Mississippi River Boulevard

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.

Like Riding a Bike

Butterflies flitted around my stomach so strong I thought they might lift me off my feet and float me away. I held the shiny red and gold bike by the handlebars, trying to stay calm and hoping no one could see me shaking. Okay, I can do this. I swung my right leg over the bar and inched on my tiptoes to the seat. I didn't like hardly being able to touch the coarse black driveway when sitting on the plastic/rubber hybrid of the bike seat. I wanted to be closer to the ground so I could catch myself from falling, but I was told no.

I fiddled with my helmet, I checked and double checked the brakes and gear shifts to be sure I knew how to work them. I put one foot on a peddle and nudged it forward to get it in place, hopping along on my other foot to keep up. Finally, with no more adjustments to make, no more excuses to stall, I pushed off.

Heart in my throat, my left foot lifted from the pavement to its peddle, propelling me onward. I wobbled like a child on her first day without training wheels, a concerned, focused, terrified, determined look on my face. The end of the driveway came closer and closer: a dip to the road and a bump at the seam loomed ahead and I held on tight. I picked up speed - maybe five inches an hour - and held my breath and... I did it! Safely in the empty street, creeping elation broke free, washing over me, and I noticed the smile plastered to my face. My whole body was tense and my knuckles white, and I tried to relax but I was still shaking, though this time from excitement, not fear.

I peddled on down the block, not yet trusting myself to stop or turn. As John pulled up next to me, I called over, "They're right, it really is like riding a bike!"

Working Girl

I rub at my tired eyes, checking the corners for crusties or eye boogers. It's almost 10 and I can finally succumb to the yawns that have followed me all afternoon. I'm beginning to understand that I'm not on a holiday from my largely solitary days, but rather have started a new chapter, one that promises to be long and fulfilling. I can't believe that it was only three days ago that I walked into Target Plaza South to pick up my temporary badge and file through security to the Business Analyst training room. I have a job. A real job. A good job. A job I already like. The months and months I spent writing and healing were amazing, but eventually I began to feel better and my calm turned into restlessness into guilt over not being productive in the way I wanted. Now I am, every day forward from this past Monday. I keep thinking to myself, oh, I'll do that tomorrow at home, but I don't have full days at home anymore. At least not during the week. I'm understanding that I need to remember how to be productive with my nights, fitting in a workout, dinner, some tv, Skyping with John, dishes and life maintenance before bedtime at ten pm. I'm learning. I'm tired, I feel a little behind with life, but I'm happy.

Never Thought The Day Would Come

A glass of water sat on a ceramic coaster on the nightstand in my old room. I reached for the dark yellow bottle on the dresser next to it, turning the white cap emblazoned with the Walgreen's logo and tipping one oval pill into my palm. One pill. Not two, but one. A smile played on my lips as I thought to myself, it's really happening.

That was two nights ago. Earlier in the day, I sat in one of the two chairs opposite a large desk from my neurologist. We talked about me and John moving back to Minneapolis a few days before, my new job as a Business Analyst at Target that I start on Monday, the headaches I still get, though they're becoming less frequent, how much my hair has grown back over the past year, the fact that I'm still seizure-free. I held my breath and crossed my fingers as I asked the question I'd come for: "Dr. So said that if I made it a year without having a seizure, I could wean off of my Vimpat. Do you think I can start that?"

She paused a moment, a thoughtful look on her face as it searched my medical records on her computer screen for any reason I shouldn't. "Okay."

Relief, joy, disbelief flooded me all at once and I couldn't help the smile on my face as I said, "I honestly never in my life thought this day would come."

I won't be completely off of the drug for a month, but every day I get closer, I have more and more energy, the way I did seven months ago when I got off of my Lyrica, but this time it's even more noticeable. I'm still on Lamictal XR every night and probably will be for the rest of my life, but I'm fine with that. I always figured that liver failure was what would eventually take me one day, but now I really feel I can let that go. I'm gonna be okay.

The Depths Of Human Kindness

My friend Mandy wrote a great post on her blog My Life As Mandy... With Epilepsy today. Her question was, is epilepsy really a blessing in disguise? She said yes. A lot of people told her she was wrong and that epilepsy is a curse, a black spot on the face of life, but I agree with her with every fiber of my soul.

Diagnosed at age seven, I don't remember a time without seizures, tests, doctor visits and handfuls of pills. Sometimes it felt like my life was an exercise in silver linings, but I can honestly say that if I could rewrite it, I wouldn't change a thing. For me, epilepsy has been a blessing; it's taught me more about what it means to be human than anything else I've ever experienced. Epilepsy is part of who I am, it's shaped me into the person I am today.

Having a disorder like epilepsy makes me see the world differently; I'm more aware of and sensitive to the difficulties others face, I'm more attuned to the heartbeat of the earth and I can tell you it's strong. The world is full of people who each have burdens, weights on their shoulders that at times feel unbearable. Some are loud, some are silent. Some are mad, some are scared, some are hopeful. Some endure the bad as a shadow over their life, some spend every day seeking the good in their lot. Some feel cheated, some feel grateful.

I've always had a roof over my head; I've never been hungry; I've never feared for my life; I've never smelled death in the streets. I can't imagine how life must be for so many in our world, the pain and hardships they've experienced. But when I hear of the people who never lose faith, who strive for more, strive for happiness, I am awestruck, I am inspired.

The cross I bear is a pocket charm compared to many, but it is the depths of human kindness that never ceases to amaze me. No matter the size of your burden, no matter the cause or kind, there are people watching and waiting to give you their hand. We are never truly alone. None of us. We are connected by life, energy, spirit; we come from the same beginnings and we go to the same ends. It might not always feel like it, there are times we all feel lonely, misunderstood, even abandoned, but reach out your hand and it will meet the same flesh that covers you, the same blood that runs through your veins. This is what epilepsy has taught me.

Each time I reach inward, I am amazed at the strength I find within myself. Each time I look up, I am amazed by the strength of those around me; their love and support feeds me, sustains me. Maybe I would have figured that out a different way, but in this life, it is my journey with epilepsy that has given me no choice but to search myself and search the world and what I find, every day, every minute, every second, touches my soul. For this, I am eternally grateful.

I once wrote here that my surgery was a perfect storm of Grace. I was wrong. It is my life that continues to be the perfect storm of Grace.

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.

A Warm Day in January

The park is quiet yet active at 1pm on a Thursday. Who is here but the unemployed, the retired and the stay at home parents with small children in strollers, on the jungle gym or waddling around like small penguins carrying juice boxes? Two college-aged boys tire of their game of hackey sack and stroll away, laughing in long shorts and brightly colored t-shirts. A woman stretches after a run; a man does push-ups, an ipod strapped to one of his spread out arms; two people play frisbee on the other end of the park, a small dog running between them, hoping one will drop it so he can come to the rescue. The breeze picks up as a patch of clouds pass between me and the sun, chilling my bare arms, and I move to the next bench down, unobstructed by the winding, leafless trees - the only reminder that it is, in fact, January.

I'm taking the day off of job hunting, spending it instead on writing, a long walk and coffee with a friend. The high today is 61 degrees and, as usual, it's sunny and gorgeous. The purple sweater I'd worn has been relegated to my backpack and the cuffs of my jeans are rolled up, showing off my white calves and the black and hot pink running shoes I got from my sister; they don't match my grey tank top with the lace down the front, but they're comfortable on my feet when I roam the streets and sidewalks of Denver.

As March comes closer, I've started to become nostalgic. I think of the friends I'll miss, the groups I'll need to recreate, the restaurants I realize I've already visited for the last time. Will I go back to the mountains before we leave? I don't know. Will I ever make it to Grand Lake or the Hanging Lakes? Probably not. Will I bother to come back for my five year college reunion in October? I'm not sure. I'm beginning to see that there are many more things I'll miss than I'd thought: happy hour on the outdoor stairway of my apartment building, carrying my blue folding chair with the built-in backpack full of crackers, dips, cherries, a book and a water bottle of white wine to Cheesman Park, where I read and unwound until the sun went down and mosquitoes bit my feet. They have parks in Minnesota, but it's not the same. I did a lot of healing here. When I moved to Colorado on July seventh, 2009, I was an empty shell, conditioned to be unamused and perpetually skeptical. I came knowing one thing: I needed emotional healing. I needed to reconnect with the happiness, strength and confidence I'd lost. Colorado has been witness to my transformation and because of that, it will always be in my heart.

But now, the universe has a new plan for me.

My Deep Dark Fear

We didn't get home til late. If you can call nine thirty late, that is, which I suppose you can't, but I was tired anyway. And thirsty. Full and thirsty. An empty water glass stood used next to the sink. I picked it up but immediately dropped it as if it had burned me, white hot as it clanged to the counter. No, I thought, no, no, no. A familiar sensation melted through my right hand, pulsing twice like a heartbeat threatening to stir back to life. My legs turned to rubber and I lowered myself to the floor. Maybe my face went pale, the horror within myself etched on its features, maybe a "no" escaped my lips or maybe it was that I'd collapsed, but John came over to me, crouching with his hand on my shoulder, concern bordering on panic in his eyes. "What happened? Are you okay?"

I wasn't sure. I clutched my right hand in my left like I had so many times before and I waited for the shaking. But it never came. I felt frozen, as if any movement I made would cause me to break into a seizure. What was that? "Water," I asked, "can you hand me some water?" I didn't want the glass I'd just dropped. I didn't want to touch it, worried that a bad energy lingered in it still; a demon of Christmases past.

"It felt like a seizure," I answered to John's waiting form, now handing me water and soothingly rubbing my back, "but not a seizure. It had the feeling sort of, but really weak, and my hand didn't move or twitch or anything." I'd been seizure free for ten months, twenty five days and about eight hours. But it wasn't a seizure. So then what the hell was it?

Psychosomatic seizures are essentially your body remembering what a seizure feels like but without the actual electricity surge. They're often brought on by stress. Is that what it was? Did anything even happen or was it all in my head? My always nervous, ever vigilant, still healing head? Having a seizure is my deep dark fear; it creeps around the edges of my mind every time I startle, or sneeze, or drop something or am tired. It's as if my life since the afternoon of January 24th has been lived on borrowed faith and I'm waiting for my luck to run out. Please, God, don't let it run out. This can't be too good to be true.

Running Low on Confidence

It’s funny to think that a year ago I was living with my parents in Minnesota, waiting anxiously to find out when I would be having a major surgery that I knew even then would change my life forever. My apartment had been cleared of my personal effects, all in boxes shipped to my parents or bags in my friend’s basement. A loser sublettor was living here rent-free despite our contract, and would be kicked out in just over a month. I look around the kitchen, the living room, and reflect on how different my life is from the one I’d imagined. I’ve been unemployed for over a year, now. I remember talking to my sister about month before my surgery and telling her I’d be back to work three, four max, months after it was done. She said to be prepared to be recovering long enough that I wouldn’t be working until June. She was right. It wasn’t until late June that I felt recovered enough to start my job hunt in earnest. What I hadn’t planned on was the job market. It’s been almost six months and I’ve had two interviews, neither of which panned out. I’ve applied to at least a hundred jobs, probably more, but still I sit at the kitchen table that has become my “office”, looking and looking, feeling more downtrodden by the day. It seems that a person who’s been out of work since October of last year with only the explanation “Writer” listed on her resume is undesirable. That’s unfortunate. Really unfortunate. I know the economy is dreadful, but experiencing it first-hand is completely different. Our lease is up on the shoebox apartment I’ve loved so much February 5th. Only two months left. What then? We’ve been talking about moving. We both love Denver and so many of John’s friends live here, but the jobs don’t. So then where? Right now the thought is Minneapolis or Seattle. We’re not sure yet, but wherever we go, we need to figure it out soon. It’s a stressful way to re-enter the working world. Sometimes I get nervous that I won’t be good since I’m so rusty, but I know that’s not true. I’ll be fine. I work hard and I’m a quick learner. I think I’m just trying to figure out why no one seems to want to give me a chance. I know that sounds pathetic and whiny and I know that it’s not me, it’s the economy, but after so many rejections, so few calls back, it’s hard not to take it personally. I inhale, I exhale. Air rushes into my lungs, oxygen filling my sedentary body before I blow it back out through my lips, producing an exasperated sighing noise. When will this end? It feels like never. These days I find myself expecting not to get a job. Hopefully it’ll be better somewhere else. I have to believe that, because clearly Denver isn’t working. It breaks my heart to tear the man I love away from the place he now calls home, even though we both know it’s best. It’s not over yet, we still have two months left to find a job here, but with each day that passes with a silent phone, an empty inbox, the applications I send, the calls I make, the networking events I attend seem more and more futile. I pray for us to find something, but maybe this means that we’re not supposed to be here anymore. Maybe our path leads elsewhere. As long as we’re together, I know we’ll make it. I just wish it would happen sooner.

A Watched Pot

They say a watched pot never boils. As I watch myself growing back together, so often I feel as though I see no movement at all. Two evenings in a row, I lay on my red couch, the pillows embroidered with gold and in need of restuffing. I stare at the white wall opposite and try to stay as still as possible; every time I move, sharp daggers of pain shoot through my head. I feel trapped and helpless, completely dependent on the hands that bring me food, water and the remote control. My conscience eats at me, my useless form unable to contribute to the daily tasks of cooking and cleaning.

A pint glass with a bar logo sits on the coffee table next to me, the last drops of water sliding down the sides to pool at the bottom. John asks me if I'd like a refill, but when I turn to hand it to him, a bolt of pain pierces me and I grasp the left side of my head. My fingers intertwine themselves with the dark curls of my hair and I gently pull, thinking that maybe if I can just lift away my scalp a little, there will be more room for my skull, my brain, to heal and it won't hurt anymore.

I close my eyes and lie back down, a pillow supporting my neck as I pull a dark gray knit blanket over my legs, taking care to cover my cold feet. When will this end? I think to myself. I thought I was done with these. I still take Advil before a long walk or pilates class and I avoid activities that would jostle my brain in its fragile shell, but unexplained headaches that come on strong with no warning? I recount the past days, hoping to find a catalyst, anything out of the ordinary, but I come up empty. What changed? I don't know. When will it be over? I don't know.

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.

Help Out the Kids!

The Epilepsy Foundation of Colorado has entered the Albertson's Community Partners Challenge to win a $7,500 grant for their Jason Fleishman Summer Camp. The money will go toward scholarships for kids with epilepsy who can't afford to go. This past summer, I went up to the YMCA at Estes Park for a week to help out at camp. It was amazing. Should I ever get a job, I'd like to save up vacation days to go again. The kids have all different kinds of seizures, varying in severity and frequency, and range from very high functioning to needing a little help. All of them are ages 10-17 and are brave, strong people who deal every day with more than kids should. A lot of them have trouble fitting in at school, with their friends, with a lot of people. But not at camp. I sat with them making friendship bracelets, colorful knots of embroidery thread taped to our knees, and listened to them talk. Over and over, even from the older boys - who are not generally known for sharing feelings - that the Jason Fleishman Camp is the only place where they feel completely comfortable and accepted. The thing that makes them different is suddenly the thing that makes them fit in.

So, from October 1st through 15th, you can help these kids by going to www.albertsonscpchallenge.com and voting. All you need to do it enter your email address, which they will not sell, so you won't get any spam. Enter in EFCO's ID# 0015, and hit Vote. You can vote up to five times a day, but even one helps.

Thank you so, so much.

You can read more about the Jason Fleishman Camp here.

Six Reminders

Just above a small mole, a freckle really, on the back of my right hand, there is a circle - darker than the sun-kissed tan of my skin with a white dot in the middle. It sits atop a blue vein that carries blood to and from the fingers that type my thoughts, nourishing them, feeding them the oxygen they need to flutter over my keyboard before carrying their leftovers, all they didn’t use, to be pumped back through my heart longing for caffeine and my lungs still thick with mucus after four days of bed rest and antibiotics. The scar watches me from its post, telling me that the landscape of the back of my hand that I know so well has been changed forever. I wiggle my fingers and watch it move side to side with the tendons below it. So intricate the human hand is; so delicate. I watch the scar, and I accept it.

There are times when I wish it would just disappear already, leave me be, give me back my body. There are times when I mourn the unblemished skin that used to stretch over everything, dark olive covering my hands, my arms, my legs, my back, my chest, my stomach, my face. Still I go back and forth, oscillating between peace and frustration, but as the rollercoaster slows, I find myself moving closer and closer to acceptance.

There are four scars on my hands, one on my forehead and one on my scalp, but it’s the small dot on the back of my right hand that I see the most. It is a constant reminder of what I did; what I went through. I look at that scar, left by the IV port that stayed in my hand for too long, becoming stiff, dry and painful before finally being moved to its left partner. I think of my life and how different it is; how different I am. It is unsightly, yes, but as I get farther away from the surgeries that bore it, this scar reminds me of my strength, my will. The small silver dots on the undersides of each wrist twice fed me anesthesia as the vice that kept me still carved the scar on my forehead and the scalpel sliced the shaved skin where my hair once was, exposing my skull to the saw that removed it and the plates that replaced it, leaving a red-tinged dent to span the length of my head. Six scars in total. Six defacements that left me a new person, that gave me a new life.

I stand in the bathroom every night, toothpaste burning my tongue as I brush my teeth, and I stare at the dent on my forehead. I remember it as a scab, a burnt sienna covering to a thumbprint-sized relief an inch and a half above my eyebrows. Today it looks like no more than a short wrinkle; the puckered scar buried below new tissue like a birthday gift hidden under brightly colored paper thin as onion skin.

Back and forth I push the toothbrush and look through the mirror at John standing behind me, light blue toothpaste showing between his lips, threatening to drip onto the back of my t-shirt if he doesn’t spit soon. I can’t help but smile as I watch him and think to myself that the scars I wear helped us find each other. The best decisions of my life intertwined.

Stories to Tell

Since I’ve left my love cocoon in Minnesota and moved back to Denver, my formerly solitary life has taken on so much more. My story started out as a narrative but has been woven into a plot of life so much larger than myself. The world moves but I am no longer the center. My stories are no longer mine, but are intricate webs woven into the lives of others.

When I was the axis of my life, I had full discretion over the emotions, the actions and reactions that I wrote to the world, but now that’s changed. My stories are no longer mine, but rather are contributions; sometimes featured, sometimes supporting. I can tell my stories, but not someone else’s. There is so much in me right now, I am so full, so saturated with life, but now I intersect. I write all day, capturing my actions and observations on the page like a butterfly tacked to a display, but these are not colors, sights, sounds, smells, flames that I can share. They are not my stories to tell. So for now, I err toward safety, keeping my writings to share on another day, maybe in the book, maybe not. Life is made up of stories that we weave together on a bright, full loom, each string belonging to one of us, the picture belonging to none.

Tearful Edits

I'm sitting at Starbucks, a grande decaf skim latte burning my tongue, glad for a place beyond my apartment to write and edit. I'm at the surgery section of the book but my eyes keep tearing up as I read what you all wrote me. The well-wishes, prayers and way to go's mean so much that I have to look away to stop myself from crying. It's hard to go back to that place, that hospital room, the pills, the pain, but I see more and more how alone I was not. You were all there with me. The tears I hold back now are those of gratitude that have helped to wash away those of retroactive fear and pain. Thank you. So much. You will never know how much you mean to me.

Parking Tickets

I lay in my bed, warm and cozy under sheet and comforter as an almost chilly breeze wafted through the window above me. I scooted as close to the edge as I could, reaching the cable that connected my phone to its charger as far as it reached so I wouldn't have to turn to my left, which still bothers me.

I glanced at the bird and flower collage clock - 9am - and a nagging feeling came over me; I was supposed to do something. But what? I thought back: today is Wednesday, I'm going to lunch at 11:30, but no, that's not it... I have to move my car! I jumped up, beelined to my keys that sat on the kitchen table and ran out of my apartment still clad in red plaid boxers and an old tattered tshirt from John's fraternity, my hair sticking straight up, clearly illustrating that I sleep on my right, and my face still greasy, mirroring every object I passed as if my nose were covered in glass. I clutched my head, cursing myself for the jostling caused by my comical half-jog and promising to take two Advil when I got back. The morning air was cold, reminding me that the season changed last Friday, dropping to the seventies after our final Thursday in the hellish nineties.

Speedwalking toward my car at the end of the street, I checked the other three mis-parked cars to see if they had yet gotten tickets on street sweeping day. No yellow envelopes were folded in half and shoved through the crack in car doors, impossible to miss next to the driver's handle. Hope welled inside of me, maybe the Enforcers hadn't come yet, maybe I could keep my twenty five dollars... Joy spread shamelessly through my body as I reached my beat up silver Sebring: no ticket. I thanked the parking gods and jumped in, NPR coming through my speakers when I turned the key and shifted into drive. Five cars sped by before I was able to turn right onto the one-way at the end of my street that bordered the North end of the park. Ten feet later I pulled into a safe parking spot with a two hour limit; more than enough to get me through a shower, bowl of Frosted Mini Wheats and the rest of my emails.

Of course I saw an empty parking spot completely legal and right across the street from the door to my building, but I didn't care enough to trek back to my car and move it again. My body contemplated a shiver as I passed a man out walking his great dane. His eyebrows rose as he took in my pajamas and spiky hair and offered a smiling "good morning" as he saw the keys in my hand, making the connection between my haggard appearance and the parking sign behind me. "Good morning," I answered, and it was good: I hadn't gotten a ticket.

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.

Tracing Scars

Last night I sat on my red couch with the cushions in need of re-stuffing, my bare legs folded to the side as I leaned my weight to my elbow as it rested on the squishy arm. A thick book lay open on my lap, a glass of ice water on a coaster within reach. I fingered my scar as I read, feeling the divot grow deeper and more pronounced the farther back I reached. I traced the bumpy ridges that betray the titanium plates that lay under a shallow layer of scalp, holding my fractured skull in place as it heals. A couple thick hairs grow straight out of the scar, short and spiky as they twist their way through the former home of staples and gauze. Overall, I can't believe how much my hair has grown since it was shaved in January, my scalp dyed yellow from the surgical iodine, scabs forming over the spots rubbed raw from the vice that held my head in place as it was sawed open. Today, my scar isn't even visible unless I pull my hair to the sides, away from its severe middle part. It curls its dark brown way over my ears, ending just below my earlobes. The scar feels deep and dramatic to my fingers, though I suppose most cuts and scrapes do, all looking much less impressive when finally viewed in a mirror.

It hurts to touch my scar for long, pain spreading to the growing bone beneath, so I drop my hand and turn the page. The incision is really the only part that hurts these days. I can't lie on my left because it's still too tender, but as long as I avoid pressure, I'm mostly okay. The skull remodeling itself around the plates and screws does still hurt. Two or three times a day, I make my way to the basket of pills in my bathroom or the bottle of Advil in my purse to ward away a quick, sharp pain or a low, dull one, my bones creaking and scraping together like the wooden floors of an old house expanding in the summer heat. Fortunately they're working, quieting my mind and smoothing out the winces on my face in a matter of minutes. It's been a month since the last time I was put out of commission and relegated to my couch for hours. I'm starting to see that I've turned a corner. Just five more months until I can get off another medication; five more seizure-free months until my chance of relapse is less than ten percent. At the same time it's gone so slowly and so quickly. It feels like only yesterday I was in my parents' home, the timer on my phone set to my daily Percocet regimen.

An hour later I woke up to a shoulder wet with drool, still sitting with the book on my contorted legs, my limp fingers brushing the back of John's shirt. "Honey, wake up, it's time to go to bed."

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...

Moving In

As of September first, John is officially moving in! For all intents and purposes, we’ve already lived together for a while, but now it will be official!

I spent yesterday running up and down the concrete stairs of my building as I did load after load of laundry between job-finding initiatives. After two loads of delicates/work out clothes, one of colors, one of towels and one of sheets, I rearranged my shelves, moving picture frames, baskets of office supplies and jewelry boxes to make room for the extra t-shirts, shorts and pants that will be permanent residents. I went through my over-stuffed closet and took out all of my winter clothes and dresses that I don’t wear and packed them up to make room for his shirts and suits. This is really happening! I’ve never before lived with someone more than a roommate; neither has he. It’s new for both of us, and while we’re each a little nervous, it’s good nervous, the excited kind precipitated by moving forward to the next chapter of life.

This afternoon I’m going to get a couple pictures of John and his friends and family to swap for some pictures of mine in the many frames balanced on bookshelves and window sills. It’s part of the transformation of a girly bachelorette pad into a compromised co-habitat. Wish us luck!