  Internal Dialogue: Do we seriously need to get together now, a month after I emailed you, for you to tell me you’re not interested? I think I got it, buddy.  But, I agreed.  Why not?  I’m pretty sure that I can’t remember what I ever saw in him, but, I’m pretty good at giving lots of chances.  Plus, because we run in the same gang, I’d like for him to be able to make eye contact with me.

My friends all told me not to worry anyway.  “What kind of asshole wants to get together after you’ve clearly moved on to tell you that he’s not interested?”

Oh, my friends, the Bod is that kind of asshole. We met for coffee, and I waited an hour for him to beat around the bush, to hint at the idea that he’s not interested.  I had to say, “Um, could we just circle back to the fact that you aren’t going to date anyone at the church that we go to, ‘cuz I feel like that was for me.”  After him stuttering through an explanation, and finally being somewhat direct, I told him he owed me an aplogy.  “You wanted to sit down and talk about this now?  It’s been two months since you kissed me.  You think it’s okay to just string someone along like that?”  He stuttered another explanation, no apology, and told me that he was “spooked” by my direct communication style.  And by the fact that I’m a widow.   

Mmokay then.  I’m actually proud of the fact that I’m a direct communicator.  And the widow thing?  That I can’t change.  I didn’t kill my husband.  It’s completely unfair.  It’s not my fault.  Really, in the whole above scenario, I can’t really think where I went wrong.

But now, even a couple of weeks later, I’m still furious.  Before we sat down, I had felt a bit of rejection, but it was no big deal. I had already moved on.  And then he dropped the widow thing on me.  I’m not someone who struggles with confidence.  Ever.  To a degree that it is probably actually not healthy, it probably borders on arrogance.  But, sheesh.  Every date that I’ve been on since my husband died, this is an issue, (well, except for that minute that I was dating the guy that I’ve known my whole life).  Internal Dialogue: No one will want you.  Ever.

And that just sucks.

I'm trying to tell myself that it's not true.

And, I keep reminding myself that I don’t even know this man.  That my first impressions were that he was just so kind.  That’s not the picture of him that he ended up showing me, but I believe that he has to be bigger than the small (asshole) piece of him that he showed me. 

But still.  F#ck him.

#tbt

A couple of weeks ago, Ellie (my sister) found these photos from Christmas 2008 and showed them to me.  I had never seen them before. 

Sawan and Arthur

Sawan and I with our Christmas cracker hats on

Ellie says she was trying out her new iphone and took this picture before he left for work.  It was his contact photo in her phone. 

After looking through them that night, I had a dream about Sawan, which has seriously only happened about four times (isn’t that strange?).  It was just a normal day, we were back in our old condo and he was making me dinner, which is pretty much how life always was.  His back was to me almost the whole time, and in random dream world he was making a salad but then he was trying to put it all on a pita, not in a “hey this will make a great wrap” sort of way, but just in a “this makes absolutely no sense because it’s in random dream world” way.  He put raw onions on it, which he realized too late and was annoyed about because then he knew I wouldn’t want to eat it (I hate raw onions).  And then I woke up.  I never touched him, didn’t get to tell him I loved him, how much I miss him.  It was truly disappointing.  Especially for it only being the fourth time in six years that I have had a late night rendezvous with my dead husband.

There was also this one.  Because, you know, safety first.

The Intolerable Complement

2016 is starting out pretty amazing.  I’m crazy busy, but I won’t complain.  I’m loving life.

Remember that I said that I was listening to books?  I’ve been on a bit of a C.S. Lewis binge of late. 

In the last few months I’ve “read” The Great Divorce, Mere Christianity, and The Problem of Pain.  I took a break in between to listen to something a bit less heady, and just finished The Problem of Pain last week.  I feel like I’m secure in the fact that I’m an intelligent woman, but when I read C.S. Lewis I feel like I know nothing, that I’m never going to get it.  Like he’s speaking the language of the gods and I am a mere mortal.  I was talking to someone about this and he told me that you have to just realize that every time you read him you’re going to get something more than you got the last time, and be patient with yourself.  So, I’m working on it.

But, reading The Problem of Pain has totally changed my life. 

I struggle with caring too much about what people think about me.  I think I’m better than I used to be, but it’s still there.  In a lot of ways I feel that people think that I must have really screwed up to be in the position that I am.  Widowed.  I have let that affect my own thoughts about myself as well.

It seems like there are multiple ways to process grief and suffering, but the way that I always go is that its all my fault.  Since the terrible thing that happened to me can’t be explained, it must be because of something that I did, or because I’m a bad person, or at any rate not good enough, and eventually, I get to, because God doesn’t love me enough. 

Part of the “messy spirituality" that I’m known for is that (as I have said before) I know intellectually that God loves me and wants what’s best for me, but if he thinks that me being widowed is best for me, then he’s kind of an asshole.  Even though I hate it, that’s  pretty much been the way I’ve been relating to him for the last six or so years.  And then I read this:

"We are, not metaphorically, but in very truth, a Divine work of art, something that God is making, and therefore something with which He will not be satisfied until it has a certain character.  Here again we come up against what I have called the 'intolerable compliment'. Over a sketch made idly to amuse a child, an artist may not take much trouble: he may be content to let it go even though it is not exactly as he meant it to be. But over the great picture of his life - the work which he loves, though in a different fashion, as intensely as a man loves a woman or a mother a child - he will take endless trouble - and would, doubtless, thereby give endless trouble to the picture if it were sentient [the ability to feel and to have subjective experiences]. One can imagine a sentient picture, after being rubbed and scraped and recommenced for the tenth time, wishing that it were only a thumbnail sketch whose making was over in a minute. In the same way, it is natural for us to wish that God had designed for us a less glorious and less arduous destiny; but then we are wishing not for more love but for less." - C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain.

Hmm.  He really loves me after all.  Talk about a paradigm shift.

So long, 2015 (don't let the door hit'cha...)

What a crazy year 2015 was.

By seasons, it was a rough winter, followed by springtime of conflict, one of my darkest summers on record, and a fall that was beautiful but also painful in a different way.  As the year moved on toward colder weather again, I found myself loving winter in a way that I never have before.  I need the cold to seal everything up and let dormant things lie, so that there can be new life.

But, amid the dark stuff, there was light.  Here’s are some of the major happenings:

I got a Fitbit.  I got it in March, and gradually became obsessed with it. By May my crazy was full blown.  Picture me doing laps inside my house getting steps.  The neighbors see me walk by and call out, “Getting your steps?”  Pacing the floor in a quiet moment, causing my friends to say, “What are you doing?” I went from the second week of May through the beginning of September without missing my 10,000-step count goal (When you reach your goal, the Fitbit vibrates.  I call it “Party on my wrist.” It now comes with a dance, as well.).  A combination of it getting more difficult to walk outside and a three-week separation from it in November allowed me to release myself (I have a problem with letting things go once I’ve set a goal).  I still average 9K, but it’s not like the 12K I was getting in July.  Let it go, Noel.  *deep breath* But, summer 2015 will always be the Summer of the Fitbit.  All of my Denver family had one, and we would compete against each other and our Australia family.  My sister would stop by just because she was going out to get steps and she wanted company.  We would all be together and find the furthest parking spot away so that we could all increase our steps.  It was such fun. 

From a Fitbit walk this summer.  Sun setting, perfect weather, and a field full of dandelions.  I hate them in my own yard, but at the park, it was so dreamy, all I could think was, "That's a lot of wishes."

From an amazing encounter with author of the Shack, Paul Young.  

That leads to another great thing about 2015.  I began to “read” again.  Well, sort of.  You see, I used to be a big reader.  I would read one or two books a month.  When I was a kid, I actually got grounded from reading more than once.  I would be reading when I was supposed to be doing other things, like chores, or sleeping.  After Sawan died, however, I had to stop.  I couldn’t read as quickly as I had before, and my comprehension had gone down the tubes.  Reading provided only frustration where it used to bring joy, so I gave it up for awhile.  There have been a few books that I’ve struggled through in the last six years, but it was just that, a struggle.  I have a friend that is an occupational therapist that suggested I try doing two things at once, like reading and swinging, or reading on my elliptical.  That would employ both sides of my brain and therefore help me to remember.  But, I found an even better solution, using her suggestion of two things at once.  Audiobooks.  I listen while I’m getting my steps (or walking, if you want), or driving, or working in the yard, or in the tub, or doing the dishes.  It’s employing both sides of my brain but I’m still being productive.  I “read” 17 books this year.  Plus, I’m old school reading (actual books with paper and words) three more right now, but that takes me forever.

August is always a hard month for me; the majority of my "hard days" fall in August.  I really keep thinking that it’s going to get easier, but man, this one was tough.  I told my mom one day that the only thing I wanted to do was smoke and work out.  A bit counter-productive, I know, but I allowed myself some grace in the cigarette department (I technically quit November 2014) and gained some muscle at Orange Theory.

Which brings me to my very favorite thing from 2015.  Orange Theory Fitness.  Orange Theory is a HIIT workout that kicks my butt every time, but is completely enjoyable.  When I tell my friends about it, some of them say they never want to do it, and some of them have come with me.  Either way, I am addicted to the endorphins and have injured myself more than once from trying to go too often. I think it probably saved my life this summer and so I’m incredibly thankful for it.

I started a new job in September staging real estate.  I work staging on the days that I’m not doing hair.  Well, to be fair, I only worked a handful of days last fall and then things totally slowed down around the holidays, so I had plenty of time for the busy season at the salon.  A really gifted friend is training me, and I love every minute of it.  It’s totally energizing in a whole new way.

I began to use Arthur (my service dog) less and less this fall; it just felt like it was time, because I’m doing so much better than I was when I first started using him.  I just don’t need him as much as I used to.  He and I are stumbling a bit through the transition of him not having to work all the time, but still being a good boy when I need him to work.  I think he doesn’t get it, doesn’t understand why I’m leaving him.  And, I miss him.  I don’t miss all of the questions or the attention that we got, though.  Anyway, we’re getting it figured out.

Arthur with his birthday cone

freezing his paws off.  not a fan of the boots.

September in Santa Fe

My parents moved away this fall.  My dad started a new job in October, so he headed north then, and my mom came and went throughout the fall working on finding their new house and getting the old house ready to go.  They left for good right after Thanksgiving. I went up there for Christmas (BTW, spending time in the town where I went to high school and have rarely been since was surreal), so I haven’t really felt their absence until this week.  It pretty much sucks.

Sprinkle in there a few bad dates, a few good dates (but none with a permanent solution to my single-girl woes), some awesome time deepening old friendships and making new ones, another season watching the Rockies lose, and you pretty much have my year.  For the most part I feel like 2015 can suck it.  I’m not sad to see it go.

old friends. (Or friends for a long time.  We're NOT old.)

(relatively) new friends.

I’m excited to see what 2016 will bring. 

My dear readers, my Readership of Tens, thank you for reading my words.  Thanks for your comments and words of encouragement.  Especially you widows…we got this!  We’re in it together.  Thanks for another year.

 

Christmas in Montana