The One Where I Get Angry

And actually, I'm writing this many, many days after the initial insult, so I've cooled off quite a bit.

Even though I have less time than ever before, I do still find myself reading blogs. I'm just too connected to too many people via the interweb to stop.

And I read something recently that was insulting. I doubt the author meant it as insulting but that's the thing, this whole concept is sneaky. And subversive. It's a feeling that I think I am picking up on, time and time again, in many different ways.

Hell, someone could have thought I felt this way when I was pursuing so much damn treatment.

It's the idea that biology is better.

(a side note: anyone who knows me from way back when knows we always said we would 'have one adopt one' because we had this idea that if we adopted first and then had the biological child our adopted child would feel they weren't enough. And then for years we got sidetracked on the having one side of things.)

The sentence in a post that wrankled me...it jumped off the screen and made my adoptive momma heart just ache a bit. Not for myself, but for my kids. For adopted kids everywhere.

I've mentioned before that of all my blogging buddies, of all my infertile peeps, there aren't too many that crossed over to adoption.

And while I get that--as it took me a long time to decide the 'having one' just wasn't going to happen for us--I still feel alone. I still feel like no one else is doing it because they might think it inferior in some way. The things we will put ourselves through to have a pregnancy, or a biological connection...it's mind blowing, even from the inside. Remember: I am an insider. I know the drill. I know how damn hard all of it is. And I put myself through a lot. And to a previous post commenter about my shame, of course I know it's all a process. But I also know that sometimes we can get so overfocused on a goal (pregnancy, biological baby, etc) that we stop thinking about living, and all that it means to be alive, and that we're all part of a bigger picture than just our own pursuits.

But that sentence, it really got to me. It was from someone I've followed for a long time. I've supported through lots and lots. But there it was and it felt like I was overhearing someone talking behind my back.

I have a feeling it's like what being the victim of racism feels like. It's subtle and many would never say it to your face, but it's still there, the attitude.

Sigh.

So I was angry angry angry for a while. Hot under the collar, hoppin' mad. All those things and maybe even more.

Now I'm just sad.

Biology isn't better and you'll never convince me otherwise. Most of the people I love most in my life don't share a single gene with me and I love them with my heart and soul and would do anything for them.

I realize I'll probably make some people angry when they read this post. That's certainly not the point. The point is that we should all check ourselves sometimes and examine what is in our true hearts. I guess if you really think biology is better in your true heart of hearts then that's your right. But just know that is hurts some of us, and that your attitude--no matter how well concealed you may think it is--is bound to crop up here and there in ways that others notice.

OK I'm done.
Writing makes it all better, huh?

Our Adoption Video...only seventeen months later :)

I've been thinking a lot lately about the concept of 'before' and 'after.'

Especially when dealing with bad news.

I will never forget the few moments before I got the call about my Dad suffering his stroke. I was happily packing up my stuff and getting ready to walk out the door to go to work. DH was walking up the street returning from a run.

The phone rang and it was my sister. We often talked on our respective drives into work so I hastily grabbed it and said--without saying hello--"I'm not in the car yet I'll call you right back."

No, she managed to say before I hung up.

Dad had a stroke.

And then--after.

That was the dividing line between his life and our life before and after. Nothing was the same after and it was never, ever better, only worse, slowly, slowly worse. And now he is gone.

I think about those dividing lines so often that I create them in my imagination. Example: the other day I had just finished speaking with my sister on the phone and it was only about an hour later and she was calling again. I was just stepping into the shower so I didn't answer. But the entire shower I wondered if she was calling over and over and I couldn't hear and what it if was another one of those calls diving time into before and after?

(note: she just wanted to ask me about something related to Target. Whew.)

Most of the time the big traumas of our lives are sudden and there is a before and after.

But not with infertility (in most cases).

Infertility chips away at you slowly, until you are just a pile of wood chips.
And by you, I mean me.

Somehow I found myself flying halfway across the country, twice, spending obscene amounts of money. Somehow I found myself going through five full in vitro cycles when I swore I would never even do one. Somehow I found myself lying in a dark room full of needles in my ears and scalp and stomach and toes. Somehow I found myself choking down disgusting herbs. Somehow I found myself obsessively researching and reading and researching and reading and emailing doctors and wanting to try different crazy protocols and injecting and injecting and injecting hormones hormones hormones into my sad, tired belly.

Somehow.

Because I could not see the forest for the trees.

Oh the forest--becoming a mother!--she was gone to me. All I could see were those damned trees.

I speak for myself only here, but there is a lot of shame in all that I did.

I wanted to be a mother.
There are many ways to become a mother.
None are necessarily easy, and no doubt none are better than any other.
Because all that matters in the end--all that ever, ever, ever should matter--is the love you can give to a child.

My forest, my beautiful forest, you were right there the whole time weren't you?

You Ask? I Deliver.

Photos? Did someone say photos, please?

Here you go.

 

 

In their traditional Ethiopian outfits.

My Ethiopian beauty!

 

Brotherly and sisterly love...

Sorry to interrupt the cuteness with sweat, but here I am completing loop one.
I have a weird expression, but what can you do?

And finishing the 31 miles with DH. See the look of relief on our faces?
And yes, I am in different clothes. I was THAT sweaty that I required an outfit change to avoid...
chafing.
The glamour of long-distance running in the humidity.

And to finish, fall cakeballs.
Spicecake.
Carrot cake.
Cream cheese frosting.

Yum.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone!

 



I'm Here.

I am alive.
I am around.
I am trying to comment and read and follow when I can. I don't know if anyone is still around this space but I promised to never just disappear into the ether so here I am.

I am still sad. While trying to straighten up a neverending pile of papers that looked innocuous enough I came across the notes I had made for the obituary I wrote for my Dad and it nearly took me to my knees.

I ran my 50K race this past weekend. I placed 10th out of 38 females. I wore my Dad's hat pre-race but it was too too hot and humid to wear it while running. I hurt--miles 26-30 were excruciating and no matter how much I wanted to run effortlessly in honor of my father my quadriceps didn't necessarily see things the same way. I sobbed for a minute when I saw the finish line and I could picture my Dad there, cheering for me. God he wanted me to be a runner so much and I know he would have been thrilled to see me run 31 miles.

My Mom met me at the finish line and wrapped me in a towel, probably the same thing she used to do for my Dad when he crossed all of his finish lines. She's doing OK, but I worry about her.

My children are beautiful, but you didn't need me to tell you that. I can't take credit for their beauty so I am allowed to brag incessantly, right? They are almost two years old and I can't keep up with their language and growth. It is an amazing thing to witness.

I have had so many complex emotions lately...I guess we all do...I'm not claiming or pretending to be different from anyone else. I just don't always know how to sort them out. Some days I hurt so much for all the hurt in the world it threatens to take me right under. When does it end? Other days I just go about my day complaining about my ridiculous first world problems and then buy a new chevron striped blanket at Target.

I guess all I can do is shake my head and wonder how the hell I got so, so lucky.

How are you doing?

Grief...It's What's for Dinner

I know the blog post title might sound tacky, but I don't know...my emotions are all over the place.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for your kind words on my last post. Thank you.

I am doing OK.

Mostly I have been doing better than OK, bolstered by the knowledge that my Dad is free from the constraints of his mind and body.

I held his hand while he took his last breath.

I never imagined I could feel so honored while doing so.

But the grief, it hits in unexpected places.

Today in church, I noticed ahead of time that the last hymn to be sung was the same one sung at my Dad's funeral. I was prepared. I was ready.

Until I wasn't.

Minutes before the song was to be sung, I found myself whispering desperately to DH that I had to get out, to escape, because I just couldn't hear it.

I stumbled down the aisle, tears streaming down my face, and then sobbed in the bathroom, where the sound was piped in.

When I got a birthday card from my Mom, well, it was the first one that said "Love Mom" and there was nothing from Dad. He always wrote in my cards and I cherished his words (still have all the cards!), and the first year after the stroke he dictated to Mom what he couldn't physically write, but his words were 100% him. The last two years my Mom signed his name when he could no longer contribute anything.

"Love Mom" was all she could write this year.

I miss him.
And yes, I am so extremely grateful to still have my mother in my life.

I spent three years trying to forget my Dad as a physically active man who loved to talk finance, religion, and do crossword puzzles for hours (the hard ones, sometimes in ink). It was too hard to remember that Dad while adjusting to the new post-stroke Dad.

But now, now those memories are pouring in, and they are happy-sad. I guess that's what all the memories of those who have passed are--happy sad.

At any rate, we're all surviving. I'm another year older and hey, no big whoop, right?

I just wanted to check in.

I have so many emotions swirling around about genetics that are coming from a place I thought was long since gone, but losing your father will do that to you. It has nothing to do with my beautiful babies who couldn't be more perfect in my eyes, but I'm still sad to know my Dad isn't carrying forward in my family in a genetic way. It's silly, but it's still there. Sigh. And I'm just gutted with grief over what they've lost in terms of their genetic past. Gutted.

So yes, I'm running. Long meditative runs. They aren't any easier, but in that space I can talk to my Dad, process some of these emotions, and get my body ready for my upcoming race.

Thank you again, sorry for the all over the place post. My next one will be about baking, and kiddos, and happy and light stuff. It has to be.

He is gone from my sight.

Thank you to everyone who commented on my last post...my tribute to my Dad as a runner. It means a lot.

I got a call yesterday morning at work that my Dad was not doing well.

I scrambled around packing, securing child care, finishing up at work as best I could through a teary haze and started the long drive to my hometown.

When I got there I laid my head on his chest to hear that runner's heart again. I told him how much I loved him and thanked him for everything he did for me.

My Dad took his last breath only minutes after my sister and I got there.

Goodbye sweet Dad. Thank you for everything. I'm so sorry my children will not know their Pumpa.

Thank you for waiting until we could get there to say goodbye.

My Dad, the runner.

I've been asked a few times lately about my semi-sudden interest in running, particularly long distance running.

The thing is, I don't really remember a time when I didn't run in some form or fashion. I've been running fairly regularly since I was a kid, pre-teen, teenager, young adult, adult, to now, middle aged adult. Sometimes I would pepper my exercise regimen with other workouts--who can forget step aerobics, the Stairmaster, Tae-bo, impact kickboxing, and I must admit--I actually had one of those slide things to mimic speed skating. Whoa boy. And I've mountain biked, hiked, roller bladed, ran stairs, and even tried swimming.

But running has been the constant. After all, I grew up around a running father.

Have I ever really enjoyed running?

Not really. I ran cross country in the hopes that I would make my Dad happy.

He was pleased, as pleased as he showed me in those days. He came to all my practices because he had to drive me there. He became the self-appointed assistant coach which embarrassed me to no end. I wasn't very good as speed has not ever been my gift. So who knows if I ended up embarrassing him as much as he was embarrassing me. I wish I could ask him.

This past weekend I was in my hometown for the dreaded reunion--dreaded only in the sense that it marked time in a very real way. It was actually lovely to see so many of my friends, all of us twenty years older.

While in my hometown I drove around familiar spaces and thought about all the running I did on some of those streets. Runs with one of my best running buddies Phoebe in high school--and after meandering around her neighborhood streets for an hour or so we'd get in her little red VW Bug and drive the route to see our mileage. No RunKeeper or Garmin's back then. I was astonished to drive on the hilly feeder roads that hardly have a shoulder as I recalled running a six mile loop on them as a youth...I have to think my parents didn't really know I was out there doing that and I am frankly amazed I wasn't mowed down by a car.

That was a damn hard route, run in the midst of my eating-and-exercise disordered haze.

I ran in college with the hubs, again, strictly as part of a way to burn calories and hope to get thinner and thinner.

Running is just what I knew. Everyone is supposed to exercise. Running is good exercise. Ergo, I ran.

My Dad started running in 1978. He also started writing in running journals. Clear as a bell in my mind's eye I can see him standing at our kitchen bar, leaning over his running journal, every.single.day recording his distance and time, and little anecdotes about the run.

"You'll want to read these one day after I'm gone."

Sure Dad, we'd say, and roll our eyes. I could never imagine wanting to read about his runs one day.

Just as clearly I can see him sitting on our back porch in a lawn chair, sweat pooling underneath him, leaning forward, shirtless, tanned, sweatband around his head and maybe on his wrists, as he cooled off from his midday runs. In Texas. In the summer. He loved running in the heat, the hotter the better.

"Walk on my back," he'd say when we were small. My Dad had had several back surgeries and was actually told he'd never run again after the fact but proved everyone wrong, ad nauseum. We'd walk up and down his back to help work out the kinks. I myself have only recently discovered the glorious feeling of little tiny feet under the weight of a thirty-pound body walking up and down my back when it's sore.

I have my Dad's running journals now. From 1978 to 2000 he wrote an entry nearly every single day. And I'm reading through them, and loving and cherishing every single word.

Although he is not gone, his running self is gone. That body has left us. Most of that mind has left us. And so his words are as beautiful as they are mundane, because I have this sense of him. Of how he loved running. Of how important it was to him, to go out and feel the pavement under his feet, to feel the sweat pour off his body, to feel his strong heart beating harder and faster.

It made him feel alive.

I'm sorry I didn't start enjoying running until so recently. Now I would love to talk to him more about it. To tell him that I get it, this addiction he had. That we're not running away from anything but running towards everything. Towards peace. Towards health. Towards happiness. And that running long distances feels good and it has nothing to do with calories burned or pounds shed.

This weekend when I saw him I told him some of this. It doesn't matter what he understands. I told him I am reading his journals and loving every word of them. I told him I have his old running t-shirts, and his marathon medals, and the wool hat he wore when he crossed his first marathon finish line in a winter race. Maybe I'll wear it when I run the 50K I plan on running in the cold this November.

I rubbed his leg, and felt the muscle that has withered and faded so much he is mostly bones.

I heard his heart beat, still slow and strong--a runner's heart. He'll always have a runner's heart.

I showed his picture to Phoebe, my running buddy, who only knew my Dad as a strong runner. She teared up and squeezed my hand, so sorry to see the way he has slipped into this weakened state.

And I went running. Through the trails near the land where he grew up as a kid. I saw the sunlight shining through the trees and I felt happy. I had the hubs take a quick picture so I could try to hold onto the feeling.

Here is a shot of one of his earliest journals, from 1978. I focused in on the words "I am addicted to running" which was written at the end of a week he was injured and couldn't run and frankly felt miserable.

I get it Dad.

Thanks for teaching me about running.