The Monsters Inside

We finished watching "We Bought a Zoo" and I had to take Mandy out for a quick walk before we could turn in for the night.  "Do you want to come with or stay here?" I asked Dia.  "Come with" she said.  So I got her bundled up, got the leash on the dog and started the loop around the neighborhood.

She wanted to be carried, so I carried her.  Muffled a bit through her hat and scarf and my hood, I heard her wondering aloud about the monsters the boy drew in the movie.  "Why did he draw the monsters?"  she asked.  She said they kind of freaked her out.  "He was sad and angry because his Momma had died." I explained.  "Sometimes people feel monstrous when they are sad or angry."

"I feel monstrous when (a boy at school) makes fun of the way I run." she confessed.

"What does he say?" I asked.

"He calls me a slow poke and says I run funny."

My child, people, does run funny.  Something isn't right in her mechanics.  Perhaps it is in her hips, maybe in her feet... perhaps she simply needs more practice.  Perhaps, though, it's something far more serious - something that we are trying to run down right now with the doctors.  Something, perhaps, that no one should ever mock.  So hearing her say this... and further hearing that she is aware of what others think ...  well, that made all kinds of emotions rise up in me.

But I had to shove those emotions down.

So I told her I wished I could talk with her friends at school.  I wished I could ask them what good they think could come of making fun of another person.  I wished I could ask them if they think that mocking Dia would somehow motivate her to run better.  I wished I could ask them who mocked them about things they didn't do well and how they felt about that.

Instead, as I carried her in my arms and walked the dog around the block, I told her a story .  I'll share it here with you too:
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I played softball once in my life.  For whatever reason, we never played softball in any gym class I ever took, so I was 30 years old before I even considered the idea.  A friend was putting together a co-ed softball team through work and was desperate for female players.  She begged me to join.  When I told her I'd never played in my life and that I was terrified I would suck and even more terrified that everyone would laugh at me, she assured me it was all for fun.  So I joined.

At my first at bat I got reprimanded by the umpire that no wrist watches were allowed.  God only knows why, but fine - I took it off.  Then I struck out.  On my second (and last) at bat I actually hit the ball.  I threw the bat behind me and went running.  Yet insult to injury resulted in this action as I not only got scolded by the ump again (no throwing of bats in softball) but I also just lobbed the ball right back to the pitcher.  Easy out.

My outfield attempts were worse than that.  I caught the ball OK, but couldn't throw it back into play from left field.  Still, I ended the night having had a fairly good time and ready to try again the following week.

But the next day at work it got quickly back around to me that the very person that begged me to sign up - the very person that assured me that it was all in fun - the very person that swore no one would make fun of me for sucking up the place - was having a great time replaying my foibles from the previous night.  Apparently, she was getting terrific laughs re-telling what a horrible klutz I was and how bad I sucked at softball.

That was the one and only time I've ever played softball in my life.

Contrary to this story (I told my dear Dia, while still walking around the block) at my next job my boss convinced me to join an over 30 indoor soccer league.  Most of the women on the team had never played, she said.  Most of them simply knew of the game through their children.  It would be fun, she promised.  So I stepped out of my comfort zone and joined the team.

That period of my life was the happiest I had ever known before I had Dia.  It wasn't just the soccer - Tim and Chey and I were awesomely happy; I adored my job; I was running in races - I had all types of things that balanced me out and made my heart soar - but I cannot belittle the contribution that silly soccer team had on that happiness.  This was a team of women that only cheered each other on.  We never ever won a game, but you wouldn't know that by the way we celebrated each goal.  I think the best person on the team by far was that boss that recruited me.  The rest of us were mediocre to terrible - but, again, you'd have never known it by the way we acted toward each other.  And the miracle of it all?  We got better.  Every single one of us got better.  Our first game we lost 16-0 (seriously - this is soccer, people!) and by the last game of the season we lost 3-2.  Hell yeah, baby.  We were contenders.
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I told Dia the stories just a bit differently than I'm telling you here.  I took out the less-than-appropriate language and kind of simplified it (she can get bored when I drone on about things), but my point in telling it is the same:  I wonder what anyone who tells Dia she's a slowpoke or points out that she runs funny thinks they are accomplishing.  Why did my so-called friend make fun of me after my first try at softball?  My guess?  I suppose that it made them feel better about themselves.  I just cannot imagine it could possibly be that they thought it would benefit Dia, in her case, or me, in mine.

But there is a part that haunts me a bit.  I've seen it a thousand times.  It comes from the parents.  The taunting.  The teasing.  The ... well, honestly?... bullying ... that parents levy upon their kids in an attempt to encourage, motivate, or improve their children's performance.  I wish there was a candid camera on every one of these parents so they could watch their kids shrivel and cower in response to this type of 'motivation.'

By the way?  It doesn't actually motivate them except to try to make the pain you are causing them to stop.  It creates monsters inside them and teaches them to speak cruelly to kids like Dia - to make fun of them instead of trying to understand or, better, trying to help.  When they cannot improve beyond what is being asked of them, this type of  "motivation"  motivates them only to criticize others. 

If you have influence in a child's life, please watch your words and please teach them compassion.  Please teach them that things may not be so black and white.  Please teach them that, when they see someone not as strong, smart or beautiful as they are,  there is a chance, at least, that the other person's story is deeper than skin deep. 

In Dia's case?  I might have a kid fighting for her life.  Or I might have a kid whose motor development is just not like the others.  But regardless she is so much like the others in that she wants to be validated, approved of and loved.  In that way, I have a kid exactly like yours.  I don't want her to give up and never ever want to play again.  I want her to run free with no monsters hiding in her subconscious mind.

- KEC

** A special thanks to Asher, who at a recent party told Dia "The other kids may think you run really slow, but I think you are fast."  Thank you sweet angel boy.  Thank you so much.

Bittersweet Wishes

"You will make 2 wishes." the volunteer at The Gentle Barn instructed.  "One for the birthday girl and one for yourself.  Place your hands on the wishing well, then make the wishes and clap two times."

Dia listened in rapt attention to these instructions.  She's a big believer in all things magical.   She even considers herself to be a fairy princess, though contends that she hasn't received her wings yet nor any magic since she hasn't completed the full course of fairy hopscotch.  As far as I can decipher, fairy hopscotch is much like Jedi training and has nothing to do with hopping, squares or throwing pebbles.  Regardless, she hasn't conquered that crucial next step in fairy-dom, so she is an apt student and a welcome recipient of magic from other sources.

I watched as she took it all in, ever serious.  I saw her place her hands on the well's walls.  She bowed her head as if in prayer, closed her eyes ... tighter, tighter ...  She relaxed a bit and began again.  The first wish must have been completed.  She repeated the process, opened her eyes and clapped twice.

As we walked back down to the lower barns, where a birthday party feast was awaiting us, she held my hand.  "I can't tell you what I wished for, you know."
"I know." I assured her. (I knew the rules.)
"Well, I can tell you what I wished for Katya." she considered.
"OK"
"I wished that she will love the present I got her."
I told her how sweet of a wish that was and smiled.  She's always taken the role of such things very seriously.  She considers the gifts she chooses so incredibly carefully and always worries that they might not be exactly right.  It was so "Dia" to wish that Katya would love her gift.
She interrupted my thoughts.  "I think it's OK to tell you what I wished for too." she said.
"It would be an honor to hear it."
"I wished that I would never be sick again.  A little girl once wished on that wishing well for this" she swept her arms around to illustrate the 'this' she was referring to "and that wish came true.  Maybe my wish can come true too."
"I wish that too, darlin'." I said.

We were to the party by that time.  There wasn't anyone there, really, to share the moment with and, besides, the way I felt about it at the time was hardly festive.  All that we've been through over the past few weeks have made me realize how daunting life can be.  Even here, in amongst these blog pages, I've wished for love, admitted that I've wished for 'more,' and certainly in my heart I've wished for money, for nicer things, for a skinnier body, for a younger face.  Yet, when your body fails you - or worse, when your child's body fails them - all those things seem irrelevant.  It comes down to one thing.  You wish them well again.

So I do wish that for Dia.  I just also wish, at just 6 years old, she didn't feel the need to wish that too.

-kec

A Song for Love

She went to sleep early tonight; falling asleep in my arms as we snuggled on the couch watching a movie after dinner. She lay in the crook of my arm, warm against me and I told myself to remember this. "Be still and stay in the moment." She's still so tiny, so young though already almost 6. The time flies by and these moments where she can lay so tight against me, fitting perfectly in the bend of my arm are fleeting.

I carried her upstairs to the bed remarking on how light she still is. Still sleeping, she leaned easily and trustingly into my shoulder. I whispered into her ear "I love you so much, baby girl. You are never going to know how much you are loved."

I sang her "her" song as I tucked her in.  It's a Five for Fighting song called "If God Made You" and while pretty much the whole song is perfect from me to Dia, the part I get choked up on is where he sings "I can't say what I might believe, but if God made you he's in love with me."  That is so incredibly true I get tears in my eyes every time I sing it.

If I were a first-time-out parent, I would wonder, maybe even worry a bit, about when this raw love will wear down.  I don't think any parent ever believes they will stop loving their children by any means.  I just mean that we might get to that place where we get used to their being there.  That age where they might grind on our nerves more than delight and enchant us.   The time when knowing you love them is more a statement of fact than an emotional, physical feeling. 

I think, if I were that first-time-out parent, I would lament my baby girl's looming birthday a bit.  I think I would take a precious moment like I had tonight and wish it to last longer.  Certainly she's not going to need me so much, eventually she won't cuddle so much, and one day she and I won't even fit on the couch together (that day may come much sooner if I don't stop piling on the pounds!).

But I'm not a first-time-out parent and I can tell you unequivocally that that raw love never fades.  Twenty-seven years ago I held my first born child in my arms and danced him to sleep.  "Inspiration" by Chicago played on our stereo more often than not because Tim was my inspiration.  The lyrics to that song, though intended for a lover I suppose, fit so perfectly: "You're the meaning in my life.  You're the inspiration.  You bring feeling to my life..."   I was so entirely and completely in love and I never before thought I could feel that much emotion.

And nothing - other than I can't lift him anymore - nothing has changed.  I watch him play with Dia, or listen to him on one of his rants, or pretend to be annoyed at his habit of picking things up and fiddling with them and later misplacing them, or just watch him be what he's always been - what I was smart enough to step away and let him be - and I love him so much.  There are times when I get so overwhelmed with what I feel that the emotion overflows to tears and I have to bat them away quickly or be busted for the sap I really am.  Even if he noticed that, even if he understood any of this, he will still never truly understand how much he's loved.

Cheyanne counseled me the other day when I was kind of down. "I've been away for some time now" she told me knowingly, "that always gets you down."  It wasn't arrogant of her to say that, she just knows.  She loves her people on that highly intensive level I do, so I think she understands a little bit better.  But still she, just like Tim and Dia, will never truly understand how much she is loved.  She will never understand how I felt sitting in the sunshine only she could bring into a room singing Elton John's "My Song" to her.  I'd change the lyrics a little to fit her:  "But the sun's been quite kind while I wrote this song, It's the people like you that keep it turned on. So excuse me forgetting but these things I do  You see I've forgotten which one is green and which one's blue..." (on account of the fact she has one green and one blue eye).  I have memories of her that are so simple and so amazingly "Cheyanne" and I hold them so dearly.  I remember my little 3 year old girl sitting on the floor drawing circles around the holes of a piece of notebook paper happily singing 'bop, bop, bop," while I did my college homework at the dining room table.  How could I ever feel that kind of unconditional admiration and love again?

Yet?  Same thing.  I'm not feeling it again, I am feeling it still.  Nothing has changed.  Though I doubt she sits on the floor drawing on notebook paper any more, she still lights up the room when she enters it.  Her smile can cure anything and when I see her, now a woman more beautiful than anything that should have come from me - well, I still see my little girl and I still love her just as much.

So while I do wish time would slow down its march a peck (particularly the part of it that is marching across my face), and there are certainly going to be things I will miss when I'm no longer the mom of a small child, I take some comfort in knowing how much I love being a parent regardless of their age.  If I ever feel down because Dia doesn't feel cool loving me so openly any more, I have Tim and Cheyanne to comfort me until she gets back around to it.  And if all else fails, well, I'm sure I can find a song that will cheer me up.

History Shmistory

Why do people study history?

1. to learn from past mistakes
2. to prevent future misfalls
3. to help us understand our world 
4. to have a semblance of control
5. all of the above

In the world of Type A and Type B personalities, I am a type D.  It's not so much that I'm lazy but I hate chaos, drama and stress.  I hate those things so much so that I almost pathologically analyze whatever has gone wrong so as to avoid any repeat stressors.  Mind you, this can be as insignificant as preventing a search for my keys in the morning to something as complicated as avoiding a bad relationship. Whatever bad stuff has ever happened in my life, I study the history thereof and try to learn from my mistake and/or understand the cause so I can prevent it from ever recurring.

So here's the thing: My heart's gone bad again.  We are talking anatomy here, folks.  I'm still a good person, but my heart is broken in the literal sense and that wasn't supposed to happen again.

See, I had studied my earlier "mistakes" and I thought I understood why I'd been burdened with a bad ticker.  I understood that the life I'd led before probably contributed to my illnesses - from a holistic sense.  Now?  Now I was supposed to be impervious.  I thought I'd become invincible.  I thought I was all fixed up and ready to go forever.  I thought the joy I lived - through the gift of my children, to my every day gratitude, to the true contentedness where I normally dwell - well, I thought that would protect me from ever being sick again.  I mean, I barely ever got so much as a sniffle.  Certainly since Dia's been born I can count on half a hand how many times I've been ill.  Yes, I thought I was the epitome of health and would be to infinity and beyond.

And OK - I noticed palpitations sometimes.  Whatever.  Everyone has those right?  And, yeah, my blood pressure would careen into some bottom dwelling version of everyone else's - but that's just how I roll - and my little ol' heart would just kick in and start beating like crazy and bring it up to a more respectable level.  So I was good.  I was good forever.  Damnit.

But then recently I've been experiencing a dizzy I can't blame on being blond.  While I was fighting to stay conscious and take my vitals at the same time, I plopped on the blood pressure cuff and it wouldn't even register.  Oh, I'm good at this folks.  I can prevent myself from fainting like no one.  I mean, if there's an award out there for staying conscious I win it.  So I did - stay conscious, that is - and once my blood pressure was finally up enough for the stupid cuff to read something, my heart, it seemed, was just cold chillin.'  I swear I must have interrupted a nice bong session in there as slow as it was beating and I found myself actually talking to it.  Out loud.  Scolding it in fact.  "Dude!  What ARE you doing?  If the blood pressure crashes, you kick in!?  What the hell!"

When there was enough oxygen to my brain for me to realize how stupid it was to have a heart-to-heart conversation with my heart, and after a few more episodes (because I really did think I was invincible so a one-off crash wasn't credible enough), I called the doctor.

After a test or two (or eight) and a 24 hour holter monitor (a favorite of mine because I look like a terrorist with all those wires coming off me) it turns out it is my heart.  Again.  Fucker.

Yeah, I said it.  I'm pissed at it.  I mean, seriously.  During the holter test, they discovered that I have another dummy AV node.  I will admit that after my surgery the cardiologist made mention that there might have actually been 3 of them.  One that works, one that he cauterized (that was causing all the trouble) and one that hadn't activated.  Seems the Wonder Twins have now activated.  In the form of....palpitations!

But the fun part is that's not even what's causing this crap.  It's the lazy heart.  It's exactly what I said.  My heart is supposed to deal with the fact that my blood pressure crashes and now it's not doing it's job for whatever reason.  I'd fire it and replace its sorry ass if I could, but I fear that would cause the very thing I want to avoid here: surgery.  Again.

Then, to further complicate things, once all this information sunk in I got pissy and generally frustrated and the wonderful bliss - the same bliss that I felt protected me from ever falling ill again - is getting beaten up.  So there lies the dilemma.  I really did believe that the positive mindset - the gratefulness, the joy, the appreciation - kept me healthy.  I really did believe in the psychosomatic aspects of our health.  This was the lesson I learned from the first go 'round.  Keep it positive; claim your health; claim your joy and all will be well.

Sure enough, when I consulted my personal bible "You Can Heal Your Life" by Louise Hay and looked up low blood pressure, the healing thought pattern is "I now choose to live in the ever-joyous NOW.  My life is a joy."  and when I flipped to heart problems I see "Joy. Joy. Joy.  I lovingly allow joy to flow through my mind and body and experience."   But riddle me this Batman:  How the holy hell do I live in joy joy joy when I'm pissed pissed pissed that I'm broken again again again???

I'll admit I might have gotten a little less joyous over the past year than I had the year prior.  Finances got tighter than ever and I had to pick up more work leaving less free time and a tougher schedule.  I got less sleep and less time to play.   But are we suggesting, dear universe, that if I don't live my life lolly-gagging about eating bon bons and touring France (which would certainly bring me joy times three) then I'm going to fall apart?  I call foul there.  Foul, I say!

I still believe in the holistic idea of health and I still believe we can heal our lives, but I refuse to believe that if we falter even for a moment all the good we've done to date is negated.  I think the most frustrating part of this life is never understanding the why of history - or of current events - that follow no logical cause and effect.  It's just random isn't it?  Nothing to see here folks.  Move along.  Nothing to learn here either.  It's just the luck of the draw.

For this hand?  I guess I just have to play the cards I was dealt really, really well.


kec

And I Will Always Love You

While the nation is grieving the passing of Whitney Houston, I endure a far greater and more personal loss.  On Valentine's Day my brave kitten, Albert, lost his battle.  Though it has only been days now, his passing has left a huge void and seemingly endless tears.  His short life left such a big impression.

His valiant attempt began in a feral state.  His warrior mom, a feral cat, seemed to have lured a dog away from the nest she'd made for her kittens.  She met her demise doing so, but a kindly human found the precious babies and took them in.  With the help of friends, she nursed the kittens to health.  Then, tragically, she too lost a battle and passed away due to a brain hemorrhage.  The kittens and her personal cats now needed yet another home.  I wanted to help but truly felt it wasn't right as I have a cat that doesn't enjoy the company of others.  Yet eventually this sweet baby found his way to us and there he stayed. 

His first vet visit was to rid him of fleas and ear mites and we did that successfully.  Yet with each subsequent visit, there was more.  Never weighing more than 3 pounds, a heart murmur, infection, anorexia, dehydration.  We cured him of all but the former and though the vet tried so valiantly to save him - even performing free examinations and acupuncture and an angel fund came to his rescue financially for the echocardiogram - she always warned, with tears in her eyes, that it might be FIP. 

That evil freaking disease - Feline Infectious Peritonitis - which is neither infectious nor peritonitis - took my Albert in a matter of days.  He showed signs of improvement and even gained a little weight after an acupuncture session, but the next week he lost all the weight he'd gained and then some.  His little wobbly gait got so intense that he did more correcting than walking.  By the time I took him in for his next acupuncture, he'd lost half a pound and could barely walk.  His little heart was beating so irregularly and so fast and because I share that with him - the heart arrhythmia - I knew all too well that all it was going to take was one bad beat. 

Dr. Rebecca began to cry.  "Do I need to tell you today is the day?" 

I'm notoriously incapable of letting go.  I put a 14 year old dog through chemotherapy and didn't put down a pet rat with a tumor until it was so large she could only move backwards.   I made Logan endure probably far more than he should have so that he would just go 'naturally' instead of it being on my hands.  I had a miscarriage before Dia and though the doctors begged me to have a D & C, I wouldn't give up.  In the end, I almost lost me from the hemorrhaging, but I just couldn't give up hope.  And, here, I held this tiny, beautiful kitten and couldn't save him.

"Yes" I said.

"Today is the day" she said, sobbing.

And so it was on Valentine's Day that I held my sweet little guy and said goodbye.  He went peacefully and I held him the whole time, but it broke my heart so many times over.

There was one moment, though.  Yesterday morning.  And I don't believe in these things, so I'm sure it was a dream, but...
I was awakened by the sensation that he'd jumped up on the bed as he did every morning.  He weighed so little that you only ever felt one paw when he landed.  I felt that paw on my leg and then felt the sensation of another paw landing as he would to walk across.  I wanted to open my eyes, but I was afraid - of course he wouldn't be there - and then, before I did, I heard "What's up, Mom?"  It was so weird and so vivid.  His human voice was like a Disney character - like Oliver or one of the kittens from Aristocats.  I knew I was dreaming but I opened my eyes and looked down at my feet.  There were two, tiny indentations exactly where I'd felt the paws land.  In fairness, I have a down comforter and it could have been anything that might have made those indentations, but it did give me a moment of relief.  Maybe he's fine now.  Maybe he's happy and healthy.

But right now, I'm still so sad.  I know it will pass and I will be left only with the joy that came from giving everything I could to this precious gift. 

Albert - I will always love you.

KEC