I'M DOING MY BEST HERE

A glimpse of the plaza lights

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I got up early Saturday morning and sneaked out of the house to go to a yoga class. My mat is my magic carpet. It has lifted me up and off into a place of joy many times. I was in need of a magic carpet ride. As I sat on my mat before class started, I closed my eyes and focused on my breath. I could see my heart. I could see the hand wrapped around it, squeezing it. It reminded me of one of those squishy toys found in the impulse buy bins. Instead of a real heart, I had one of those fake plastic squishy things that you squeezed and one side would bulge up and out in some weird bubble. Instead of the weird bubble, my heart just gave up a puff of dust when squeezed. Puff. Wheeze. I physically shook the image from my head and pulled my focus to class, which was great. I laughed and smiled and found joy. Then we came to the end for savasana. I felt the tears pool up and soak into my eye pillow. Back to where I started. 

I got up at the end of class and brushed the dried up salt crystals from my eyes. I didn't stay for the cookies and chai, but quietly slipped out the door and onto the sidewalk. Then I felt something almost familiar on my face. It was the sun. I blinked up at it trying to remember when was the last time I'd seen the sun. Was it three days ago? Four? I couldn't remember. I slowly walked to my car soaking in as much sun as I could, holding onto as much as I could. And I do, making it through Saturday and right on into Sunday. I give the Cabbage a bubble bath, we drink hot cocoa and pick a bedtime story. She chooses my favorite, Helga's Dowry and Michael reads it while the Cabbage and I listen to how smart and clever Helga is to earn her own dowry and not marry that jerk, Lars. It's my bedtime too, but an hour later I'm woken by an inconsolable four year old covered with hives. Michael heads to the store for Benydryl while I put the Cabbage back in the shower. I wash her down with a different soap just to be sure, though she's used the old soap and lotion every time before this and not had a reaction. She screams at me "Why would you use that soap on me if you knew it would make me itch!" I feel like telling her that I used that soap because I like making her miserable, that I love dealing with a crying snotty itchy four year old. It's what I always dreamed about. Instead I tell her that it wasn't the soap, but probably the bubble bath. It's the only thing new added to the bath time ritual. Calgon, take me away into a field of hives.  

I lay there with her while we wait for Michael to get back and rub her back while she continues to point out all the things I do wrong. It doesn't matter that she's stopped itching and only a few hives remain or that she's no longer crying. Finally Michael returns with some medicine, she drinks it down with a smile and then is out like a light. I go back to bed and lay there trying to calm my pulse, quiet the twitch that's started in my right eye. Of course I do everything wrong. I'm not her mother. Despite what everyone else around me says and thinks, I am not even a parental figure. The Cabbage and I both know that I'm nothing more than her maid. I make sure she has clean clothes and decent food. That's about it and I'm barely managing to get that part of the job right. I'm pretty sure that she doesn't even like me. When she says goodbye, she has to be told to hug me goodbye and most of the time her reply to that is a "no". I cringe a little bit on the inside when they make her. Forcing her to hug me is only going to make her like me even less. It doesn't matter that I was the one that suggested we go to a McDonald's Play Place when SmaLand was too full at IKEA or make a trip to the aquarium. I'm the one who purposely uses soap that gives hives. "I can't do this." I think to myself, but don't say it out loud, not ready to own those words. But I feel myself sinking back into myself, shutting off and down. Back to where I started. Puff. Wheeze. 

There's this thing going around about how on January 4th all the planets are going to line up and mess with earth's gravity for like a minute or two. At 9:47 PST AM, if you jump into the air you will experience a feeling of weightlessness. It's a complete hoax. Totally not real. A cosmic joke to see how many people jump up into the air on Jan. 4th at 9:47 PST AM. I wish it wasn't a hoax. I wish I could jump up and for a moment feel weightless. I wish it was more than just a moment. Winters are so hard. I should have been born a bear. 

UNSETTLED

Thanksgiving hangover

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Thanksgiving morning, I received a phone call from Chris's mom. I hadn't heard from her in almost two years. The call was a short exchange of small talk. "How are you?" "What's the weather like up there?" "How are you spending your Thanksgiving?" She asked about when I planned to visit OKC again. I told her I might be up at Christmas. She told me to say hello for her to my Mom and Dad. I didn't correct her. I realized that there was so much she didn't know. There's a lot that can happen in two years. She doesn't know that there is someone new in my life or how that someone comes with a child. She doesn't know that Dad is no longer with us. She doesn't know that we sold the family house or that mom has moved. 

Her phone call surprised me, caught me off guard. It made all the air leave my body and my gut clench. I could feel the heat of tears building and I had to take a moment to collect myself. I know she meant no harm. She just wanted to remind me that she's still around. I don't know why the call would throw me so off balance. Maybe it's because it had been so long since I had heard from her. We never really did form a close bond. I see the relationship between my mom and sister-in-law and I know that I had nothing of the kind with Chris's mom. Sure there are times my mom and sister-in-law don't see eye to eye, but there has never been a time when I didn't think that Mom saw Katrina as one of her own. There is a love and warmth between them that I never found with Chris's mom. The nice things I tried to do for her over the years seemed to always be met with disappointment and a lack of gratitude and over time I just stopped trying. When Chris died, I stopped pretending to try. 

I didn't know what to say to her or what not to say to her when she called. I still have a difficult time telling those who were closest to Chris that I am happy now. I love and I'm in love and my life is good. My life is good. Those words stuck like cold oatmeal in my throat while I was on the phone with her. I could not confide with her or share with her that this life is good. I could not tell her that I have not moved on, but I have moved forward. All I could muster was casual chit chat. "Things are fine." "Yes, I'm still working." "No snow here, but the weather has been really cold." This life is good, but there are times I can't shake the feeling I'm being haunted. There are times when I want to beg Chris to stay and times when I want to scream at him to just leave me alone. Maybe if our life together had been awful. Maybe if my memories of our time together didn't make me smile and my heart fill with joy. All of this would be easier? What is easier? 

I made a mistake in my youth by not falling in love with many boys, by not falling in love with at least more than one boy before Chris. My mistake was to never have my heart broken, to never get a taste for what it might be like to lose the one you love before losing the one you love. There was no practice and therefore I bring to this table inexperience. I stammer and stutter over how to talk about my past. I stall and evade when I talk to people from my past. I almost didn't even mention the call to Michael. He asked me if I was alright, I replied that I was fine. Michael said that he knew what "fine" meant. "Now tell me how you really feel." I thought for a moment and then said "unsettled." It seemed the best description for the phone call that left me feeling as though the floor had shifted sideways.  

I know that all of this, my life with Michael, is OK. There's no shame in it. No shame in moving forward. No judgement. When it came to telling Chris's mom these things, it seemed like a waste of words.  At the end of the day, she didn't really care about the existence of Michael or the loss of Dad. She just wanted to hear someone familiar, someone who had been so connected to her son. Conjuring an image of her son through the voice of the person who knew him best. And maybe it worked for her. 

THAT'S THAT

Well..that's that. Yesterday I let Chris's domain name, Numbskullery, expire. I have all the content stashed away in a file on dropbox, so all is not lost. But when the notice came through from the hosting company, I felt the blow a little more than I had planned to and there was a moment of panic. I felt that all too familiar tightness in my chest and heat flush up into my face as the tears welled. Oh my God, what have I done!?!?! I sent a chat to Talaura. "Tell me I've done the right thing." She assured me that I had. I pulled it together after that, but for a moment I considered buying it back. He had a list of domains. BalisticNylons. FuckableRobots. Just to name two. But Numbskullery was the first. The beginning of it all. Numbskullery was the father of our blog family. The Patriarch. 

And I've let it go. Holy fuck.

Part of that holy fuck comes from standing on these new blog legs. They are as wobbly as a newborn foal's. In fact I was still under the impression that it would all just fall to shit when Numbskullery expired. I was positive I'd done something not quite right around here somewhere. Forgot to dot an i or cross a t. I am the Queen of self doubt. But, by all tense and purposes, things are still standing. Look how far I've come! 

The days after Chris passed, I put on a pretty brave face. I set my chin up, but on the inside I couldn't guarantee that I wouldn't fall all to shit. There were days where I kind of did just that, laying on the couch, drooling into the pillow as I stared mindlessly at the TV. It's so hard to believe there can be any kind of life after that kind of loss. Yet here I am thriving. I am at times flabbergasted that the world didn't stop turning. These events have become to big for me to wrap my brain around and I hear the Talking Heads and I do ask myself "how did I get here?". Maybe the how is not as important as the just being here. And this entry has rambled so far off the path in order to avoid the truth.

Dumping that domain name was hard. Like H.A.R.D. hard. That domain name was such a part of Chris. I could get rid of the clothes, the Star Wars collectibles, the seemingly endless supply of Battle Star Galactica paraphernalia, his whole nerdy arsenal. It is his written words that hold me hostage. It will make me a hoarder of notebooks and computer hard drives. Reading it all is like dipping your fingers in hot wax, painful and soothing all at the same time. The problem with the domain name was that it didn't just pass on to me after Chris's death; it was passed on to all of us. There's guilt in taking that away from you. Yet, it is no longer a place that Chris can haunt. Exercising a small section of the internet. I'm sorry for it, but feel like I've done the right thing. 

He sure could spin a good yarn. 

ANGER MANAGEMENT

I've been lugging around this bucket full of anger for a while now. Occasionally I'll plop it down hard enough for it slosh out all over everything, but despite all the sloshing, it still remains pretty full. I thought if I distanced myself from the source of the anger that the bucket of anger would eventually evaporate. I think this theory is working, but the bucket is still pretty heavy and I'm getting really tired of lugging it around. It's a pointless emotion particularly when there's nothing I can do or say to make that person understand that their words are hurtful. It's complicated to write about and easier to just remove myself from direct line of sight. 

The other night Michael was putting me to bed and he was asking me questions. "Are you tired?" "Yes." "Are you sad?" I hesitated wondering if I should speak the truth and thinking that it was good that these were all yes or no type questions. I can walk and chew gum at the same time, but I have never been able to talk and cry at the same time. That physical act closes up my throat so that nothing larger than a squeak can escape. I worried about this after I volunteered to give Dad's eulogy. I can still hear the break of my voice as I neared the end, no longer able to contain the bubble of a sob that had been resting just under the surface. I finally replied "yes". Yes, I am sad. 

There's that scene in the original Cheaper By the Dozen where one of the younger boys is sitting on the front porch crying. The two oldest girls come home and they ask him what's wrong and he just wails "Oh Andy, our Daddy's dead!". It get's me every time and it's just playing in a loop in my head. "Oh Andy, our Daddy's dead." And I am sad. My Dad's never going to call me up in the middle of a day and say "hey! I'm in the lobby. Let's go get something to eat". I'm never going to hear him tell me about driving a fancy new Cadillac across Texas or where ever.  I'm never going to be cleaning out my car and come across a bag of roasted peanuts that he'd stashed in there for me to find later.  

My sadness is a valid emotion. It's OK to be sad, but it's not OK for me to carry around this bucket of anger. It serves no purpose. It's heavy and those times it sloshes out, it makes a mess. Also, it's starting to smell bad. I'm ready to just leave the bucket in that corner of my basement I never go into because the spiders have taken over and well...the basement's just gross. Then I remember that the basements on my list of things to take care of this year. Eventually I will have to go into that corner of the basement. But I will go in prepared. Rubber gloves and pants tucked into my shoes prepared. 

I'll clean it up then.

THIS WAS THE SUMMER

This was the summer I got used to wearing flip flops that go between the toes. This was the summer the bathroom tiles fell off the wall. This was the summer I grew a head of cabbage and more collard greens than we can eat. This was the summer I got bit by a spider and it left a permanent mark on my arm. This was the summer I saw all of the Dakotas and a tiny corner of Wyoming. This was the summer we colored the driveway with chalk. This was the summer I gave my Dad's eulogy and this is the last summer I will sleep in the house I grew up in. 

For years we've been telling Mom and Dad they should down size to a smaller house closer to town. Dad would tell you that he's all for it, but Mom won't have it. Mom will tell you that she'd loved to move, but Dad wanted to stay. Now it's up to Mom and she's moving into a house right next to my sister. The house conveniently went on the market a few weeks ago.  Our old house will now be one I can drive by and say "hey! I lived there when I was a kid". This is the house they brought me home to after my birth. I learned to walk on the brick floors of the den. The carpet on the staircase was worn from countless sledding trips down them in sleeping bags. There were so many evenings where I fell asleep on my Strawberry Shortcake blanket on the den floor in front of the fire. But it's time to say goodbye. 

I spent the few days I was there sorting through old pictures and boxing up the few things I wanted to keep and a few things that might sell on eBay. All in all it wasn't much. A box of Memaw's china, some pictures, some old Fisher Price toys for eBay and an old doll. It's one of those big floppy rag doll types, but she's wearing all kinds of clothes. The clothes button, zip and tie and she's wearing shoes you have to buckle. I remember spending hours buttoning and unbuttoning her vest over and over. I saved a box of letters Stephanie wrote me in high school. A box of cringe worthy notes about her latest crush and questions about my latest crush.

The rest went into the dumpster. Even the yearbooks. I know those were things I probably should have kept, but as I flipped through the pages I didn't feel an ounce of nostalgia for those days. Instead it dredged up old feelings of inadequacy. It was just a reminder of the years where I could be half me. I was so insecure, so awkward. I wore jeans and large t-shirts to hide my imaginary large grotesque body. I turned page after page not seeing frivolous teenage years, but all the reasons why I wanted to leave. In fact, by the time I got to my Senior year, I was already absent. I took college courses and was only around half the day, two of those hours spent in band and choir. I am no where to be found in the senior group photo.

Letting go of those yearbooks was like letting go of fifty pound weights. Oh the years it took to pull away from all of that, to be comfortable in my skin. To find my voice, my confidence. To be free.    

This was the summer I let go.

PROCRASTINATION

I've walked by my computer so many times this weekend, knowing that I really should sit down and write. This weekend has been so light and slightly lazy. Sunday I worked in the garden, harvesting green beans, a handful of cherry tomatoes, two parsnips, a head of cabbage, one cucumber and one okra. Michael helped me hang laundry on the clothes line. A few weeks ago, he put up an extra line so now all of our clothes can hang to dry. I made a fresh batch of ghee and organized the bills. In between tasks, I'd pass a look at my laptop and think "I really should work on that thing or write some words or something". I said I'd put together some of my blog entries about Dad to read at his memorial service. I've managed to dump them all into one place, but it's going to take a little more than that to make them congeal into something that would pass for any kind of eulogy. I have all week. 

One of my coworkers came by my cubicle to give their condolences. I waived it off. "It's no big deal. I know my way around death." I said this in a joking way, but honestly...I know my way around death. I'm not so sure that's such a great super power. I know I never planned on or even wanted to be the type of blogger that blogs about grief. Yet her I am. Cindy Maddera of Elephant Soap, Grief Blogger Extraordinaire.  If I felt a little more confident, I'd put on an outfit like Zatanna's and have business cards made. Maybe that's too jazzy for death or maybe it's time we made death a bit more jazzy. Give it some pizzazz. 'Cause that's what death needs, more pizzazz.

The reality is that grief is heavy and hard and sad. It makes you want to do nothing and everything all at once. It's all the things that I don't want for my blog let alone my life. But hey. People die man. That's the truth. One day one of those people you love will just up and go missing from your life. Then you have to learn how do everything all over again with that person missing. Like learning to walk and talk and chew gum all over again. I know it sounds bleak and depressing, but there's a few things that just don't exist: the Loch Ness Monster, perfection, pots of gold under rainbows and permanence. I suppose a glass half empty type of person would see all of this and say "what's the point of even living?". Good thing I've always seen the glass as half full, because there's something beautiful and splendid about knowing that nothing is permanent. It sets the stage for how I should go about living my life. This isn't going to last. Make the most of it.

Some days I'm really good at remembering this. Other days? Not so much. I just have to get through this week. I just have to get through the next few days. I just have to get through this day. Today, I will pull a rabbit out of my hat and make it all disappear. 

THE PLACES I'VE LEFT CHRIS

I did not anticipate the strange photo album that would be born from leaving Chris's ashes in the places I visited. I remember laying in bed one night with Chris. This was after the final "keep him comfortable there's nothing we can do" diagnosis. We were just laying there talking about nothing and everything. The subject of cremation came up and I asked him "So...what do you want me to do with your ashes?". His reply was "I don't know." He asked me what I wanted to do with my own ashes and I told him about maybe being dumped in with the elephants in the zoo. I told him how I'd said that to my mom once and she'd totally ruined the idea by saying "so then the elephants would poop on you". He never answered my question. We just sort of skipped passed it. I was always bothered by how the ashes of Chris's dad were just displayed in a typical urn on top of the TV. I wasn't disturbed by the idea of people ashes. It just bothered me that placing him on top of the TV surrounded by a few trinkets was how they decided to honor this man's life. But really, all I had ever known of the man was that he spent a lot of time sitting in front of the TV. I wanted something different (better) for Chris. That something different is growing into quite the collections of Places I've Left Chris. I knew that there would be several places on this last trip that I'd want to leave Chris. I'd made the mistake of not taking enough to leave in other places when I went to Ireland. I needed to take more ashes than the little travel boxes I had could hold, so I filled a hot salsa jar with Chris's ashes. Some may think it is a bit irreverent to fill up a hot salsa jar with someone's ashes. I found it appropriate for Chris, lover of all things hot and spicy. I'd once witnessed Chris slice up a Habanero pepper and place it on his hamburger. There'd be a couple of times we'd end up pouring some of those ashes into a travel sized toothpaste box, the box being easier to smuggle. The container doesn't matter.

I would have liked to have left some of his ashes at the wood chipper in Fargo, but since it was housed inside the Fargo Travel Center, I thought better of it. I didn't really want his ashes to end up sitting inside a vacuum cleaner in a closet somewhere in the travel center. Instead I left some at the World's Largest Buffalo. And it was the thought of leaving Chris's ashes at Devil's Tower that inspired Talaura to put that on our list of things. Of course there really was no way we could get that close to Devil's Tower and not go out of our way to leave some of Chris there. I can't even tell you how many times Close Encounters was quoted in this house. Though it would have been funny to be able to leave some of Chris's ashes right under Washington's nose at Mt. Rushmore, I discreetly left him in view of Mt. Rushmore and directly behind the pillar that held the Oklahoma State flag.

There was one place that I had not expected to leave ashes. We ended up stopping our second night in the Ft. Abraham Lincoln State Park. The campground sits right next to Missouri river. In fact, it's situated right at the junction of where the Heart river joins the Missouri river. Michael was thrilled to be on the Missouri river. He went on and on about it. I think it was his favorite part of the trip. The next morning, as we packed up everything to head on towards Theodore Roosevelt National Park, Michael said "I think we're forgetting someone." He wanted to leave some of Chris at the river. It meant something to me that Michael wanted to be a part of this memorial. So, right there, where the Heart River meets the Missouri, we left some of Chris's ashes. The emphasis on We.