No air

After two and a half hours of laborious attention to detail there is a heavy silence in the room.  The voices have stilled.

I have just agreed to the final stipulation.

It is a heavy, vibrating space.  My mind blank and rustling in the breeze of the previous emotion; a shivering leaf in the moment before the heavens bear down.

My lawyer looks at me.  "Are you ok?"

"Yes," I answer with stolen breath.

She looks at Rooster.  "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," he says.

"Ok," her mouth moves.  And in a moment that lasts an eternity later I hear:


"It's done."

A giant, silent gavel slams down with thunderous finality sucking the oxygen out of the well-lit and sparsely decorated room.  Like a vacuum on the cavity of my body all breath is whipped from me; snatched like a baby in harm's way.

"It's done" echos through the remains; rattles in the cage of my heart; tells me to fuck off.

I can't breathe.  I fight tears.  Her face is kind, sorrow-filled.  Rooster is calm, enviously still.

I struggle to compose myself, busy myself with papers, a drink of water.  They begin to talk.  My eyes fill with salty tears.  I lose one down my hot cheek. Perhaps two.

I focus on their voices, the timbres, the syllables.  One, two, two, three, pause, etc.  Lilting noise keeps me anchored lest I fly away in a swirl of regret and pain and bullshit.

I can do this: I will not feel.

I will not.

Later.

Maybe.



maybe.

Put me back together again

All the king's horses and all the king's men 

couldn't put Humpty together again.

I don't feel as despondent as ol' Humpty, but I definitely feel as though I'm on a wall and I'm a big, giant, awkwardly shaped fellow about to teeter one way or the other.

• The job market is dire.  
• My divorce decree is *this* close to submission.
• I've been separated from Hawk for almost two weeks straight.
• I have no money.
• I am wrecked.  Wrecked, wrecked, wrecked.

It's a lot.  I told my mom that I need to by a Lotto ticket so at least that way it'd be one thing I didn't have to worry about. Her erudite response was, "Why don't you want to work on the other things, too?"

My answer?  "Mom, I can't buy a ticket somewhere that will solve my [job, divorce, broken-heart] problems, but I can buy a ticket that'll fix my money ones."

Still haven't bought that ticket.

I've been stuck in an eddy of self-doubt and reproach the last few weeks, but particularly this last one.  It took my sister calling on Saturday (July 9th) to give me a clue as to why.

"It's Grandma's birthday today.  I just remembered.  And 5 years since Dad died yesterday."

"Holy shit.  I totally forgot."  Though in reality, I don't think I forgot at all.

Our bodies do mysterious things.  We absorb every experience we ever have into our cells, our memories, our very fibers.  Consciously, I've been preoccupied with my here and now and my scary future, but my core... it knew.  It remembered.  We can ignore, deny, or even be so little as to not even have the language to understand, but still, experience is housed inside of all of us.

I've felt a lot of relief since identifying this particular rapid.  I can at least navigate it better now, face it head on, whereas before I had no idea how I'd gotten stuck in that eddy.  It's helped me feel stronger, more focused, less out of control and depleted.

But it's still hard.

I'm not going to say it's the hardest thing I've ever gone through, but it's very well tied.  And sometimes I wonder that maybe it's not more painful because I refuse to let myself go there - I really don't know.  Last time I felt this level of grief I was a newlywed, not a mother.  My guard is up.  High. 

After I realized I'd missed Dad's anniversary I called Rooster in tears.  He's still the only person whom I truly trust with my feelings about my father; he was with me every step of the way and helped guide me through the haze of putting myself back together that year. And, true to form, he was there for me again.  Listening and supporting and letting me cry my jagged little cry on the phone making no sense whatsoever.

So maybe I really have fallen off the wall and cracked and now is the time for piecing my shit back together again.  I can only see a new Me right now, not the old.  That woman doesn't exist anymore.  Only the new and improved Humpty is around here.  I guess I better get rolling...

The loss of a pregnancy never had

Ever since Hawk went to daycare I've felt like something was missing.

These days, the strangest things trigger my sense of loss: a trip to my old grocery store, walking by the fish tank in the mall on a late mid-week morning, meeting a friend for a coffee downtown.

I tell myself that all of this would be happening regardless of my marital status, but it just somehow adds insult to injury.

I see mothers with their children cooing at them and carrying on conversations in that lilting singsong that mothers have.  I see them piling into their cars with arms laden with groceries or shopping bags seemingly content with their position in life and I think, "That was me."

What paralyzes me the most, though, are pregnant mothers.  Their bellies swelling with a sibling, their little ones expectant big brothers and sisters, their families growing.

Before Rooster and I admitted that we were falling apart we tried to get pregnant.  For roughly 18 months we tried.  I never said anything on this blog because I didn't want to jinx it. 

The first time we tried to get pregnant it worked in the first week and I naively I figured it'd be just as easy for round two.  After 3 months and no pregnancy, I started charting my ovulation.  After 10 I went to a fertility specialist who wanted to immediately put me on clomid.  I balked since I checked out 100% and didn't want to generate twins just because I was desperate to have a baby.  Instead, Rooster got checked out and we discovered things were a bit amiss.  We tried IUI, but that didn't work, either.

Meanwhile, I was raising Hawk, spending afternoons in the park and planning weekly meals; trying valiantly to deny the state of things between me and my kind, loving partner.

Eventually, Rooster and I had to look at each other and be real.  There were times when I hoped I'd get pregnant just so I could give Hawk a sibling, marriage crumbling be damned, I'd make it work!  It was that important to me. 

I myself am a big sister and Larry (my sister - and no, that's not her real name!) is an inspiration, a support, and a friend I can't imagine my life without.  I used to joke with Rooster that I didn't want Hawk to have to deal with our crazy asses alone for his entire life.  I wasn't really joking.  We're going to be a motherfucking handful.

And now my sister is trying for her second baby.  I have blogging friends who are on their second pregnancies, too, and with each joyful sharing of news I feel punched in the gut.  Chances are extremely slim that I will ever feel a life growing inside of me again, a babe at my breast, Hawk as a big brother.

I don't agree that "It could happen," because I won't let it.  I don't want to argue my rationale, but suffice it to say, I'm 35 years old and I'm trying to reboot my career; I don't want a huge age gap between my children; I don't want two daddies, two schedules, two disjointed lives.

I realized I was holding my breath for months in hopes that no one I knew would get pregnant again just so I wouldn't feel my own loss.  Selfish, I know, and I'm ashamed to admit it, but there it is.

I feel nothing but love and joy for all my pregnant blogging friends (Dionna, Lauren, Allison, and Arwyn), those women whom I know in real life (at least 4 I can think of off the top of my head), and those who are trying, but it also shines a spotlight on my own void -- something I need to just work through, I know, but it's there nonetheless.

For months, before I told anyone about my relationship, I couldn't speak about a second pregnancy without tearing up.  It was the one topic I tried to avoid with all my friends and family as I told them what was happening to me and Rooster.  I can talk about it now without feeling overly emotional about it, but if I think on it long enough, the tears will come - oh, they most definitely will!

I feel like I've let Hawk down.  Robbed him of the bond only a sibling can provide.  I grill any only-child I come across, "Did you wish you had siblings?" "How do you feel about your parents' aging?" "Were you lonely growing up?"  For the most part, you only-children out there are pretty well adjusted folks with an air of sophistication about you I've always admired and coveted.  You're not spoiled, weird, reclusive assholes!! Well done! haha

I know that a sibling doesn't guarantee happiness - lots of siblings are freakin' jackasses - but based on my own experience it's been a breathtaking journey of love and life to have a baby sister.  I feel things for her I don't for anyone else on the planet and I wanted that for Hawk like I want air to breathe.

But it's over. 

That window is closed and I'm walking past it with as sure a stride as I can muster.  I tell myself I'll love my bright, Star-Wars-obsessed little guy all the more for it; try not to think about horrendous what-ifs and I'll not laugh at "The dingo ate my baby!" jokes, because, really, it's not that fucking funny to have a dingo eat your baby.  Come on! 

I've said before that I never thought my life would be linear, so I need to embrace that belief and be happy with what I've been given which is one little boy who is sunshine and rainbows, and a few years spent with his wonderful father.  It's really not all that bad.  Maybe, if I'm lucky, my future holds step-children, or even just another's children, and I can grow my family in a different direction.  I'm down with that.  Definitely.

What is a displaced homemaker?

Displaced dog-lover.

This is a displaced homemaker:

A woman who was once dependent on another's income, but is no longer due to a change in marital status (divorce or death) or a sudden change in financial situation (partner loses his/her job), and is forced back into the workforce.  

Apparently, officially speaking, I'm right on track with my loss of identity, confusion, and fear.  As is my defensiveness and unspeakable desire to run away from it all.  We displaced homemakers have a lot of bullshit going on (emphasis mine):

She must cope with the rigors of basic survival, provide for herself... and get on with the business of deciding what she will do with the rest of her life.  These are no small tasks under the best of circumstances.  Goal setting may appear to be an easy task, but for an individual whose entire life is in disarray, even setting the goal of picking up an employment application is a major activity.  The displaced homemaker, at this point, is usually struggling to make it out of bed each morning, and often feels incapable of more formidable efforts.*

So... now I have another label.  First it was small, like, College Graduate; then a little bigger, Owner of a Masters Degree; then huge, such as Wife and Mother (do they keep getting bigger in life??); and finally, Divorcee and Displaced Homemaker.  

Ok, I'll take it.  I'm a displaced homemaker, a mother, a woman, and struggling.  Really fucking struggling.

I mean, half of my life includes being wrapped in soft, sweet arms; kissed with innocent lips; snuggled with and adored; filled to the brim with purpose and meaning.  The other half I am alone; wholly grown-up; drunk with friends; adrift; empty, terrified, and jobless.

I am thrilled at my freedom to be Me, but also deeply struck down by it.  I don't entirely know who that is anymore.  I am a mother without a son half the time, I am a wife without a husband, an ambitious woman with no job, an animal lover with no animals, a care-taker with no one to take care of, a lover with no one to love.

This separation/divorce thing is splitting me in ways I didn't even know were possible.  Not only have I separated from my life partner, but I have been cracked away from ideas and identities that were integral to who I was as a human being.  I had no idea I would be this shattered, this broken.

I feel dead inside every moment I am away from Hawk without exception.  My heart is icy, downright black.  I care about nothing.  Getting out of bed, being industrious, holding conversations are all becoming feats in and of themselves.   I do it all, every day, but I'll admit it's a struggle.

As I see myself slipping I understand that it's part of the process.  I knew this was going to suck.  -- What?  Did I really think that everything would be peachy?  No.  I knew it was going to get dark, I just didn't know it'd also lose who I was in the process of discovering who that was in the first place.

I think, "If only I had a job.  It'd keep me busy, give me something to do, someone to be..." But it's not that easy.

I had a conversation the other day I wish I hadn't.  I can't tell you how many times people ask me about my job search and how it's going.  I'm getting used to it.  I know that people care about me, but it's like asking "So, how's the cancer thing going?"  I don't really want to talk about it (it's painful and terrifying), but I do because I know friends and family are worried.  But this particular chat struck me to the bone like the others hadn't.  I was asked, "Why don't you just open a private practice while you look for other work?  That's what so-and-so did."

The question is innocuous, I know, but the message I got was, "You're not doing it right.  You're not doing enough.  Look at this other woman, she did it right.  You have no excuse to not be working."

This is a perfect example of my current state of mind, of how goddamned wounded I am.  I don't really know if that's what this person thought about me by their "helpful suggestion," I just have no buffer because I am lost and I am mourning.

My face, neck and chest flooded with heat and I had to fight the tears as I took a deep breath and responded as non-defensively as humanly possible that a) I don't want to start a private practice right out of the gate after a 3.5 year absence from the field, b) I have zero capital to do so even if I wanted to, c) I don't want to be isolated as a new therapist from my colleagues and would prefer an agency setting or other cooperative, and d) I don't think it's as easy as this friend of a friend made it seem; I have friends whose private practices are only just now in the black after a year of work and they had monies in the cache to do so.

I was gently argued with on these points, then given a couple of concessions.

I felt somehow simultaneously vindicated and even more defeated when I walked away.

I'm treading water from technical skill alone, not strength.  I only look normal:  I bathe, put on makeup, laugh easily, socialize.  I don't think people understand what's really happening to me; how sensitive I am.  How hard I'm fighting to keep my walls up and remain protected from the outside world.  What a big fucking deal this all is.


I have lost everything I knew and loved.  Everything I thought I was.  This isn't just some fucking bad mood.  I'm not weak.  I'm not making this a bigger deal than it really is.  This is awful.  And I don't give a fuck if someone else has it worse or it could get worse.  Of course it could get worse.  I'm not so self-absorbed or ridiculous that I don't know that, but really, what good does that line of thinking do other than make me feel stupid?  It doesn't make my feelings go away.  I appreciate some perspective, but I'd really rather skip over the idea that I'm not allowed to feel this way just because some other schmuck has it worse than me.

When I visit Hawk and his dad, Rooster, at my old house my heart clenches.  I see the plants I painstakingly put in the ground, the wall colors I spent weeks debating on, the old friends from across the street, the hopes I had sunk into those four walls.  When I look closer I see nail-holes from removed pictures, rearranged furniture, a masculine feel, a new smell; Rooster feels different.  He doesn't need me.  Hell, he doesn't want me. -- But of course!  It's all (say it with me) part. of. the. process.  The mother fucking process.

I feel like that house and its inhabitants are my ghost arm.  I'm limbless and I can still imagine I feel it, but it's gone forever.  What I had is gone.

...

sigh

...

And in case you were all wondering, I'm actually ok.  I'm just hurting.  An ok, hurting, displaced homemaker.

*I did a search for the psychological definition of "displaced homemaker" and stumbled across this paper written in 1981. 

I thought I'd moved on

I've been thinking about my father a lot lately (yeah, you know this is gonna be a fun post now, don'tcha?).  The specter of his illness, both physical and emotional versions, have been looming over my life like a dark cloud.  The truth is, I haven't shaken it like I thought I had.

My relationship with him was based solely on me trying to live up to his impossible expectations and never coming even close and thus being punished for letting him down.  My adult eyes look back on me as a little girl and I cringe; I can't imagine doing that to a child.  It was just cruel and unusual punishment.

One of my best friends was in town this weekend and we talked about him a lot.  We also talked about my ex-stepdad, another father figure who treated me badly.  The funny thing is that I don't really remember much of those five years, but Linda does.  It makes me feel weird and sad that I can't remember my own life and how someone treated me, but there it is.

I know that a lot of my parenting is in direct reaction to my own childhood, if not all of it at times.  I am determined to protect Hawk from me and other adults and our particular pathos.  I want him to learn to navigate life knowing he's inherently good and if I can get him on board with that even a little bit I think his life will be on less painful trajectory than mine or Rooster's was.

Sometimes I worry that all my parenting is reactive.  I see other adults in my life and how they blindly swing through life trying to relive their own traumas to a more successful end and I don't want to be like that.  I know I'm fucked up, but I struggle to do the right thing every time, even if it's the most painful, even if sometimes I slip and I'm not my best Me.

I don't think my father ever considered breaking a cycle a day in his life.  He was mired in his own pain and history.  My mother, on the other hand, was a rock star and beat her cycle with a baseball bat.  Where her family was neglectful and cruel she was tender and present, but we were also enmeshed, too close for me to differentiate and separate gently.  It was a shock to all our systems as I grew up and became more independent and more than a little traumatic.

I talk to Hawk all the time about how when adults behave in a certain way it has nothing to do with him.  Maybe they don't like being kicked by him, but it's not HIM, his little personhood, that they're reacting to.  Sometimes he nods and agrees with me, other times he insists it's his fault I'm angry.  I get that he's the center of his own universe and I'll continue to work on this with him because (and here's why I think I'm so reactive) I remember so clearly thinking that I was responsible for everything my parents ever felt and it crushed me.   And it crushed me to the point that my dad's death was a relief.  It meant that the legacy of pain had ended. 

Or at least I thought it had.  Because here I am reliving it in a vicarious way in order to not pass it on to Hawk -- such a strange phenomenon.  And I'm grieving and stumbling all over again.

Also, unrelated to parenting, I've realized that my father's influence on my life is still very strong.  My marriage protected me from my tendencies for 7 years, but on my own I'm much like I was single.  And that realization has been a real slap in the face.  A good slap, but a slap nonetheless.

Ahh... I love writing heavy shit all the goddamned time.  Ha!  Here, let me end on something cute that happened recently.  I went to get Hawk from daycare the other day and as I passed through the gate I could see him digging in the sand with his teacher Hailey.  The side of his face looked discolored and my stomach dropped a little.  When I got to a place where I could see his whole face I realized he was covered in paint reminiscent of a bloody beating (it was also on his belly, back and forearms, but I didn't discover that until bath time).  This kid goes to Kiddie Heaven every day at this little hippie school and I love it!

The magic that is a child (this is not a year-end recap)

Every morning I am awoken by Hawk climbing into bed with me; my mattress is on the floor and he delights in the ease with which he can snuggle down next to me.  Today was no different.

Yet, somehow, today is different.  Just a little.

It's my 5 year anniversary.

I feel some sadness about this, though it's more like I feel a kind of heavy pressure regarding its presence rather than any real emotion about it.  Maybe it's more accurate to say, I think I feel some sadness about today.

Hawk rustled under the covers and my eyes blinked open to see the sunlight streaming in over the back of his spiky bedhead.  His little shoulder rising and falling with his breath accompanied by a slight motion from rubbing his blankie between his thumb and forefinger.

Then he rolled over and we were nose to nose looking deeply into each other's eyes.  His dark brown lashes blurred into white tips as they caught the soft light and his cobalt blue irises reflected me back like a tiny, tiny mirror.  Everything else in the universe ceased to exist as I stared at myself in his eyes.  He lifted his hand, placed it on my face gently and said, "It is a good day."

The last five weeks have been incredible; such a tangle of every emotion possible.  I am happier than I've been in years, yet I am also sad; I'm angry, I'm at peace; I hurt, I rejoice.  The death of my marriage has conjured up the ghosts from my father's and Levi's deaths and I have re-experienced that pain all over again, as well.  Apparently, despite my grief over these things being so vastly different, they're still all in a "grief file" in my brain and when I pull out one, I revisit the others whether I want to or not.

Grief aside, life is pretty fucking ok.

Rooster and I are doing well.  We have our moments of locked horns, but just as in our marriage our separation and road to divorce is full of decorum and respect.  We're like little barnyard goats, not bighorn sheep.  I couldn't ask for a better man in my life than him to share this with -- is it weird to say I wouldn't want to divorce anyone else but him??  I think you get the point: his kind, gentle intelligence is serving us now just as it did when we were working to stay together.

My friends have been supportive and caring; gently reaching out, but never crowding me.  I've had some incredibly low moments this month and if it weren't for the steady trickle of concern from far and wide my pain surely would have run away with me.  Thank you to all of you.  I cannot imagine my life without you.

Tuesday, January 4th, Hawk starts day care.  Full time.  I got him enrolled in an amazing school which is centered around child-led play.  Seventy-five children, aged 18 months to 5 years, run amok playing with potions, piles of sand, old tires, and the ugliest castoff toys I've ever seen which somehow magically turn into the shiniest, most spectacularly special toys when I use the eyes of my youth.

A lot has been going on, yes... yet, I haven't been dreading today as you might think.  I believe in regular days and their mundane power and try not to give importance to arbitrary dates (with the singular exception of Hawk's birthday and those days which those I love find important).  I'm having some of my dearest friends over tonight, people who were at my wedding 5 years ago, and Rooster has asked to join us.  Of course I said he was more than welcome.

So I will be ringing in the New Year much the same as I did five years ago: with hope, with expectation, with love and friends surrounding me.  The biggest difference now is that everyday I have a small, cherubic face to remind me what a good day it is today lest I forget.

And as his early morning words faded into the space over our heads comfortably cradled in my down pillows he moved his hand to rub my arm.  He took a small breath and added to his assertion about today's goodness, "You are so precious."

Indeed, I thought, but it's more like lucky. I am so, so lucky.

Dearest Grandma Berber,

Easter 07

You died tonight. You were 89.

I was told you looked nothing of your old self; your nails were long and unruly, your hair unkempt, and your body frail and tiny beneath a cotton gown.

We found out Friday you had a heart attack late Thursday. Last night you had a stroke, then we found out it was even more severe... then you were gone. Just like that.

I was going to fly out this weekend as soon as someone could watch Hollis. Though without any real hope of seeing you alive, I still had hope I could be there in some way that you might know. But you had other plans.

The last time I saw you I said Good Bye and not just in our parting ways, but in my heart. I knew you were already gone, a shell of the woman I once knew and loved. I am so sorry that it ended this way. Your worst nightmare, really. Alone, scared, and ancient to your own memory of yourself. You probably didn't know yourself in the mirror any more. Maybe you were at peace with that. More likely you just didn't remember to mind.

But at least there was relief in that, your memory. For you had almost none left. What you remembered was whittled down by time to you noticing the bright sky outside your window and that you were always so, so tired. Phone conversations befuddled you and lasted 30 seconds. Your warbled words fading as you clicked disconnect. You had long since stopped any written correspondence, an art form of connection you had relied upon for decades.

I remember when I first realized you were changing. It was before Dad died - before I even knew Dad was sick - and you didn't send me a Christmas card or present. At first I thought you must be mad at me for not talking to your dearest son, your baby, but I soon realized it was because you had simply forgotten it was Christmas. And to think, just the year before you had painstakingly embroidered two identical pieces for Gabby and me, had them framed, and mailed to us for Christmas. An image of a young girl with a frilly cap, herself carefully embroidering. How quickly things changed.

Did you know that it's because of you that I ever endeavored to cook or entertain? Your stories about beef Wellington for an average Wednesday night dinner inspired me. Your fine china, and pretty "entertaining" room taught me that it's the littlest things in life that can make you feel special in your own home, or that can make a stranger feel welcome.

I remember that you quit smoking your single afternoon cigarette the day the surgeon general said that smoking was bad for you.

I remember that you used to dry your diapers on the line even during brutal, arctic Chicago winters and that you'd have to crack the ice off of them to reveal a mostly dry diaper.

I remember that you called Great Grandma Ursula a "slut" and wouldn't let her and her "man friend" stay the night in your house and how proud of yourself you were for that. (Even now imagining you calling anyone a slut makes me laugh.)

I remember that Pa told you he would turn the car around on the way to the church to marry Grandpa Ray, but you were too determined to get out of the house to admit you wanted to.

I remember that you didn't know until your wedding night that men had other things besides just a penis and how hard we laughed at the absurd naivete you'd had.

I remember the bright yellow dress you made for me and the matching baby blue one for Gabby that we wore on Easter.

I remember your kitchen, every inch of your house, every knick-knack, even where every painting and photo was in your house. I could probably draw the insides of your makeup drawers even today.

You were always the epitome of old school feminine regard, never without lipstick and a kitten heel, never without your hair done, always with a quick hello and how-do-you-do, you were the master of small talk.

I never really understood why so many people turned their backs on you over the years, but you never let them shut the door. You always persevered and won them back. Those mean ladies at bridge in Oak Park? You charmed the pants off of them anyway. Church ladies who thought you were judging them? You invited them over for lunch. You made friends when you were 6 and never stopped loving them. What a remarkable thing that is.

And Grandma, I am so sorry that you lost Ring and Dad and that Randy and you had such a complicated relationship. I'm sorry that you lost your baby brother all those decades ago, your own 9 day old baby girl, your mother when you still so desperately needed her, your Bob, and then your grey-haired baby sister. All you ever spoke of when you could still tell stories was of them and how much you missed them all. I've never known anyone who lived among the dead so passionately as you.

I could write for hours about you, Grandma Berber. I really could. When I finish this I'm going to go and lay down and think, "Shit, I forgot about the time: we colored Easter eggs and drank copious amounts of white wine; cleaned your river rocks for hours and hours one by freakin' one; went to the senior country club and we couldn't figure out why we were the only ones not having to ask for more champagne then realized it was because I was the only one under 60 in the entire joint; we ate tiny, crust-less sugar sandwiches with our teeny tiny tea cups; went to Rawhide and drank a yard of beer together and got our old western pictures taken; or the time when I called you crying because I was with Grandma Katie and she was so sick and dying herself and I didn't know what to do and you hugged me through the phone with your sweet voice and strength and told me that no matter what I did Katie would know I loved her." Thirty-four years of loving memories, Grandma... that's pretty awesome.

I hope you always knew how much I loved and adored you. Tricking you that day to get you into assisted living was one of the worst things I've ever done to anyone. Gabby and I were appalled at what we were doing, but also knew it was the best way. A little Valium, a lunch out, and The Devil Wears Prada later and you had a new home a la Jessie and Gabby. You were never even mad at us, just scared. Thank you for that. I never would have forgiven myself had you blamed me... but then again, you were beginning to leave us then, so maybe you just couldn't remember how you ended up there.

I will always remember you in your doorway, hunched just a little, small and silver, with a bright smile on your face with the love you felt for us, waving goodbye. I'm not sure you remembered our names this last time, but it didn't matter. You recognized our hearts, even the newest one we introduced to you. - What a remarkable meeting that was to witness: the old and the new, both in a place of innocence and dependence just from two different places on the circle. Did you even realize how comforting it was to see us all together like that?

Sweet Grandma Berber, I trust you are finally at peace with your family. You will always be missed and always loved. Thank you for being you. Thank you for loving me.

Your loving granddaughter,
Jessica

Barbara Janet McDowell Warner Schrader
July 9, 1920 - November 23, 2009

Your kitchen & Anthony, Easter 03

Easter 07

March 08

Playing I Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man April 09

A year ago yesterday

A year ago yesterday I wrote this post about Levi. I meant to remember the moment it happened, but it passed me by in time-change confusion and excitement over chilly nights. In truth, I've been remembering it for months, so it's not so surprising that the anniversary slipped past me.

I remember that horrible night when I think I see my sweet baby dog out of the corner of my eye, but really it's just my boots.

I remember his sweet, soft face in the middle of the night when I mistake a pillow for his large, slumbering body.

Rooster remembers him whenever we hear fire crackers, a car back fire, or thunder and often says, "Poor Levi would be miserable right now. I miss that guy..."

And I remember him in a visceral way that knocks the wind out of me: my heart is light as I crack open the front door and expect to see his black, wiggling body and snuffling nose to greet me, but it isn't there. That moment is the most painful, the let down that he isn't there and will never be there again.

I have no desire to get another dog. None. For one, my hands are full with a two year old and my fraying sanity; and two, my heart isn't ready for it. I am not prepared to love a set of four legs again like I did Levi. He was my everything for so long and he so gracefully transitioned to second place once Hollis was born I haven't stopped giving him top billing in my heart yet. He deserves more time there.

This summer, on a hot, still day, I hiked down to the greenbelt with Rooster and Hawk and Levi's ashes. It was an emotional moment for me and one I hadn't even been certain that I wanted others to witness. In the end, I realized that Rooster had known, loved, and lived with Levi for 6 years, had witnessed his decline and death, and therefore deserved to be with me and Levi when I sprinkled his ashes. I'm glad I made that choice.

We hiked to the little swimming hole, now dry as bone, and climbed the cliff with the "No Cliff Diving" sign. The wind gusted, as did my temper, and foiled the more romantic notion of letting the ashes blow in the wind. In the end, Rooster carefully dumped the ashes in a little pile next to a yellow daisy in the limestone and we walked away. Me, eyes filled with tears and a toddler on my back. Rooster, silent and steadfast beside me.

I could never have asked for a better animal to share my life with. He was gentle, sweet, easy going, and his spirit won over everyone he met. He was just that kind of dog. I miss him every day, although a little less with each passing minute. I have pictures of him scattered sparingly throughout the house.

I don't think I could handle many more reminders of him. I almost burst into tears the moment I realized the wedding painting we had our friends fill in was still missing his paw prints.

Levi, sweet baby dog, I love you and miss you and hope you're having a splendid time chasing rabbits in a fire-cracker-free world.

Leaping off a rock after a stick into the icy Frio river in November of '05, which is next to the computer.

Licking a weeks old Hawk in November of '07, resting is on the mantel.

Pressed up against my leg as a puppy in April or May of '97, set opposite my bed on the bookshelf.

Him miserable getting a bath in 2005, hanging next to the light switches and front door.

Grieving is like barfing: It hurts, but hopefully you'll feel better

Three years ago today I was crying.

My chest cavity had been pried apart by the ugly hands of abuse, history, death, and pain and my insides pulverized. I could barely breathe for the sheer magnitude of the storm of my feelings: grief, relief, anger, pain, and, yes, even happiness that he was finally gone.

So far today, I have been successful at holding back my tears and keeping intruding thoughts of his death at bay. But I have only to think of him and his tyranny on my and my sister's emotional landscapes while he was alive and of his excruciating, pitiful death at the end to feel the backs of my eyelids prick and my throat grow thick with unvented emotion and tears.

I am unsure how to approach this anniversary; where to log it in my brain. It is a great relief that he is no longer on this planet. First, I don't wish suffering of any kind on anyone and my father had layers of it from all points in his life: physical, mental, and emotional. Secondly, my life is better with him gone. I no longer worry he'll show up on my door step unannounced and unwelcome or that I'll get another filthy email or feel obligated to mother him or have to sit through yet another diatribe about - who else? - him. And lastly, I simply don't have to feel the pain of our relationship as a living, throbbing beast always hiding in my darkest corners. In the last three years of his absence I have shown the light on those corners and I have begun to let myself off the hook: No, I wasn't a bad daughter; No, it wasn't my fault he wasn't a good father; No, I didn't deserve to be ridiculed and mocked; No, I really am a good human being; No, I AM WORTHY.

I consider myself a generally nice person, so to feel this much relief over my own father's death is unsettling to me. And, honestly, I am happy he is no longer here. It means that his death has negated that I ever give any emotional real estate to our relationship again. It's fucking over. OVER.

So why don't I feel better about it??

::

When I got the call from his friend that he was, essentially, dying and would I be interested in talking to him it took me about an hour to decide that I would do this thing for him. Because it certainly wasn't for me.

Talking to him, a weak, sick and dying man, was not for my benefit. It was my parting gift to him so he could rest with a lighter heart. We spoke of nothing but his cancer and how it was viciously attacking his insides. So much, I thought, like he had attacked ours over the years. Wasn't this Karma at its height? That a bad, bad man like my father would die tortured in a hospital bed alone and penniless? Well, I can tell you that even witnessing a lesser man die a big death doesn't make it feel any less violent to your heart and soul. It can crush you nonetheless. For this reason, I would never watch a killer die. It's still a life lost. Someone's baby choosing the wrong path...

I couldn't just leave him on this earth with only phone calls between us so I went to him when he was in hospice. My family and I steeled ourselves for the worst. I was expecting him to be emaciated and frail. He looked quite the opposite. He was huge and looming, like my memories of him as a little girl. The only change in his appearance was his hair: it was shock white and fine as a baby's, cut close and sticking straight up.

He smiled, happy and afraid. He had given up on us, he said, and had been afraid all these years to reach out to us. Such was my father's outlook on life. - Never mind that I spent years of my life fighting for a better relationship with him.

We spent several days in Phoenix with him, visiting him twice a day. Outside of hospice we spent the rest of the time collectively drunk and sobbing, laughing at fart ring tones, and yelling to perfect strangers, "I'm SHY!!!!" I cried every hour, tears streaming down my face like a waterfall. It felt like my face was trying to flush my eyes down the drain of my neck.

Only once did my father address his behavior towards and treatment of me during our time there. He seemed somewhat apologetic. I wanted to believe he was sorry, but still felt in my gut he was mostly scared for his own soul than repairing mine. I felt brushed aside, much as I did during my childhood, as he gave a more fervent, heartfelt and fearful apology and embrace to my sister. She whose heart shown gloriously in its strength, beauty, and capacity to forgive in the face of his ugliness and depravity. I felt ashamed that I was jealous of the attentions he was giving her, even in this moment, but let it settle on my shoulders with resignation. I will always be a little girl dying for the attention of her father, no matter what's happening.

And what I did as a little girl to get my father's acceptance and attention was take care of him. Therefore, it was fitting that I be the one to sign cremation papers for him. I was his little mother AND his next of kin.

It felt wrong doing all this for a man who never liked me, who abused my sister, and who hurt everyone who ever cared for him. I was losing a piece of myself as I signed the paperwork to authorize the burning of his remains, yet I was doing it for him because he was my father and I loved him.

Yes, even after everything, of course I loved him. And that's another feeling that has no home in me. Where in the hell do I put that?? I loved a crippled, abominable man. It's not the kind of love you put next to the love of a friend or your baby. It's a love you're embarrassed about, because how could I possibly??

But it's true, and I still do. And I wish more than anything that he were still here as a different man. Someone who I could look up to and rely on and call in a pinch for a laugh or advice. Now July 8th is a day to remind me that all hope of having a Father in my father is really and truly gone. My relief at his passing, while great, is still no match for my heart's yearning for a Dad. A real, bona fide Dad. Someone who was trustworthy and kind and, above all else, a safe place.

Maybe I've romanticized what it's like to have a father, but you can't blame me. I don't know what it's like. I'm sure it's as complicated and frustrating as having a mother (and I definitely have a Mom), but as someone who never in her life felt as though she had one I think it'd be pretty fucking awesome and I'd welcome it.

After everything, I feel as though I was a wonderful daughter to him. Especially in the end. Even after leaving hospice and the hours of sitting in his room watching the rise and fall of his chest behind I continued to be there for my father. He would call me, delusional from the pain meds, afraid and confused. He talked to me about coming to my graduation that winter and of being a grandfather to my unborn kids. I told him he was welcome to it all, knowing in my heart that he wouldn't survive that long, and if, by some miracle he did, I still wasn't sure I could open my world up to his pervasive emotional sickness. I've never lied to a dying person before. I don't regret it, but the words still haunt me. I hope he knows why I did it.

Finally, my aunt, my father's sister-in-law, called me to tell me he had died. It is a moment frozen in time. I was standing in my kitchen, in the walkway area. I buried my face in my hands and Rooster held me. I wish like hell I felt one iota better about him today than I did then, but I don't, and I haven't. Maybe I never will.

Haunted boxes

When my dad died he left behind a trail of despair. He owed money to the IRS, had credit card debt, no friends, estranged family, and lived with his ailing 85 year old mother.

The whole of his life's belongings were housed in a storage unit in Boulder, Colorado, where he'd lived off and on over the years, sometimes with his brother, Randy, and sometimes in his own.

Boulder always had special meaning to him; it was a magical land where snow capped mountains and its rugged, isolated beauty somehow resonated with his tortured soul. Colorado was where he'd met my mother. It was where he'd met a woman he once loved after my mother who died tragically in a car wreck in the mountains. Colorado, my sister and I were always told, was where he wanted to die. In a way, it was, even though his body was in a quaint hospice center that smelled of disinfectant and flowers in west Phoenix .

In the years since splitting with my mother in 1987 he lived in two apartments in Fairfield and two different places in Martinez, CA. Once Gabby graduated high school in 1996 he left California for Colorado, his mecca, never to return. He called Boulder home, Denver, too, Austin, TX (twice), Portland, OR, and finally Phoenix.

Somehow during all this time, he'd organized the things he loved into boxes.

And twice I cut him off from me.

The first time was in 1995 after he'd come to Austin to visit me just after I'd moved here. He told me disgusting stories about a woman he was dating and wouldn't stop even when I begged him to. He followed me around on campus and smothered me until I would cry to my mother asking her "Why is he like this??" One day, when I came home from school I found he had left Austin abruptly and left me a letter saying he'd found some drug paraphernalia of mine. He said it hurt him too much to deal with and recommended I go to rehab. And just like that, he was gone.

I wasn't surprised by this. The morning before I'd left for school I'd booby-trapped my bedroom, knowing he was on the verge of snooping around my room. The old paraphernalia he'd found was so old and so tucked away in a side zipper of an unused purse that I hadn't even though of it (he was nothing if not thorough). All of my booby-traps were sprung. All of them.

I didn't talk to him for two years.

The second time I cut him out was "for good." After years of inappropriate behavior from him and emotional violations I told him to leave me alone until he could control himself.

It was a heartbreaking decision for me. I had invested years of my life to working on my relationship with my father, begging, teaching, pleading, screaming, writing, and showing him how I wanted him to be with me. But he never heard me. The whole of our relationship revolved around him, his life, his relationships, his family (his mother, father, and brothers), his sex life, and his health. I knew intimate details about everyone, but could share not one intimate detail of myself for fear of utter rejection, judgment, or ridicule. I was his mentor and friend. Never a daughter.

Shortly after this second split I learned of unforgivable things he did to someone I cherish. She is half my heart and he hurt her, inexplicable and egotistically. If there had ever been a crack in the door to having a relationship with him, it was now gone forever.

Any thought of my father conjures up feelings of guilt, anger, frustration, and immense sadness. I've never wanted anything more than a father. A real father whom I could trust and feel real with. A father who wouldn't leer at me or sexualized me. A father who wasn't consumed with himself. A father who didn't use me to feel better about himself. His children, I think, were proof to him that he wasn't who he really was: a supremely fucked up narcissistic human being whose universe, sadly, centered around himself, a person, who in his own estimation, wasn't worth the air he breathed.

If I were painting a portrait of who he was I would create a vast emptiness, a bleak, stark, sad, yearning landscape of a face. An emptiness of worth so tragic the very life of me would be sucked out through my mouth and nose.

This, for me, is, and was my father.

And so it came to me this week to go through his boxes. The few that my uncle had picked out for me to get from that storage unit in Boulder. He'd sent them to Texas a couple of months after Dad died, but I couldn't even think to open them up. I had them shipped to Mom who then put them in her storage unit, which she and Terry just rediscovered this weekend when they emptied it out.

She called to softly tell me they were there and what should she do with them?

"Bring them here."

"Really??"

"Yeah. I'm ready."

And I was. I am. The pain I feel for my Dad's life and death mobilizes a source of strength in me that I can't explain. It was there when I flew to Phoenix to see him on his deathbed. It was there every time he called me scared and crying because he was hallucinating from the pain meds he was on in hospice. It was there when I held his cold, heavy hand in his hospice gurney. It was there when I told him, in all honestly, that I loved all the good parts in him and wished him well on his new journey. It was there when my sister and I flew back out, days after he died, to move his mother, unbeknownst to her, into assisted living and to sit through his "memorial" delivered by his shell-shocked older brother.

And I used it to open the first box sitting on my kitchen table, cautiously delivered by my mother hours before. It was a flat box and I thought it might be artwork of his beloved giraffes (he'd had tons of giraffe figurines and framed art), but it wasn't. It held two innocuous framed art pieces of my sister's, ostensibly gifts from her. - I'm going to hang them both in Hawk's room.

The second box held photos of my childhood and tons of our schoolwork, PTA fliers, father's day cards from us, pictures we'd drawn him, swim meet ribbons and programs, my 8th grade manatee report, poems by my sister when she was 10, and notes from our bathroom mirror he would leave us every morning reminding us of chores, goings on and to not kill each other.

The third, and last box, held more photos, mostly old family portraits of his family, some scrapbooks my grandmother made him, his sketches of a solar-powered car complete with fins and white-walled tires, a lock of his baby hair and the first baby tooth he lost.

I was brutal in my choice of which things to keep, choosing to keep those photos before he broke our family apart, when we thought we were all happy. I kept photos of him and my mother when they were long-haired and passionate about each other. I also chose to keep the photos of him as a young boy with his mother and brothers. I tossed out countless photos of him and us together and miserable, which was most of the time. - I'm going to show Hawk his grandfather's ideas on solar-powered cars.

Of everything, three things made me feel something other than studious archaeological focus: the note that said, "#1 Dad" written in crayon on faded construction paper, the lock of his dark blond baby hair, and his tiny, ivory, baby tooth. All three represented innocence and potential... and in that I felt great loss. The first, a little girl's strident belief that her dad could really be number one, and the second, two physical remnants which were reminders that my father, as shrunken in esteem as he ended up, was once also very innocent and full of potential himself.

I cried my eyes out as I was finished because how sad is it to have the sum of your relationship with your daughter be of her kneeling on a hardwood floor with a big empty box to her right and a pile of shit she doesn't want of yours in front of her? Things you held to be precious, your only link to the life you once had with her and others. And yet, I felt no compulsion to hold onto these things and this wrung out my heart: that no one was left on this planet who wanted the mementos of his existence. No one.

As I softly cried, pitifully, Rooster came and knelt down with me and put his arms around me, "I'm so sorry you have to do this," he said huskily. Again, more tears because I'm sorry I have to, too.

It's been a few days since that night and I feel the shroud of despair has waned. My father built his life based on crippling self-doubt and character inadequacies he was never equipped to change despite ruining countless lifelong relationships with his daughters, wife, and friends alike. I cannot continue to take care of him posthumously as I did in life, even his memory. His life was what he made of it and it's not my fault I don't want his lock of hair or baby tooth. It's ultimately his.

I love the idea of my father, the man he wanted so badly to be and who I wanted him to be, but so utterly failed to achieve. I knew he cherished my sister and I even while he treated us horribly. I love his little boy self. His young man self. It's these make-believe men that I love, not the man I actually knew. The man I knew wasn't actually lovable, I think, if you can even say that about a person.

The boxes are now put away, the pictures organized and tagged for albums. I have a benign pile of things for my sister and my mom came and took the things she wanted (oddly, many of her mother's day cards were in these boxes). I will frame the pictures of me and my sister from Olan Mills and especially the one I'm scared to honor: a picture of me in a carrier on my dad's back. My hair is just past my ears and its baby fineness has caused it to swoosh back in a big curl. I'm looking over my father's right shoulder, intently on some knew sight from this tall vantage point, there are crowds around us. Perhaps we are at the zoo. He's looking off into the same distance, his hair brown and much like mine. He is sturdy and caring and we are sharing this moment, this space.

I'd like to think this was the best time I ever had with him. It is how I want to remember him because I cannot forget him. No matter how much I wish I could. He is my father, the only one I ever had. Good, bad, or utterly ugly, he is all I have ever had and known. It's now up to me decide how I go forward. It's all up to me now.

To friends of Levi

This picture was taken yesterday afternoon.

It is with a heavy heart that I write to tell you that Levi is now in Doggy Heaven. After a year-long diagnosis of mast cell cancer Anthony and I had to put him down at an emergency clinic early this morning.

When the original diagnosis came a week before Hollis was born we decided to aggressively treat the cancer with a lumpectomy and consequent radiation. Those radiation treatments were my first outings with Hollis as a new mom and I'll never forget them. In a way they were something very special; I was fighting for my beloved dog no matter what.

Levi came to dread the vet, a place he'd previously had no nervousness about. In addition to the cancer treatments, we were also going to get bi-weekly blood work done. The end result was that he would tremble with fear and agitation upon entering the door of the vet's. We began drugging him to help relax him, but it was little help. The treatments ended in late winter/early spring and the cancer seemed to have responded despite being the most aggressive type possible.

Then, on October 4th, exactly one year to the day when we originally found a lump on his belly, he came to us whimpering and limping. He had two huge lumps of swelling at the top of his right leg. By the time the vet's office opened his leg was blown up to three times its normal size and the lumps were bigger, too. The vet had no idea what was happening and sent us home with some antibiotics and anti-inflammatories. He seemed to respond well to both and the swelling went away within a couple of days.

But then on the 24th, while out front in the yard with Hollis I noticed more swelling and he was limping again. I immediately took him back to the vet where more tests were done and I was again sent home with antibiotics. Within a couple of days it was clear he wasn't responding and he was still in pain. I asked for pain meds and the vet gave me more anti-inflammatories. The meds weren't working at all it seemed, and this time, instead of edema in his leg, the swelling was concentrated along his ribcage and underbelly.

Friday night he was clearly in much more discomfort and so I called the vet yesterday morning to ask for pain medication. Overnight the swelling had increased twofold. He looked disfigured from one side and normal from the other. It was so sad. We knew that his time was near. I actually thought that maybe Monday would be the day so we kept our plans last night to attend a party for a close friend. At 10 o'clock my mom called to tell us that Levi wasn't doing well. We left for home immediately.

I had given my mom free license to give Levi as many pain pills as was necessary to keep him comfortable. Instead of the 2 per day the bottle instructed, I had already given him 2 as a jump start and within 4 hours of babysitting my mom had given him 4 more. When we heard that bit of news we knew...

...

We took him to the clinic and he was very calm. The drugs were definitely working and he wasn't in too much discomfort. The staff were incredibly kind and we got an exam room immediately. Techs came and went and a boy-faced vet came in to do an examination. From an ultrasound we determined that the swelling was fluid-filled and not a mass. And from a needle aspiration we knew that it was blood-filled and not pus.

At this point the prognosis was dire. After the trauma of cancer-treatment from a year ago and Levi's stress about needles and such there was no way we were going to do anything invasive to him again. He was 10 and a half years old, after all and a big dog.

So, it was with a clear conscience and sad heart that I knew it was his time.

Watching him pass from living to death was one of the most miraculous things I've ever been witness to. One minute he was warm and breathing and beside me and the next he was really gone. It was beautiful and peaceful and of course I cried my eyes out. Anthony did too, much to his own surprise.

Levi was an incredible dog. His energy was patient and sweet and he could adapt to any situation with that wonderful doggy essence that only they seem to have. He has known more people in my life than anyone else I know. He knew my dad, all my ex-boyfriends and friends. He knew all my old animal friends, too. He watched me struggle and he lived to see me succeed. He weathered my crazy hormonal shifts while pregnant and he molded to our new family composition with ease and happiness.

Absolutely everyone loved this dog. Everyone. Dogs, cats, people, babies, kids. And he loved them all back.

I'll end this with one of my happiest memories of him. For two and a half years Levi and I lived a block away from the green belt and Barton Creek. I was laid off and so every day at around 10 am Levi and I would go for a run on the cool, shade-dappled trails. I'd let him off his leash and he would run all over the place in reckless abandon. Ears flapping, tail wagging, sides heaving with sheer excitement. He'd run in and out of the creek, soaking wet, tongue lolling and then race to catch up with me. I could hear his wet paws pounding on the dirt behind me and then zip past me only to disappear behind a wall of bushes. I always knew where he was by the sounds of splashing from below the trail.

I imagine him chasing really slow rabbits in Doggy Heaven right now where there are no fireworks or baths and just lots of shade-dappled trails and cool creeks for him to run on... I miss him very, very much already, but feel so incredibly lucky to have been able to share his entire life with him.

Thanks so much for being Levi's friend.

xo
Jess