Being human is hard

 

I scrolled by this picture the other day on Instagram and just loved it.

If you're off the 're-creation', 'quantum physics' sort of mindset, then you get this. Otherwise, maybe not...

 

Today is May- well actually tomorrow is May, but since I usually spend most of Sunday preparing for Monday, it might as well be May.

 

May is hard for me. May if full. It's full of to-do's at work. It's full of anxiety about rumors of changes for next school year while trying desperately to finish all work left to do this school year. Also meetings- so many, many meetings.  May is when a full social calendar at home leaves me it's own to-do list there too. May is when my baby girl was born and when my father died. By the time May is over, I usually am too. Done, tired, spent.

 

Today as I peered into May, I realized that in the span of one week I will be celebrating my son's First Communion, my daughter's 5th birthday and my remembering my father's 3rd anniversary of death.

 

"Dear God" I thought (appropriately so as I was in church at the time) "how in the world am I going to handle all of those things in such a short span of time? How ever will I survive that emotional shit storm?".

 

Talk to any mother and they will share the range of emotions that comes with watching your babies grow. It truly defines "bittersweet". There is so much joy and love but also so much heartache and even more 'where did the time go?'.  So birthdays can be tough. Milestones, like First Communion only add to that seeming heartbreak. It's heavy, even when its really a celebration, that's how it feels for the feely type of people- heavy. And then, after that, will come the grief. The grief that arrives as May marches on and we remember my Dad.

 

I wondered how I- how any of us- navigate the range of emotions that comes along with being Human. How do we get up every day, go to work and function when we're carrying around all this stuff? How do we fake a smile and answer "fine" when someone asks how we are doing?

 

We are not fine! We are drowning! We are drowning in a sea of feely emotions! Well, maybe not every day...but sometimes!

 

It is no wonder why some people check out. Why they numb out with wine, or pills, or social media or cookies.

 

Because numb is easier than feeling. Numb is predictable. Emotions are not. As an experienced numb-er, I get that. I lived that. Sealing your heart up behind a border wall is a much safer way to negotiate life.

 

But here's the thing. Life- life is in those emotions. A numb life may be predictable but it's no  life at all.

 

We are here so briefly. We need to soak this shit up. The good, the bad and the ugly. We need to feel it. The good, the bad and the ugly. And we need to live it. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

 

So how will I survive this May? How will I ensure that I don't dive so deep into this sea of emotions that I will float away? Or more realistically, spend the month in a binge of epic proportions...

 

- I will breathe. Sometimes that's enough. A good deep, diaphragmatic (hello voice lessons!) breath

- I will move. Whether it's working out or taking a walk or digging in my garden. Doing helps to process those emotions, to move through them.

- I will talk. Maybe I won't answer "fine" the next time someone asks me how I am. Or maybe I'll write more. Experience tells me that breathing my thoughts into words is therapeutic.

- I will show up. Be present. Live these moments. For these are the moments that I've got.

and most importantly I will remember...

 

 

Like the moon waxes and wanes, and the tide rises and falls. So, too, can I. And be OK.

 

Here's to not only surviving May, but living it.

Grief and lessons and gifts

If you look up the definition of the word grief- you will see that it means "deep sorrow". Frankly, I hate the word.

I'm not sure if it's the harsh 'gr' blend in the beginning or the way when you say it too much, it starts to sound weird, made up. Or if it just reminds me of Charlie Brown. 

The word grieving is better. Grieving is an act, a verb, an action. And yet, the process of grieving is comprised mostly of in-action.

There are many analogies describing grief. Trying to paint a picture of this complex process of 'deep sorrow'. To me-grieving is like being covered with a heavy, weighted blanket. Or stuck in a choking, thick fog. You are seemingly able to breathe, to move, to live under these conditions- only, everything seems so heavy, so difficult. Every breath you take is suffocated by the fog, but only you can feel that. You live your day to day life under this heavy blanket but only you can feel how weighted down life is. Your breaths are shallow for fear of choking and your eyes are clouded through the fog.

Though I've lost many loved ones, I never understood grieving until my father passed. Likely because I choose so often to eat my feelings rather than feel them. His death gave me cause to stop and understand what was happening. What this grieving process was. To honor it and to breath through the fog. 

Despite the challenges, the tears and numbness, the anger and hurt. This grief allowed me to learn many lessons, there were gifts in this grief. Here are just a few:

1- Perspective. Probably the biggest lesson of grief is perspective. You may be having a bad day, a bad morning, a bad moment- but nothing is worse than that day you got the phone call or the test results or when the police showed up at your door. The moment when the bottom fell out. I can close my eyes and remember exactly how it felt to hear my mother say that my father had died. I'll never forget the moments following as I frantically called my husband and rushed to her house. THAT was a bad day...  Perspective makes it almost a crime to make a big problem out of a little one. Makes it a sin to sweat the small stuff. That sort of perspective changes the way you look at your life and this world.

2- Empathy. I'm not talking about greeting card empathy. I'm talking about punch you in the gut and knock the wind out of you empathy. The PTSD kind. The kind that brings you to your knees beside a friend or acquaintance or stranger and whispers "I've been through this and it sucks and I'm here for you". The kind that leaves you sobbing at a wake. The kind that knows it doesn't matter what you do or say when someone is hurting from loss, as long as you do or say something. As long as you show up. Prior to my father's death, I didn't know. I didn't realize how important that showing up is to those in pain, in hurt, to those grieving. The people in my life who showed up for me are the ones who pulled me through when the fog was so thick. One step at a time, they helped me find my way.

3- The finite-ness of time. Today. Now. It's all we've been promised and it's all we've got. This lesson is a difficult one especially for someone who loves plans and dreams of the future as much as I do. But its helped me realize that today we can start. Today we can do- something, anything- for today is all we have. I recently overheard a stressed-out, overwhelmed  mother say "I just want today to be over" and it was all I could do not to reply "but what if today was the last one you had?". Would you wish it away? Would we make mountains out of small problems? Would we complain about the size of our thighs or our husband's socks on the floor? Or would we just take it all in. Would we just open our hearts and say the things we've been wanting to say? If today was the last chance you had, what would you do with it?

4- Gratitude. It seems odd that my greatest lessons on gratitude would come from death, but alas, they have. Directly related to learning how precious all our moments are comes appreciating them- the moments. The tiny, magical things that happen every day. It may be when your child smiles at you, or when a student you've been working with makes a breakthrough and the light bulb goes on. It may be something funny or something mundane, like your mother finishing a load of laundry for you while at your house. But it is in seeing this moments, acknowledging them and appreciating them- that is where joy lives. The kind of joy that gives you goose bumps and makes you tear up. The kind of joy that allows you to whisper a "thank you" to the universe. A deep sense of gratitude for the moments. As a long time student of Oprah, I've kept a gratitude journal for years. But these days, my entries look much different. I look deeper to find the good things and I take a moment to remember them, to sit with them.

5- Faith. This is a big one. Perhaps the biggest. The greatest gift that grief has given me is faith. Faith that he's still here. Faith that despite his body being gone, his soul continues to linger. He shows up in his powder blue Mercury Grand Marquis driving slowly in front of us during a snow storm. He shows up when the grandkids mention their "Papa" seemingly out of the blue, or when a Roy Orbison song comes on the radio. This faith has been my savior. It has pulled me out from under that heavy blanket and allowed me to breathe again. The kind of breath that fills your lungs, opens your heart and heals you.

As we approach the second anniversary of my father's passing. It's hard not to look back to see the grieving as you'd see the sunset in the rear view mirror of a car. It was just last year when I realized how heavily that blanket weighed on me, how that thick fog suffocated my joy.

So with the encouragement of a friend, I stepped out of the fog. I allowed the grief to pass through me and I took that blanket off.

I began to reconnect, with myself, with my family, with my husband. I became present. For while my father's heart had stopped beating- mine has not. And while his voice was silenced- mine is not. The light inside me started to glow a bit brighter.  I could laugh without feeling guilty and watch my children, feeling only joy.  Instead of grieving,  I was healing.

The 'deep sorrow' of my father's death will always rest in my bones but now, I can breathe. And more importantly, I can see the lessons and appreciate the gifts that came with that.

It's been a journey but I'm lucky to have learned a bit along the way.

The holidays without him

Tis the season!

Walk into any store, peak into any catalog and it's clear... the holidays are upon us. 

It's the season of festive celebrations, family and traditions. It's a time of joy and love and peace. 

But for those grieving the loss of a loved one, this time of year can be especially hard. 

This year we celebrate the holidays for the second time without my Dad. Last year, just six months after he died, it was difficult. 

There was lots of trepidation going into the holidays. What would it BE like?  Who would eat the turkey skin and sit at the head of the table? Where would we get the pies without his connections to Lisi at Fall River Country Club?

There were heartfelt toasts and lots of flowing wine to ease the unease. There were tears, in private, because that's how we do.

This year, we've lived these holidays without him before so there is more of an opportunity to be reflective, to lean in. As the season approaches, I find myself thinking of him more often and with a heavier heart. I feel the weight of his loss all over again. 

So still the question lingers, how do we celebrate the holidays without him?

And the truth is- we don't.

He's there in the loquacious vocabulary (ahem- bullshit) used by my older brother during after dinner debates.

He's there in the quiet way my younger brother takes it all in before stating his position. 

He's there in the passionate (read: loud) way I communicate my opinions. Also in my bleeding-heart political leaning.

He's there in the quiet. The brief moments between a belly laugh and a child screaming that allow us all a chance to remember. 

He will silently slip into the last pew at midnight mass to hear me sing "O Holy Night" and in a whisper I'll hear "Beautiful job, Laurie Ann".

He will linger on the edge of the craziness as his grandkids tear open their presents.

He'll be standing next to my mother, shaking his head  and giving us his classic tongue click (ttttkkk- man I can still hear it) as he listens to untold stories of our younger and wilder days. 

In the need to soak up and soak in all that the holidays bring.  In the need to appreciate our crazy family that surrounds the table. In the need to embrace, to enjoy, to be together- he's there. Because now we know, tomorrow is promised to no one...

Last year, as we floated through the grief of the "firsts", these things were hard to see and even harder to appreciate. 

This year it seems clear, there are no holidays without him, for he is here. Always. In us and around us.

 Through us, he's here. ❤️

Annual Christmas family picture circa 1989 as evidenced by my big bangs

THE post

I started this blog because I felt I had a story to tell, I mean, we all do- don't we?! And I've been telling stories, sure. But this is THE story. The one I've been struggling to articulate. So you can consider this my SFD (shitty first draft, ala Brené Brown).

My first memory of a "weight related incident" was probably when I was 6 years old. I can remember being in my grandparents living room watching TV. My grandfather sat in his wheelchair, watching too. I believe my uncle and older brother were also in the room. A commercial came on for whatever weight-loss method was popular in 1986 (Weight Watchers, Slim-o-matic, Drink My Shake- whatevs) and my grandfather pointed at the TV and said "Hey maybe we should get that for Laurie". His remark was met by laughter from the other men in the room, maybe I even laughed too.

 I can't remember what my reaction was. I mean the real one. The one on the inside. I do remember leaving the room and going out to the sun porch to be alone. Did I know then? Is that when this story started? When the word "fat" became a character trait.

I'm not sure- but it was probably the beginning of a very long story...

Fast forward to adolescence. Weight was my "thing". I didn't have pimples or frizzy hair. I had weight. So that was the issue du jour. Another one of those piercing memories comes from 6th grade. I was at a friends birthday party and was called "bubble butt" during a game of volleyball. The worst part is, it came from another friend I was very close too.

That reaction I remember- I was broken. As broken as a 12 year old can be. I internalized that pain and upset and once again "fat" became my most prominent character trait. Except now, even my friends thought so...

Fast forward through life. I gained weight and lost it. I joined Weight Watchers and counted points. The Special K Diet and 3 Day Hot Dog Diet. I went to college and drank on the pounds (also ice cream delivery to your dorm and many many late nights of pizza) then I would go home for the summer and lose them again. A never ending battle with the scale and ever complicated relationship with food.

That is, until May of 2014, right after the birth of my second child. I came home from the hospital, tipping the scales at 200lbs. It was May (almost summer- shorts, bathing suit?!? ) and I felt like crap. So I contacted a friend from high school who ran her own fitness and nutrition company. She put me on a clean eating meal plan and it was magic. The magic I'd been waiting for all my life. I learned to meal prep, I learned to cook, I bought a food scale and learned about portion sizes. I brought egg whites and spinach to the beach and brought my own food to parties in Tupperware.

This obsessive control over my food intake was my medicine to deal with raging postpartum depression and difficulties adjusting to life with two kids. I couldn't control my life, or the way my baby didn't sleep or my toddler's neediness- but I could eat chicken, spinach and brown rice all day and be SKINNY!

And that's what happened. I got skinnier and skinnier. I reveled in the comments and compliments. The admiration of other moms trying to loose the baby weight. Finally, Finally- the "fat" was no longer a character trait.

August 2013. At my skinniest, but always 5 pounds away from my goal

But no matter how skinny I got, it was never enough. All I wanted was 5 more pounds or 1 more size down.

When the scale stopped moving, I tried a new approach. I hired coaches from Instagram to figure out my macros so I could do IIFYM. I mean, that's what worked for the #fitspo girls I obsessively followed on social media.  So if it worked for them, it could work for me!?

I would spend the next few months analyzing (protein, carbs, fats) every piece of food that entered my mouth or even my eye sight.

Well, if I eat this muffin, then I can have egg whites and mustard for dinner.

Literally, all day. Obsessive figuring and re-figuring and calculating. And for a girl who ain't so good at math, that blows!

But its what needed to be done to maintain my size 6's.

And that's how life went until I got the phone call.

The phone call came on a Wednesday morning about 5am.  Ironically, when the phone call came- I didn't hear it because I was in the middle of a workout.

The message left by my mom went something like this "Laurie, you need to get someone else to watch the kids today. I'm on my way to the hospital with Dad. Call me".

By the time I had called her back, they had pronounced my Dad dead in the ER. Just like that, on a Wednesday morning. Dead. 66 years old.

I remember much everything about those next few hours and days like you do with most traumatic events.

I remember rushing to my parents' house with my protein shake for breakfast.
I remember promising myself I wasn't going to eat my grief away and get fat again.
I remember sitting in the house, looking at a plate of food brought over by a family friend wondering how would I track my macros for this and scolding a friend who brought over chocolates.

At the time, none of this seemed odd. It was just the way I was used to living. I didn't even tell my "macro coach" at the time my father died because I was afraid he'd change my program and impact my progress.

In the months following my father's death, we learned more about his life than I could have ever anticipated. These new facts, brought to light by paperwork and lawyers and insurance policies, changed our reality.

Here I was, grieving, hurting and facing a difficult view of a man I thought I knew. I didn't know how to deal with it. I had no coping skills for this. So I retreated to the one thing that brought me comfort- food.

During the day, when people were watching, I ate my clean, measured way. But at night or when I was alone, I consoled myself with cookies. I ate them until my mouth was raw and my belly hurt. After all, its easier to be mad at yourself for eating cookies than it is to be mad at your dead father. The pounds started creeping back on. But tomorrow, I'd stop. Tomorrow I'd go back to tracking macros and being skinny. But tomorrow was the same thing...

And then, I read a book. A fiction book by Jennifer Weiner called All Fall Down. It was the story of a suburban mom who numbed the mundane and challenging parts of her life with prescription pills and the lengths she would go to in order to hide this behavior from her husband and family.

As I was reading, I realized there was no difference between me and her. My pills were cookies. But aside from that, it was the same story.

 I had no coping skills to deal with the immense grief, so I ate it out.

 I'm not even so sure I knew I was grieving at the time that's how numb I'd become to feeling my feelings. Controlling my food wasn't working for me this time because life had just shown me how OUT of control I really was in the grand scheme of things.

It had been 4 months since my father died and all I'd been doing was stalling my healing. I wasn't in denial of his death, I was in denial of my grief and my pain.

That "aha" moment came about a year ago. And in this past year, I've been on quite a journey.

It's been a journey of re-discovering myself and renaming my character traits.

Along the way I've had amazing conversation with my best friends. Women I've known for decades who've opened up about their own struggles with weight, and comparison, and self-image.

I've met a women, 10 years my junior, who shares my struggles. My advice and conversations with her are things I wish I could have told myself 10 years ago.

Along the way I've read amazing books like Women, Food and God by Geneen Roth, and It Was Me All Along by Andi Mitchell. Gifts from the universe to help my healing and let me know I'm not alone. Gifts from my Dad.

I've meditated, I've prayed, I've cried, I've grieved. I've become more positive. More accepting and more forgiving. I've counted my blessing daily. I've come to accept that I know my father better in his death than I did in his life. I've stopped obsessing over food and the size of my pants (most days). I've stopped wishing and cleansing and detoxing my way back to that SKINNY version of me.

My journey isn't over. This is life and its a little like an onion. You just keep peeling away at those layers. And you cry because onions do that to you. The closer I get to the core, the more it feels like I'm living life as me- with my whole heart open to the truth and the hurt and the feelings.

The way my Dad would have liked to live too...

August 2015