Mountains vs. Oceans: This Time It's Personal!

 Another beautiful day of sunshine here in Bend? Can’t believe how peaceful it is to live down here. At least once a day, as I'm driving/fiddling with the radio or speed walking with the kid/stroller/dog, I turn a corner and there’s a different angle on a damn mountain. It’s humbling to live among these big ass mountains. I like how it makes me feel: settled and concrete and aware of my surroundings. 

Mountains are permanent. I am not. That notion (that my little world is fleeting) makes me nervous at times. Mountains kick the shit outta my worry.  Whereas, when I’m at the coast, the ocean is fluid like me and therefore I feel more distracted around water. I never grew up anywhere near a large body of water and its novelty, I believe, will never wear off. Getting to stare into the ocean or be close to it takes on an event all its own. Suddenly I can’t read a book because I’m just staring into the sea. Watching how the waves lap and roll back out. Wondering when I should get back in or if I should just sit and continue to stare. (If I'm in Mexico, should I buy another blanket or a bracelet?) 

But mountains are a period. The end to the sentence, a declaration of finality. Oh! Shit! Look at Mt. Bachelor (didn’t see that one coming!) And I’m so small and my kids are even smaller and we are so frail and finite and suddenly “big” problems seem ridiculous in comparison to the size of even one of those mountains in the Cascade Mtn. Range. It’s like a reminder to shut the fuck up and get happy with the now (and finish the task at hand!).

Thanks, Mountains!

A Nod to the Ladies

We choose our friends because they remind us of what we can be and who we are and the choices that we make. They are our idols and our playmates, our heroes and sometime soul mates. For female friendships, the mere presence of another woman that knows you helps to reconfirm. This reconfirmation of our Self provides the strength that women need to move back through their own lives and accommodate the needs of others and the myriad of daily requests that are put on us by our children, husbands, co-workers, and even parents and siblings. As in the practice of yoga, we return to our mats to let go. To practice the art of letting go. We return to the warm embrace of friendship in order to reaffirm our position in the universe. After spending time with good friends I can see more clearly. I can be more patient with my children and show them more compassion, too. Though it could sound dramatic to put so much weight on the power of female friendships, I feel that there is so much involved when women stand together. We can change the world. 

Happy (Daddy) Day

Happy Father’s Day, 2012!

Our almost two year old started to put words together this past month so instead of “milk” it’s “milk, please” (or milt peas). Yesterday, he said “happy day” – loud and clear. To this day, I don’t know if I’ve heard a better sentence spoken in human language. Happy day. It’s so true. It’s so clear and accurate of a description I have to use it myself. I also want to apply it to this upcoming Father’s Day when we get to say thank you to dads but especially my baby daddy.

After all the stress and concern that surrounds the health of our second born, after the long nights in the hospital, prepping him for MRIs, remembering his daily dose of medicine and trying to process the look on the faces of our medical team, I just want to say to my hubby: Happy Day.

This one is for you. Thanks for your constant support and focus on the task at hand, however sleep deprived you were. For taking son #1 to play golf and to the park and out for ice cream and crappy (but fun!) fast food restaurant toys. Thanks for listening and crying with me (if your boss reads this I’ll say it was only a couple of times) and for committing deeply to loving our sons. Our sons. Our lives. The saying no to golf with pals and yes to Legos.

Happy Day, Co.

Ah, life, an evolutionary process.

Greetings from my new blog look. It looks different, I know. It represents the fact that I'm not in such a dark place as I was upon first creation of my place on the WWW. This one is supposed to be entertaining but I hope you comment and provide feedback and I hope I write more...shall we pinky promise?

Thanks for reading. Check back soon...

What's This All About?

As the weeks go by and we move further away from a doctor’s visit or an MRI or from having to discuss complex partial seizures, I get real positive. Positive to the point that I am in some state of denial about our son’s “condition.” Though I’m conscious and aware of giving him anti-seizure medication twice daily, it feels no more threatening then handing the boys gummie bear vitamins. What I secretly think is this: the doctors are wrong. Soon enough, a neurologist will say, to my face, “your son no longer needs these meds because he is fine.”

What they actually say: “We aren’t ruling out TS (a rare genetic disorder) as the reason for the seizures or the mass in his upper right lobe.” So what’s this all about? Why don’t I have more answers? How are we to live in this state of in between? In between is the spot smack dab in the middle of the total truth and total ignorance. A daily ritual of having to constantly struggle between total panic and staying calm. One scenario…we continue to increase the dose as he grows and the side effects start and he’s a monster to live with. Another scenario…we continue to increase the dose as he grows and no side effects appear and he’s a happy, well adjusted boy. Another scenario…the seizures return and meds don’t keep them away, we discuss brain surgery. So which one is it? All of the above or none?

What irks me some days is how to get from breakfast to dinner and not lose my mind.

Darby Harn's Book

An abridged review of Darby Harn's  The Book of Elizabeth:
Those Kuzar bastards!

A quick note to the author:
I'm a fan and need parts two and three. When you get a minute to finish writing them.

For anyone who likes science fiction or beautifully constructed prose:
Pick up a copy of Darby Harn's The Book of Elizabeth.

A letter

Dear -,

What do you say to us? The parents of kids who have to deal with this stuff? That you’re sorry? Are you sorry? It’s just your job. Or is it just a job? Do you ever break down with all the tragedy and fall into a moment of despair? How can you let yourselves feel that much? I suppose that’s the answer.

At the end of the day, while we sit in the specialist’s office with our appointment that was made over a month earlier, we aren’t sure what the questions should be and there’s never much time. The clock is ticking just as we notice the medical badges hanging on pulleys and white doctor coats fly past and sit down and it’s all too obvious how quickly this will be over. We’re supposed to ask questions. There’s a limited amount of time to digest the information and then the door closes to the office and all the words you wanted to say appear in front of your eyes like a concisely written script.

Why didn’t I just say that? I think. Why did you forget to ask that? You think. We look at one another with doubts as if we’re in a chess game. Don’t let the doctors notice my ignorance and the weakness lurking in the corners of our eyes. The give away. Did this break you?

I’m thinking of coffee now.

You’re mentally mixing a Grey Goose martini.

A little dirty.

Extra olives.

The sound of the door shuts as you stir your drink and return it to the maple bar top. The happy hour is over. Again.