Waiting to Break

Life these days is a precarious balance between bewilderment and bliss.  The past few days have been a balancing act on a tight rope across the sky.  I find myself teetering on the edge in the most unlikely moments:  washing the dishes, dispensing vitamins, changing diapers.  Nothing is the same and everything is the same.  It isn't but it isn't.  All the routine stuff of my day is not so routine anymore.  There is a deeper appreciation for a screaming baby and a little boy who still hates to sit and eat at the same time.  But there is a profound sadness at what could have been.

And I have yet to break.  I am waiting expectantly for it though.  I want that moment of despair to come so that I no longer dread it.  I need the catharsis that only a soul wrenching cry can give.  And I am waiting for it.

Here's why.

On February 19th, 2014 my baby boy died.  At 12:56 AM the bedroom door to our room flew open, the light was thrown on, and I was awoken to the cry of my husband saying, "He's not breathing.  Oh God he's not breathing."  I remember looking at the clock.  I remember throwing back the covers.  I remember starting CPR while he called 911.  I remember my precious blue jay being ice cold and the color of gray skies.  I remember pushing on his chest and blowing air into his mouth.  I remember blood coming out of his nose and breast milk foaming at his mouth.  I remember desperation and nothingness. And I remember going outside to wait for emergency services to arrive.  It gets foggy after that.  The next thing I can recall is holding Michael outside of the ambulance preparing him for the inevitable:  our boy wasn't going to live.  In those moments I just knew he was gone and we had to start accepting that.  While paramedics, firemen, and police men and women did their best to revive him we stood by helplessly waiting for someone to tell us it was all just a dream.  This wasn't happening.  But they never did.  It was the most active silence I have ever experienced.  The work of saving a life was happening right behind us and no one was saying a word.

That night I learned that I excel in the crisis.  Irony at it's best.  Ask anyone who really knows me and they can attest to the fact that I lose it in the everyday.  But for some reason I can hold it together when there seems to be no hope.  And that is what happened.  Michael rode with the ambulance and I waited for a neighbor to come and keep watch over a sleeping Maddox before I left with an officer.

Nothing can prepare you for something like this.  After the ambulance headed out, I was left alone with two police officers telling me hard decisions were on the horizon.  I heard them talk but I didn't comprehend.  And then the fire chief came. When he walked through the door I instantly recognized him from the cross fit gym.  And I melted.  I melted to the floor and he melted with me.  In that moment I needed to be known by someone and although our connection existed inside a hot and sweaty gym where I worked my body it was enough.  I felt a crack in my soul.  His name is Paco and he was an angel that early morning.

Somehow I got to the hospital.  A police officer drove me.  We talked about country music and nothing at all.  I remember thinking to myself, "am I acting appropriately?"  I have seen far too many crime dramas where the perpetrators gave themselves away by acting inappropriately and I wondered if I was one of them.  The thing is I had all sorts of thoughts that night, random thoughts.  Being a few weeks removed now, I think I was unconsciously deflecting.  I couldn't deal with what was happening and was reaching for any sort of normal I could find.  None of it felt real.  My mouth was dry.  I wanted to go back to sleep because surely when I woke up this wasn't happening.  Except it was.  There is no prescription for grief.  There is no protocol.  I learned that firsthand.

When I got to the hospital I remember seeing a couple of familiar faces in the nursing staff.  I saw the doctor.  I couldn't look at my baby.  People were stern, focused.  One cop and some paramedics stayed.  A surreal quiet surrounded our space.  We were loved by those around us.  And I folded.  I folded over and stayed there.  In those moments, I held Michael who was needlessly carrying the burden of our pain.  He blamed himself.  I wanted to protect him from those destructive thoughts.  There was no sense to any of these.  There was no blame to be assigned to anyone.  And we waited.

I remember our Pastor and his wife being there but I cannot tell you when they arrived.  I remember standing with them and Michael.  I remember squatting in the hall.  I remember calling my parents and having terrible reception.  I remember being driven home not knowing what was happening next.  Now I know that baby P had been revived but coded again.  Somehow they brought him back again.  The flight crew from FL Hospital for Children arrived at our local hospital after a failed attempt from our flight crew to take him from Melbourne.  Michael left to go to Orlando and I stayed behind to await my mom's arrival.  She came and took the reigns assuring Maddox, our oldest, would have as close to normal a day as possible.  I left with two dear friends who dropped everything to be with me and take me to Orlando.

And I waited some more.  I knew that Patton had survived the flight but had no clue what I was walking into.   The next few days were a blur of tests.  We still had no idea why he quit breathing.  Nothing in the previous days hinted at any illness.  First the CT scan of his brain came back clean indicating no damage.  Check.  Then the EKG of his heart came back clean.  Check.  Initial results were promising but the doctors, without saying it outright, were waiting on something to indicate damage.  After all, no one can go as long as Baby P did without oxygen and survive with no residual damage...except he did.  Meningitis was the culprit.  The prevailing theory is that his little head hurt so much that he simply quit breathing to avoid the pain.  He fought the illness in the safest place possible.

Baby P is fine.

I cannot explain it.  I have no words.  I do not understand.  He is a miracle.

I also cannot explain why I never asked "Why?"  I cannot explain the supernatural peace I had.  Please do not misunderstand, I was terrified.  I was confused.  I wanted to believe none of this was happening.  But in the midst of it all what I felt more than anything was Peace.  A peace which transcends all understanding.

We spend 10 days in thee PICU.  Baby P came home last Sunday.

And now he is cutting teeth.

He is alive.

He is a miracle.

There is so much more to the story.

Moment #7: Golden Boy

Maddox gave me another moment yesterday.

We were in the garden picking weeds...I was picking weeds and he was trying his hardest to do the same when I grabbed my phone in the hopes of capturing a moment.

The Loin Fruit does not stay still for very long and the minute you pull out any sort of image capturing device he instantaneously takes it as his cue to move.

But yesterday he gave me a few minutes.

And wasn't too happy about it from the look on his face.

As you know, my garden gives me immense pleasure.

But this sprout gives me even more.

So here's to sunny cool Florida days with the Loin Fruit in my most favorite of places.

Happy Gardening.  

My brain hurts...

I decided to try and encapsulate a few moments of my thought life.  Perhaps I have too much unused time on my hands.  Or, perhaps, I am trying to articulate my fog. 

In mere moments I went from trying to decide if one of my tomato plants is dying to revising a short story I wrote several years ago to contemplating deleting all of my social media accounts to living on a farm and being a farmer to wishing the weather would stay cool to wondering how I am going to stake my green bean plants to deciding, for the umpteenth time, that I am NOT going to take a nap today.

This took up about 2 minutes of my day today.  The thing is that this viscous 2 minute cycle occurs 30 times in any given hour.  I am reeling in my head most of my waking moments.

My brain is tired.

I sat down and tried to draw how I feel most of the time.  I am a terrible artist.  The above picture is not of my doing but it is the closest thing I could find to what came out of my hands and onto the page:

A big fat cloud of crazy swirling around outside of me.

I have so many ideas.  I have so many thoughts.  I long for simplicity and a unification of my thoughts and ideas.  I have to believe they all meet somewhere out there and that, hopefully, that meeting is where I find myself.  Not yet, however.

Moment #6: My New Obession

It is official...I am obsessed with the Trail Runner Nation podcast.  

I am new to the whole podcast phenomenon and have grown increasingly weary of my music as I run.

Looking for something new to help keep me motivated on my runs a couple of weeks ago I found TrailRunner Nation.  

Holy Crap.

I am in no way as hardcore as the people these folks talk with. 

 I want to be...However

 I enjoy an intact femur and have no desire to run anywhere near 50 miles let alone 100.  I don't want to run through a stress fracture in the middle of the woods in search of the closest aid station. 

But I admire the dedication it takes to accomplish something like this.  

And I figure if these folks can run a 3 mile look 99 times I can run a measly 8 miles even if I don't mentally feel like it.

I have trouble allocating my time effectively as it is.  I cannot imagine training for something requires such an allotment.  I like the idea of it though.  I like the structure.  I like the focus.  I like the sacrifice it requires to do so.  That does appeal to me.  The mental strength it takes to do something like this is a skill I need to develop.  

I enjoy setting a physical goal and then accomplishing it; this breaks down after a certain point because I do not know how to effectively cross-train and feed myself to continue the training.  That is part of the reason I love this podcast so much.  Yes they interview ultra-runners but the also talk with folks about safe training methodology, nutrition, mental focus, and the science of running.  

I'm a sucker for science.

So, if you are tired of your music and want some motivation check out 

http://trailrunnernation.com/podcasts/ 

You won't be sorry.

Moment #5

Moment #5: Stiches

March 7th, a day that will forever more live in infamy.  Yep...the Loin Fruit had his first trip to the ER this past Thursday.  In all honesty I am surprised it took that long.  The Loin Fruit is a madman.  Madman I tell you.  He is not, however, destructive.  For his size and speed and the voraciousness with which he attacks all things he is very gentle.  The Fruit has never seen a piece of trash that did not need to be lovingly carried home to its eternal resting place in the trash can.  He caresses our dog with loving finesse.  

But he runs with abandon.

Loves with his entire being.

And does nothing halfway.

Which is why we ended up in the emergency room.

I make stitches look good!

He handled the whole thing like a champ.  In fact, you wouldn't have known he was hurt if you weren't  looking at him.  While waiting for the doctor, he played and laughed and decided that the bed pans (sterile and never used) hiding in plain site in our room were meant to be played with (because who doesn't think kidney bean shaped objects aren't fun?).  He pushed buttons on the bed and opened and closed the door and laughed.  We read books and snuggled and played with sunglasses and drank water and ate animal crackers.  It was almost like we were home.  Except we weren't.

I will spare you all the details of the procedure itself.  Standard stuff I expect.  I can tell you that I have never hurt like that though.  I held his head and said his name just so he would know he wasn't alone.  I  felt my eyes burn with tears but didn't cry because I did not want to scare him.  But it hurt.  

Love hurts.  

The love I feel for the Fruit is so complex that it simultaneously fills me with a joy unlike anything I have ever experienced and a pain that is tangible.  

I would have gladly taken his fear and pain in that moment.  But I could not.  What I could do was let him know he was not alone.  So I did.

...still taking pictures?

The Loin Fruit is doing just fine.  I am quite certain he forgot about the whole thing by the time we were in the parking lot.  

Moment #4

Moment #4:  Stories

There can be no doubt that I was created to be a part of stories.  Stories that people see and experience. Yes, I know we all have stories of our own to tell and experience.  I know I do.  But I know that part of my personal story includes sharing the stories of others whom I have never actually known.

I have done a lot of theatre.  I will spare you the resume.  I hate listing the things I have been a part of.  It isn't that I am not proud of my work.  I am.  I just don't think people really want to know all that.  January, February and a smidgen of March of this year included roles in "The Laramie Project:  Ten Years Later."

A Visual for You

This show is like nothing I have never done before.  All the "characters" are not really characters at all but real people speaking their own words.  Nothing embellished.  Nothing fictional.  Just the truth from their perspectives and honest responses to probing questions.

It was magical.

And terrifying.

I have portrayed actual people on stage before, fictionalized accounts of historical figures.   There is nothing fictional about this show.  It is achingly painful misted with hope and a dash of despair.   Pain because of what was done to Matthew.  Pain because of the thorns that entangled the truth of the matter over the years.  Pain that a person can do something so terrible to another.

And pain because I know I am not so different.

Hope because out of anguish comes growth and change.  Hope because there can be beauty from ashes.  Hope because there is still goodness in humanity.  

And hope because I can do my small part to be the change I long for.

I recognize that I am being vague in my descriptions.  I suppose that is because I do not have the ability to articulate my reactions to being a part of something like this.  

My script

denial

recognition

swept under the rug

change

ignore

stories

A couple of weeks after the closing of this show I can tell you that what I have taken away from this is my own ability to configure my past to a story of my liking.  That I am so capable of twisting the truth was shocking to me but in order to live in truth I have to admit my shortcomings.  I want my mistakes to be dismissed.  I want my failings to be beautiful.  I do not want to acknowledge my own brutality...but that does not mean they are not there nor does it mean they did not happen.  

So what to do with that?

I come to the same word that has plagued me this past year:  Honesty

Own it.  Admit it.  Change it.  Be honest.

There is so much more to say but this post has become increasingly discombobulated so I will spare you the rest of my ramblings.   

Matthew Shepard

Moment #3

Moment #3:  Arrival

Waiting...

This moment started a week or so ago.  I have been eagerly planning my Spring garden for months.  Months I tell you.  I started devouring gardening books in October and reading all I could on what to plant for the upcoming season.  And it is here!!!

Typically, I buy transplants and just put them directly into the ground or pots.  It feels safe planting something in my garden that has already begun.  Seeds are a different matter entirely.  There is no guarantee they will amount to anything and that scares me.  This year, I decided to try and sprout my own seeds and see what happened.  This has been a year of throwing off all that binds and moving forward in spite of the fear, not matter how big or small the fear may be.

Nature has a way of knowing exactly what it needs to survive.  My role in this is to use good soil and water attentively.  Seriously, people have been planting seeds for thousands of years.  I do not know why I was afraid of seeds.  I suppose it was the uncertainty of them.

Anyway.

I planted.  I waited.  And this happened:

Zucchini

And this...

More Zucchini

 And this...

Even more Zucchini, Kitchen Beans, and Cucumbers

I have a few more weeks of waiting before I transfer the seedlings into my garden.  I'm pretty excited about that.