“ I didn’t even finish my Christmas shopping Toni.”
Toni. Pronouced Ton-ee. Its not a typo. Its what my Grandma Ina called me. Toni. She called me that from a baby all the way up to my teenage years where I was wearing black eyeliner as lip liner and black motorcycle boots. She called me Toni on my wedding day and when I sobbed on her couch after two pregnancy losses.
She just found out she’s dying from cancer and she’s calling me Toni now. She’s also worried because she has 2-5 months to live and she didn’t finish her shopping.
I’m staring at the floor in the hospital numb. She’s not just my Grandma she’s my best friend. I mean that on every level. She knows what I’m thinking before I say it. We usualy have a sleepless night on the same night. We think the same things. I can’t believe this is happening. She’s 83 and will tell you “no spring chicken” and hasn’t been the same since my grandfather passed 2 years ago but selfishly I think that she can’t die. I’ve lost so many things too fast. Not her too. my first pregnancy at 20 weeks, my grandfather, another pregnancy at 6 weeks, my other grandmother and now her? Not her.
We started to organize her home care. Her insurance covers very little. We get a schedule together and as a family take turns going to her condo and sorting pills, making meals and balancing her check book.
She has me call her pastor and he comes over to pray with her. I bow my head but don’t really listen to the words. I’m mad at God. I’m mad about a lot of things and He knows why. After our first loss at 20 weeks devistated doesn’t cover the emotions I was feeling. It seemed like everything I’d known and believed was tossed in the air like a deck of playcards and scattered, with no particular order at my feet. It didn’t make sense. I was 25, not 45 why would we have a baby “ not make it”? Why would we have to go in for an ultra sound only to have the poor ultra sound tech excuse herself without looking at us and go get her superior? Why did we have a room full of baby stuff in our apartment waiting for a baby that was never going to come home with us? Why us? Was it payback for something? How can the God that I thought I knew even bring this to our table?
Grandma asks the pastor to pray for us to have a healthy baby. She knows I’ve been devistated by the thought of not being a Mom. I again, politely bow my head and I roll my eyes behind closed lids.
The next few weeks are challenging. I’m not going to get into those details. By the end of my grandmother’s life I was exhausted. While her impending death was sad, we had some beautiful talks. I felt my heart soften as she got closer to her death and maintained such devotion to God. She never felt sorry for herself. We joked, labled family photos and cried. I opened up to her again about the pain of the babies we lost. She always smiled gently and said “ Toni, you worry to much. Too much!” and then would pat my hand.
She was moved to hospice that last week and it was a lovely place. She had a private room and I’d stayed the night. It had been bad. She’d gone into diabetic shock and wouldn’t stay in bed. She would cry out for me and be convinced she was in her condo and it was flooding. I had to pretend I was in the world she was in and promised that if she stayed in bed I’d turn off the “water” that was causing the “ flooding”. She believed me and fell asleep. That moment was so sad. That wasn’t my grandma any more.
The last time I said goodbye to her she was barely awake. I took her hand and told her how much I loved her. I told her I’d miss her and that I was honored to be her grand daughter and friend. As a fleeting thought I took a deep breath and said told her to say hi to my grandfather and our babies. I then said “ When you see God, if you could pull some strings and see if maybe we could have a healthy baby I’d appreciate it.”
She smiled at me and squeezed my hand.
She passed the next day which was a Wednesday. There’s more to that story but I’m tight on space. I will only say it was very obvious that God was watching us and walking with us through that day.
2 weeks later we’d had my grandmother’s memorial service and I was tired. I was about to take a nap when I looked at the calendar. I looked again. I’d missed my period.
I found out I was pregnant with Elizabeth that day. I cried.
I prayed to God alot after that. Not because I got pregnant. It was an awesome bonus of course,but that wasn’t why. It was because of all of the ways He’d made Himself so obviously there through a horrible time. When I stopped being mad I looked back and saw there were a TON of signs along the way that he’d never left. I had left, but now I was back
Saturday, December 28, 2013
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
I Yam What I Is
I'm not sure how to spell ballsy. I feel like I should know. Not because I fit the bill but more because it's a pretty popular term in pop culture.
I love writing. I've loved it ever since I was 8 and wrote my first " horror" story about a trip to a grave yard gone horribly awry. This was very cutting edge for the She-Ra audience.
In 8th grade I had an amazing teacher. She asked us to write our own twist on The Three Little Pigs. Mine was about how they turned on one that turned out to be a serial killer. They ended up eating him. It was read outloud to the class. The ending wasn't exactly embraced. The kids said " gross" and wanted to know who would " write that". My name wasnt read and the class assumed it was a boy so I was beyond suspect. Still, it hurt. I had been proud of that story.
My teacher pulled me aside and told me it was " very good" and she thought it was funny and creepy in a good way. 8th grade wasn't fun so I walked on air for the rest of the day knowing I had actually done something that was " very good". I felt special and most importantly, seen and heard.
Now days I would have had been forced into a psych evaluation. ( Which might have been warranted ) Instead, the next year I was put in a class with other kids who enjoyed writing.
I thought I was pretty cool. I was possibly good at something that I enjoyed. The class started and within the first month it became very clear I was lacking in the technical part of writing. The creative part I could handle but the rest of it was a mess.
In 11th grade I was still in " advanced" English.( I don't like that term but it's what they called it.) I met my first critic.
He was a pompous ass and he was my teacher. I struggled to get him to like anything I wrote. My teachers had always liked my work. Even a particularly difficult teacher gave me some positive feedback. This guy, just wasn't interested. I finally got the balls ( ballsy? Huh? Yeah?) to ask him for advice on how to improve.
" I don't like your voice in your work," he told me.
I stared at him blankly. I can imagine my silly, 17 year old face looking at him in shock. scrunchy around my wrist, my Crow t-shirt, jeans and knock off Converse shoes. I was so awesome
" Why?" was all I could eek out.
" You write like people speak. You can't do that. It's not literature."
I left the classroom and started towards my locker. I felt like I'd just found out Santa wasn't real. The day dreams I'd had and the pride I'd had in my work was deflated. What I wrote wasn't literature. I knew I couldn't change my writing to fit in that mold. So it was pretty much over.
I obviously continued to write but not with the same goals in mind.
It's funny how stupid we are in high school. While I still think Mr.Assbag was tactless and rude, I completely missed what I should have learned from him. It took me about 15 years to get
it.
He was right. I don't write "literature" on his terms. There was a girl in my class who wrote flowery, beautiful, and detailed pieces. Technically perfect papers. They were advanced and used as example every week. I was envious. That being said, every story made me physically
uncomfortable. I'd close my eyes so nobody would see the eye roll lurking behind my lids.
I wasn't her audience and Mr.Assbag wasn't mine. I do write how I speak. I write exactly what's in my brain. Spelling is tough because I see some letters (and numbers) backwards so that makes it interesting. Technical sentence structure often doesn't match the run-on sentences in my head. I now know a lot of writers have a similar issue. That's why they thank their editors a billion times.
I'm not ever going to be Sinclair Lewis or Hawthorne. I doubt I'll write a book that a sober publisher would take a second look at. I'll keep writing though. Spelling errors, run-on sentences and all.
I love writing. I've loved it ever since I was 8 and wrote my first " horror" story about a trip to a grave yard gone horribly awry. This was very cutting edge for the She-Ra audience.
In 8th grade I had an amazing teacher. She asked us to write our own twist on The Three Little Pigs. Mine was about how they turned on one that turned out to be a serial killer. They ended up eating him. It was read outloud to the class. The ending wasn't exactly embraced. The kids said " gross" and wanted to know who would " write that". My name wasnt read and the class assumed it was a boy so I was beyond suspect. Still, it hurt. I had been proud of that story.
My teacher pulled me aside and told me it was " very good" and she thought it was funny and creepy in a good way. 8th grade wasn't fun so I walked on air for the rest of the day knowing I had actually done something that was " very good". I felt special and most importantly, seen and heard.
Now days I would have had been forced into a psych evaluation. ( Which might have been warranted ) Instead, the next year I was put in a class with other kids who enjoyed writing.
I thought I was pretty cool. I was possibly good at something that I enjoyed. The class started and within the first month it became very clear I was lacking in the technical part of writing. The creative part I could handle but the rest of it was a mess.
In 11th grade I was still in " advanced" English.( I don't like that term but it's what they called it.) I met my first critic.
He was a pompous ass and he was my teacher. I struggled to get him to like anything I wrote. My teachers had always liked my work. Even a particularly difficult teacher gave me some positive feedback. This guy, just wasn't interested. I finally got the balls ( ballsy? Huh? Yeah?) to ask him for advice on how to improve.
" I don't like your voice in your work," he told me.
I stared at him blankly. I can imagine my silly, 17 year old face looking at him in shock. scrunchy around my wrist, my Crow t-shirt, jeans and knock off Converse shoes. I was so awesome
" Why?" was all I could eek out.
" You write like people speak. You can't do that. It's not literature."
I left the classroom and started towards my locker. I felt like I'd just found out Santa wasn't real. The day dreams I'd had and the pride I'd had in my work was deflated. What I wrote wasn't literature. I knew I couldn't change my writing to fit in that mold. So it was pretty much over.
I obviously continued to write but not with the same goals in mind.
It's funny how stupid we are in high school. While I still think Mr.Assbag was tactless and rude, I completely missed what I should have learned from him. It took me about 15 years to get
it.
He was right. I don't write "literature" on his terms. There was a girl in my class who wrote flowery, beautiful, and detailed pieces. Technically perfect papers. They were advanced and used as example every week. I was envious. That being said, every story made me physically
uncomfortable. I'd close my eyes so nobody would see the eye roll lurking behind my lids.
I wasn't her audience and Mr.Assbag wasn't mine. I do write how I speak. I write exactly what's in my brain. Spelling is tough because I see some letters (and numbers) backwards so that makes it interesting. Technical sentence structure often doesn't match the run-on sentences in my head. I now know a lot of writers have a similar issue. That's why they thank their editors a billion times.
I'm not ever going to be Sinclair Lewis or Hawthorne. I doubt I'll write a book that a sober publisher would take a second look at. I'll keep writing though. Spelling errors, run-on sentences and all.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
January, the real test
I dread January for the most part. It's a mix of germs and anti climactic holiday induced family get togethers. We brace for the holidays, hoping that the crazy won't be unleashed like it was the year prior. We always get through it and around the time when we're taking down the tree we realize November and December just flew by. Then comes January.
September school starts ( not fun but interesting), October is Halloween, November is Thanksgiving ( also my birthday, jot it down) and December is Christmas. Then January. It always feels drained, grey and cold. Not just the weather either. People are tired. People are hating themselves for being 4 days in on the weight loss resolution and eating a Snickers bar in the parking lot of the grocery store.
Don't you judge me.
As a teen I hated it because in our school district after the holidays came our new class schedule. Months of knowing your teachers, your classmates and what classes you could skip gone. All in the name of January. Oh sure, some will say in the name of education but I will argue that I have yet to use solder besides in 8th grade metals class. Of course my former teacher would say that's safer for everyone but I digress.
January in high school seemed to bring a rash and break ups. Something about getting over the holidays and being away from their significant other for 13 days made sixteen year old minds either re-evaluate or forget their relationships. It really could have been either. At that age our brains are like etch-a-sketches. If we're disturbed to much you have to start all over.
The halls would be dotted with clusters of crying teen girls and boys hitting their lockers. 32% of them would write bad poetry. 16% would get back together until another screen clearing shake. The rest were causalities of January.
I'm not even going to start about the weather. I'm in MN. I knew what I signed up for. That being said, it doesn't help.
So I sit here, waiting for January to end. On the plus side it's almost over.
September school starts ( not fun but interesting), October is Halloween, November is Thanksgiving ( also my birthday, jot it down) and December is Christmas. Then January. It always feels drained, grey and cold. Not just the weather either. People are tired. People are hating themselves for being 4 days in on the weight loss resolution and eating a Snickers bar in the parking lot of the grocery store.
Don't you judge me.
As a teen I hated it because in our school district after the holidays came our new class schedule. Months of knowing your teachers, your classmates and what classes you could skip gone. All in the name of January. Oh sure, some will say in the name of education but I will argue that I have yet to use solder besides in 8th grade metals class. Of course my former teacher would say that's safer for everyone but I digress.
January in high school seemed to bring a rash and break ups. Something about getting over the holidays and being away from their significant other for 13 days made sixteen year old minds either re-evaluate or forget their relationships. It really could have been either. At that age our brains are like etch-a-sketches. If we're disturbed to much you have to start all over.
The halls would be dotted with clusters of crying teen girls and boys hitting their lockers. 32% of them would write bad poetry. 16% would get back together until another screen clearing shake. The rest were causalities of January.
I'm not even going to start about the weather. I'm in MN. I knew what I signed up for. That being said, it doesn't help.
So I sit here, waiting for January to end. On the plus side it's almost over.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
It's that tickly cough that is the most annoying
That wasn't meant as a deep title for this blog entry. I'm telling you the deep truth. The truth that is in my sinuses.
Its fall, and while most are enjoying the cool crisp days and the colors of the leaves I'm bracing for cold and flu season.
My germ phobia kicked into full gear when our daughter was born at the height of the H1N1 mess. I, sort on sleep and common sense would turn on the news at 2 AM while feeding our bundle of joy only to discover that the world was ending because of H1N1.
I'm not well known in general. I will however say that as far as paranoia and worrying go, in my little circle of friends and loved ones on this planet I tend to take the crown. Not trying to brag but I can obsess and worry about most anything at any given time. Jealous? Yeah, that's I thought.
Not that its an excuse, but I come from a long line of worriers. My grandmother was one of my best friends and dare I say a prodigy when it came to tying herself up in knots. She could worry about everything from garbage bags to light bulbs. Granted, she grew up during the Great Depression, her home burned to the ground as a teen and she lived through WWII. That may have had something to do with it. My basis for chronic concerns seems to stem from sterotypical childhood and teen stuff that makes me roll my eyes. If I think about it to much I want to kick my own ass based on nothing but the predictability and annoyance factor.
What worriers really are are control freaks. The worrying gets down to " HOLY CRAP I CAN'T CONTROL THAT!" which manifests into a crashing realization that we have no power over anything. This leads to and eventual break down that will leave us folding socks and placing them just so in the drawer because we can control the socks. ( Unless the socks are judging us. Then screw them)
Back to my point. It is cold and flu season. It starts small and ends up in a goobery mess mid Feb when we've all been behind our plastic covered windows looking out onto the frozen tundra that is our backyard. We live in MN. We expect it. So what can I do?
Well, back in the day they told you to bleach the hell out of everything. Now they say don't do that. Its bad for the planet, your lungs and it turns out killing everything makes bigger scarier germs. Ok. Fine. Then two days later they say be sure to wash your hands. ( duh) If you do nothing else all day wash your hands. Alright. Done. A day later they say wash your hands but not with the antibacterial soap. OH! And don't use the hand sanitizer. Ok, you can SOMETIMES but really, you shouldn't. There's chemicals in there and those are probably bad. Now the public bathrooms have antibacterial hand foam that I maybe should or should not allow my child to use. So should I be carrying my own soap? Does that cross a crazy line?
So what I know is to wash your hands all the time and a sterile environment would be great but the bleach you need could wind up killing you. Of course so could the flu.
I'm going to go fold some socks.
Its fall, and while most are enjoying the cool crisp days and the colors of the leaves I'm bracing for cold and flu season.
My germ phobia kicked into full gear when our daughter was born at the height of the H1N1 mess. I, sort on sleep and common sense would turn on the news at 2 AM while feeding our bundle of joy only to discover that the world was ending because of H1N1.
I'm not well known in general. I will however say that as far as paranoia and worrying go, in my little circle of friends and loved ones on this planet I tend to take the crown. Not trying to brag but I can obsess and worry about most anything at any given time. Jealous? Yeah, that's I thought.
Not that its an excuse, but I come from a long line of worriers. My grandmother was one of my best friends and dare I say a prodigy when it came to tying herself up in knots. She could worry about everything from garbage bags to light bulbs. Granted, she grew up during the Great Depression, her home burned to the ground as a teen and she lived through WWII. That may have had something to do with it. My basis for chronic concerns seems to stem from sterotypical childhood and teen stuff that makes me roll my eyes. If I think about it to much I want to kick my own ass based on nothing but the predictability and annoyance factor.
What worriers really are are control freaks. The worrying gets down to " HOLY CRAP I CAN'T CONTROL THAT!" which manifests into a crashing realization that we have no power over anything. This leads to and eventual break down that will leave us folding socks and placing them just so in the drawer because we can control the socks. ( Unless the socks are judging us. Then screw them)
Back to my point. It is cold and flu season. It starts small and ends up in a goobery mess mid Feb when we've all been behind our plastic covered windows looking out onto the frozen tundra that is our backyard. We live in MN. We expect it. So what can I do?
Well, back in the day they told you to bleach the hell out of everything. Now they say don't do that. Its bad for the planet, your lungs and it turns out killing everything makes bigger scarier germs. Ok. Fine. Then two days later they say be sure to wash your hands. ( duh) If you do nothing else all day wash your hands. Alright. Done. A day later they say wash your hands but not with the antibacterial soap. OH! And don't use the hand sanitizer. Ok, you can SOMETIMES but really, you shouldn't. There's chemicals in there and those are probably bad. Now the public bathrooms have antibacterial hand foam that I maybe should or should not allow my child to use. So should I be carrying my own soap? Does that cross a crazy line?
So what I know is to wash your hands all the time and a sterile environment would be great but the bleach you need could wind up killing you. Of course so could the flu.
I'm going to go fold some socks.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Rabbit hole
Who writes a blog for themselves? This is weird. I'm sure my therapist would have a hay day with this. In theory I might as well just write in a journal. Maybe its because I'm trying to get up the nerve to tell people about Ye Ole Blog. Who knows. Who cares really?
Its funny how certain music can transport you to a different place in your life. I hear Prince and I think of trips to the cities to see my grandparents and how cool I thought it was that Edina had streetlights on in the middle of the night. ( Big change to a 8 year old the lived out of the city limits in her hometown.
I hear metal music and I think of a damp basement, alcohol and teenage friends and my boyfriend. I loved those guys. At that point of my life they were family. I couldn't imagine living without them. I ignored the idea of graduation because it would change everything. It did. We drifted apart. That's one of those "grown up" lessons that sneak it when you're getting into that adulthood you lusted after as a 15 year old. Its things like that in the small print that makes you wonder what your hurry was.
As a teenager I was selfish. I loved myself and didn't care who knew it. I didn't negotiate and I was, for the most part, first. I wonder when that changes? The selfishness isn't great but I wonder when as adults we put ourselves on the back burner and think its what we're "supposed" to do? It really doesn't work in the long run. We end up tired, passive aggressive, and bitter. At least we do in my family. All in the name of "selflessness". Really, if I were being honest I'd admit that being that version of "selfless" is actually more selfish. ( "Though far less direct so thank God for that" whispers the Swedish in me.) I can pull it out of my back pocket along with a few nails and throw myself up on a cross, sigh deeply, and say " Well, I just don't have time for me. I'm so busy with all of you".
Or, its that if I'm busy with you than I can't be busy with me. And that's a good thing because when I fall into me I fall into the rabbit hole. Down, down, down into questions with out answers and self doubt I can't stare down.
I'm guessing its a mix.
Its funny how certain music can transport you to a different place in your life. I hear Prince and I think of trips to the cities to see my grandparents and how cool I thought it was that Edina had streetlights on in the middle of the night. ( Big change to a 8 year old the lived out of the city limits in her hometown.
I hear metal music and I think of a damp basement, alcohol and teenage friends and my boyfriend. I loved those guys. At that point of my life they were family. I couldn't imagine living without them. I ignored the idea of graduation because it would change everything. It did. We drifted apart. That's one of those "grown up" lessons that sneak it when you're getting into that adulthood you lusted after as a 15 year old. Its things like that in the small print that makes you wonder what your hurry was.
As a teenager I was selfish. I loved myself and didn't care who knew it. I didn't negotiate and I was, for the most part, first. I wonder when that changes? The selfishness isn't great but I wonder when as adults we put ourselves on the back burner and think its what we're "supposed" to do? It really doesn't work in the long run. We end up tired, passive aggressive, and bitter. At least we do in my family. All in the name of "selflessness". Really, if I were being honest I'd admit that being that version of "selfless" is actually more selfish. ( "Though far less direct so thank God for that" whispers the Swedish in me.) I can pull it out of my back pocket along with a few nails and throw myself up on a cross, sigh deeply, and say " Well, I just don't have time for me. I'm so busy with all of you".
Or, its that if I'm busy with you than I can't be busy with me. And that's a good thing because when I fall into me I fall into the rabbit hole. Down, down, down into questions with out answers and self doubt I can't stare down.
I'm guessing its a mix.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
So here I am...
Awhile back I had a blog. It was my little space in the Internet universe where I could vent about my job mainly.
Since then my husband and I have been lucky enough to have a little girl that I'm staying home with. What's funny about that is that somewhere in my head I thought it would be "easier" than working. ( I'll pause while past stay at home mothers take the time to laugh. You've earned it)
This isn't going to be just a "Mom Blog" or a "Wife Blog". Its just a me blog. We'll see what happens. I haven't even told anyone about you let.
I'm a rebel. A rebel that types while her 1 year old naps.
I used to drink and party with the best of them. I even broke a few laws. ( Nothing flashy but it counts) Now I have to keep an eye on my caffeine intake or my anxiety will spiral. When does that start to happen I wonder? At what point do you go from "Nothing will EVER happen to me" to " Holy crap! That could happen to me! And so could THAT!!"
Not sure.
Since then my husband and I have been lucky enough to have a little girl that I'm staying home with. What's funny about that is that somewhere in my head I thought it would be "easier" than working. ( I'll pause while past stay at home mothers take the time to laugh. You've earned it)
This isn't going to be just a "Mom Blog" or a "Wife Blog". Its just a me blog. We'll see what happens. I haven't even told anyone about you let.
I'm a rebel. A rebel that types while her 1 year old naps.
I used to drink and party with the best of them. I even broke a few laws. ( Nothing flashy but it counts) Now I have to keep an eye on my caffeine intake or my anxiety will spiral. When does that start to happen I wonder? At what point do you go from "Nothing will EVER happen to me" to " Holy crap! That could happen to me! And so could THAT!!"
Not sure.
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