On Wednesday, the day after my return, my nanny called in sick, James was coaching until 7, I had a ton of work, and all three of my kids needed to be somewhere different at precisely 5:30 p.m. So that was something.
Even better- that night, after relying on friends and my middle child's willingness to bring a book to gymnastics 30 minutes early and get in some "quality reading time" so we could all get everywhere we needed to be- James came home from coaching looking pale and terrible. And so began possibly the longest 36 hours of our marriage.
James was terribly horribly sick. After going through all the sheets, towels, laundry soap, and bleach we owned, I got maybe 90 minutes of cobbled together sleep and of course Landon had to be at school by 7:30 a.m. for Math Bee practice. I stumbled out to make lunches and somehow got everyone off on time. I then attempted to get dressed for work, laid down in our bed, currently stripped to the mattress while James slept on the couch on our last clean towel, and, still wearing the very-much-indoor slippers I'd worn to drop-off, I slept/fell unconscious for 3 hours.
I woke up, hoping James was still among the living, and upon discovering he was, barely, wondered at what point you go to the emergency room for a stomach virus. He'd lost nearly 20 lbs. and looked near death. We spoke with a GI nurse who said if he couldn't keep down a tablespoon of pedialyte an hour he would need IV fluids to protect his kidneys within 6 hours. He managed just barely that.
I stayed home from work for the next day because James asked me not to leave him alone and I didn't.
So it was a pretty rough return to reality, though I only thought so because I hadn't experience this past week yet (foreshadowing!). On the upside, I invited friends over for poolside wine and swimming for any kids crazy enough to jump in our freezing pool on Friday evening. I badly needed to be around humans who retained their bodily fluids.
The mamas didn't even pretend that swimming was on the table, but we had fun watching our kids dare each other to do so.
James had dragged himself to lessons (he didn't have any other certified life guards - besides himself - for that day, so it was that or cancel everything; he sat in a chair in the far corner) and when he called on his way home he said, "where are you? it sounds like there's a lot of background noise." He loves when the answer is, "our backyard." He went immediately from the car to the couch and I went in to bring him a new pedialyte with a festive straw so he could feel like part of the party.
On Saturday, James was feeling a little stronger, so in an effort to regain some joy in my life, I signed up for yoga teacher training! James had gifted it to me for Christmas and the summer schedule was doable (I mean barely, but what 200-hour training would be?) and I just wanted it so bad. I love learning, I love yoga, and Cora would still be at her daycare all summer, making this our last one without THREE crazy camp schedules. I felt like I either needed to do it now or wait until they're all in college. So I signed up. Squealed a bit. And then immediately bought the required books and school supplies. (To be clear, the school supplies are only required in my own head/heart/soul; any new adventure should have them, but the books, I really did need.)
I remain absolutely and utterly ecstatic at the idea of being back in school. Training begins in the middle of June and runs through mid-August on Tues, Wed, and Thurs nights from 7:15-10:15 (and sometimes 11:15). James is on board and we can do this. I've already begun journaling my classes and each entry brings me enormous joy.
Homework! I'm doing it.
On Saturday night we attended our latest children's play at the fabulous Casa Manana. This year the children's series included something a little different from the usual five musicals and we got to see Jason Bishop, the Illusionist! And he was GREAT! The kids were utterly enthralled and James and I had a few wide-eyed glances at each other as well. Landon declared it the greatest play ever and we remain proud and satisfied season ticket holders of Casa.
I have no distinct memories of Sunday, but I know I taught barre and I think James finally got to add rice to his chicken broth and that was very exciting for everyone.
And then last week began. On Monday I found out the 18-year-old daughter of a fellow teacher at Urban Yoga had passed away from the breast cancer she should have been too young to get and had fought fiercely for a year. It is heartbreaking and I will not try to put words to the pain her mother and family must feel. I know the pall it put over my day and the heaviness it placed on my own heart. I have never posted such a link before, but Teresita is a single mother and yoga teacher and is left with the additionally painful reality of her sweet daughter's medical bills. If you are so moved, you can read their story and help here.
I had a dermatology appointment in the afternoon for a spot I'd found near my left ear. My doctor didn't think it was cancer- not yet anyway, but in an abundance of caution opted for a chemotherapy cream to treat any precancerous cells that may be fomenting. She promised a different cream than the one that ate my chest a few years ago, so I tried to be hopeful that my skin wouldn't freak out and start eating itself again. Then, as her hand was on the door to leave, I remembered a tiny skin tag on my neck that had never bothered me before but was now right on the seam of my favorite exercise tank and would get rubbed and irritated and I'd meant to ask her about removing it. But with her hand on the door I did my usual internal debate about "being a bother" and then - yay therapy - took a breath and said I had one more thing and told her about the tag. "Oh, no problem, we can remove that right now," she said, as she closed the door and walked back over to the table. She snipped it off and then started to walk away. Then walked back. Then cocked her head. Paused. And said, "well, I don't like that." And I ended up with a biopsy for a mole I didn't know I had, hiding underneath a skin tag I almost didn't bother about. "Don't worry about this one," she said as I got dressed, "your skin looks great and you're doing all the right things." I bought more of my favorite sunscreen on my way out and tried to follow her directions.
On Tuesday night we found out James's dad is in hospice. A few hours later, Claire came down with whatever James had the week before and the poor thing was up every hour and we had to make up the trundle bed on her floor because she couldn't get up and down her bunk bed stairs to the bathroom fast enough. There was very little sleeping and she ended up missing school, and being up all night, every night, for the rest of the week.
On Wednesday I had my work review. I left from there to take Claire to the doctor and then Maggie to the vet because her allergies were still terrible, her eyes were gloopy, and she'd had what seemed like a small seizure on Sunday that had freaked me out while not bothering her at all. $250 at the vet later and we had 4 different medicines to give out 2x daily and the information that bulldogs are prone to epilepsy but there's no reason to treat unless/until the seizures bother her and interfere with her life, but if she had more than one a month, we should reach back out. I worked at home from 6-9 p.m. and Maggie stood in as paralegal.
On Thursday I was back at work bright and early, still not sleeping thanks to the stomach virus destroying the digestive system of my middle child, and ready for an evidence review in one of my cases. A few hours later I got the call from my dermatologist's office that my skin biopsy had come back positive and I needed to schedule the out-patient surgery asap to remove the cancer. I'd have a few stitches, but should feel fine later in the day. I scheduled it for next Tuesday the 23rd and then made a quick stop at Lululemon on my way to teach barre to spend my feelings. They were expensive, but also 25% off thanks to my instructor discount.
And then that night, after teaching my bare class, my cancer and I decided we weren't cooking dinner so I out we all went. I had a margarita and some pupusas and life was almost good. Until I somehow dropped one of my wedding bands down the seam between the passenger seat and console in James's suburban. And after googling, shining lights, employing chopsticks and tweezers and every position as far up and back the mechanical chair could go, we couldn't find it or get it out. And apparently undoing the bolts and removing the seat will set off the airbag. So I still don't have my ring. I'm not sure whether it's the one I got the day we got married in 2005 or the one I got for our 10th anniversary in 2015, but I miss it. And THEN, just to top off the shitshow (literally! #StomachVirusOfDoom) of the last week and ensure I was now failing in EVERY area of my life, I got in a stupid terrible fight with James that ended with me grounding myself to the TV room couch and sleeping apart from him in the same house by choice for the first and only time in our 18.5 years together.
On Friday morning we attended Landon's Math Bee. The morning rush had been busy, I had not slept, and James and I still hadn't spoken when we both showed up separately at our kids' school. We proceeded to act like amicably divorced parents, sitting with a broken chair between us and talking with friends in rows directly in front of and behind us but never to each other, while we nervously, but separately sent mental-math-vibes to our eldest child.
And then, after 14 rounds, Landon won the Math Bee! It was great! We were so proud! Separately!
Math Bee and Spelling Bee Champ- he's a double threat.
James ducked out before the reception, so we didn't have to make awkward small talk over cookies. I wanted to bang my head repeatedly on the table while muttering this is not my life and ignoring how uneven my engagement ring looked with only one band flanking its side, but instead I passed out cookies and took a picture with our mental math champ. Then I went home and Maggie had another small seizure. Much like the "don't worry about this biopsy," having a second one six days after her first really killed the "don't worry, we'll only be concerned if it's more than once a month" advice I was leaning on.
But my day ended at the patio of our local taco place at 5 p.m. with my dog in a dress from her new spring collection and several of my bestie mama friends surrounding me in love and light and frozen tequila. Our kids were also there, at another table, eating the queso and chips we had all lovingly provided for dinner.
Another friend joined our party and Maggie adopted herself out to various tables throughout the evening.
My spirits were lifted and then I got this amazing/hilarious message on my Facebook wall from a mom I only knew through my 12,000+ member Law Mom facebook group and my spirits lifted even more.
I love that Maggie brings the community together.
Things got better of course, I apologized to James and we made up and are back on our solid, easy foundation; Claire was finally able to keep down food and return to the living; my friends lifted my heart and made me laugh. The kids are wonderful. Maggie is my canine soul mate.
Though, just for more background, after three days of delicate use my chemo cream made my tiny "spot of concern" turn into a red itchy spot of cancerous fire by Friday, so it turns out there was some cancer there after all. Yay.
Maggie in her SPF sun dress, not needing chemo cream
But still, much is good.
So very much, really.
The day to day, the usual ease and flow of our busy, happy lives.
Lives that only rarely feel as busy as they are.
And I've missed you guys. I have stories! Funny stories about the kids, the dog, and life generally. My parents have moved (again!) and we're visiting them at their new house this weekend. My sister and her family will be there and my kids will get to meet their newest tiny baby cousin. My yoga reading, and writing, and training are a new well of joy. My friends are a source of support and laughter.
So much is good. And yet, I'm taking a little break.
I've been wanting to give an update on this post. I almost have, so many times, but, with a bit of selfishness and pride, I always wanted to wait until I had a real milestone- a victory of sorts- something to show the happy ending/epilogue of the story I started last year.
But depression and anxiety don't really work like that, and therapy doesn't either. It's powerful strides forward and confusing falls back; painful steps up again, and then surprising slides backward; and a lot of time with work and thought and talk and absolutely no movement at all. I'm used to action, to to-do lists and work and accomplishments and getting things done. It has been an experience in personal growth to learn that sometimes progress IS in the going backwards. The realizing that much of how you've lived/existed/processed thoughts wasn't great for you and you have to re-work that and it's hard. Hard and painful and sometimes so seemingly counterproductive you want to scream. Who knew I'd been doing so much wrong? Who knew that six months into therapy I still wouldn't be able to do things right, but instead I would be VERY aware of what I was doing wrong. It's painful and it's hard and inconvenient and I had excuses lined up in my brain 24 hours before every appointment, excuses I'd mutter as I left work/home, drove over, parked, and would still be muttering as I walked in the door.
I thought I had reached my victory- my finish line and mountain-top moment after Christmas. One year before we'd driven home from Colorado in silence while tears ran down my cheeks and I finally told James I knew something was wrong and I needed help. I think it was all he could do not to yell "YES/I KNOW/THANK GOD" while I googled therapists. I anxiously awaited my first appointment. Things got better. After three other attempts, we found an anti-depressant that worked. Therapy worked. Time, effort, work worked. My appointments got further apart. I was better and stronger and freer than I had been in a long time. My thoughts didn't cyclone as I tried to fall asleep. I didn't ruminate on hurts in the past I couldn't change or ever feel better about. I understood I spit out anxiety as anger to the one person with whom I felt safest and I could now take a breath to slow that shit down. We drove back from another Colorado Christmas chatting about our trip and sharing thoughts on the year ahead. I was buoyant. I was excited to post the same.
Then the furlough hit. And stayed. And for 35 days my extroverted, bread-winning self withered, and every behavior I thought I'd conquered came barreling back, and far from "victory," I made the move to go back to biweekly therapy instead. I had no doubts or regrets, but a part of me felt like I was going backwards and I hated it. The start of the year was just really hard in a way I didn't anticipate and frankly, thought I was beyond.
It's better. I'm better. At my last appointment in March my therapist told me it really sounded like I was doing well and that I could schedule my next appointment for anytime I wanted- one month or even three months from now. And so we're on quarterly check-ins. I feel really good. Oh I'm still on Prozac, but last week aside - or really, last week included because that's the whole damn point - I feel good. Stronger, lighter.
My kids are getting older and more complicated, as is my marriage, and I'm such a better me to walk beside each of these four most important people in my life.
This isn't goodbye, and who knows- finally sitting down and writing again from 9-11 p.m. may have reminded me of why I love and need to put thoughts to words so much. But just in case this is a bit of a pause, I wanted to leave you with this picture of my butterfly bulldog. Because this remains one of my most favorite posts I've ever written and then re-read over the years. And I know I'll be back to record more of what brings me joy.
