Scary

Anyone who doesn't want to read about the workings of my anatomy, skip this one.

The Wednesday before Christmas, as I was in the midst of shopping, packing (for both our trips to VT and MA, and our trip to Anguilla), I came home from the gym and as I was undressing, I noticed that there was what looked like water coming out of my left nipple. Odd. This was always my "leaky" side when I was pregnant and nursing, so it didn't immediately alarm me all that much. I called my Mom and asked if she'd ever had anything like that happen. She said she hadn't, but that she'd certainly heard about it happening.

The next day, it was there again. Naturally, being a hypochondriac, I started to panic at this point. I called my OB-GYN, explained what was going on, and that I was leaving the next day for VT, would then travel to MA, and then to Anguilla, being gone through New Year's. The nurse told me that I probably wouldn't get in for an appointment any sooner than the appointment I had previously scheduled for just after New Year's anyway, so I should just keep an eye out for increased volume, blood, etc. SUPER.

So, over the Christmas holiday and our (otherwise amazing) trip to Anguilla, I was obsessively monitoring my left one for any sign of the clear fluid. I was checking my bras when I took them off, etc. Mostly, I was noticing nothing. But on the few occasions that I noticed evidence of moisture, I would spin off into Panicville again.

At one point during the trip to Anguilla, I was in our bathroom (which was reminiscent of the "His bathroom is bigger than the Blue Banana!" scene in Pretty Woman), and I had a complete meltdown. What happens when a hypochondriac acquires a panic disorder is that her mind is wont to wander down some reeeeeeeally dark paths. I convinced myself that, although I could not actually feel anything out of the ordinary when I did my thrice daily self exams, I MUST be dying of breast cancer. I envisioned my children's lives without their mother. It was grim, y'all. And I'm not proud of it. But it happened.

Once I was able to gather myself to some extent I went outside and talked with my mother and older brother and sister, as well as E. My mother is of the "GET A GRIP, KID!" school, which is precisely what I need to hear. (Also, my neuroses come from her, so we have a sympatico that is helpful.) If there was one silver lining to this whole drama, it's that I felt absolutely present on this amazing trip with my family. I decided that, if this was actually "something," then by God, I was going to make the most of this trip and that time with my monkeys. And I did. It was absolutely amazing. My kids had a BLAST. And so did E and I. In that way, it was probably a good reminder. Since my Dad's death, I had felt a bit adrift, in terms of my usual upbeat (if occasionally neurotic) approach to life. I was having trouble feeling truly in the moment. And this really helped to re-focus me.

We got back from our trip on Sunday, January 5th. Monday, the 6th, I had an appointment with the OB-GYN. Tuesday, I started a new job. Wednesday, I had an appointment with a surgeon. So, that was a totally low stress week. Once the meeting with the surgeon was over, I felt much reassured, since she felt pretty confident that what was going on was just "fibro-cystic change," and that it was nothing alarming. However, to be thorough, she scheduled me for a mammogram and ultra-sound. Both of which I had this morning.

Both came back clear. Relief doesn't really cover what I feel today. Even though the surgeon had felt pretty confident, it's still just a super scary thing, not knowing for sure. And since the wonkiness has continued, at least to some extent...I wasn't able to relax...Although on my way to the appointment this morning, my grandmother sent me a little message (via a song, naturally) that helped a lot. Thanks, Mam!

So, if any of you has seen/talked to me recently and noticed I seemed a bit off, that's what has been up. I'm not entirely sure how articulate this post is, and I realize that in the grand scheme of things, what I've been going through is really a pretty routine part of being a woman in her late thirties, but it's been crazy stressful. I've had to beat back my hypochondria and tendency toward panic. I did a lot of thinking about what would happen if something DID happen to me. And I guess the silver lining there is, my support system is utterly amazing and I know my kids would be all right. And at the end of the day, that's the big thing we want as Moms, right?

But I also came out of this experience with a renewed determination not to be ruled by fear and anxiety. Since the onset of my panic disorder, and particularly since the flare up in 2012, I've felt like I was fighting this uphill battle to keep the axniety at bay. I've made a lot of progress, in that I've been able to move on from some of the "not grounded in reality" anxiety I was experiencing. But when something that is actually real and scary happens, it's a challenge to keep the panic in check. So, I've decided that I want to get to a place where I don't live with that knot in my solar plexus. I'm tired of feeling terrified. Life is scary. That's a fact. But living in a prison of your own fear just makes you MORE miserable. I can make things so much worse in my head than they are in reality, and what would be the point of that? I'm clearly a work in progress, but I feel like this episode was a big lesson. Is that gibberish? I don't know.

If you'll pardon me, I'm now going to enjoy the exquisite bottle of Cab my aunt and uncle gave me for Christmas, which I've been saving for this occasion.

Christmas

Once again, I've struggled to get this post out. I've started and drafted numerous times, and I'm going to try again.

How do you approach the holiday season when you've just lost a parent? More to my specific struggle, how do you approach Christmas when your Dad was Santa (see: previous holiday posts) and he's gone?

There is a not insignificant part of me that would love to just skip the whole thing this year. Every song, every decoration, everything, just tears me up inside, and it would be really nice to just put it away for a while.

But I have two young children. Children who've already been taught from birth that Christmas is magical and amazing. Children who deserve to enjoy the legacy that their grandfather left them - that Christmas should be relished, spent with family and friends, celebrated, well and truly.

And beyond that, I married a man who loves Christmas as much as my Dad did. Our wedding was a giant Christmas party. He took over playing Santa for the kids this year, so that they wouldn't have to do without. It wouldn't be any more fair to him than to our kids to neglect our favorite holiday.

So, I muddle through. I cry my way through carols and specials and stores. I'm more absentminded even than normal, which is REALLY saying something.

Maybe there will be a day, in the future, when I won't feel this constant ache. I don't know. Maybe? But I can say with certainty that it will never, ever be the case on Christmas. I will miss my one true Santa forever and ever.

Memories

I never really went through that phase of being embarrassed by my parents. It probably helps that my Mom is other-wordly beautiful and my Dad was ungodly cool. I mean, sure, I would have them drop me off like a block away from the movie theater, but that was way more because that was what I was "expected" to have them do than because I was actually embarrassed of them.

I remember going to Kennebunkport when I was 14, and thinking how great it was to be away, where I could unabashedly hold my Dad's hand as we walked around, not having to worry that my friends would think I was a dork for adoring him so much. Thinking how great it was that I could acknowledge how cool my Mom's fashion sense was as we shopped, without that same worry.

I remember when my Dad was running for school committee, and my parents and aunt and uncle were out in front of my school, campaigning. My boyfriend at the time drove me to school one morning, and as we got out of the car, my Dad and my uncle began predictably teasing us. We, particularly I, pretended to be absolutely mortified, of course. But secretly, we, particularly I, found it pretty hilarious. And my Dad clocked that instantly, of course. I still remember the mischievous twinkle in his eye.

I remember going to my Dad's office 12 years ago today, when we'd been sent home from work. I know I've talked about this before. He was still my ride in those days, since I moved into Boston the following week. I remember feeling exponentially safer, just being with him. I remember him talking on the phone with my brother, comforting him, keeping him calm, as he was able to do in a way no one else ever could.

Overall, I think I'm adjusting to my sucky new normal. I'll be relatively fine for stretches of time - even days, and then, WHAM! It's like, "HOLY SHIT. MY DAD DIED." It's like a foot to the gut. Or some little, seemingly insignificant thing will slam me, and I'll miss him so much I can't breathe around the enormous lump that instantly lodges in my throat.

He was just so rockingly awesome. He was self possessed, and so much cooler than I ever was or will be. He had this natural understanding of humanity that even his later crotchetiness couldn't entirely erase. It was why not one of the five of us EVER put anything over on him, EVER. But it was also why he sometimes didn't call us out on our shenanigans, but rather winkingly accepted them.

There is just a giant awesomeness vacuum in my life now. And I'm really grateful that I was never embarrassed by my parents, because I feel like it would've cost me precious moments that I now treasure.

Three Weeks

I wrote the below on Friday, but technical difficulties prevented my posting until today. 

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As anyone who has lost someone very close to them knows, the immediate aftermath tends to be somewhat surreal. I don’t know for a fact that an unexpected death makes this even more the case, but I have to imagine it does, to some extent (not worse, mind you, but surreal). You’re surrounded by people, a lot of the time. And there’s the planning. You have something to focus on, and while that something is concrete, it seems rather unreal.

And then things slow down, and for everyone around you, life returns to normal. Only, there you are, in this new normal - a normal you want absolutely no part of, but which you cannot escape.

And you feel torn. Part of you just wants to get through to the point when the new normal will actually feel somewhat normal; the other part of you wants to hold onto the fresh grief you’re experiencing because letting it go indicates a distance from this person you love that you cannot even stand to imagine.

Your emotions are so raw. Maybe an iPhone ad in which a small child talks to his grandparents on FaceTime will cause you to dissolve into snotty, incoherent tears. Maybe a routine telemarketing call to your parents’ house by someone asking for your father will launch you into such a state of rage that you’ll want to reach through the phone and throttle an unknowing stranger. Maybe your brothers’ remembrances of your father will make you laugh until your abs are literally mildly sore the next day (which is probably compounded by your lack of working out at the moment…but that’s a story for another day).

I’m staying with my Mom right now. This house is so full of my Dad. There are little things he left around, because he was only going to be away a couple of weeks. There are tools. There is his shed. There are the birdfeeders (OH MY GOD, THE BIRDFEEDERS, what was he, starting a sanctuary in the backyard?!) that need to be filled, like, ALL THE DAMN TIME. There is his library of every James Patterson novel ever published. And that dude is PROLIFIC. There is the Bremner Wafers tin. These are just a few inconsequential examples.

I miss him so much that I literally ache. I have no idea how to exist in a world where he isn’t here. I have no idea who to call now when I need career advice (which I will again eventually). When I need a Santa-vention for a misbehaving child. When I just need to hear my Daddy’s voice.

When I was in my teens and my thyroid disease was not yet diagnosed, it behaved a lot like depression. I remember one day, I just COULD NOT stop crying. For no apparent reason. If you’ve ever been pregnant, you totally know what I’m talking about, since it's a similar phenomenon. I don’t remember where my Mom was, but my Dad was home with me and my two younger brothers. And he didn’t get exasperated or angry. He hugged me to him like I was a little girl instead of a 15 year old, and he said, “Sometimes, you just feel sad, huh?” And he held me that way until I felt better. I didn’t include this anecdote in my eulogy, because I’d never have gotten through it.

Dammit, I just miss him. Every second.

Ramblings...

I can't seem to stop reliving it, in the quiet moments. The times when I can't fall to sleep, or fall back to sleep. The times when I'm driving. Or just when my mind isn't otherwise occupied. That's when it comes back. That second when my world crumbled around me. Does that sound dramatic? It's the truth. The words my poor husband had to speak haunt me. And I feel the panic rising in my chest all over again. I want so badly to be able to go back to life before that moment. But of course, there is no going back.

Then there are other times when I feel like I'm going to be ok. I feel like my amazing Dad (and of course my amazing Mom) prepared me to take the hits life hands out and even though this sucks harder than I could've imagined, I'll be ok. I'll miss him. Of course I will. Every day. But I can do it.

In the almost two weeks since he died, so many people have told me how wonderful, great, amazing my Dad was. But of course, I already knew. The things they're telling me are true. He wasn't perfect, of course, but he was a remarkable human being. He was kind, loving, honest, brilliant, hilarious, cantankerous, crotchety...did I mention hilarious?

There are a million and a half things I already miss about him. I miss his hugs. I miss his Dad smell. I miss his voice. I miss him calling me Das. I miss his laugh. I miss the way he clapped when he thought something was REALLY funny. I miss the way he could change my son's mood in a split second. I miss the way he looked at my Mom as if he'd never seen anything so beautiful, even after almost 48 years as a couple. I miss his ability to listen and give absolutely spot-on advice. And that's just the tip of the iceberg.

I hate this. I hate it. I know it's part of life. I know how absolutely crazily blessed I was to have this amazing man as a Dad for 37 years. But I hate it.

Dad

At around 4:30 in the morning on Saturday, August 3rd, one of my very worst nightmares came true. My parents had left on Friday for a European vacation with my oldest brother and his family. I woke up at 4:30 to my husband on the phone with my brother in law. Immediately, I knew something was gravely, gravely wrong. For a split second, I thought the plane had crashed. But then something told me that wasn't it. Something in me told me it was my father. Sure enough, E got off the phone and took my hand. I was already hyperventilating as he told me, "Something happened to your Dad on the plane, and he passed away." I went into a full blown panic attack, pretty much immediately. E went and got my panic meds, and then I just sobbed for a long, long time.

The rest of that day is a blur. My mother and oldest brother, along with his wife and two children, were stuck in Ireland, where their plane had been diverted, until all the "paperwork" associated with someone dying on a plane could be completed. Here's what I remember. I know I packed up some stuff for myself and the kids, and we went to my sister's house. I know the two brothers who weren't in Ireland and their families came over, as did my cousins and uncles and aunt. Later in the day, my best friend came over. I know I cried. A lot. I know I felt something beyond shock. I know I texted a lot of people. I know that, at some point, it started to hit home. My Dad wasn't coming home.

It still seems pretty surreal. I go back and forth between feeling relatively ok, and missing him so much I can't breathe. I suppose that's pretty standard.

This deserves a much, much longer post. But I'm just not there yet. I'm just not. Even the words for the eulogy I'm trying to write are not coming easily. I just miss him so, so much.

To top it all off, today is my Mom's 68th birthday. We did our best by her. Hopefully, it wasn't too awfully miserable, although it was a world away (literally and figuratively) from the birthday she and my Dad had planned.

Boston, You're My Home...

As I've said countless times here, I process through writing. So, once again, I'm going to try to do just that. I don't know how successful I'll be, but it's worth a try.

Today started off as one of the best days I've had. My brother set up an amazing experience for my entire family at today's Red Sox game. All of us, 19, went to Fenway for a private tour of the park that included being able to walk on the field. After the tour, we went to a private suite to enjoy the game. During the game, the 2004 and 2007 World Series trophies were brought into the suite for us to take photos of and with them. We got Boston Red Sox baseball gloves. It was amazing from top to bottom. Sharing it with my entire family, including my children, was nothing short of magical.

After the game, children under 12 were invited to run the bases. We did that (I actually ended up being allowed to run with my niece who got separated from the other kids and didn't want to run by herself). We took our time getting out of the park. And I'm really glad we did.

When we finally made it to our car (after ambling back to it, and a pit stop or two), we got ready to leave the parking garage we were in. E got an alert on his phone, glanced at it, and said, "Oh no, multiple injuries at the marathon..." But we didn't really know what that meant.

Then, almost simultaneously, I realized I had a voicemail that had come through while we were in the garage. It was from the mom of the boy I take care of during the week, whose family were also at the game today. She was calling to see that we were ok, and wanted me to text or call her to let her know. Immediately, E said, "Uh oh, get on Boston.com, this must be something bad." As he said that, several unmarked cruisers SPED by us, headed toward the finish line area in Back Bay.

I couldn't get on Boston.com. Thank God for Twitter, which was my source of information. We were able to ascertain what was going on and figure out how to get out of the city. It took ages to get out, but we were safe.

And I've basically been crying intermittently since then. So many thoughts have raced through my brain. How many years have my family and I been right where the bomb went off, watching the marathon? How many years have we had runners who would've been in the vicinity (in a massive coincidence, this year was the first since 1998 that no one in my family ran)? How many people do I know who WERE running, and whose family were in Copley? My mind and my city were both in chaos.

Boston is my city. It's my home. I grew up in the suburbs of Boston. I lived in the city for my fun, urban, single girl years. I worked in the city for over a decade, all told. It's a special place. And Patriot's Day, or Marathon Monday is its special day. It's a magical day in the city. I said to E, just this morning, "Today is the day I most miss living in the city."

We will mourn this terrible act of cowardice and barbarism. We will mourn the lives lost, the injuries suffered, the families fractured. But we will not let go of our special day. We will not. We are a strong, tough as nails city. We fight hard, we love hard, hell, we even drink hard. We do everything at full force. And we will recover at full force. And may God have mercy on the souls of those responsible, because there is no way in Hell Bostonians will have any mercy.