It's Not Just Any Date

How many people can recall every moment of one particular day?  It is said that when there is a great catastrophic event -- JFK's assassination, Pearl Harbor, 9-11 -- it is possible for people to remember exactly where they were, what they were wearing, and how they felt.

January 27, 2009 was my great catastrophic event.  I am willing to bet my house that there are about a dozen other people on this earth that can also recall the date with a stunning clarity.

I awoke at 5:00am.  While attempting to control a twitch over my right eye by rubbing the nerve ending with my thumb, and waiting for my coffee to brew, I pulled up i-tunes and downloaded the Working on a Dream cd by Bruce Springsteen.  It was on my i-pod in four seconds, and playing on the stereo in ten.  I spent the entire morning dancing with the kids, getting them ready for school (Paige in Kindergarten, Tony in pre-school) and getting ready for my job at Verizon Wireless.

It was my cousin's birthday, so when Surprise, Surprise came on (Today is your birthday, we've traveled so far, we two, so let's blow out the candles on your cake and we'll raise a glass or two. . .), I gave her a call and told her I had a song, special for her birthday.

I rolled into work sometime after nine, set up my computer, and with the i-pod buds in my ear, and the left twitch in my eye, I began working.  My boss stopped over around noon and let me know that we were taking my cousin out to lunch for a birthday celebration.  Cool.

At lunch, we talked and laughed.  The eye twitch had gotten worse, and I was holding my fingers to my right eye in order to control the visible twitching.  "You must be tired."  "You're probably stressed out."

I don't know.  I didn't feel tired or stressed out.  In fact, I was hopping because the Springsteen cd was even better than I knew it would be.

I got back from lunch, turned my computer back on and got a phone call from my sister-in-law, Kathy.  "Not sure what happened, but Jeff might have had a stroke.  They're taking him to Mercy now."  I hung up the phone, my eye twitched interminably, and the smile was gone.

I got to my boss, told him something, got home, called my ex-husband, told him something about the kids and the dog, and was on a plane within two hours, flying straight into a snowstorm, and into the city of Buffalo, where my brother lay in ICU.

My brother-in-law had picked me up from the airport, but we didn't have a conversation, just sat in fogged out silence as he drove through the two feet of snow that had fallen on the city streets over that last hour or so. 

My eye twitch had gone away.

I visited his room, where he lay with tubes on his head, arms, and chest; and one down his throat.  My strong, beautiful brother - the life of every event - was unable to move.

"Please give me strength and courage to get through this with my family. . . Please, please, please, give us strength. . . please, please, please don't let him die."

We all met in one room - my parents, my siblings, Jeff's friends, cousins, uncles - - 30+ people, together in a room, silent and crying.  The doctor came in, we all stood.  "He's in rough shape."  We all cried.  "He needs this. . ." and he looked around the room at all our faces.  We joined hands, we prayed the Our Father.  We cried and hoped; barely believing it was happening.  We hoped, and hoped, and hoped and it became our rallying gift on that night, and on the many, many nights to follow.

I refused to leave the hospital that night.  My brother, Cliff, refused to leave as well.  The rest of the family, after 12-15 hours reluctantly left to take care of children and dogs, jobs and commitments.

"Let's check on Jeff, and then get some rest."  Cliff said, and we went in.  I don't know what Cliff was thinking on that trip, but my heart and head was heavy - ladened - with prayer.  "Please, please, please. . ."

I pressed two waiting room chairs together, covered myself with my winter coat and put the i-pod buds in my ears, first listening to Outlaw Pete (He was born a little baby on the Appalachian trails.  At six months old, he'd done three months in jail.  Robbed a bank in his diaper and his little bare baby feet. . .) and attempted sleep.

After waking several times, and reflecting upon the first stanza from Tomorrow Never Knows (Where the cold wind blows, tomorrow never knows. Where your sweet smile goes, tomorrow never knows. You and me, we been standing here my dear; waiting for our time to come. Where the green grass grows, tomorrow never knows. . .), I looked over at Cliff, whose eyes were wide open.

"Ah, I got about eleven minutes of rest,"  I said, stretching.  He replied, "I got about eight.  Let's go check on Jeff and get a coffee."

We did.  We spent the remainder of the night, drinking coffee, worrying, sharing laughter, and checking on our brother. 

It wasn't daybreak before somebody else joined the circle; and then somebody else; and then somebody else.  All of us there, united in hope, that our brother would overcome the devastation of his stroke.

Three years ago today - - our lives were assassinated, bombed, and terrorized.  And life has never been the same.

Yet, I still hope.

Two Weeks

Has it really been two weeks since I last wrote on this blog?  Where the hell did two weeks go?

Let's see, I can recall tiny tidbits from the last fourteen days. . . mostly my dreams:  I dreamt about porkchops; buying them, cooking them, seasoning them and then eating them.  It wasn't just one dream - it was multiple dreams in one night on the same topic, each dream picking up where it left off.

Then I had a dream that there was a hair in a cheesestick I was eating.  I pulled on the hair, disgusted, and out popped a cute baby rabbit with long, soft ears and beautiful fur.  I quickly decided not to sue the cheesestick makers because they had just given me this cute baby.  Yes, the rabbit, after I bathed it, turned into a perfect, newborn baby - - soft skin, miraculous healing powers and all.  I kept the baby and was so very excited.

Other than that?

Work.
Kids.
Basketball games.
Work.
Dogs.
Guinea Pigs (fully aware, now that I've had them for a year, why they are called pigs).
Homework.
Work.
Movies with the kids.

Not one mention of writing, eh?  Not one creative word written in the entire fourteen days.

No wonder I'm dreaming such strange dreams.  My creativity is stuck in my head - - amidst spreadsheets, and processes, whining and laughter.  Stuck.

As you can see, it's still stuck in there.

I bought myself a notebook yesterday.   It's a hokey notebook because on the cover it says, in pretty handwriting:  Words Matter: Write to learn what you know.

So I started writing in it, late last night and early this morning.  And you do know what I learned by writing?

I need to write more.

Otherwise, in the next dream I have, I might be feeding pork chops to a baby baboon that I've just given birth to through my big toe on an island filled with ducks, and sofas, lamps and suitcases filled with linguini and clams sauce that I am feeding to my pet doghouse.

Ah, not so good. But more imaginative than when I started. . .

Gonna Sit Back, Right Easy, and Laugh

I only wrote that title so that I could stump my brother Cliff for a few seconds, trying to figure out where he heard the line. . .

I should have titled it "Life is Sweet" because that's how I've been feeling lately.  A person might look at my life these days and wonder how the hell I can say such a thing. I'm putting in at least 50 hours a week at work - - - waking in the wee hours to accomplish stuff - - - and still maintaining the house, taking care of the kids, and cooking.

For some reason though, now that I seem to have discarded the emotional baggage that I've been carrying around, I can move more swiftly through things.  Granted, this is only how this week has been going - - - I might lift a garbage bag full of stuff back onto my shoulders tomorrow.  Yet, those pockets of, um, what's the word?:   "Aaaaahhhhh. . . " are clear - - - a 20/20 focus - - - and evident these days.

I wonder if it's because since the New Year began, I've been waking in the morning to the most beautiful sunrises, and lifting my camera and focusing it on the same horizon - - - a gorgeous poplar tree that stands tall against the clear, cloudy, pink, gray or purple sky - - - and snapping a picture.  I scroll through the pictures sometimes, and I am always amazed about how the tree stays the same against the changing skies, and though each sky is different, it's always gorgeous.  Not pretty.  Not okay.  But gorgeous.  Different but the same.

Everyday, because of that one snapshot I take, I am reminded on some level of the majestic underworkings of this world, and it humbles me.  I am aware that nothing is within my control.  I am reminded that brilliance and pain, prey and predator, deer and bumper, consistency and upheaval - - - all those seemingly opposite existences are dynamic pieces of a grand whole. . . just like the sky.

The kids and I planned our Sunday together.  They had Church school, I had church - - - just like every Sunday.  I was going to put on a pot of sauce, we'd smell it all day with our stomachs rolling in longing, and we'd relax before another busy week - - - doing what we each, individually, love:  Me, writing and reading; Paige, writing and reading; Tony, reading and video games.  (In fact, as I write this, music is playing in my ears, Paige is at my other computer typing up a story:  Two Suns Unite, and Tony is bouncing in front of the Wii, playing Mario Galaxy).  Yet, when we walked in from church, we all positioned ourselves at the kitchen island.

"Let's make sauce today, thinking of Papa."  Paige said, and Tony heartily agreed. 

"Okay, but if we're going to do that, we need music."  I answered.

"Frank Sinatra!"  They both yelled. 

As I chopped onions, Frank sang "My Way" and when Paige asked me if the onions were making me cry, I answered honestly:  "Nope.  I miss my dad."  She was elbows deep into mixing meatballs or else she would have hugged me.  I winked at her, and said, "I sure hope "New York, New York" is next up.

And guess what?

It was.  We sang that song, and moved like dancers in the kitchen.  Tony opened the cans of sauces, poured the olive oil into the pot, I browned the pork, added the spices, sniffed the onions and garlic sauteeing, revamped a few of the meatballs - - - some looked like footballs, others like marbles - - - and sang.

Now, the sauce is simmering on the stove. . . like every other Sunday - - - the same, you see, but different - - - and our stomachs are rolling in longing, like every other Sunday.

I am wise enough now to know that there are only a few Sundays similar to this one available in my life - - - come on, I cooked with my kids! - - - and that this is one of those pockets I need to memorize; one of those snapshots I need to take and memorize.

And the fact that I am crying as I write this makes it clear to me that life is sweet.  And precious. And fragile.  And dynamic.  And short.  So very short.

I think I need to try one of those meatballs now. . .

[Cliff, the line came from Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out, in case you're still stumped].

Laughter, The Shape of a Heart and Sleep

I had the pleasure of experiencing my very first, overnight, business trip this week.  It was just for one night, and I drove down to Richmond, VA with one of my goofy coworkers.  It was a three hour trip, and it took us four hours - - - not because of traffic, but because we kept getting sidetracked by our laughter, and so, we missed our exits.  Here's one of the many stories she told me:

"So, I'm in line at the airport.  My shoes are off, I'm waiting to go through the security gate.  I begin stuffing my belongings into this tiny purse --- papers are sticking out of the zipper, the handle of a hairbrush is protruding, and the zipper has a bulging gap because I can barely close the purse.   Just as the purse takes its ride under the camera, I look at the security guy and say, "Watch out, my purse is about to explode."  All at once, two armed security guards come running up to the table, they take me into a separate room, and they confiscate my purse, dumping the belongings into a secure bucket.  The whole time, I'm saying, "No, I was just being funny because I stuffed it so much, really, there's not a bomb in it!"  As I say this, everyone gets more tense, I'm pushed against a wall. . ."

I was crying with laughter as she told the story. . .

So we get to our satellite office, and I greet and see the people that I've been talking to over the phone for months.  Have you ever had the experience of meeting someone who looks completely different from how you envisioned them?  Yeah, that was my experience for every single one of them.  I watched their faces as their jaws dropped when they saw me for the first time, just as my jaw dropped when I saw them for the first time.  Just a weird experience.

The trip was a success.  Workwise, it went really well.  I got to meet people that I'll be working with for at least the next three years, and we hit it off well, I think.

Yet it was an even greater success because I can honestly tell you, it was the first time in 8 years that I've had a good night's sleep.  I walked into the hotel and was greeted by a king size bed.  I looked around the room:  no dogs, no kids.  I made myself lay in the center of that bed, I picked up my book, read four sentences and then was out.  The next morning I woke up so very refreshed.  I actually smiled as I stretched my arms.  A full night's sleep without any interruption.

Why is this so special?  Because last night, Gracie and the little bastard Enzo took the shape of a heart on my bed.  Their asses were side-by-side, and their noses pretty much touched.  They looked so cute in that heart shape. 

Can you see it?

Now envision this:  I am on the left side of a queen bed, my head resting gently on the pillow.  Oh, it's so very nice.  I turn to face the right side of the room and I am greeted by the kissing asses of my two 80 lb. dogs.  The entire night I yelled at them to move (they usually sleep at the end of the bed or on the floor), and every time I yelled at them, they nudged their asses closer together, and then growled at each other, or worse, nipped at each other.

This happened all night long.

Next week, I have another overnight trip to Richmond.  I will not have my coworker with me, but I'll have music and memories to keep me company on the ride.  And you know what I've scheduled onto my agenda? 

A full night's sleep.

"Watch out, my purse is about to explode. . ."  Now, that's funny stuff right there.

Happy New Year

There are parts of me excited to be embarking on a New Year, and there are parts of me dreading it.  There are parts of me wondering about the future; and there are parts of me dreading it. 

Ah... life.

I've realized that I didn't spend enough time with my dad.  Our relationship was cut short, and I need him. 

Every day, I need him. 

I am fortunate to see the tidbits - the quick snapshots of memories - and I realize that he is still here.  Still teaching me.

And ah.. .  life.

I wrote my list of resolutions today.  They are so very different from the lists of the past (i.e. lose weight, be nicer, make more money, find a nice man to date, etc., etc., etc.).

My house is nice.  Enough.
My body is nice.  Enough.
My job is nice.  Enough.

Everything is nice enough. 

I have everything I need.  I have EVERYTHING I need.

"What you don't have, you don't need it now.  Don't need it NOW."  (A line from a U2 song, indeed).

So, I crumpled up my list of resolutions, and made a new list:  What will make this upcoming year - a year of unknowns - better for Carrie?

1.  A boyfriend with abs like Rocky and a face like Josh Duhamel
2.  A bank account like Donald Trump's
3.  A house like Kim Kardashian's
4.  A body like Jennifer Aniston's
5. A best-selling novel like, ah, who gives a crap?  Like any best-selling novel. . .

I'm just kiddin'!

My list has nothing to do with any of the above, although I'd like all that.  But, man, I have everything I need.

I have a great family.
I have love, love, love surrounding me on a daily basis.
My kids are AMAZING.
My job is satisfying.

I guess my New Year's Resolution is to be grateful for what I do have.

Grateful.
Grateful.
Grateful.

The dread is gone.  I can only be grateful...

and maybe a little inspired to find Josh Duhamel. . .