Unanswerable Questions

“I wish I was never born...”

My heart sank, as I tried to process the sentence coming from my sweet, precocious six year old as we drove down the road. I didn't think such things until I was in the middle of my junior high “yuck” phase, hating everything about my life, a female George Bailey with no Clarence to convince her otherwise. But this was different. My daughter was still innocent.

“...because then I wouldn't have to die.”

And then my heart shattered. Poor E is still processing all the grief of losing a loved one, and grappling with the inevitability of death. I have a hard time with it myself, so it's no wonder that she would consider such dark ideas. Hell, I caught myself thinking the exact same thing only the day before.

My father passed away suddenly and unexpectedly in August 2013, followed a month later by my maternal grandmother. Since that time, both my children have been obsessed with death. And who wouldn't be? I'm obsessed with death and think about it all the time. Perhaps it's because I have no answers, but I have the same questions they do. What happens? Where do you go? What do you do? Do you see your family? Can you talk to people? Does it hurt? And my favorite - Are you magical?

Aside from Christmas, Easter and when her baby teeth fall out, I am completely open and honest with my daughter. I try to tell her the truth in everything, in the best way I think she will understand. When I broke the news to her about my dad dying, she was initially upset that she wasn't going to be getting pretty dresses for Christmas and her birthdays anymore. And then she blew me away and broke my heart by saying “He'll be your daddy forever and you'll never see him again.” We held each other like our lives depended on it and cried until our tear ducts dried out.

Until December of last year, I've been able to reassure her that I won't be dying anytime soon. While I've been honest that I don't know when I'm going to die, I may have allowed her childhood innocence to believe that only old people die. My three year old drives her crazy because 32 is the biggest number he can fathom, and he's convinced that is the magical number for death.

“Mommy, when you turn 32, that's when you die,” he says.

“But Mommy's 41! Don't say that, L!”

And the tears flow.

Just a few weeks before Christmas, a dear friend of mine lost her baby at 27 weeks gestation and my daughter learned that death does not discriminate. The only thing more heartbreaking than watching your daughter realize that you can die at any moment, is watching her realize that she can die at any moment.

Hearing her only logical solution to this mysterious and frightening puzzle on routine drive home from the store made me question my ability as a mother. How can I reassure her and restore her love for life when I'm not 100% certain about this thing myself?

We sat on the couch when we got home, and we talked about those unanswerable questions. I told her that I don't know exactly what happens. I told what I believe, why we go to church, and that we should look at death as a peaceful thing - not something to fear. She asked if we would be with our families when we die. I told her that I certainly hoped I would get to see my dad and my grandparents again, and that I hopefully would be reunited with her when it was time. But I don't know for sure, and that's what's hard. And scary.

I spent the first six years of my child's life holding every answer to every question in the palm of my hand. I was the omniscient and omnipotent being in the household. I was God, and Unit 14 at Timbercrest Condominiums was the Garden of Eden. As my daughter's innocence is stripped away, I feel my resolve weaken. I cannot protect her. I cannot save her. I am just as helpless and vulnerable as she is. I'm fairly certain she figured this out long before I did, even though she still seems to act like she adores me. But maybe that's because she's six.

I can't protect her and I can't promise her that nothing terrible will happen. I can only promise that I will continue to eat my vegetables, keep up with my running, try not to hit other cars in traffic, keep my doors locked at night, drink ample amounts of water, avoid soy, take my vitamins, brush and floss my teeth, and practice yoga.

I can promise her that I will strive to bring joy into our lives. A friend of mine who lost the battle with breast cancer many years too soon always ended her journals with the line: “Every day is beauty – beauty in the every day.” I promise that I will find that beauty, I will share it, and I will treasure it. From early morning wake-up kisses, to the surprise pumpkin muffin in the lunch box, to raspberries on her cheeks at tuck-in. I will treasure the not so pleasant moments, too. The legos I step on in the middle of the night, the rush to the car for school in the morning because she decided to play in the bathroom instead of brush her teeth, the screaming with her brother in the car over which song to sing, who has what toy, or whatever egregious deed she accuses him of.

I can promise to treasure each moment as she grows from precocious six year old to the intelligent and creative young woman I imagine she will become. I can promise to share all of my joys and hobbies, and create memories that we can cherish together and will keep us warm when we're not.

I can promise her that I will support her through her hardships, cheer her endeavors, and relish her accomplishments. I can promise that nothing she can do or say will diminish the amount or intensity of love I feel for her today, and it will only grow stronger as time goes on. I can promise that I will never give her reason to doubt my love.

Because without love, what is there to live for?

Promises to Keep

In December of 2012, there was a shooting in a local mall and another in an elementary school in Connecticut.  During that time, we listened to NPR a lot.  Perhaps we listened to it a little too much.  My daughter, E, suddenly became obsessed with death, shooting and guns, and began to ask a lot of questions - questions I wasn't quite ready to answer, but because we had exposed her, we had to answer.

We talked a lot about choices people make, sometimes they are not friendly, and they cause a lot of people to get hurt.  We talked about death, and what it means to be dead.  She had some experience with it, since both our cats died in the years after she was born, but it was a little hard for her since she didn't quite remember the cats.  Sure, she saw pictures of them, and pictures of herself as a baby with them, so she knew they had existed, but she didn't quite get the feeling of loss, when something (or someone) you love so much is suddenly gone, and you will never get to see, touch or speak to them again.  She just didn't understand that kind of devastation.

And then one day, out of the blue, she turned to me and said "Mommy, I don't want you to ever get dead!" 

I grabbed her and held on to her as tightly as she held on to me.  She was crying and shaking, and I felt myself doing the same.

"I promise," I said, not knowing exactly how I could keep such a promise, "that I will do everything in my power to keep myself from getting dead."

We held each other a little longer.  I kissed her and stroked her hair.  I inhaled deeply as I sniffed the last little strands of innocence passing away.  My daughter finally figured it out, and realized that I could die.  That I could no longer be there to hold her, pat her back to go to sleep, take the spiders out of the house, cut her meat, or read her Charlotte's Web at bedtime, one chapter at a time.  That was heartbreaking.

In January, I started to make good on my promise.  I decided that I would take a walk on the berm trail around the Nike campus on my lunch breaks.  After all, it's right next door.   I had no idea how long the trail was, nor did I know if it was even legal to walk around it, but that is what I was planning on doing.

It was a sunny day, and unseasonably warm for January.  Come to think of it, it was unseasonably sunny for the Pacific Northwest.  It felt good.  I felt good.  I was beginning my journey to not get dead for my daughter.  I was strong and smart and capable.  As I stepped onto the trail, something came over me.  I can't describe it, nor do I know where it came from.  But what I did was a complete surprise.  What I did, was run.

I am was not a runner.  I ran cross country in high school so I wouldn't get fat, but I was the slowest person on the team.  My coach would always yell at me, telling me to "stop having conversations with the wind!"  I attempted running one day in college, and gave up immediately.  When I moved out to Portland, I tried the couch to 5k program.  I lasted a week.  I didn't like the way my body felt when I ran.  Everything hurt - my joints, my lungs, my feet, my hair - it sucked.

But there I was, running on the Nike trail, and I kind of enjoyed it.  I remembered the last time I ran, and how much I hurt.  My joints didn't seem to hurt the way they did before.  My lungs didn't feel like little knives were stabbing them from the inside.  My feet were happy.  What was this crazy dimension that I had just walked into?  Does Nike pump chemicals into the air so that anyone on campus breathing it in suddenly enjoys hard, physical work?  That had to be it.

I didn't run far, and I didn't run fast.  But I ran.  I ran until the song on my iPod was finished.  Then I walked.  When the next song came on, I decided to run again.  I continued this run/walk combo until I found my way back to the start of the loop trail.  I hadn't planned on it, but that day was the beginning of my journey to be a runner.

I returned to the trail two days later, and two days after that.  In the next few weeks, I was there every Monday, Wednesday and Friday.  I was soon able to run for two songs without stopping to walk.  Then three, and four, and then I was running the entire time.  I couldn't believe it!

I told my friends, my husband and my doctor about this new activity I had taken up.  P was pretty sure the reason I didn't find it painful this time around is because I now have the experience of childbirth, which is the gold standard of comparison to all pain.  My doctor encouraged me to sign up for the Shamrock Run.  It was a 5k - 3.1 miles.  The Nike Berm trail is 1.97 miles.  I just had to run one more mile for the race.  No problem.

The Shamrock Run was a blast.  I wanted to finish in 35 minutes, give or take, and I did.  I felt strong.  I felt accomplished.  I felt that I was not getting dead.  I was keeping my promise.

I found myself signing up for more races, and bettering my time with each one.  My children and husband were always there, my biggest fans, cheering me on.

I signed up for a race on Mother's Day, called Run Like a Mother, which is what I did.  I also wet my pants as soon as I crossed the finish line, in true motherly style.  I packed a change of clothes because I knew that would happen.

I began training for my first 10k, because I felt that it was time to move forward.  I was feeling strong, and I was certain that if I could run 3.1 miles, I could run 6.2.  I was dedicated to my training until my father passed away and I didn't have any desire to run for a while.  I also didn't have any desire to finish reading the Run Like a Mother book I had checked out from the library and hadn't put down for the two days prior to getting the news.  I had three chapters left.  I still have no desire to read it.

My father wasn't the healthiest person.  He was overweight and had heart issues which are what eventually ended his life.  It was sudden and unexpected.  It was preventable.  A few years ago, he lost a lot of weight and was able to get off some of his medication, but lately, he seemed to have put on some weight, and had some issues that he didn't really go into detail about, but they were his reason for not coming down for L's birthday party that spring.

At the Tulip Festival for L's 1st birthday 2012

My dad and I didn't have the best relationship for almost half my life.  I was so mad when he died because I felt that I had lost the best years I would have with him.  I felt robbed, and I was angry at him for not taking better care of himself.  I'm slowly getting through that, embracing and cherishing the time we did have together, because that was spectacular and special.  I've also realized that the best way to memorialize him is to keep my body and heart in good shape.  In the weeks after his death, as we made arrangements, flew down to California and laid him to rest, my daughter's plea played in my mind.  "I don't want you to ever get dead."

I started running again.  I started running while I was still in California.  I signed up for a different 10k.  I signed up for a 5k the week before that.  I trained.  I trained hard.  I was not going to get dead.  I was not going to have a weak heart.  I owed it to my daughter; I owed it to myself; and I owed it to my dad.

I completed the 10k, and got a PR that I have yet to break for the 5k I ran the week before.  This year, instead of running the Shamrock 5k, I ran the Shamrock 15k.  That's 9.3 miles.  NINE POINT THREE.  For someone who, a little over a year before, could run for only 3 1/2 minutes at a time, that's quite an accomplishment.

I love to run!

I ran like a mother again this year.  I was faster than I was last year.  More importantly, I didn't wet my pants.  I continued running after I crossed the finish line and didn't stop until I got to the bathroom, but at least I made it there.

I'm not the fastest runner, nor am I the best runner.  But I'm a runner and I'm not dead.

Mother Runners

Today would have been my dad's 70th birthday.  Had the significance of the date of the race occurred to me, I would have signed up for and run the Rock & Roll 1/2 marathon today.  I'm not sure I would have been able to make it the whole 13 miles without breaking down into a pool of emotion, so maybe that's why the date didn't strike me when people were talking about it.  I knew I had to do something physical and special, though.

Because the next race I have coming up is a trail run in Forest Park on July 16th, I decided to sign up for a free training plan on RunKeeper called "Running 4 Fat Loss."  I chose it for three reasons: 1. It's free; 2. It has speed training in it; and 3. My coworker/running buddy is doing it, too.  Today was the first workout of the plan for me.  I had to run 30 minutes at a steady pace - 70% of my max heart rate, or (since I don't have a heart rate monitor) at a pace where I can carry on a conversation.

I checked every so often to make sure I could talk out loud.  I wasn't winded or panting.  I was breathing in my nose, and had to remember to breathe out my mouth.  I felt amazing.  I felt strong.  I felt like I could run this way for a good long while.  Perhaps I could run a half marathon.  Perhaps I should have run that half marathon.

And then it was decided.  I will run a half marathon.  I don't know when I'll do it, or which one I will run, but I will run one.  I may not run one until this time next year, to commemorate my dad, but I will run one within the next calendar year.  And not only will I run a half marathon some time in the next year, I will run a half marathon when I'm 70 years old.  Because dammit, I wish my dad could have done that. (mental note: talk mom into running a half marathon)

My pace for this steady run was about the same pace I ran my first 5k.  During that first 5k, I was winded.  I was tired.  I wasn't quite sure I was going to make it to the finish.  Today, I was sure I could run that fast (or slow, however you want to look at it) for as long as I needed.  My heart is strong.  It is not going to fail me, seize up, or stop.  It will keep beating with love for my children, my husband and myself.  I will keep my promise and do everything in my power to stay alive for my children.  I know first hand how devastating it is to lose a parent. If I can prevent pain and suffering for my children, I will do it.

Today, and every May 18th, I will run.

For my dad.  

For my children.  

For my heart.  

For me. 

Let's hear it for running!

Haunted

I'm being haunted.

It's a good thing, though.

Things are reappearing.

We got married eight years ago.  A good friend of ours, who happens to be a documentary film maker, was our videographer.  He made a pretty darn awesome wedding video - one that didn't put our friends to sleep when we showed it, like so many wedding videos.  We loved it.  We loved it so much, we brought it with us all over the country, to show our family and friends.  Somewhere along the way, it was misplaced.  We tore our house apart searching for it.  We ransacked my in-laws' house searching for it.  We dug through my mother's house searching for it.  It was nowhere to be found.  Vanished in thin air -- for over five years.

In June of last year, my husband started the Specific Carbohydrate Diet in an attempt to help out his autoimmune disease.  He lost a lot of weight.  So much weight, that his wedding band fell off his hand on more than one occasion.  One such occasion happened to be while he was walking in a parking lot.  He heard a tinkling sound and noticed something shiny bouncing ahead of him.  It was his ring.  Good thing it was sunny that day.

So, six months ago, he couldn't find his ring.  He thought he may have left it on the windowsill of the kitchen, where he keeps it when he cooks.  Nope.  Then he thought maybe it was on the windowsill of the bathroom, where he keeps it when he takes a shower.  Not there, either.  He checked next to the bed, and the windowsill in the bedroom (because he seems to like to put his ring on windowsills), and he had no luck.  He figured he took it off at work and left it on his desk.  He couldn't find it there, either.  The only other explanation was that it fell off his finger, and this time he didn't hear it tinkling, or see it shimmering

He bought a new one.  In eight years, the price of our particular wedding ring has tripled.  I told him to make an insurance claim.  He never did, because he figured he was an imbecile and it was all his fault.

Last month, my car was broken into.  The glove box was opened, and the broken GPS was taken, along with the broken GPS's power cord.  When I realized that what the thieves took was a crappy piece of electronics that was simply taking up space in my glove box, I laughed.  And then I remembered that E had an MP3 player in the back seat.  I looked in her cupholder.  Gone.  I found her headphones and sighed.  I pulled on the cord with hope.  It was light, and as I came to the end, my fear was realized.  Lizzie's MP3 was gone.  Stolen by middle school thugs who have nothing to do on a Saturday night except wander through a condominium parking lot trying the doors of every car until one opens, and taking the one thing a five year old girl looks forward to during a long car ride.  Fuckheads.  Bastards.  Cum Wads!

It's no secret that 2013 was a terrible year for me.  2014 wasn't looking very rosey, either.

And then one day in the middle of February, I decided to go shopping at Natural Grocers.  They are a little grocery nearby that has organic hippie food.  They also don't put your food into bags, so if you don't bring your own, you have to carry your food out in a cardboard box.  Not wanting to deal with the box of shame, I opened the back of the car, and emptied out the one bag that we had, containing an assortment of tools, twine and rope.  I heard a tinkling.  I saw something sparkly bounce in front of me.  It was a wedding band.  I thought it was mine.  I looked at my finger.  My ring was there.  I looked at the ring in the back of my car.  Could it be?  No...  how could it have gotten here?  I picked it up, and sure enough, it was the missing wedding band.  No. Fucking. Way.

The next week, as I was putting L into his car seat for the five hundred and four millionth time, I noticed there was something black stuck between his car seat and the seat back.  He is still rear-facing, because I'm one of those parents (I should wear a t-shirt that says "Talk to me about extended breastfeeding, babywearing, cloth diapering and rear-facing car seats!"), so noticing some strange object between the car seat and the seat back shouldn't be that difficult.  This strange object just happened to be in the exact spot where I put my hand to loosen the car seat strap. I loosen the car seat strap every time I get him out of his car seat.  How did I not notice this strange black object before?  I picked it up, and was surprised to realize it was the stolen MP3 player!  For a nanosecond, I actually thought that the thieves felt remorse for what they had done, broke into my car a second time, and stuck the MP3 player in that spot so it would seem like it was just misplaced.

And then, last week, the most insane of all things to ever happen in this house happened.  P had spent half the week in Seattle at a conference.  He was in the bedroom, putting away his suitcase in the closet.  As he was moving an old bag that we haven't used in years, in order to make room for his bag, he heard a strange sound coming from one of the pockets.  He pulled down the bag and opened the pocket.  Inside was a giant ziplock bag.  Inside the giant ziplock bag were four DVD's.  Two were documentaries about the PCT that our friend and videographer made.  One was a video slideshow of photos compiled from a bunch of people who hiked the PCT in 2003.  The last DVD was the one and only copy of Camp Belchigator shenanigans.  It was truly unbelievable.

He didn't tell me right away.  He kept it a secret.  In fact, this was the day we had the big fight.

That night, as I was about to play another episode of Weeds, he said "No, let's watch a movie instead."

"OK.  What movie?" I asked.

"I have one," was his reply as he sauntered toward the bedroom.  He popped it into the computer before I could see what it was.

I thought he'd gotten Squatch to make another copy, since we had just seen him.  Either way, it was so nice to relive those happy moments, especially after our fight.  I only cried once, during the father/daughter dance.

I try not to get ethereal on my blog, or think about other worldly things in general.  I can't explain them, and while I've considered my own mortality and that of my mother, siblings and children fairly regularly since Labor Day, I still can't fathom what happens in the end.  I can only hope.  For the past month, as items that I thought were gone for good find their way back to me, my hope grows -- hope that there is something beyond this life; that my dad, grandmother, grandfather, former pets, teachers, friends, and others who have touched my life have found peace, are happy, and are never very far away.

What once was lost now is found.

New Year, New Hope

Welcome to 2014.  The world as we knew it ended in December of 2012.  I think that explains why 2013 fucked me up so much.

I was not prepared.

This year, I'm preparing for anything.  I'm glancing over my shoulder, expecting the absolute worst to happen, like it will tap me from behind and say "surprise!"  I hold my breath when I answer the phone and my mother says "Dawn," in a very concerning way, like she has the worst news in the world to tell me... even though the worst news has already been delivered, and that she could not deliver the news that would be unfathomably worse than that.

I started my period yesterday, which is pretty apropos.  When I lived in New York and worked for Bankers Trust, I worked with a guy named Aramis Perez.  He wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree, and I always thought the following comment proved such, but tonight, or this morning (however you want to look at it), I'm thinking there may be something to it.  One day, after a blood drive, he mentioned that men needed to donate blood because women at least had their periods, so they got their monthly cleansing.  I never thought much about bloodletting, nor about the fact that I do it regularly.  And this month, I've been especially PMS-y, so this bloodletting has been a huge emotional release.

But then, I've been an emotional volcano since August.  Turning 40 and losing both my father and grandmother within a month of each other has forced me to face the reality of my own mortality.  While I know it may not come for another 40 or 50 years, or could happen before I finish this sentence, I have faced, called into conference, sent to detention, contemplated, considered, denied, accepted, denied again, blamed, hated, pined for, and entertained the thought of death for the last quarter of 2013.  The last week has been the most difficult.  I returned to the place where I first learned of my father's passing.

Colville, WA was once our oasis.  In fact, when we were so full of stress and screaming at each other and our children on our way out the door for Labor Day Weekend, Paul and I were both longing to get to my in-laws' place, as it's our emotional center, drawing us away from the crazy of city life, work, and commercialism, taking us back to the simpler times of daily chores, cultivating food, and preparing for the near future.  Little did I know as we were pulling away from the city, leaving our cares behind, that my oasis would soon become my misery.  I didn't realize until I was there for Christmas, just how much I had been undone in such a short, painful weekend.

Last year, we spent the week sledding, building a snowman and tromping through the hundreds of acres in the snow.  This year, I didn't leave the house.  I couldn't convince myself to do so.  Even though the trees were bending to the weight of the ice and snow, begging me to photograph them in their brilliance, I couldn't do it.  I couldn't make that mistake again.  I couldn't enjoy myself while someone so dear to me left the earth with nothing more than a random passing thought while pulling up my pants in the bathroom.

Did I not mention that yet?  The day my father died, before I went for a hike with my brand new camera in hand, I had a crazy thought go through my head as I glanced at myself in the mirror in the bathroom.  I thought "You know, one of these days you're going to get old and die.  It happens to all of us."  I looked at myself and gave a shy smile, not knowing why the thought came to my mind.  And then I thought "Don't look in my closet," thinking about my "sewing room" that I created out of a closet.  In addition to all the sewing supplies, I keep a random assortment of shit in there.  It's a wasteland... a garbage dump of stuff I can't quite figure out what to do with but can't seem to let go of and toss.  And there I was, at the moment of my dad's demise, thinking that I didn't want anyone rooting through my closet should I pass.

And the next week, I was rooting through my dad's closet, which, minus the sewing supplies, was just like mine.

It gives me comfort to think that my dad may have tried to notify me in an ethereal way, to say goodbye in the only way he was able.  But this time, I waited to hear something new, something more comforting, and expected more pain, another message from another loved one's passing.  Instead, I merely felt the echo in the memory of the old thought, and this time, all I could think was "death and taxes, death and taxes," over and over.  All weekend.  No matter where I was -- bathroom, kitchen, or bed, between the legs of my husband.

I was a sentry, waiting for a message, not leaving my post, lest I miss important orders.  At night, I dreamt of losing family members - one night it was my mother.  Another night, my brother.  I was on high alert, keeping my phone with me at all times, expecting a call I should never expect, jumping at every ring.

I couldn't wait to get home, away from the memory of that day, when I got the phone call from my brother while we were in the driveway, and for some strange reason I finally had good cell phone service up there.  I remember asking him to repeat himself a few times.  It didn't compute that my dad.  MY DAD was dead.  Even now, I expect a phone call or letter from him.  After all, it's Christmas, isn't it?

At the hotel on the trip home, I found myself loathing the morbidly obese man at the breakfast bar who was unquestionably larger and unhealthier than my father.  How dare he be alive when my father is not!  I found myself asking nobody in particular in my head why that man couldn't have died instead, and then immediately felt guilty for wishing such.

Now we're home and I'm surrounded by his memory -- all the things I took from his place, for Christmas craft projects I didn't have the strength to make.  Pillows from his old t-shirts, hats and bookmarks from his old sweaters, copies of his AA testimonies on CD.  All of these things in neat boxes added to my closet -- my closet that I hope nobody has to go through should I leave this earth.  My shit is now his shit.  His shit is now my shit.  Our shit.  No wonder he pops into my head every time I'm in the throes of ecstasy with my husband.  I thought I was just really fucked up.  I am really fucked up, but maybe not as much as I thought Freud would think I am.

So here I am, standing on the precipice between 2013 and 2014.  I'm so ready to jump, to leave behind the pain and suffering that I remember from the last year.  I can't remember being happy.  I'm sure I was at some point, but the lingering pain snuffs it out so quickly.  I'm also terrified to move on, as I can imagine even more terrible hardships ahead.  I've lived a charmed life for the past 10 years, and now things are beginning to crumble away.  December is crumbling away at my feet.  If I don't jump into January, I'll fall into it with no bearings or footing.

So here goes, 2014.  I'll jump, face forward, feet first.  I'm tear-stained, battered, bruised, beaten and tired.  But I'm also strong, secure, and brave (if only on paper), and I have a lot of love around me.  I'm coming through, not the other way around.  Make way, and let me have my time, my love and my peace.  If you bring me as much hardship and strife, I may leave you fading into history blood smeared and splattered like I did your predecessor, even if it is only on the absorbent layer of the pantyliner left in the trashcan of yesteryear.





And 2013,  Fuck.  You.

Hard Times

I got a phone call on my 40th birthday from my dad.  I missed his call.  I meant to call him back, but never got around to it.  Every time I pick up the phone to call someone, the kids get into a fight, or one of them needs help with something, or suddenly there's poop on the floor, wall, and other surfaces of the house.  Since we were on summer break, I couldn't call him from work, so I just didn't call.  I kept telling myself that I needed to call him, but each day ended with no phone call.

On August 29th, 25 days after I missed my dad's phone call, I got one from my brother informing me that I would never get the chance.  He died suddenly that morning, of an apparent heart attack.  Motherfuck.

We all headed to California, dealt with the craziness of packing up his house, getting him buried, finding a caregiver for my grandmother, and moving forward with our lives.  In less than a month, on September 27th, my mother's mother, the grandmother I grew up with and considered a second mother to me, passed away, just four days shy of her 96th birthday.  Doublemotherfuck.

It took six weeks to get her funeral scheduled at Arlington to finally rest with my grandfather, her greatest love.  It was bittersweet to say goodbye, but it was a beautiful ceremony, and so apropos to happen this close to Veteran's day, when grampa's picture is on my calendar to signify it.  It was quite unfortunate that it also happened to be the exact day of my daughter's 5th birthday.  Triplemotherfuck.

However, I've been trying to be zen about everything, stealing a line from Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five, "So it goes."  Of course, whenever I think that line, it always ends with motherfuck.

Because of everything that has happened in such a short amount of time, I've become overly sensitive to mortality -- mine, people I don't know, my mother's, my siblings', my spouse's, and my children's.  It is very hard to be zen about such things.  so it goes, so it goes, so it goes. motherfuck.

I'm trying to slow my life down a bit, take time to smell the roses, and my babies' hair.  I'm also checking their breathing on a regular basis, double checking their 5 point harnesses in their car seats, and cutting their food into the most impossibly small pieces so they don't choke. 

Part of my slow down plan includes limiting my social media time.  It has become such a time suck for me.  I found myself in groups on Facebook that did nothing for me, and only made me angry, posting advice to people I don't know and shouldn't care about that they're not going to read or heed anyway.  I don't have time to worry about other peoples' problems.  I have two beautiful children and a husband to worry about.  THEY need me, not names associated with profile pictures that may or may not portray the actual person.  I have actual people to think of and care about.

So, I spent one evening removing myself from all but a handful of groups on Facebook.  It was liberating.

My next step is to limit my time on said time-sucking social media website.  I haven't quite figured out how to do that, whether it's to set a timer or have a specific time of day when I can access the site.  I've already cut back on my time, and I think it's because I'm not reading all the posts on all the group pages that I'm no longer on. 

I've also decided to start writing more, because I have a lot to say.  I have so many ideas in my head that are dying to get out, and quite honestly, I can't handle any more death right now, so I need to let them out.  I have a lot of half-started blog posts saved, as well as ideas jumping up and down in my brain shouting "Pick me! Pick me!" as I sit down in front of my computer to type away.  My fingers don't work as quickly as my brain does, so they will have to wait a little while.  But I will write.  By God, I will write.  I may not get it all down in one sitting, but that's because I have children, and a husband, a job, laundry, and a shit-ton of squash to turn into sweet bread tomorrow.  But I will write.  I promise you that.  I will write.