Each morning I try to memorize the route we take to work, winding, following, twisting our way across the Mississippi. I watch for cars from the passenger seat and tell mom she can turn after this red car goes by. After thirty years of living in St. Paul and working in Minneapolis, she knows all of the back ways. I, on the other hand, started my job only three months ago. The only way I know is the straight shot highway, which clogs up every morning at 7:30 like clockwork, so if I leave the house later than 7:20, I'm S.O.L.
Most days I ride with mom, commenting as we walk to the garage that I like her suit, she responding that it's the same as mine. The air is no longer crisp and we leave our jackets in the hall closet. I carry a red nylon bag with my lunch and heels to switch into at my desk. She carries an old Jo Malone shopping bag that perfectly fits a Tupperware and half a toasted pita with hummus in a ziplock sandwich bag.
We talk or listen to MPR as we ride along the trees and big houses that line Mississippi River Boulevard. We've worked out the most effective verbiage to use when telling her if she can merge onto the highway for the last stretch of the trip. We have a nice routine and I'll be sad to lose it.
Thanks for letting me drive with you, mom.
Showing posts with label mom. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mom. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Because You Can
I push my dark curls back with the same grey elastic headband I wore last night and the one before. Not yet long enough for a ponytail, my hair needs some other form of constraint to keep it free of the soapy suds that wash away the layers of the day. I look at myself in the mirror of the well-lit bathroom, towel-drying my face and wiping off mascara residue from under my eyes. Short feathery wisps of down float above my forehead, too short and delicate to be captured. I remember being young and my mom gently brushing them with her fingers, tracing the different directions they grew. Every time I find my reflection, I see how much we look alike: same olive skin, same dark eyes, same slightly crooked face, same love of our family.
Tonight we all gathered, my mom and her four sisters, me and my younger sister, my dad, my aunts' spouses, childhood friends whose own children have long since left childhood; new friends, old friends, work friends, family friends, life friends. We all gathered in the same dimly-lit back room of the restaurant where my aunt was married four years ago. Tonight was again in celebration: a birthday. Her sixty first birthday. No, it's not a multiple of ten, no particular anniversary or precious metal, but the most special birthday so far. Without a cane, she seemed to glide and float across the room with a smile that spread from ear to ear as she greeted and was greeted by every glowing guest.
In time we joined together in a joyful chorus of Happy Birthday and when she stood to give a short speech, I soaked up every word I could. Be grateful for every morning that you wake up. Choose to live. Choose to fight. Face life head on, don't watch it pass you by as you wait to die a little more each day. Thank God, thank the earth, thank the people who love you, thank yourself for the world around you! Move your body because you can. Live every single day because you can. Above all, never forget how lucky and blessed you are.
Tonight we all gathered, my mom and her four sisters, me and my younger sister, my dad, my aunts' spouses, childhood friends whose own children have long since left childhood; new friends, old friends, work friends, family friends, life friends. We all gathered in the same dimly-lit back room of the restaurant where my aunt was married four years ago. Tonight was again in celebration: a birthday. Her sixty first birthday. No, it's not a multiple of ten, no particular anniversary or precious metal, but the most special birthday so far. Without a cane, she seemed to glide and float across the room with a smile that spread from ear to ear as she greeted and was greeted by every glowing guest.
In time we joined together in a joyful chorus of Happy Birthday and when she stood to give a short speech, I soaked up every word I could. Be grateful for every morning that you wake up. Choose to live. Choose to fight. Face life head on, don't watch it pass you by as you wait to die a little more each day. Thank God, thank the earth, thank the people who love you, thank yourself for the world around you! Move your body because you can. Live every single day because you can. Above all, never forget how lucky and blessed you are.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
The Longest Day
I was watching a show the other day about the training of special forces for various branches of the military. One episode featured a final exam called The Longest Day. It began with paddling a rubber raft through crashing waves, carrying it through the trees, completing a mission and walking the miles back through tear gas without masks. Somehow that sounds worse to me than brain surgery, but maybe it's because I know I can make it through it.
This day last year was my Longest Day. It was the scariest, most painful day of my life and I know I'll never forget it as long as I live. Right about now, I was finishing up my "stim test", where each electrode on my brain was reverse stimulated in turn to see what would happen. The doctors would press a button and my hand would jerk, or my eyes would move or my tongue would stick to the roof of my mouth and I couldn't breathe. Each time I heard one call a set of numbers to the other, I would wait for the shock and pray to God that nothing would happen. They were looking for my motor strip and I wanted so badly for it not to be under my seizure origin point, what they had come to call "the birthmark". I sat in my hospital bed, clutching the small, stuffed dog that my parents had gotten me in the Mayo Clinic gift shop. I was so scared. I focused on the sign my sister had made me that hung in my hospital room: We Love Our Erica. I traced the patterns with my eyes, drank in the colors and tried to stay calm.
In an hour and a half, my surgeon would come in and tell me that the birthmark was not on my motor strip, but right up against it. I was a candidate. I exhaled with my whole body, my whole spirit. I was a candidate. He told me that I could have the surgery, but there was a chance I would lose a good amount of sensation in my hand - I would have a hard time knowing how much pressure was needed to hold a fork, being able to recognize the shape of my wallet in my purse by touch. There was a chance I would lose some speech, some short term memory, though it wasn't very likely. "Do you still want to do it?" I paused for only a moment, because what stood firmly in my mind was that nothing had gone wrong yet, so there was no way it would start now. I lifted my right hand, covered in white tape to hold the IV in place, to the plastic table over my lap and signed the consent form.
Not until about 4pm was I finally brought down to the operating room. I remember a cleaning woman in the elevator as I was rolled in by a nurse. I said, "Hi, how are you?" as cheerily as I could. She looked startled but then smiled. I tried to be brave in the pre-op room among dozens of other patients in blue and white polkadotted smocks, lying in rough, white sheets on a plastic bed. It was easier the first time, when I didn't know what would happen, when I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Somehow, this time it was terrifying. A couple nice doctors, nurses and techs stopped by to explain a few last details, but I didn't care about the information, I just wanted their smiles and calming voices. A few layed hands on my shoulder or foot, and just a simple touch like that brought a sliver of peace.
The OR was brighter, more sterile, more ominous and more lonely than I'd remembered. Cindy wasn't there this time; she'd placed electrodes on my scalp for my monitoring the day after Thanksgiving and the grid on my brain during my first surgery, but since they were removing it, a much less delicate process, she was somewhere else. I didn't know anyone there. It was like the first day of kindergarten: terrifying and, as yet, the biggest day of my life. One man in blue scrubs came closer and smiled through his mask; he said Cindy had told him to take good care of me. I relaxed a little as he held my left hand and someone else took my right while a clear mask was lowered over my face.
I try to forget what happened when I woke up in post-op recovery. I try to block out the pain that was so terrible I screamed; the way I writhed on the bed, the bright light that stared me down when the doctors made me open my eyes, their hushed voices when I sobbed that my pain was a twelve and begged them to help me. That scene is burned into me. It felt like an eternity as the hysterical crying I realized was my own melted to a pleading whimper. This hadn't happened after my first surgery. Couldn't anyone help me? What went wrong?
Last night it came to me like it sometimes does. A wave of remembered trauma, pain, relief and gratitude smashed over me, its full force against my mind. Wet tears slid down my face and as my rock held me in his arms, they turned to sobs that wracked my body and tore sounds from my throat despite my efforts to stifle them. I could see the wet collecting on the collar of John's blue shirt, turning it dark and shiny. I began to calm down at the insistence of my nose that it needed a tissue. I went through three before I could breathe steadily again. I clutched John's back and laid my head on his chest. "It's okay, baby, it's gonna be okay. You've been through a lot." I have.
Thank you to everyone; all of you who have been here for me, with me. Thank you, God, for the blessings you've given me. Thank you, John, for listening, understanding and supporting me every day. Thank you, mom and dad, for holding my hands; sitting quietly when every little noise hurt; making up stories when I was scared; spoon-feeding me; forcing me to sit up, stand and walk despite my dirty looks and petulance; fixing oatmeal and fruit every morning; re-teaching me how to knit so I could regain the function of my hand; making me take naps even when I didn't want to; taking me on slow walks around the block in freezing cold January weather; but most of all, teaching me how to live the kind of life that makes me happy and fulfilled.
John asked me what I want to do tonight to commemorate my anniversary. I haven't decided yet whether I want to go out and celebrate or stay in and remember. Either way, I'll remain, as always, eternally grateful.
This day last year was my Longest Day. It was the scariest, most painful day of my life and I know I'll never forget it as long as I live. Right about now, I was finishing up my "stim test", where each electrode on my brain was reverse stimulated in turn to see what would happen. The doctors would press a button and my hand would jerk, or my eyes would move or my tongue would stick to the roof of my mouth and I couldn't breathe. Each time I heard one call a set of numbers to the other, I would wait for the shock and pray to God that nothing would happen. They were looking for my motor strip and I wanted so badly for it not to be under my seizure origin point, what they had come to call "the birthmark". I sat in my hospital bed, clutching the small, stuffed dog that my parents had gotten me in the Mayo Clinic gift shop. I was so scared. I focused on the sign my sister had made me that hung in my hospital room: We Love Our Erica. I traced the patterns with my eyes, drank in the colors and tried to stay calm.
In an hour and a half, my surgeon would come in and tell me that the birthmark was not on my motor strip, but right up against it. I was a candidate. I exhaled with my whole body, my whole spirit. I was a candidate. He told me that I could have the surgery, but there was a chance I would lose a good amount of sensation in my hand - I would have a hard time knowing how much pressure was needed to hold a fork, being able to recognize the shape of my wallet in my purse by touch. There was a chance I would lose some speech, some short term memory, though it wasn't very likely. "Do you still want to do it?" I paused for only a moment, because what stood firmly in my mind was that nothing had gone wrong yet, so there was no way it would start now. I lifted my right hand, covered in white tape to hold the IV in place, to the plastic table over my lap and signed the consent form.
Not until about 4pm was I finally brought down to the operating room. I remember a cleaning woman in the elevator as I was rolled in by a nurse. I said, "Hi, how are you?" as cheerily as I could. She looked startled but then smiled. I tried to be brave in the pre-op room among dozens of other patients in blue and white polkadotted smocks, lying in rough, white sheets on a plastic bed. It was easier the first time, when I didn't know what would happen, when I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Somehow, this time it was terrifying. A couple nice doctors, nurses and techs stopped by to explain a few last details, but I didn't care about the information, I just wanted their smiles and calming voices. A few layed hands on my shoulder or foot, and just a simple touch like that brought a sliver of peace.
The OR was brighter, more sterile, more ominous and more lonely than I'd remembered. Cindy wasn't there this time; she'd placed electrodes on my scalp for my monitoring the day after Thanksgiving and the grid on my brain during my first surgery, but since they were removing it, a much less delicate process, she was somewhere else. I didn't know anyone there. It was like the first day of kindergarten: terrifying and, as yet, the biggest day of my life. One man in blue scrubs came closer and smiled through his mask; he said Cindy had told him to take good care of me. I relaxed a little as he held my left hand and someone else took my right while a clear mask was lowered over my face.
I try to forget what happened when I woke up in post-op recovery. I try to block out the pain that was so terrible I screamed; the way I writhed on the bed, the bright light that stared me down when the doctors made me open my eyes, their hushed voices when I sobbed that my pain was a twelve and begged them to help me. That scene is burned into me. It felt like an eternity as the hysterical crying I realized was my own melted to a pleading whimper. This hadn't happened after my first surgery. Couldn't anyone help me? What went wrong?
Last night it came to me like it sometimes does. A wave of remembered trauma, pain, relief and gratitude smashed over me, its full force against my mind. Wet tears slid down my face and as my rock held me in his arms, they turned to sobs that wracked my body and tore sounds from my throat despite my efforts to stifle them. I could see the wet collecting on the collar of John's blue shirt, turning it dark and shiny. I began to calm down at the insistence of my nose that it needed a tissue. I went through three before I could breathe steadily again. I clutched John's back and laid my head on his chest. "It's okay, baby, it's gonna be okay. You've been through a lot." I have.
Thank you to everyone; all of you who have been here for me, with me. Thank you, God, for the blessings you've given me. Thank you, John, for listening, understanding and supporting me every day. Thank you, mom and dad, for holding my hands; sitting quietly when every little noise hurt; making up stories when I was scared; spoon-feeding me; forcing me to sit up, stand and walk despite my dirty looks and petulance; fixing oatmeal and fruit every morning; re-teaching me how to knit so I could regain the function of my hand; making me take naps even when I didn't want to; taking me on slow walks around the block in freezing cold January weather; but most of all, teaching me how to live the kind of life that makes me happy and fulfilled.
John asked me what I want to do tonight to commemorate my anniversary. I haven't decided yet whether I want to go out and celebrate or stay in and remember. Either way, I'll remain, as always, eternally grateful.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
First Snow
The snow falls slowly from a white sky, landing gently on leaves, green and yellow, still clinging to their branches, willing the seasons not to change. But the seasons are as inevitable as the circles of the sun and the moon, illustrating the Circle of Life every year in bright blues that turn to yellow and orange that are covered under a blanket of sparkling white that melts to reveal sprouting greens and pinks. The chapters of our lives are marked by revolutions around the sun; even when we can't see it, it's there, shining brilliantly as it holds us together, sustaining life as it has always done.
As I gaze out my window, I watch as trees let their branches sag under the weight of the sky. A breeze nudges the snow, making it gracefully fall to the earth at a small angle. Inside, the heater is on, working in concert with my sweatpants and oversized black fleece to keep me cozy as I sip my tea. I dream of the days as a child that I bundled up in snowpants, a jacket zipped lovingly up to my chin, a home-knit hat and old, thick ski gloves, and ran outside and down the street, my little sister tagging along behind. Winters passed in a blur of snowballs, snow angels, sleds and bowls of snow drizzled with hot maple syrup. Towers of white covered the ground for months, growing and waning with the world but always present.
I watch the sparkling flakes begin to fall in ernest, sadly knowing that every last one will melt by noon tomorrow under the unforgiving Colorado sun.
I watch the sparkling flakes begin to fall in ernest, sadly knowing that every last one will melt by noon tomorrow under the unforgiving Colorado sun.
Monday, October 3, 2011
Happy Anniversary
I imagine October 3rd of 1981 to be a warm day for the season, especially in Minnesota. I see my mom getting dressed in a white gown with long sleeves and lace covering her clavical. I watch as she affixes a short vail to her head, her sisters around her, adjusting the tulle like ladies in waiting to the day's royalty. I see my sisters in maroon velvet, flower crowns on their heads - one a grade-schooler, one a newly minted teenager. Hair done, they find dad in the chapel at Macalester College, where he had taught an economics class the day before. He poses for a picture in a black tux and bow tie, one arm around each of his daughters, a corsage of red rose flanked by baby's breath pinned to his chest. I see him as excited and so increadibly happy, with just a touch of nerves.
At some point, everyone takes their places and as the music begins, my sisters walk down the aisle, followed by my mom's sisters. The music changes and the whole chapel rises, turning to watch my mom, radiant, float toward the alter. I don't imagine her crying, but I'm sure my dad got a little misty.
My favorite picture of my parents was taken as they walked out of the chapel, newlyweds with an arm around eachother's waists, smiling and laughing, their life together stretching ahead of them, an open road paved with kindness and promise.
More than once over the years, my dad has told me, "Erica, don't look for what your mom and I have, cause you're not gonna find it." Thirty years after that warm, October day that started with a dress and ended with a blue grass band playing over a back yard pig roast, their happily ever after continues on. Life is never easy, but they've taught me that with the right partner, you can do anything.
Happy anniversary, mom and dad.
ps- John, thank you for being my partner. I'm so happy to know that I've found It, too. I love you.
At some point, everyone takes their places and as the music begins, my sisters walk down the aisle, followed by my mom's sisters. The music changes and the whole chapel rises, turning to watch my mom, radiant, float toward the alter. I don't imagine her crying, but I'm sure my dad got a little misty.
My favorite picture of my parents was taken as they walked out of the chapel, newlyweds with an arm around eachother's waists, smiling and laughing, their life together stretching ahead of them, an open road paved with kindness and promise.
More than once over the years, my dad has told me, "Erica, don't look for what your mom and I have, cause you're not gonna find it." Thirty years after that warm, October day that started with a dress and ended with a blue grass band playing over a back yard pig roast, their happily ever after continues on. Life is never easy, but they've taught me that with the right partner, you can do anything.
Happy anniversary, mom and dad.
ps- John, thank you for being my partner. I'm so happy to know that I've found It, too. I love you.
Monday, September 19, 2011
Guest Post
My guest post on the TalkAboutIt blog: Diagnosed
http://talkaboutitorg.ning.com/profiles/blogs/diagnosed
http://talkaboutitorg.ning.com/profiles/blogs/diagnosed
Thursday, September 1, 2011
I Miss You, Mom
The sun has set, the sky is dark, and the day's heat has faded to room temperature. The blinds on my single window are raised, but the drapes are drawn, showing only a little of the railing beyond my door and the concrete of the next building over. I reach over and turn the Fan to Cool, balancing precariously on the tall, kitchen chair as my arm stretches out.
Tomorrow at ten I'm getting my hair cut. It's gotten so long, I can hardly believe it. The scar that used to part my scalp like Moses parted the Red Sea is grown over with dark brown curls that trip over each other, bobbing up and down as I walk. I stood in front of the mirror tonight after I washed my face, a few forgotten droplets rolling down my cheeks. I ran my fingers over and through each ringlet until they looked teased and stood straight out, parallel to the floor. I stared, astonished, and remembered one night a week or two after the surgery, when my uneven hair mirrored the changes within me: half falling past my shoulders like it had for years and half still peach fuzz, new and growing, vulnerable yet protected. Mom sat on my bed as I played with my long hair and lamented it's inevitable loss. "But mom, look, it's so nice and long and pretty," I looked at her, pleading her to appreciate my plight, "it's gonna take forever to grow back."
"Well, let's see," she mused, ever the problem solver. "Hang on, I'll grab a ruler". She crawled to the edge of my bed and bounced off, a creaking sound following her as she walked down the hallway. Moments later, she returned with a ruler like the one I'd used in grade school math to draw straight lines. She held the wooden stick to my head and pulled one lock straight, telling me the measurement before switching to the other side and gently touching my hair without putting pressure on my fragile head. Not even half an inch yet. "Okay, if this is how long your hair has grown since January 24th, it'll take...", she paused, calculating in her head, "about two years."
"Two years??!!" Something shiny and girly sank inside of me.
I thought of that tonight, noticing how seven months can seem so long and so short at the same time. I remembered my mom sitting on my bed and it feels so far away. I saw her leaning on her elbow and looking lovingly at me, the way she did every night, and it made me miss her so much. I miss the time I had with my parents, the luxury of seeing them every day and basking in our love for each other. I miss the warm feeling I get when she hugs me, the assurance that no matter what, everything will be okay.
Today is September first; I'm not going home again until Christmas. I count the months on my fingers, my heart feeling just a little heavier with the passing of index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinky. Four months. That's so far away. Mom, if you're reading this, I miss you.
Tomorrow at ten I'm getting my hair cut. It's gotten so long, I can hardly believe it. The scar that used to part my scalp like Moses parted the Red Sea is grown over with dark brown curls that trip over each other, bobbing up and down as I walk. I stood in front of the mirror tonight after I washed my face, a few forgotten droplets rolling down my cheeks. I ran my fingers over and through each ringlet until they looked teased and stood straight out, parallel to the floor. I stared, astonished, and remembered one night a week or two after the surgery, when my uneven hair mirrored the changes within me: half falling past my shoulders like it had for years and half still peach fuzz, new and growing, vulnerable yet protected. Mom sat on my bed as I played with my long hair and lamented it's inevitable loss. "But mom, look, it's so nice and long and pretty," I looked at her, pleading her to appreciate my plight, "it's gonna take forever to grow back."
"Well, let's see," she mused, ever the problem solver. "Hang on, I'll grab a ruler". She crawled to the edge of my bed and bounced off, a creaking sound following her as she walked down the hallway. Moments later, she returned with a ruler like the one I'd used in grade school math to draw straight lines. She held the wooden stick to my head and pulled one lock straight, telling me the measurement before switching to the other side and gently touching my hair without putting pressure on my fragile head. Not even half an inch yet. "Okay, if this is how long your hair has grown since January 24th, it'll take...", she paused, calculating in her head, "about two years."
"Two years??!!" Something shiny and girly sank inside of me.
I thought of that tonight, noticing how seven months can seem so long and so short at the same time. I remembered my mom sitting on my bed and it feels so far away. I saw her leaning on her elbow and looking lovingly at me, the way she did every night, and it made me miss her so much. I miss the time I had with my parents, the luxury of seeing them every day and basking in our love for each other. I miss the warm feeling I get when she hugs me, the assurance that no matter what, everything will be okay.
Today is September first; I'm not going home again until Christmas. I count the months on my fingers, my heart feeling just a little heavier with the passing of index finger, middle finger, ring finger, pinky. Four months. That's so far away. Mom, if you're reading this, I miss you.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
My Epilepsy Story: Mothers
I found this blog today and one post in particular struck me. I think about my own mom and how amazing she's always been, supporting me and my epilepsy even while she was scared herself. She sat by my bedside in the hospital and held my hand, making up stories to keep my mind off the pain. So to all of the moms out there, whether your kid has epilepsy or the flu, we thank you for taking care of us.
My Epilepsy Story: Mothers.....: Lately I have been blessed to meet mothers that inspire me.... As I listen to these mothers talk about the challenges that their children ha...
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Six Months
Mom, dad and my lovely sisters,
Six months ago today I had my last seizure. In many ways the second surgery was scarier than the first and was by far the most painful. Mom and dad were with me, a command central updating the vigils held in Boston and Seattle. This wasn't easy for any of us, and I want to say thank you to you all. Thank you for giving me the strength I needed to get through this and the prayers that made all the difference.
Love you always,
Erica
Six months ago today I had my last seizure. In many ways the second surgery was scarier than the first and was by far the most painful. Mom and dad were with me, a command central updating the vigils held in Boston and Seattle. This wasn't easy for any of us, and I want to say thank you to you all. Thank you for giving me the strength I needed to get through this and the prayers that made all the difference.
Love you always,
Erica
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Body Over Mind
It's eight thirty and the sun has set, but it's still light. I started my dishwasher before coming outside to enjoy the last bit of gloaming, after which I'll go back in to make spring rolls for dinner. But right now, I'm sitting on the top landing of the outside stairwell in my apartment building, my legs dangling down the first two steps and my computer on my lap. The air would make anything more than a tank top and shorts sweat, but in my gray spaghetti straps and the red shorts with beaded minnows I got for my birthday, I feel great. I feel like the air and I are the same temperature, like we flow in and out of each other without causing more than a light breeze, like I don't know where I end and the world begins. No mosquitoes bother me since they don't have any in Colorado, one thing I don't miss about home. As I take a sip of wine from the glass sitting next to me, warming slightly in the outside air, I reflect on my day.
I went to my first career counseling session today. Of course, I was half an hour late because of horrible traffic and missed the first half of it, but it didn't seem that I missed much since I just stayed after to complete the Strong Interests (or something like that) test. Thirty minutes of multiple choice questions, covering my job interests, my interpersonal skills, what kinds of activities I enjoy and various job environment preferences. A twelve dollar processing fee later, I was on my way. I didn't learn any deep truths about myself, but that wasn't really the point - today was mostly a meet and greet.
I rolled down the windows in my car and blasted angry girl music to drown out my thoughts. It's been four and a half months since my surgeries, but they still permeate my life. I never imagined that I would feel plagued by recovery for this long. Why am I still so tired all of the time? Why do I still get headaches almost every day? When I lie on my couch with a cold pack on my forehead or have to go home early because the Tylenol isn't working, I feel like a let-down. If I'm not letting myself down for failing to accomplish much of anything in a day, I'm letting down my parents for not having a job yet, or my pilates class for not being able to go upside down, or my friends for having to retreat from loud noises, crowded spaces and prolonged conversation. Is it me? Am I just lazy and looking for an excuse? A cop out? Do I just need to be given special treatment and attention? Those are the thoughts that make me hate myself. The voice inside of me that answers yes to each one makes me feel worse and worse about myself. The stubborn streak comes back and yells at me that I'm not trying hard enough. Body be damned, I clearly just don't have the will. This is the part where I have to stop myself. I can't just say, "body be damned", because I spent the last eight months trying to fix my body. I cannot put that in jeopardy just because I'm feeling bad. I worked too hard to get where I am now to throw that away, even if it would mean appeasing my family, my friends and myself. No. It's not worth it. I'm healing, all of this is okay, it's normal. I'm not making up excuses. I don't know how long it will take me to heal, but I can't rush it. Not after all I went through. I'm seizure-free, and I won't give that up.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
Coming Home
The space heater is gone from its spot in the corner; the borrowed walker was given back to our friends; the insurance documents and get well cards that covered the top of the dresser are missing. I sit again on the bed with the yellow striped duvet, but this time my room looks different. Unoccupied. The remnants of my four-month residence in my old bedroom have mostly been cleared out. A few clothes hang in my closet, a travel mug of mine sits next to a bottle of coconut-scented lotion my sister gave me, and the little silver Christmas tree with the usb plug that my mom gave me when I went into the hospital for monitoring the day after Thanksgiving. The coaster I kept my 2am Percocet on the first month home following the surgeries still sits on my nightstand, though on this trip I left the Percocet in Denver. The biggest memorial is the sign hung above the door that reads: "We Love Our Erica" in patterned block letters strung on a piece of orange ribbon by my sister. I remember looking at that sign again and again while the doctor stimulated each electrode on my brain and twitched as I lay in my hospital bed, hoping to God that I would be eligible for the resection in the second surgery that afternoon. That morning it was a lifeline; now it's a memory.
It's nice to be back in my parents' home. I know it's only been three weeks, but I've missed them. We became a cohesive unit when I lived with them, and in my own home in Denver, I'm a leg missing the rest of its tripod. Seeing my mom and dad isn't like re-forming into a tripod, or even like crawling back inside my cocoon, it's like a chance to see how much of what I learned here I'm able to remember.
It's nice to be back in my parents' home. I know it's only been three weeks, but I've missed them. We became a cohesive unit when I lived with them, and in my own home in Denver, I'm a leg missing the rest of its tripod. Seeing my mom and dad isn't like re-forming into a tripod, or even like crawling back inside my cocoon, it's like a chance to see how much of what I learned here I'm able to remember.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Remembering Lessons Learned
Two and a half months since it was shaved, my hair is long enough to curl again. Just a little, not a full curl rotation, but I can tell it's coming, especially in my bangs. I'm not sure how I feel about curl versus curl-less, but I have about a week before I need to cross that bridge.
That's not what I wanted to write about though.
I used to talk about how I needed to learn how to depend on others, not try to do everything on my own, and during the surgery I learned. Lying in a hospital bed, not able to sit up, too weak to feed myself, scared and in pain, I had no choice but to lean on the support and love of everyone around me. My mind foggy, my body tired, I finally saw that they'd been there all along, arms up, hands waiting to catch me.
Figuring that out changed me. I understood, really understood on a basic level, that people want to help, and accepting that help doesn't make me any less strong or less able. Life became easier, happier, when I began to let people in. Now the challenge is to remember that.
I'm back in Colorado, and without my parents to ask for help from, it's easy to slip back into not asking for help for fear of bothering anyone. The problem with that is that I still need help, and furthermore, people want to help. People like to be needed, and right now, I need them, both for emotional support and physical support. Moving back into my shoebox, there are a lot of things that need lifting and shoving and bending and carrying, and I can't do that. Wait, let me amend that: I can do it, but I shouldn't do it. I'm able to lift heavier things, but I'm still not supposed to. What I'm supposed to do is figure out another way to get the heavy box full of my books up three floors to my apartment, meaning ask someone else to help me. I haven't tried it yet, but I'm guessing the power drill follows similar rules. It's frustrating when I know I can do something but needing to get somebody else to do it for me.
I guess there is a silver lining though, because despite my frustrations, my limitations are forcing me to remember the lessons I learned back when I didn't have a choice but to let people in.
That's not what I wanted to write about though.
I used to talk about how I needed to learn how to depend on others, not try to do everything on my own, and during the surgery I learned. Lying in a hospital bed, not able to sit up, too weak to feed myself, scared and in pain, I had no choice but to lean on the support and love of everyone around me. My mind foggy, my body tired, I finally saw that they'd been there all along, arms up, hands waiting to catch me.
Figuring that out changed me. I understood, really understood on a basic level, that people want to help, and accepting that help doesn't make me any less strong or less able. Life became easier, happier, when I began to let people in. Now the challenge is to remember that.
I'm back in Colorado, and without my parents to ask for help from, it's easy to slip back into not asking for help for fear of bothering anyone. The problem with that is that I still need help, and furthermore, people want to help. People like to be needed, and right now, I need them, both for emotional support and physical support. Moving back into my shoebox, there are a lot of things that need lifting and shoving and bending and carrying, and I can't do that. Wait, let me amend that: I can do it, but I shouldn't do it. I'm able to lift heavier things, but I'm still not supposed to. What I'm supposed to do is figure out another way to get the heavy box full of my books up three floors to my apartment, meaning ask someone else to help me. I haven't tried it yet, but I'm guessing the power drill follows similar rules. It's frustrating when I know I can do something but needing to get somebody else to do it for me.
I guess there is a silver lining though, because despite my frustrations, my limitations are forcing me to remember the lessons I learned back when I didn't have a choice but to let people in.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Second Night Back
Tonight is my second night back in Denver. So far it’s good. It’s really good to see my friends again spend time with them, going on walks around the park, “running errands” at Crate & Barrel, barbequing kebabs under the stairwell and just talking. I do miss my family, but it’s good for me to be around people my own age. My entire apartment is smaller than my parents’ kitchen, but it’s home and I like it. Of course my kitchen table triples as my dining room table and my office, but the wall behind it is lavender – every room is different colors: lavender, yellow, light lime green and deep red (the only one I didn’t pick and can’t paint over). It’s cheerful and homey and more of a haven than a cocoon. After months in my love cocoon, sleeping in my old bed, having dinner every night with my parents, it’s time for me to burst forth as a butterfly, leave the nest, and all of those other growing up clichés.
I haven’t been getting overwhelmed in the same way I used to, where I would shut down and need to extricate myself from the situation as quickly as possible. I do have to remind myself to take naps, though harder than that is actually tearing myself away from whatever I’m doing and make myself lie down so I’ll be able to make it through the rest of the day without glazing over and crashing. With all of the unpacking between reunions, I’ve been much more active than even in the Bahamas. I like it. As long as I do take breaks. It’s good for me to feel like part of society again; to feel like a twenty-something again. Tomorrow, my friends are throwing a little welcome home barbeque for me, complete with all non-alcoholic drinks (save one glass of champagne each to toast my successful surgeries). It’s also Palm Sunday, so I’m gonna go to church, which I’m excited about, but I’ll have to take a nap between the two activities since I’m not allowed to partake in the host’s espresso machine and I’d hate to fall asleep during my own party.
When I opened the door to my apartment for the first time on Thursday, there were flowers in all different shapes and shades of pink as well as a sign saying, “Welcome Home Erica”, signed by my friends in my building. The living room and my bedroom were full of the boxes that Eve brought over from the crawl space in which I’d put them back in November. I couldn’t, and still can’t, believe how lucky I am to have such wonderful friends.
It’s funny to come back home in the mid-afternoon or later at night, tired and ready to start in on this task or that, and have no background noise. No footfalls from different sizes of feet carrying varying weights that each move with their own timbre. No TV playing in the next room. No opening and closing of the fridge; no chopping or scraping; no one building a fire; no one asking where their keys are and saying they’ll be back after fill-in-the-blank. It’s quiet. Until I put on some music, the only sounds are people talking in the open-air stairwells of our building and the one next door. It’s strange living in an apartment that’s empty but for me and my thoughts. It makes me miss my parents, my aunts, and even the two girls who work for my dad’s consulting business. Most of me is glad to be on my own again, but likely it will be like the latter.
Now, finally, I’m completely exhausted and need to go sleep before I fall asleep on my computer permanently.
Good night.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Goodbye Prelude To A Shower
At seven am, Remix To Ignition started to fill the silence covering my bedroom. Starting quietly, it grew and grew, like a weed with tentacles that reached out with a crescendo. I stirred, sleep fading from my eyes, dripping down to be absorbed again by my bed. I rolled onto my back and began to mouth along the lyrics, adding improvised hand motions to illustrate the words being sung (“Give me that toot toot, give me that beep beep” eliciting a train whistle and a honking horn).
When the song was over, I slid the “Off” button and climbed out of bed. I had more packing to do, but first, a shower. Mom and dad’s shower is nice and big and roomy compared to mine – both mine in the house and mine in my apartment – so obviously I wanted to use theirs for my Last Shower. I grabbed my towel and padded down the hallway in ripped plaid pajama pants and a t-shirt that advertised my milkshake as bringing all the boys to the yard. I crossed the familiar threshold into my parents’ room, the room I’d crept into countless times in the middle of the night as a child. This morning I felt like a child again, missing my parents already.
“Ca’I use your shower or do you need it?”
My mom looked at me, makeup done, wearing a black suit skirt under a pajama top, her hair still damp. Dad sat in bed with a cup of coffee and the Journal. Mom’s eyes had the glass and the sad, proud, conflicted smile that only a parent can wear. She stepped forward and hugged me to her, both of us trying not to cry. “I’ve loved having you here. I’m gonna miss having you around.” Her arms stayed around me, no intention of letting go. “You’ve really taken your place in this family, and I hope you hold onto it. We’re gonna make sure you do.” I’ve thought about that many times, wishing hard that the three of us hold on to the closeness we’ve found and being nervous that we’ll lose it. “I love you so much and I’m so proud of you.” The mom look of love threatened to pull tears from my eyes when she stepped back and held me by the shoulders. She went on about how proud she is of me and how much she loves me and all of the other things I try to hold on to and remember so that one day I can treasure them when she’s gone. Even writing about it makes me sad.
Her hair was still damp as she instructed me to call her every day. One more kiss and I turned around the way I’d come to wash up in a shower the size of my whole bathroom.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Thank You Prayer
March 28th, 2011 10:30pm
God,Thank you. Thank you for Your blessings. Thank you for giving me what could become a whole new life. I am so grateful to You. None of this really feels real yet. I feel like this is one of the biggest days of my life so far and I’m not savoring it the way I should. I don’t really know how I feel right now, maybe a little confused and grasping as the last bit of the day slips away before I can figure it out. God, please help me to sort out my feelings. Please help me to accept the end of my seizures, which have defined me and set me as other for my whole life, and help me to accept and understand that my surgery worked, that I don’t have seizures anymore! Thank you.
I’m a little scared that I’ll end up like the woman who wrote that she was seizure-free for fourteen months when her seizures came back a lot worse than they’d ever been. Please, please don’t let that happen to me. That would be so awful, so heartbreaking. I don’t think I could do this surgery again. Rather, I could with Your love behind me, but it would be so much harder. But this news is indeed good.
Please look over my family. Please make sure they know how incredibly much I love them and let them sleep well tonight.
All this I pray in Your holy name,
Amen.
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