Category: Anxiety and self-discovery

Musings about overcoming and appreciating anxiety and learning to love myself.

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A Beautiful Day

Today is the first day of April vacation.  I woke up to the crash of thunder outside my window, and lay in bed listening to sheets of rain hit the glass.  I love a good thunderstorm.  It was still dark.  I grabbed a candle and a cup of coffee and headed toward the couch near the window in my living room. My dog is scared of thunder, so she curled up next to me with her muzzle in my lap.  As I sat there, enjoying the lightning flashes, my youngest wandered down the stairs. “Did you hear that!?” he marveled, with a glint in his eyes.  He loves storms as much as I do.  

So I sat on the couch. I cuddled my kid and sipped my coffee and pet my dog and watched the rain come down in sheets and the lightning crack across the sky.  I listened to the thunder crash and I appreciated my son’s wonder.  

It was a good moment. 

Sometimes, a day will start with one of those good moments and just keep on going.  Those are the days when I feel like I’m nailing it. The days when I feel like a good parent and a good teacher and a good friend; the days when I manage to sneak in a little self-care and balance all of the roles.  

Sometimes, it’s exactly the opposite.  You know those days, right?  The days when nothing goes right and you feel like a failure across the board?  Those are the days when you wish for a do-over and you hope you haven’t lost your job or traumatized your children.  

But really, most days are just in-between.   Most days are an assortment of successes and failures; moments of beauty and moments of pain; a little bit of peace and a little bit of chaos.  Satisfaction and disappointment. Laughter and tears.

I’ve been trying to get better at something.  I’m trying to recover more quickly when things go sideways.  I’m trying to ensure that a bad moment doesn’t turn into a bad day. I’m not great at it, but I’m getting better.  

I guess I see myself as a pretty typical mom.  I yell sometimes.  And I laugh sometimes.  We play games and we also do laundry.  We get the homework done and we have dance parties in the kitchen.  I think we have a reasonable balance.  

But I was visiting with family recently.  This is my side of the family; the family we don’t see nearly often enough.  The little one forgot to take his ADHD medicine, so he was bouncing off the walls.  The older two were being ultra-sullen teenagers, and I was shooting them warning glances across the table.  I guess none of us was at our best, when I really think about it.  

In that moment, my sister decided to reprimand me for reprimanding my son.  In front of everyone, she asked, “Why are you so mean to him?”   And then the whole family jumped in on it.   I’m too angry.  I’m always yelling. My kids have jokingly called me ‘the dream crusher’ for years; it’s always felt affectionate.  On that day, it just hurt.  

I wanted to respond. I wanted to defend myself.  What about the trips to the museum?  The puzzles and the tents in the backyard and the ice cream for dinner? What about all the times I run to the store for posterboard at 8pm?  All the birthday parties and nighttime cuddles and tickle wars?   

But I didn’t want to draw attention to how much the whole thing upset me.  I didn’t want to make it worse.  I didn’t want to drag it out.  I don’t see my family that often.  I wanted to enjoy the day.  We had plans to do something fun, and I had been looking forward to it for weeks.  So I wanted to figure out how to take that crappy moment and put it behind me. 

I tried.  I’m not sure I succeeded.  We took some photos, but the teenagers continued to be sullen. The bouncy one continued to bounce. We went to an animation museum. It was a little mom-and-pop shop open by appointment only, and it was a bit of a risk because we weren’t quite sure what we were in for.  But I loved it.  The presentation was great and it was perfect for the kids and still interesting for the adults.  I was still worried that the bouncy one was going to break something, but I tried to redirect him with a smile.  The older two continued to sulk, but I tried to find out why and they both explained that they weren’t feeling well.  I shared my water bottle and tried to have a bit more compassion… and I think the day got at least a little better.  

But it’s hard.  It’s hard to feel angry or hurt or frustrated… and then just let it go.  And I guess it depends, right?  Is it a thing you CAN just let go?  Is it a thing that needs to be discussed?  Because there’s a difference between burying something and letting it go. I think, on that day, I didn’t really let it go.  I just buried it.  Because when I think back on it, it still smarts a little.    

Here’s another example.

We had to leave early for church, because three of the four of us were playing in the bell choir. I gave everyone a warning the night before.   I made sure they were awake.  I prompted them through showers and breakfast.  I gave everyone the five-minute warning.  And then I announced that it was time to go.  The oldest responded, “I’m not ready!”  When I asked how long she would need, I got attitude. She responded with the words, “I don’t know,” but her tonesaid, “What a stupid question.  How would I know?”  I asked, “Can you give me an estimate?  Should I just leave without you?”  Her response was, “Sure.”  But imagine that ‘sure’ laced with a little ‘I’m happy to miss church because I hate it and you’re being a witch.’ 

So we left without her. But there was NO WAY I was going to let her get away with skipping church.  I texted.  “Find a way to get here.  It will take you 20 minutes to walk or 10 minutes to ride your bike.”  No response.  

She got there. She didn’t walk or ride her bike, but she called a friend and got a ride and showed up in time.  I was on the other side of the sanctuary setting up the bells.  She didn’t look at me.  No eye contact.  She was angry.  I was angry.  And I had to talk myself through it.  I had to make a choice.  

I could continue to be angry.  I could sulk and ignore her, too.  Or I could move on and try not to let it ruin the day.  So I decided on the latter.  I thanked her for getting there.  She was obviously still unhappy with me, but I think she was expecting me to be angry, too.  When I wasn’t… it was like it gave us both permission to move on.  Within a few minutes, we were back to normal.  She asked to drive on the way home.  We went shopping.  We went out for ice cream.  It actually turned out to be a lovely day.  

In that case, I think I actually let it go.  I wasn’t angry anymore.  And I was never really hurt.  Once I made up my mind that it was over, it could actually be over.  

I’m still learning. Every day, I try to hold on to the beautiful moments and I’m trying to navigate the tough moments with a little more grace.  I’m trying to do a little more ‘hugging it out.’  I’m trying to do a little less burying my feelings and a little more apologizing and explaining and moving on.  I’m working on being clear and consistent about my own boundaries, and I’m trying to listen a little bit better. I’m trying not to let a crappy moment turn in to a crappy day.  Sometimes I succeed.  And sometimes I don’t.   

The storm is over. The sky is brightening a bit, and I’m on my second cup of coffee.  Storm watching has turned into screen-watching as I type and Cal plays Minecraft.  But the candle is still burning and the dog is still at my feet and I’m hopeful that today is going to be one of the good ones.  And if it’s not?  Well, that’s okay. Because an ordinary day can be beautiful, too.  

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March

Every March, I begin to wonder what other careers I might be qualified to do.  Flight attendant?  Bartender? Dog walker?  Teachers are exhausted in March, because kids have spring fever and state tests are coming and the weather is rotten and there are no breaks.  Special Education teachers are particularly exhausted in March, because the meetings and the paperwork double and the preparations for next year have to begin. 

I thought I was going to write about all of that and try to be funny.  But even if I attempt humor, my cranky exhaustion will likely shine through, and nobody wants to read a whiny blog post.  Besides…. I know from experience that I’ll regret all this complaining in April when I love my job again.    

So, instead, I’m going to write about what’s helping me get through this horrible month.  

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Let’s start with Bea. For those of you who don’t know, Bea was my student for two years before she became our foster daughter.  She’s been part of the family for almost three years now, and I couldn’t love this kid harder.   This month in particular, she’s been struggling, too.  Her story is not mine to tell, but given the fact that she currently lives with her former teacher, you can assume her life hasn’t been all rainbows and unicorns.  

But she is fierce. She is brave.  She is loyal and hard-working and diligent and considerate. And sometimes, she is all of those things for so long that she gets tired.  And she gets sad.  And when Bea is tired and sad, she wants to shut herself in her room and cry and watch Grey’s Anatomy so she can forget, for just a little while, that life is HARD. 

We’ve been going to counseling together, which she hates, but I kinda like.  The sessions are okay, but after the sessions, we often wind up talking about things that may not have come up otherwise.  Last week, Bea opened up in a way that was new and heartbreaking and beautiful.   (If you haven’t heard about Glennon Doyle’s idea of ‘brutiful,’ definitely look it up.) She’s starting to let me know what’s in her head, and that helps me try to help.  

Parenting a teenager is hard.  Parenting a teenager who hasn’t always been your child adds another layer of complication to an already difficult task.  But the moments of connection make every worried moment worth it.  

When she makes me try some terrible new food and laughs at the pained look on my face…

When she says, “Wait… don’t leave…” as I’m stepping out of her room. 

When she catches my eye at the dinner table and we laugh because we’re both thinking the same slightly snarky thing that we won’t say out loud. 

When she makes fun of my husband or chases the boys with a spray bottle or drops a piece of meat into the dog’s mouth under the dinner table.  

This kid inspires me. She has climbed a mountain to get where she is.  Every once in a while, she sits on the ground and says she can’t go any farther.  And every time, she rests for a spell, complains quite a bit, and then hoists herself up and keeps going.  Her strength reminds me that life is brutiful, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. 

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And then there’s Jack. As I write this, he’s in the kitchen, whipping up pancakes and bacon.    Without him, I’d collapse in a puddle of my own anxiety.  He’s the balance in my life.  Where I might be inclined to settle, he’s imagining the possibilities. Where I tend to make excuses for the kids, he’ll hold them accountable.  When I doubt myself, he’ll be my cheerleader.  While I half-assed clean the house, he’ll take apart the stove and scrub every inch until it looks like new.  When I’m stressing out and grading papers, he’ll pull out the guitar and play the background music that slows my blood pressure.  

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I could keep going.  I could write about each of my kids in succession.  I could write about my church friends and my book club and my colleagues.  I could write about my parents and my siblings and my dogs.  These are the people (and pets) that I lean on when things feel heavy.  These are the ones that help me carry my load in lots of big and small ways.  Sometimes all it takes is a raised eyebrow in passing to know that somebody sees you and knows your struggle.  A nod. A hug.  A well-timed text.  The muzzle of a tired dog resting on your knee.  When the big moments are bad, it’s easy to forget the small, sweet moments that are so much more abundant.  But we need to notice them.  We need to appreciate them, so we don’t get bogged down in the tough stuff.  

In those moments when we can look around and see the beauty, we can BE the beauty for someone else. Hold the door.  Cuddle your kid.  Check on your friend.  Call your mom.  

Because helping each other through the brutal stuff is how we create the beautiful stuff.   

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Ups and Downs

I shaved my legs yesterday.  I also changed my sheets.  I don’t say this to brag; these two minor accomplishments are only relevant because they provide the backdrop for my morning. I began my day today in a state of sleepy bliss.  My smooth legs were just the right temperature under my clean sheets and the tension had somehow evaporated from my shoulders and as many times as I opened my eyes and chatted with my husband and rolled over, I could not manage to pull my head off of the pillow.  I felt utterly relaxed.  And smooth. 

So I stayed there for as long as I could; when I finally got up, I headed to my beautiful, newly-renovated bathroom.  And as I brushed my teeth, a steady stream of water flowed from the light fixture above me onto my head and down my back and I shrieked.  As an independent, self-sufficient woman does, I yelled for my husband.  

As I write this, we still haven’t figured out the source of the leak.  Luckily, I’m married to a plumber, so I have every confidence that he’ll get it taken care of… the best part being that I won’t need to be involved in the process at all unless he needs someone to hold a flashlight.  

But that particular example is a solid illustration of the ups and downs of this week.  Nothing’s been earth-shattering.  No crisis.  No joyful surprises.  Just the mundane, post-holiday, relaxing-recovering-cleaning-gettingthefreakingflu- type stuff that fills the week or two after Christmas.  

We had a nice Christmas brunch with friends; and subsequently, every person who was at that gathering went down with the flu.  A few days on the couch, aching and coughing and complaining… nothing too terrible, but a generally rotten way to ring in the new year.  

And just before we all went back to school, the little one sprained his ankle on a friend’s hoverboard. Being in the running for mother of the year, I told him to ice it and gave him some ibuprofen, and fully expected that he’d be fine by morning.  Except he wasn’t.  He was using the spare set of crutches that hangs out in the garage, and when it came time to get on the bus, I finally told him that he couldn’t go to school. Not because I thought he was in too much pain.  Not because I was worried about his well-being.  He couldn’t go to school because then I would be the neglectful mom who didn’t even take the kid to the doctor and just sent him to school on someone else’s crutches!!!

So I made the doctor’s appointment.  We got the x-rays.  And guess what?  He’s fine. Nothing broken, and approximately 48 hours later, he’s running around like a fool and those crutches are back in the garage.  See? Ups and downs.  Nothing Earth-shattering.  

That’s what this week has been full of; mild disappointments and mundane moments of joy.  I don’t really buy into all that, “New Year, New You” resolution hype.  I’m a public schoolteacher and a mom and a creature of habit.  I make all my resolutions in September; by January 1st, I’m just proud that my kids are still alive and fed.  When the New Year rolls around, I’m settling in and preparing to enjoy a little bit of winter mediocrity.  I’m ready for lazy snow days and jigsaw puzzles and weekend trips to the library to stock up on books and movies to sustain us through the winter dark.  I’m reading up on crock pot recipes to fill our bellies with sustenance and warmth with minimal effort.  I’m stocking up on duraflame logs because I love a fire but not enough to actually build one.  

After the hustle and bustle of the holiday season dies down, what I really need is some space to enjoy all of these beautiful every day moments.  I need to stop and listen to the fire crackle and marvel at the beauty of a snowflake and gently run my fingers through my son’s hair when he falls asleep during family movie night.  I need to relax and enjoy the sensation of newly-washed sheets on newly-shaved legs. And then I need to haul my butt upstairs and hold the flashlight while my amazing husband figures out this freaking leak.  

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Angry

I woke up angry this morning.  Not a little irritated or vaguely annoyed.  Seethingly, vehemently mad at the world.  And for no real good reason.  Nothing unusual, anyway… especially given the season.  Nothing except the fact that, despite my best efforts and frantic, consistent accomplishing, my to-do list kept getting longer instead of shorter. And the list of people willing to help me with it was nonexistent.  My kids were whiny and my house was filthy and the laundry was stacking up and my husband AND my kids were playing video games.  It was 7:30 am.  

I thought, perhaps, that coffee would help.  So I got out of bed and wandered into the kitchen to make myself a double dose of caffeine.  And I was feeling motivated.  So I loaded the dishwasher and finished putting out the Christmas decorations while I sipped on my Winter Blend.  Feeling accomplished, I put in a load of laundry and brought all of the bins from decorating back into the garage.  

My son called for his mom, and I sat on the edge of his bed for a few rare moments of preteen heart-to-heart conversation.  I thought I might be able to shake this funk.  But then I walked back upstairs with a laundry basket and my husband made a pretty benign comment about wanting to change the sheets and I probably looked like my head was going to explode.  “I JUST CHANGED THE SHEETS.  DO YOU SEE THE SEVEN BASKETS OF LAUNDRY THAT NEED TO BE FOLDED?  AND YOU WANT TO TALK ABOUT CHANGING THE SHEETS?!?!”

In hindsight, I realize I may have overreacted.  

Thus continued a crappy morning.  I desperately wanted to skip church and get some much needed alone time and clean my dirty house.  I haven’t read a book in almost a month.  I haven’t written anything in nearly as long.  These are bad signs. But the thought of having to explain to the kids why mom could skip church and they most definitely could NOT (added to the fact that I would still have to drop them off and then slink out of the church parking lot like some kind of criminal), motivated me to get dressed and put on my Christmas earrings and get my butt in a pew.  

It started sleeting as I drove in.  Somebody stole my parking spot.  I parked a quarter mile away, stomped through the sleet, skipped greeting the pastor, and headed to my regular spot.  A friend sweetly asked how I was, and I replied, “Unusually and inexplicably angry.” She laughed and commiserated. Even when I’m mad, it feels good to be around my people.  

I sat down and opened my bulletin And wouldn’t you know it… It’s the third week of advent. Do you know what the third advent candle represents?  Joy.  Of course it does.  

I love my church.  I really do.  I love the pastors and the music and the people.  Often, I sit there on Sundays and I am moved to tears. Today’s service was inspiring. And beautiful.  And thought-provoking.  At one point, the pastor spoke about being grateful for the hard stuff, too, because even the hard stuff is part of God’s gift to us. At that moment, my husband reached over and took my hand, because we had JUST had this conversation on Friday, when we were feeling particularly grateful for each other.  

I’m glad I went to church. It was good for me.  But I can’t say that I was feeling joyful just for having been there.  I was maybe marginally less vitriolic.  But as we stood around, catching up with our friends, my husband made a comment about our plans for New Years Eve, and I swear I don’t know what happened to me. I snapped.  Embarrassingly.  Like our friends’ eyes popped out of their faces and they politely excused themselves so I could whisper-fight with my husband in the sanctuary.  

My frustrated but patient husband agreed to take our youngest with him to his parents’ house for a little while.  Our middle son stayed for youth group.  Our daughter came home with me but mostly cleaned her room and stayed out of my way, which was probably wise.  

I cleaned.  You wouldn’t think that would make me feel better, but it definitely did.  I got a ton of laundry done and vacuumed up three canisters of dog hair and dusted and cleaned my baseboards.  I went through an entire canister of Clorox wipes.  I drank a cup of tea and picked up diorama supplies from the dollar store.  I lit some candles, read the first chapter of a novel, and began to write. 

What a difference.  A few hours later, and we’re back to business as usual.  There’s football on the TV and tutoring happening in the dining room and a ten year old constructing a diorama on the coffee table.  I’m going to finish this post and switch from tea to wine and order a pizza because cooking will likely ruin my newly-established good mood.  

I’m going to watch the Patriots game and look over my lesson plans for the week.  I’m going to help this kid with the hot glue gun and then frost some cookies and make peppermint bark with Bea.  I’m going to enjoy my clean house and my beautiful family.  

Tonight, I’m going to find that joy that the pastor was talking about. I’m going to thank my husband for putting up with my mood swings.  I’m going to let my family know that I’ve left them all the jobs that I hate; pairing the socks and unloading the dishwasher and sorting the recyclables. I’m going to remember that the hard days make the lovely ones that much more precious. The angry days, the joyful days, the mundane days… tonight, I’m going to remind myself to remember that God is working in all of them.  

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Giving Thanks

It’s 6:30 am on Thanksgiving Day.  I’ve been up for hours; not because of stress or worry, but because I am so full of gratitude I feel like I could burst.  This is one of those rare moments of joy before the chaos begins.  I lay in bed this morning, thinking of all of the ages and stages of this life.

I reminisced about the Thanksgivings of my childhood; about making place cards and setting the table with my grandmother’s good china while my mother made the broccoli casserole and my dad prepped the turkey.

I thought back to the Thanksgivings early in my marriage, when I showed up at my mother in-law’s house with that same broccoli casserole, tentatively presenting my offering to this new family, hoping it (and I) would be received with love.

I recalled the first Thanksgiving I hosted, for a few family members in our tiny upstairs apartment.  Our kitchen was the size of a closet, and we ate in the living room that year.  To this day, I’m not sure how we made it all work.

I remembered the year that I filmed Cal, dancing in the kitchen as he gently placed alternating white and yellow cheddar slices on a tray, occasionally declaring that this one was ‘broken’ before taking a bite and grinning at me with those freaking dimples.

I went back to the year that we stumbled with our pronouns; our whole family working to ensure that Lee felt loved and safe and supported.

Some of these Thanksgivings blend together in my mind; I can’t recall which years we spent here and which ones we spent away.  Some of them were stressful and chaotic; some were quiet and relaxed.  But there are themes that run throughout.  Love.  Gratitude. Acceptance.  Abundance.

And this morning, my heart is bursting with those things.  Grateful feels like too small a word.  What’s bigger than gratitude?  What is gratitude and peace and joy and love pushing so hard at your heart that it brings tears to your eyes?

Maybe it sounds dramatic. Maybe it sounds like too much. But those tears really are pushing at the edges of my eyes and the only reason is because I am remembering to remember all of my blessings.  Like…

My husband.  This guy is cranky and rough around the edges and a little bit gruff.  And he is the epitome of loyalty and commitment.  He is full of love and he cries at movies and he always does the right thing, even when the wrong thing is easier.  He provides for us and cares for us and when I’m at my worst, he just shakes his head and takes a deep breath and keeps on loving me.  He is my rock and he is an incredible role model for these kids.  He is tough and soft all at the same time, and what on earth would I do without him? Thank you, God, for this incredible man.

Bea.  What an incredible young woman.  The holidays are so hard for her.  She’s been through a lifetime of hardship in her short 16 years, and she still faces each day with grace and strength.  Watching her grow has been one of life’s little miracles for me. When I first met this plucky fourth grader, she had the soul of an old woman and the smile of a cherub (when you could get her to smile).  I had no idea that she would become a part of my heart like she has.  In our first year as a family, I worried about how to make her feel welcome in our home and how to balance the addition of a new family member. I worried that we weren’t enough, or maybe we were too much, and I tried so hard to make it all less awkward.  And now, I can’t even remember what it was like before she was here.  She’s been a part of my heart for so long, and now she’s a part of my family, and we are all better for it.  Thank you, God, for this amazing young woman.

Lee.  Oh, my heart.  This kid.  This kid is awesome.  As in, awe-inspiring.  Incredible. Brave, funny, smart, strong, perceptive, loving, and honest.  This kid is going to change the world.  He is going to bring his whole self out into the world and teach tolerance through love and humor.  He is going to care for his menagerie of pets and use his incredible powers of observation and his scientific brain to accomplish incredible things.  And in the meantime, I get to watch him transform like a butterfly.  Can you imagine that?  We all have hopes and dreams for our children… but I’ve gotten to watch my child grow in ways I never imagined.  He surprises me at every turn, and he brings me immeasurable joy.  His laugh and his heart and his head on my shoulder; they all take my breath away.  Thank you God, for this inspiring, incredible kid.

Cal.  My baby.  My sweet, silly, stubborn little guy.  The one who probably gets away with too much because he’s the baby of the family and I’m a sucker for those dimples.  But Cal is my cuddler.  He’s the soulful one; a deep thinker who seeks God in all of the places.  He’s the one who will spontaneously lead us in prayer, or ask questions about heaven when I tuck him into bed.  He’s sensitive and kind and always wants to do the right thing. He’s my go-getter.  When presented with options of things to do, the rest of the family will say ‘no, thank you’ to all of them; Cal will ask why he can only choose one.  He’s athletic and musical and his guitar skills are on track to surpass his dad’s someday.  When I hear them play together, I get a lump in my throat.  Thank you God, for this sweet, sassy little man.

I am grateful today for all of these blessings; for my stepsons and my parents and siblings and my in-laws. For lifelong friends and new friends and the unconditional love from my dogs.  For a warm, safe home and a log in the fire and new throw pillows.  For our church family and a supportive community and cinnamon flavored coffee.  For the sound of laughter and a shoulder to cry on.

Dear God,  thank you for all of the blessings of this life, even the ones that appear as hardships.  Help me to cultivate gratitude and share it with others, and help me to remember this moment of calm once the chaos begins.  Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.  May you be abundantly blessed.

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Yesterday

Amazing things that happened yesterday:

– I rang in the bell choir despite 3 stitches in the palm of my hand.  And I didn’t launch any bells over the balcony into the congregation. I’m going to call that a win.

– During my committee meeting (which lasted longer that I anticipated), Bea sat and chatted with the pastor’s daughter.  It was great to see her so engaged, and it alleviated my guilt about making her wait.

– By the time I finally finished my meeting, Bea had gone home with a friend (in and of itself, this is pretty cool), and Cal hadn’t broken anything or spilled anything in the sanctuary.

– I made it home in time to vacuum and change into my sweatpants before my friends started showing up with wine and pizza.

 

Yesterday was fantastic.  It was fantastic because it was sad… and then the sadness flowing through a group of people prompted us to finally get together and lean on each other and share the burden and then share some laughs and share some food and wine and then somehow, the sadness dissipated.  It still hung in the air, but it wasn’t weighing us down anymore.

Our pastor is leaving us. Yesterday was his last day.  It was hard.  So many emotions swirl around that; when you have a church family and you have come to rely on that family for love and support and guidance, losing a pastor is painful.  It’s not as painful as a death, but it hurts like a breakup.  Like a breakup with a friend and a parent and your guardian angel all at once.

There’s a group of us; four families from church, who get together on a semi-regular basis.  We’ve done bible studies and camping trips and birthday parties together.  The moms of this group have a text message thread where we talk nearly every day. But this past two weeks, our text conversations have been slow and a bit stilted.  We’ve used words like, ‘biopsy’ and ‘anxiety’ and ‘malaise.’  We were all struggling, in different ways.

And while we all knew we needed each other, we hadn’t been able to coordinate schedules and actually make it happen until this weekend.  So when the service was over, and we were all reeling a little and people started asking, “What’s everyone up to today?” it just all came together.  I hadn’t prepared for guests.  My bathroom wasn’t clean and our dogs smelled like whatever they rolled in yesterday and I was frantically trying to get all the fur off the sofa when the first people started to arrive.  And the timing was perfect.

When I was younger, I needed time to prepare for guests.  I wanted everything to be just right.  I needed to clean and shop and have enough of the right kind of glassware.  I wanted my house to look a certain way, and of course, I wanted it all to look effortless.

But as I grow into parenthood and deeper friendships, I realize that the need for connection is so much more important than any of that. I’ve hosted enough impromptu get togethers to realize that nobody is judging my dust and that people would rather drink wine out of plastic cups together in a room full of laughter than sit at home waiting for someone to go out and buy matching stemware.

I don’t have enough time to postpone the party in favor of the preparation.  Life is short and schedules are tight.  When we have an opportunity to be in communion with one another, I want to embrace that opportunity.  I want to love my people and lean on my people and laugh and cry together.  Yesterday, we did just that.  I’m so grateful for friends who can pray with us and cry with us and celebrate with us. We are so blessed to have people who will hold us up when our knees are weak and love our children like their own.

As an added bonus, one of my dearest friends was also able to join us and bring her kids over for pizza and football.  Her friendship has sustained me through my growing-up years, and her presence grounds me and reminds me that who I am is just the latest evolution between who I was and who I am becoming.  In my mind, we’re still ‘growing up’ together, and when she brought her kids to share pizza and cookies and laughs and a game of manhunt in the dark, I felt a sort of peaceful right-ness that slowed my breathing and made me smile.

Days like these sustain me. If I go too long without consciously connecting with the people I love, the tension builds between my shoulder blades and pours out of my mouth in the form of sharp words and impatient replies.  Instead of bringing my gifts into the world, I begin to send out stress and anger; giving the world the worst parts of me instead of the best ones.

For me, joy comes from the connections in my life.  It comes from my friends and my family; from my children and my husband and even my students.  But when I stop consciously seeking it; when I stop inviting it in, it fades into the background.  When I get caught up in my to-do list and the stresses and the worries of everyday life, it’s the equivalent of cleaning my house for company but never opening the door. Everything seems to be in order, but something is definitely missing.

So yesterday, I opened the door to my dirty house and received the blessing of communion.  Communion as community, fellowship, association; communion as intimate communication; communion as a group of people with shared faith.  This type of communion sustains me, and I am infinitely grateful for it.

At the end of the day, I climbed into bed, still wearing the sweatpants that my mom gave me for Christmas in 1999.  I said a grateful prayer and settled in with my head on my husband’s shoulder.  And the sadness I had felt earlier mixed with the joy and somehow turned into strength and peace. I had been fortified by friendship and communion, and sleep came quickly and easily.

I’m sure it had nothing to do with the wine…

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Mindful

I’ve been reading a book about mindfulness.  Today, I got ready to complete one of the exercises in the book.  It was still quiet in the house; everyone was asleep. So I grabbed my cushion and my book and a found a spot on the carpet in the living room.  I sat, crossed my legs, bowed my head, and began to focus on my breathing.  Slowly, I lifted my head and lengthened my spine and began to feel the tension where it typically resides… in my lower left shoulder blade.  I also felt some pulling in my neck and my back.  I breathed into the pain, and began to focus on my exhale.

I heard footsteps, figuring that my time for meditation had ended.  But it was my husband, who is observant and self-sufficient.  So when he noticed that I was meditating, he silently smiled, nodded, and walked away.  My husband is quick to intercept the kids when I’m meditating, so having him awake substantially increased the likelihood that I could continue uninterrupted. I heard him beginning to prepare breakfast.

I closed my eyes again and returned my focus to my breathing.  I was aware of the dog wandering near me; part of what I’m practicing is being able to notice something but not feel the need to analyze or react. So as she wandered, I noticed her but kept my focus on my breath.

Well, my dog isn’t used to being ignored.  She nuzzled her muzzle under my hand and nudged.  My husband stifled a giggle from the next room.  I couldn’t help but smile.

In this busy life of mine, finding time to meditate (or write, for that matter, because I’ve been interrupted 12 times in the last 6 minutes) is a rare sort of treat.  But as I read and practice more, I’m starting to better understand that there is a difference between mindfulness and meditation.

When you’re meditating, you need to be mindful.  You need to let go of extraneous thoughts and focus on your body and your breathing and the sensations of the moment.  You need to let go of the chatter in your brain and focus simply on being in the present.

Meditating requires uninterrupted time.  It doesn’t necessarily require quiet, because you can practice noticing sounds and ignoring them.  But you can’t meditate and answer, “Mom, do we have any cheese its?”  at the same time.  You can’t meditate and let out the dogs or make dinner or read a book with your kids.

But you CAN practice mindfulness through all of that.  You see, meditation requires mindfulness, but the same is not true in reverse. Mindfulness does not require meditation.

So as I tried to practice mindfulness techniques through meditation, when my dog nuzzled my hand and begged for attention, I had a choice to make.  I could shoo her away and continue to meditate.  Or I could focus on the moment and simply be mindful. I chose the latter.

I continued to focus on my breathing, but I also rubbed her nose.  As I breathed slowly, I could feel the change in not only my body, but hers, as well.  She had started off with a sort of desperate need for attention.  She was pushy and adamant.  But as I stroked her ears (she loves that), her breathing slowed.  First she sat, and then she lay down with her head just under my hand.  After a few moments, she adjusted and settled her massive head directly in my lap.

I was still aware of my breathing, but shifted my attention to the soft velvety feel of her ear under my fingertips.  I felt the coarse fur of her neck and the warmth of her skin.  I relaxed into the moment and simply enjoyed sitting on the floor with nothing to do but love my dog and breathe.

Soon, my son entered the room.  There would be no more silence; no more focused meditation… but I chose to continue being mindful of this particular moment.  I noticed his gentleness and his changing voice.  I watched him smile as he settled in on the carpet with us, enjoying the quiet of this moment.  I smelled the bacon coming from the kitchen and relaxed into the kind of peace that is often evasive for a busy mom.

It was short-lived, but beautiful.  Soon the bustle of cooking and gathering and eating began.  The bickering and laughing and teasing took over, and our morning ramped up.

But what I’m learning about mindfulness is this; even once the moment has passed, even when the quiet has been replaced by noise and the doing has surpassed the noticing, that moment has the power to impact the rest of the day.  It sets a tone; it serves as a powerful reminder.

The more I can sneak these moments into my day, the easier it is to find contentment.  The peace comes with the chaos, not in spite of it. When the kids are being rowdy and I can remind myself to breathe and laugh and step into the moment instead of avoiding it, we all benefit.  There is growth in that mindful place.

I’ve probably got another 10 years before I’ll be able to spend significant time meditating.  But that doesn’t mean that I can’t shift my mindset.  I can choose to be in the moment, whether that moment is quietly petting my dog, or refereeing an argument over the last piece of bacon.

And there’s an added bonus to all this noticing.  I have a notoriously terrible memory… but I’m finding that when I take the time to notice a moment, to label it and process it and enjoy it… that moment sticks.  I remember it more clearly and for longer.

**********************************************

I remember…

The feel of the sand under my toes as I watch my son float in the lake.

The smell of the coffee as it drips into my mug.

The belly laughs at some forgotten joke as we drive home with our ice cream cones in our hands.

The pleasure of learning a new recipe and the taste of Bea’s homemade wonton soup.

The cool of the air in the library basement as Bea and Lee browse the shelves and Cal stacks blocks into a tower taller than himself.

The smooth, cool feeling of clean sheets on my toes as I settle in with a good book.

The scratch of the pencil on the ‘Hidden Pictures’ page of our Highlights Magazine.

The feel of a good morning hug, nestled under the covers, before I’m fully awake.

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Moments build character and gratitude and discipline and strength and love and peace and joy. Moments build relationships. Moments build a life.

I believe that each and every mindful moment brings me one step closer to who I’m meant to be. Maybe my tenderness for this massive black lab is more than it seems.  Maybe I just need the faith to see that God is always working.  And sometimes he chooses a hundred pound, needy lap dog to do his good work.

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Summer Rut

I’m right in the middle of my summer rut.   I browse my Facebook feed and see people at concerts and on vacations; I see moms with their kids at the beach and eating ice cream and splashing in pools.  And I’m already tired of summer.

We started off strong. We visited friends, swam in their pool, and went to a concert. We’ve gone out for ice cream and gone to the library and set up a lemonade stand in the yard.   We’ve been to the local lake at least 5 times, which I honestly love.   We’ve made plans with friends and plans with family.  We’ve gone to the water park and the amusement park and to New York.  We’ve been to pool parties and friends’ houses and jumped on all the trampolines.

We’ve made popcorn and jello and chinese dumplings.  We’ve rented movies and camped on the living room floor.  We’ve huddled on the bed in my air conditioned room, reading books and finding all the lost pictures in our Highlights Magazine. We’ve played card games and board games and word games. We’ve made forts out of cardboard boxes and couch cushions and blankets.  We’ve slid down the stairs into a pile of pillows on sleeping bag sleds.  Well, the kids did.  Not me.

And even with all of that, my kids are spending too much time on screens.  I’m still trying to fill the days and stop the bickering and get through the ‘to-do’ list in my brain.  I’m trying to find things to do without spending the grocery money, and I feel guilty every time I have to say, “Not this week” because we just can’t afford it right now.

It’s not like there’s a shortage of work to do.  We’ve re-done Bea’s bedroom.  Primed, painted, redecorated.  We reorganized Cal’s room, and we’re finally getting the bathroom done.  Walls are up, wiring is done, plumbing is finished.  I made the dentist appointments and handled the auto insurance and I’m working on switching over the medical insurance with all our providers.  I still have to clean out the laundry room and paint the trim and rip up the carpet in the hallway upstairs.  The dogs need to be walked and the lawn needs to be mowed.

And I told everyone this is my summer to write a book.  So far, I have 22 half-finished documents on my computer desk top, and nothing that looks remotely coherent enough to become a book.    I told myself I was going to focus on that, but here I am, blogging about my rotten summer mood.

I look back at that list and… HOLY CRAP, we’ve done a lot of things.  So why do I wake up with a low-level sense of dread in the morning? Why do I feel so guilty when we spend a morning doing nothing?  Apparently because I’m terrible at doing nothing.  I have a deep-seated need to be accomplishing something.  I feel better when I’m productive.  Which is why summers are so hard for me.

I know myself enough to realize that I require deadlines. I like to have a plan, and I like to know what’s happening next.  I have a running list in my head of things to do; when I’m dealing with pressure and deadlines, it’s easy to sort the list.  Immediate concerns.  Preparing for tomorrow.  The week ahead.  These categories in my brain help me to manage the day-to-day as a working mom.

And then, when I’m not working, the categories blur together.  The things that I plan to do today could also be done tomorrow or next week. Nothing is pressing and therefore everything feels equally important and my brain begins to malfunction.  I don’t know what to do next.  The simplest decisions become complex.  What’s for dinner?  What color should I paint the front door?  Should I walk the dogs or take them to the dog park?  Should I turn on the air conditioner or just keep the fans running?

In my real life, I’m a functional adult.  In the summertime, I’m a mess.  I could accomplish 12 things and still feel like I didn’t do anything because my mental to-do list is never complete.   I feel good when I’ve taken the kids to the lake, but when am I going to clean the bathroom if I spend my days reading on the beach?  When am I going to get the big projects done if I have to spend my time cleaning the bathroom?  And if I’m cleaning, the kids are probably on screens and that’s a terrible way to spend a summer.

DO YOU HEAR HOW CRAZY I AM?!?!?!

This is actually what happens in my head.

I usually like to wrap up these blog posts with a lesson or a bit of optimism.  But right now, I’m not capable.  Right now, I need to grab a cup of coffee and a shower.  Then I’m going to rent a kayak for an hour with my son, hit the grocery store on the way home, make a dessert to bring to my afternoon book club, put dinner in the crock pot, and then drive an hour to meet some friends for lunch and a book discussion and some catching up (which will make me feel better but leave residual guilt because the kids are home alone, probably watching freaking YouTube).

I have a plan.  And that’s a start….

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Peaceful

Have you ever had one of those Saturdays that turned in to a beautiful weekend that turned into an amazing week?  Right now, I’m sitting on my couch sipping a cup of coffee on the second day of summer vacation, feeling a deep peace that has been evading me for quite some time.

Let’s go back a bit. About a month ago, my husband accepted a new job.  This was good news; exciting, positive, and definitely wanted. But the thing is, he had been with his employer for nearly two decades.  His boss had been good to him, he was the senior guy, and he could do his job in his sleep.  Plus, he was getting paid pretty well.  So why leave? Well, he had just gotten his plumber’s license, so a bunch of new possibilities opened up.  And the big reason was that he was spending 3+ hours commuting each day.  Ninety minutes to work in the morning and another ninety minutes to get home each afternoon.  To travel 30 miles.  Traffic sucks.

So when he decided to accept the job and give his notice, it was a big deal.  For those of you who know Jack, you may know that he swears he has two emotions; happy and angry.  So while he was a little happy, he was also pretty angry (read: nervous, anxious, uncertain, wary, unsure).

Take Jack’s month of angry and then layer it on top of an intense transition for Bea.  She’s almost sixteen, and the emotions have been coming at her in waves.  We argue now (which is a good thing; normal, and a sign that she’s no longer acting like a guest here), and she was stressed about final exams, and friend drama sucks in High School.  She’s battling with loyalty issues and family stuff, and no kid her age should have to meet with their lawyer to discuss guardianship proceedings between voice lessons and dinner.

In the midst of all this, Lee is losing weight.  Like 20 lbs, and we’ve tried all sorts of different things but none of them is helping. I worry as I beg him to take a few more bites of dinner or breakfast or a freaking ice cream sundae.  I make smoothies and load them up with protein powder and I get up early to make him farina the way he likes it before school. Trying to plan meals that will get him the most nutrients in a way that he won’t fight takes up a substantial amount of time.

At the same time, Cal is growing a bit ‘big for his britches’.  He’s finishing third grade and getting ready to move to a new school for fourth.  He’s one of the big kids now.  He wants to be able to ride his bike into town like his big brother, and he gets angry when he’s not allowed to do all the teenager things. His tone right now is either whiny or angry when he speaks, and (because this isn’t my first rodeo) I know this phase will pass, but that doesn’t make it easy.  I love this sullen little boy as much as my sweet, silly one, but the latter is certainly easier to get along with.

And all of these layers are piled on top of June madness.  If you’re a parent, you know… June is full of end-of-the year busy-ness. Concerts and moving up ceremonies, sixth grade barbecues and awards, final exams, voice recitals, field trips and plays.  The nights are full of activities and the days are filled with emails and messages about the things that I’ve forgotten to add to the calendar.  As a teacher, this is compounded by the fact that I’m also attending and creating these events for my students.  End of the year projects and parties make it even more difficult to find time to grade term papers and essays and write progress reports and jot down heartfelt messages in eighth grade graduation cards.  The emotions are bittersweet, and the time to process them is minimal.

To add to it all, I miscalculated and screwed up the checkbook, so money has been tight.  Like “I messed up and begged the bank manager to waive the overdraft fees” tight.  Like “Holy cow, how am I going to pay for groceries after the overdraft fees” tight.  Like “Hey, sis, any chance you can pay my cable bill?” tight.

The end of the year is always a whirlwind, but this June was particularly stormy.

So, of course, I planned a five-hour trip to a concert in upstate NY, right in the middle of the madness.

I worked to arrange a place for Bea to stay, because she had a weekend event she couldn’t miss.  The department of child services makes this super awkward.  Bea has been with us for two years.  She knows the family, she has friends, and we have plenty of people who are part of our circle who would have been happy to have her.  But Child Services has rules and regulations, so they’d rather have her stay with a certified, licensed foster family she’s never met.  I hated the thought of sending her ‘to stay with strangers’ for the weekend (to which she quipped, “I’m not sure you really understand what foster care is”), and we were lucky to be able to reach a compromise wherein she stayed with a previous foster family.

With that all set, I wanted be packed and ready to go as soon as I got home from work on Friday afternoon.  But in the way of best-laid plans, this was not in the cards.  The kids’ last day of school was that day.  I had to buy teacher gifts and finish progress reports and do ALL THE LAUNDRY.

So in the rush to leave on Friday afternoon, I wasn’t feeling particularly relaxed.  It was going to be a long ride.  We were spending the weekend as guests in someone else’s home, leaving our rowdy kids with an unfamiliar babysitter, and trying to squeeze a visit that needed a week into two days’ time.

Deep down I knew it would be worth it.  These friends have seen me through nearly twenty years of ups and downs.  We met in college and have gone from holding each other’s hair back to holding each other’s wedding bouquets to holding each others’ babies.  For this visit, there were six families with a combined fifteen children.  The parents had plans to leave the kids with two sitters and head off to a concert together on Saturday evening- something we haven’t done in at least a decade.

So, while Friday was stressful, Saturday began the five-day stretch of bliss that I started to tell you about.

I woke up to the sound of children laughing, with my husband’s arm around my waist on an air bed under an unzipped sleeping bag in a Super Mario themed bedroom, and I inhaled happiness.  I wandered downstairs in my PJs, and was greeted by hugs and a staccato chorus of kids shouting, “Watch this!”

Saturday was full of bacon and swimming and trampoline jumping and cooking and drinking and laughing and choreographed dance moves (I’m not going to clarify whether that was the moms or the kids).  This group works like a well-oiled machine.  Someone lifeguards.  Someone pushes kids on the swings.  Someone naps. Someone mixes drinks.  Someone referees the fights in the pool.  Someone sunbathes.  Someone sets a timer for the next turn with a toy.  Someone washes dishes.

And with seamless awareness, we switch.  We all relax and we all pitch in.  We all laugh and we all eat and we all tell stories.  Our kids function like cousins, separated by distance, but coming together joyfully and with the confidence that comes from having known each other for longer than they can remember.  They play and they bicker and they soothe each other.  They compromise and they tease and they laugh.  They share and they clean up their messes and they have dance parties. They form a ‘band’ and practice combining a cacophony of keyboards and guitars and recorder and drums with choreographed cartwheels and dances and then they make all the parents sit on the couch and judge their performance on a scale of 1-10.

And the parents sip cocktails and lean on each other and enjoy the fact that THESE moments are forming our kids’ childhoods.

That was Saturday. The morning and afternoon passed quickly, and when it came time to head out for the concert, we piled too many people into a minivan somewhat illegally (a la 1999) and left our children in capable hands.

As we headed toward the concert, I was a bit skeptical.  “I’m too sober for this,” I thought, as I walked behind a stumbling young woman who seemed too old to be so much younger than I.  We trekked about a mile and a half from the parking lot to the venue. My feet hurt and I felt old and tired and a bit wary about leaving the kids.  The afternoon wine buzz had worn off, and I was questioning my judgement in having decided to participate in this chaos.

And then the band began to play.  We spread out a blanket to stake our claim on the lawn and we danced and swayed and closed our eyes and enjoyed the music.  Tears fell as I rested my head on my husband’s shoulder through “Highway 20 Ride.”  We all drummed the air through a cover of “Take Me to Church” and I danced with my girls like I was on spring break again as the band played “Toes.”  The band played a song I had never heard, and I leaned back on my husband who stood behind me with his arms around my shoulders and whisper-shouted, “I want this to be our new song.”  And as the concert came to a close, a line of moms wrapped their arms around each other’s shoulders and laughed and smiled and swayed and sang along to, “With a Little Help from My Friends.” It was the best night I’ve had in a long time.

On the way home we stopped at a gas station for snacks and after paying the babysitter and checking on the kids, we grabbed our Doritos and Beef Jerky and headed outside to the fire pit.  We told stories and reminisced and, one by one, began dozing off in front of the fire. After some good-natured ribbing, we headed off to bed.

Then, with the exception of the concert, we did it all again on Sunday morning.  After the chaos of goodbyes with such a big group, we jumped into the car and headed home.  Even in the pouring rain with the terrible traffic, I sat in the afterglow of a weekend of renewal the whole way home.

I picked up Bea, and we quickly returned to our normal rhythms.   Sunday night, Jack and I were both preparing for work; him for his first day at a new job, and me for the last day of the school year.  We were energized now, in a way that massaged the nerves into excited anticipation.

On Monday morning, I woke up to the knowledge that I only had to get myself ready.  No lunches to make, no kids to wake, no permission slips or babysitters or breakfast to worry about.  The kids would sleep in and eat cereal when they got hungry.  They would spend too much time watching TV, but it was well-deserved after the weekend’s flurry of activity.  I hopped in the car and stopped for a coffee on my way to work.

I said a lot of goodbyes that day.  I said goodbye to students that had been with me for three years.  I said goodbye to retiring colleagues and friends who are moving away.  I said goodbye to co-workers I likely won’t see again until the fall.  Goodbyes are hard and beautiful, and each one opened my heart a little wider.

Then there was the end of the year party.  A bunch of colleagues gather at one teacher’s house and we all bring food and drinks and our families and we kick off the summer well.  All three kids came along for this, and I think that was the best part. I got to chat with friends, but I also got to watch these three play and bicker and plot and plan like siblings. A year ago, Bea came to this pool party timidly, and was still struggling to find her place in our family. Two years ago, she came to this same pool and refused to swim because she was so unsure of herself.  As I watched the kids splash and play, my heart swelled.  They’re getting so big.  They’re growing and learning and changing and I am so blessed to get to be a part of it.

While we were at the party, I got a text that my in-laws wanted to take the kids to an amusement park the next day.  Bea and I already had plans to do some shopping, but the boys were eager and enthusiastic.

So, on Tuesday (my first official day of summer vacation), the boys went on an adventure with their grandparents and their cousin, and I took Bea on a mission to redecorate her room.

As a general rule, I don’t enjoy shopping.  What I do enjoy is watching as she compares products and checks out prices and prioritizes her needs.  She loves to redecorate, and knowing that it’s an entirely unnecessary proposal, she’s saved up the money to do it herself.  She’s budgeted and made a list and tackles this whole thing with a commitment and sort of professionalism that makes me smile.  We spent the day shopping, with one short break at home for lunch and the bathroom.

Dinner was chicken sandwiches with avocado mayonnaise (from my Weight Watchers cookbook), and as it was just Jack and Bea and I, nobody complained or said it was too spicy or refused to eat.  Overall, it was lovely.

When the boys got home, they were full of stories.  They had a great time.  Turns out, Cal loves a good roller coaster, and is fearless enough to go on them by himself.  Lee enjoyed watching and taking pictures, which worked out, because that’s more his Nana’s speed anyway.  They had a blast and came home happy and tired.

The night ended with the whole family in the living room, sprawled on top of each other and an assortment of blankets.  The dogs were curled on the floor, Jack nodded off a little, and we all watched Doctor Strange. As I sat there, watching a movie we’ve seen at least four times, I breathed in.  I tried to freeze that moment in my mind; our little family, peaceful and tired and content and safe.

That feeling was still there, resting at the nape of my neck and filling my lungs when I woke up this morning.  I don’t know how long it will last.  Today’s plan is pretty low key; a little cleaning, a little time at the lake, a little cooking and a little painting, some video games and some writing.  I don’t know if I’ll still feel this peaceful at the end of the day, but I’m optimistic.

In my life, I’m very intentional about choosing gratitude.  I try not to get sucked into negativity and stress.  I’m mindful of my blessings and I try to see beauty in each day. But some days, that’s harder than others.  It’s hard to appreciate the sunset over the water when you’re just trying to keep from drowning. It’s hard to stop and smell the roses when you’re focused on putting one foot in front of the other.

And so, God gives us ups and downs.  I truly believe that this week feels so beautiful because last week was kinda hard. Not “death of a loved one” hard or “escaping a war-torn country” hard.  It was just “one foot in front of the other” hard.  It was tough enough for long enough that when a peaceful calm finally reappeared, it took my breath away.

The beauty becomes mundane without challenges, so we are blessed with both.  This summer season, I’m praying for the faith to appreciate them equally.

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Emergency Room

My grandmother died of a brain aneurysm at the age of 45.  It shook my mom’s world, and she’s always wanted her four daughters to closely monitor our brain health.  We all had baseline brain scans done in our early 20s, at her request, so the doctors would have a basis for comparison, should we ever have a problem.  In her early 40s, my maternal aunt had an aneurysm, confirming my mom’s fear that this condition runs in the family.

What’s scariest about an aneurysm (a weakened blood vessel in the brain), is that people generally don’t know they have one until it ruptures, and a ruptured brain aneurysm can kill you pretty quickly.  It’s a terrifying thought.

On Tuesday morning, on my way to work, I noticed that I couldn’t see clearly out of my right eye. Being a contact lens wearer, this is a pretty typical phenomenon for me. I probably got makeup on my lens.  I figured I’d just clean it when I got to work, and that’s exactly what I did.  I popped the lens out of my eye, gently scrubbed it in my hand with a little saline, and popped it back in.  Then, I started to teach.

My eye continued to bother me throughout first period.  I began to think that maybe the lens was scratched or torn.  I checked again.  This time, the lens ripped in my hands.  Crap! My spare pair of glasses was in my other vehicle, and my options were becoming limited.  I’m legally blind without my contacts, so there was no way I was going to get through the day with only my left eye.   I asked a co-worker to drive me home to get my glasses and a spare pair of lenses.  I was embarrassed and contrite, feeling silly that I had to leave work and that I had to drag my friend with me.  She reassured me that she didn’t mind, and we had a few laughs on the way to and from my house.  I thought this was going to be the big event of the day.

I was mistaken.

Having made the trip home and having put in new contacts, I assumed the rest of the day would be uneventful.  Oddly, the vision in my right eye was still not right, so I decided to scrap the contacts altogether.  I put on my glasses, and went back to work.  I co-teach a class with a really great teacher.  She’s talented and smart and funny and great with the kids. Luckily for me, she’s also super observant.

As I explained the morning’s events, she was looking at me oddly.  She said, “I don’t want to freak you out, but maybe you should go see the nurse.”  I looked at her quizzically, and she explained, “Your one eye is super dilated, and the other one isn’t.  I just think you should go get checked out.”  At this point, I still thought it had something to do with the lenses or the time I had spent poking at my eye.  I took a look in the mirror and went to talk to the school nurse.

The nurse suggested that I call my eye doctor.  And despite knowing better, I Googled this bizarre symptom while I waited for the receptionist to answer the phone.  I scrolled through my search results while I explained my situation and made an appointment with the eye doctor.  But I could no longer focus.

When you look up “What could cause only one eye to dilate?” the top answer on the list is “brain aneurysm.”

I called my primary doctor. I tried to stay calm. The receptionist put me through to a nurse. I told her about the single dilated eye.  I explained the thing about the contacts, but also the part about my family history, and she put me on hold to talk to the doctor.

When she came back, I waited for her to say, “Keep that 1pm appointment with your optometrist.”  I wanted her to say, “It’s probably just irritated.”  But she didn’t say any of those things.  She said, “How quickly can you get to the emergency room?”

You know those moments when time stops?  I was talking to the nurse and trying to text my husband and wondering if I should get a ride or call an ambulance.  At the same time, my heart was breaking in half because I was imagining what my kids would do without their mom, and wondering if I was going to spend my last minutes making frantic phone calls and what if I passed out before I could tell anyone what was happening to me?  I was terrified, and I started to cry.

I grabbed my purse and began walking toward the main office.  Tears streamed down my face. A friend and coworker was walking about 20 feet in front of me.  I called her name, too scared to be embarrassed.  I asked her to walk with me.  I told her what was happening.  She walked me to the office and ran to get her keys.

I went to the principal and explained that I had to leave.  I was totally unprofessional and slightly incoherent and I couldn’t stop the tears.  She was kind and supportive and made sure that my friend was okay driving me.

The ride to the hospital wasn’t bad. I promised my friend that I wouldn’t stroke out in her truck, and she joked and distracted me and was generally wonderful.  When we pulled up to the emergency entrance, she asked if I wanted her to stay.  I promised that my husband was on his way, assured her that I would be fine, and promised to text later.  I walked in the front doors, and she pulled away.

I didn’t realize how scary it would be to be alone in that waiting room.  I walked in, and was directed to sit down and wait for a receptionist to check me in. There was only one person in front of me, but the two minutes I waited felt like an eternity.  My mind began to race again.  What if I had made it here, to the hospital, but I passed out before I could tell anyone who I was or why I was here or what was happening to me?  What if THESE were actually my last minutes?  I didn’t want to die alone in this hospital.  I realize now that all of these thoughts sound melodramatic, but in that moment, they were real.

I’m typically an optimist; quick to dismiss physical symptoms as ‘it’s probably nothing.’  I don’t like to dwell on the negative because I honestly believe that humans attract energy and if you spend too much time on negative thoughts, you attract negative energy.  I tried to distract myself.  I tried to pray.  I tried to think positively.  But I COULD NOT stop worrying about dying.

After a two-minute eternity, I was called up to the receptionist.  I leaned in closely and said, “Look at my eyes.”  The two women at the desk cast concerned glances at each other.  When I said that I have a family history of brain aneurysms, they called the triage nurse over.  They got me a wheelchair.  They took me right away.

As soon as I was talking to people again, the panic resided a little.  I made an offhand comment to the triage nurse.  I said something to the effect of, “It’s probably nothing.  I probably just scratched it while I was messing with my contacts.”  She looked at me and scrunched up her face and shook her head, while she gently replied, “That doesn’t happen.”  She explained that external trauma like that wouldn’t cause dilation.  It might cause your eye to water or swell or get red. But a dilation problem would be related to the brain or the optic nerve.  They had already requested a CT scan to check it out.

I felt like I had gotten the wind knocked out of me.  Again, I thought of my kids.  The nurse took my blood pressure and took me to a stretcher and started to wheel me into the back.  I assumed I was going to a room, but it was a busy day, so I was parked in the hallway in an area that they use as a patient ‘room’ when they’re out of space.

Two different doctors came to talk with me.  They asked me about medications.  They numbed my eye and poked at it to check the pressure.  They did vision tests.  They asked me about medications again.  They asked me about eye drops.  They told me they were just waiting for the CT scan.  They told me to sit tight and try to relax.

I rolled over on the stretcher to face the wall and I tried to be brave and I tried to be positive and I tried to pray.  Mostly I just cried.  Silent tears, facing the wall in the hallway of the emergency room.  I realized that wasn’t helping things.  I called my mom.  She’s a nurse.  I wanted her opinion and her reassurance and a little bit of distraction.

When I told my mother where I was and why, there was a long pause at the other end of the line.  I realized my mistake.  My mom was terrified.  It took her only a moment to recover, but I could hear it in her voice. She said things like, “You’re in the right place,” and “I’m glad you noticed it so quickly,” and “I’m not scared, but of course, I’m concerned,” and I realized that I probably just shaved a few months of my mother’s life.  She did great, as moms do, but she was not in a position to be objectively reassuring. She was afraid, too.  When we hung up, she texted that she loved me, and I began to cry again.

When my friend had dropped me off at the hospital entrance, I told her the truth when I said that my husband was on his way.  What I didn’t tell her was that he had to take his work van from his job back to the shop, get on the motorcycle (which he had ridden to work), ride the motorcycle an hour back to our house, pick up his personal vehicle, and then come to the hospital.  There was no way it would take any less than two hours.

As I sat in that hallway, my mind began to race again.  You see, the motorcycle that my husband was riding is mine.  He likes to borrow it sometimes, and we both love to ride.  But he’s a less experienced rider than I am. He also has a bad track record on a motorcycle, and has laid one down more times than either one of us would like to admit.  And anytime he’s riding, I get a little nervous.  He always calls or texts to tell me when he’s arrived safely.  So after about an hour, I began to anticipate his call.  After an hour and a half, I began to worry in earnest.  What if he crashed?  What if we both wound up in separate rooms in this ER?  What if our kids came home to an empty house because both of their parents were in the hospital?

I knew this was ridiculous. I realized this pattern of thinking was absurd and unhelpful.  So I decided to distract myself again.  I picked up the phone.   I considered calling my dad or my sisters, but I didn’t want to scare them.  I thought about texting my best friend, but she would want to do something to help, and she was in the middle of teaching. I decided to text my church friends and ask for prayers.

This was a good call. I have a few women friends from church with slightly more flexible schedules than my teacher friends.  They responded right away, with a perfect balance of concerned prayer and inappropriate jokes.  They made me laugh and I didn’t feel so alone and I was able to distract myself with these text messages until my husband finally arrived.

I didn’t realize that I was holding my breath until he arrived and the air rushed into my lungs.  He sat next to me and held my hand and joked and distracted me and asked questions and hugged me.  Just having him there made all the difference.  The fear began to dissipate.

They finally did the CT scan. The results were unremarkable.  They sent me home, confident that my brain was fine, but unsure of what the problem had been.  My eye was still dilated and I couldn’t see right.  Ultimately, it stayed like that for 12 hours.  They referred me to an optometrist for the next day.

I couldn’t see.  So I couldn’t drive.  I couldn’t teach.  I couldn’t ring bells with the church bell choir as planned.  I cancelled everything for that evening and the next day, feeling slightly guilty, but overwhelmed with enough fear to drown out the guilt. Jack and I both contacted our jobs to plan for another day out of work so we could go to the opthamologist and get this figured out.

We went to bed on Tuesday evening with my eye still dilated and a lot of fear about what might be going wrong.  I woke up on Wednesday morning with perfect vision and normal pupils.  Not surprisingly, we went to the appointment, and the eye doctor told me that my vision was fine and that my pupils were normal. She asked me a lot of questions about drugs or medications or eye drops, trying to pinpoint what the problem may have been.  Ultimately, the answer was, “We don’t know.”

“We don’t know, but you seem fine now,” was the conclusion.  “Come back if it happens again,” was the general consensus.  “Sometimes these things just happen and we don’t know why,” was offered by way of explanation.

So I’m glad it ended well. I’m glad it wasn’t any sort of tragedy. But I’m left feeling scared and insecure and worried about what actually happened.  I’m left feeling guilty that I left work “for no reason” because no reason was ever identified.  I’m left feeling like a child who overreacted to a minor injury; as if I somehow made it up or brought it upon myself.

I’m hopeful that writing this all down will help me to let some of that go.  I want to process these feelings of guilt and fear and panic, and then be able to move on.  I want to feel gratitude for my good health, for as long as it lasts.  I want to be fully present in the joy of spending time with my family.  I want to be confident in my professional capabilities without second-guessing what my colleagues might be thinking.

But I’m not there yet. Today, I’m still a little scared and guilty and worried.  I’m trying to be okay with that.  These feelings?  These crappy, uncomfortable, yucky feelings?  They almost always have something to teach me.  I just have to be willing to sit with them long enough to learn the lesson. Thanks for sitting with me.