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27 juin 2023

When John and I got a bee in our bonnet last fall to sell our house and move up to Bellefonte permanently, we knew in theory it was going to be a long road, but we definitely did not have any idea just how hard these past seven months would end up being.

Add in a healthy dash of multiple sclerosis bullshit and the American healthcare system, and it’s been a very long, very difficult, very eye-opening 2023.

Tomorrow, we are due to close on our house.

This is not our first closing. It’s our third, so it’s not completely unfamiliar territory. But when the builder sent an email on May 31st saying that our closing date would be June 28, you could have knocked us over with a gentle breeze. This house building process has been anything but smooth and has left me at times heartbroken, disappointed and angrier than hell. I’ve never in my life spent so much money and had so little control. I have smiled longer and harder in the face of just mind-numbing condescension and bullshit than I did when I worked and let me tell you … that’s saying something.

Anyway, all this to say that as of today, we still have shit water pressure, our AC unit apparently won’t cool the house further than 68 degrees (words cannot articulate my horror at this news – that we would have to add to our HVAC unit in BRAND NEW CONSTRUCTION … ), our front porch pillars are 2x4s, no one knows how the generator hook-up works, people are still referring to the primary bedroom as master (can you see the steam coming from my ears?), the yard hasn’t been landscaped, our stove/oven is incorrect, there is a section of shingles that have been beaten all to hell (and on the other side of replacing our last roof after only six years, I can tell you that’s a sore spot for us), there is a portapotty on the edge of our driveway, a huge dumpster across the street and we have huge delivery trucks coming every day for the rest of the week. None of these issues include the things we have to do on our own – like the water softener so our pipes don’t get clogged with calcium and the tech consult so that our internet will work throughout the entire house.

Listen, it’s not all bad. This will be our very first single family home with a yard. The kitchen (other than the oven/stove 🤦🏻‍♀️) is beautiful. We are having custom closets designed. We just bought an incredible table and we can’t wait to settle in (even if Eli is going to most likely be a complete maniac).

I have a moment every day when I want to cry. I have many moments when all I want to do is sleep. But I also always think about all the things I’m grateful for – the parts of my life that make living easier. To begin, I don’t work. And even though I miss working, I am grateful every single day that hubs earns enough for us to be comfortable and be able to do all these crazy things. I’m grateful for air-conditioning and heating and NA wine and the ability to buy food and go to yoga and the salt room and all the things. I’m grateful for a husband and partner who loves me no matter what (and that gets tested a lot because MS is a lot). I’m grateful for my amazing family and my friends. I’m grateful for Eli. I’m grateful for travel and books and the movies. All the first world shit, Y’know?

Anyway. That’s where we’re at. I’m sitting at our kitchen table, frozen in a state of what should I do next? We aren’t moving a lot from this house so there isn’t a lot to pack. But … there is because clothing and toiletries (of which I have more than any one person should ever have!). We’re moving one fridge and having another delivered so food transfer shouldn’t be that bad. My high school reunion – which is Saturday – cancelled the day time portion so at least that freed up the weekend for us to work on getting settled in. I’m devastated (I’m the girl who wants to go to the reunion because she loved high school). But I also know that MS is knocking on the door and I’m going to spectacularly crash one of these days. And that’s not fair to John or Eli.

Xox, g

1 janvier 2023

Three years ago John and I travelled to Japan after Christmas and spent the first anniversary of my mother’s death climbing and exploring Enoshima. Then Covid happened. And this was the first year we could travel again. We booked a trip after Lucy died and before we spontaneously adopted Eli, to spend Christmas with my brother and his wife in France. They’d just bought their first French house and John’s company shuts down between Christmas and New Year. It felt fortuitous.

It’s been an incredible trip and we are now packing up and readying to begin our two days of travel home. It’s trips like this that remind me I should journal more. And since I don’t have anything else to write with, I popped open this blog and decided to stretch the writing muscles again.

We spent today with a very hungover Dave and Jojo. We had lunch and went for a gorgeous walk. And wound down the evening in their cozy kitchen, eating bread and cheese and anchovy cream. We talked about life and relationships. We talked about four years ago when Mama Bear died. It’s not something we talk about a lot. We allude to it. We acknowledge it. But today we talked about it. The awfulness of losing a mother. The shit way it happened. The pain, the memories, the *lack* of memories. It felt nice to have those conversations with my brother – the person who has been witness to my life the longest. The only person who shares some of my memories. The only other one whose mother was also mine.

Earlier this week we talked about South Africa. I don’t like talking about South Africa. But it also occurred to me that Dave and I have never talked openly and frankly about what happened. And it felt cathartic. Necessary even. Jojo’s eyes widened at some of the pieces of the story. John looked solemn. We relived it but we didn’t. There were truths that were shared. It was important. It is a part of our history.

The same can be said of when Mama Bear died. We needed to talk about it. Between the four of us. Without censoring or editing pieces because of the pain of Dad or Lenny. Just siblings and spouses clearing the air about that time. Confessing the pain and blurriness. The quickness. The bottomless sadness.

All in all it was a good start to a new year. I feel closer to my brother and my sister-in-law. I feel honored to have seen and experienced the life they have built in this beautiful mountain town. It was a worthwhile trip for a million and one reasons, but that part – to me – is the most important.

29722

Yesterday was a long day and I thought about blogging (I think about a lot of things 🤪) but by the end of the night – after our day took several sharp left turns – I crawled into bed, hoping for sleep and not much else.

Last night was my first night of migraine medication.  I have spent years trying to avoid medicine but my life has been eaten away by the pain and the inability to function clearly so when an option was offered to perhaps prevent the pain, I took it and didn’t hesitate.

I don’t like pharmaceutical drugs (not even recreationally- actually, especially not recreationally) but there comes a moment when there doesn’t  seem to be any other option.  I’ve discussed my headaches with my MS neurologist, my functional medical practitioners, my chiropractor … basically everyone.  And while everyone (minus my neuro) is all for holistic healing, no one has offered me any solutions that actually work.

It’s hard to explain the debilitating nature of pain unless you’ve experienced it, and the average Joe has not experienced sustained, untreatable pain for any length of time that would allow grace and understanding.  Or the painful choice to take drugs despite every fiber of my being hating the idea.

Side effects are drowsiness (no prob, I have MS and am tired constantly!) and blurred vision (ummmm…not as great considering I just had laser eye surgery last year ….).  I think blood pressure as well, but that could be the pain meds he prescribed for the inevitable headache that will come.

Anyway.  I have mixed feelings about western medicine and patient care (I mean, there is no real patient care – there is drug prescribing and rushing through symptoms and not acknowledging that it’s a person sitting there in the form of me … but I digress).  I told my physical therapist about it this morning and she offered an alternative treatment so I’m going to try it (but I’m not ready to give up the drugs yet … the pain is truly unbearable).  I guess I feel optimistic that my headaches are being addressed.  I’m hoping I can begin to feel better consistently and have a normal, functioning life.  (Y’know, for someone with MS).

That’s the update.  Today is Day #2 of drugs.  John is at the farm all weekend.  There is no Lucy so … it’s just me.  And yoga.

Xox, g

 

Day 39

Never miss a Monday workout.

That’s been my motto for a few years.  It makes me feel as though the week begins on the right foot, even if it ends up derailing later down the line.

Today, the week derailed as soon as I finished my workouts (which were tough to get through in the first place).  I don’t know if I’m sick or if it’s just because i took a fall yesterday, but I feel pretty awful today.

At least I got that Monday workout in.  Haha!

Xox, g

the barrel of a gun

I use the expression ‘staring down the barrel of a gun’ a lot.  I don’t know why.  I’m usually not referring to anything life or death.  Just the idea that in the moment, the choice I am faced with feels intense, imminent, incredibly important.  Life changing.

This year has been an interesting year for me.  A year of growth.  A year of grief and mourning.  A year of finding out how to be me without my mother.  It has been challenging.  Rewarding.  Dark.  Hopeful.  Endless and timeless all at once.  I think I both know myself better and don’t know myself at all.  I look in the mirror sometimes and I try to find something — anything — that lets me know that I’m choosing correctly.

Nothing ever comes.  Sometimes I sleep well.  Other times I don’t.  Sometimes I struggle with MS.  Sometimes I don’t.  Sometimes things feel as though they are beginning to make sense, and in the same instant, feel overwhelming, as though I am drowning and watching myself lose grip.

I have gone on interviews.  I have summoned enthusiasm for positions I never had any interest in — directions in life that inspire nothing but the knowledge that I am doing it to get it done.  I have toyed with graduate school – I have applied.  I have wondered what the long con is … what am I working on for what result some day in the future?

Everyone dies.  Right?  If I have learned nothing this year but that, then I have at least learned that.  When I walked down Walnut Street gripping Lydia with sweaty palms, counting the steps, the painful distance of two blocks from my office to the bank … I clearly understood priorities in a way I never did before.  And now, trying to find light in darkness, trying to hear my mother’s voice in a void of silence, I very acutely understand that no amount of love, no amount of wishes or morphine or crossed fingers will change the inevitability of death.

Cancer didn’t care that I needed her.  That my father needed her.  That my brother and her identical twin needed her.  Cancer couldn’t have cared less.  Cancer does not discriminate, it does not show rhyme or reason in its actions, in it’s insidiousness.

And so, nearly three years after leaving my job I sit here, wondering what the point of it all is.  And I talk to a man about a fascinating company.  And I wonder … why?  Why should I pursue that when I really have no interest.  Well, maybe not no interest, but my interest is fleeting at best.  It is superficial.

What should I be doing for the rest of my life … that when I close my eyes for the last time, gives me peace?  And … what can I do within the confines of multiple sclerosis? Tricky question to start, I know … trickier question to answer, given the variables.

I have tried to refresh this blog … so it doesn’t look like the space I created nearly nine years ago.  So it is a new space, where I can come, and scream into the void.  Talk about the things that bring me passion.  Wonder about the big questions for which I have no answers.  I can’t promise anything … I can’t promise daily blogs, or a cohesive thought pattern.  I can’t promise a theme.  But I can promise honesty.  I can promise that when I sit here, and type furiously and with intense focus, it will be the truth of who I am in that moment.  The truth of what I believe and what I am questioning.  Because I don’t really know how to be anything better than I know how to be honest.  (That has been a theme in my recommendations … and perhaps not always in a positive way).

 

xox, g

my mother, my hero

Sometimes – and the timing is usually very odd — I feel so inherently like my mother’s daughter. It isn’t often. But I feel her spirit in me, I see her influence in how I live my life and make my choices.  I marvel at how who she was, and how she lived her life, molded my brain and gave me a sense of right and wrong, morality and values, what life is all about.  It becomes very clear when looking at how other people make choices, how they behave and how that is in stark contrast to how I live my own life.

She was sort of marvelous in every way.  And I don’t know how she did it.  How she always found the positive, how she always smiled.  How she contemplated information and offered sane, candid and thoroughly considered opinions about everything.  I think about how much she loved to cook, even when she couldn’t taste food anymore because the chemo had killed her taste buds and left her mouth painful and raw.  I think about her pure joy in discovering new things, or seeing a hummingbird feed in the boughs of the backyard trees.  I think about how much she knew — just, SO much.  I will never accumulate that knowledge, or be able to put it in context and use it to make arguments the way she could.  I think about how many people’s lives she not only touched, but positively influenced.  So far beyond influencing her son and daughter — influencing and helping other people’s sons and daughters, advocating for people whose voices weren’t as loud and articulate at hers, offering kindness and solace for a multitude of heartaches.  My mother was gentle, and deft and could read a room in an instant, could read the people surrounding her, and she made everyone feel heard and seen and important and wise and thoughtful … even if maybe, we weren’t.

She could have been broken.  She could have been angry at the hand life dealt her at such a young age, when her first husband was tragically killed in a drunk driving accident.  She could have harbored resentment and bitterness her entire life (and maybe she did) that such cruelty found her at the tender age of 22. But … that wasn’t the person I knew my mother to be.

My mother was married to my father for forty-five years.  They had two children and they raised us well.  We never wanted for anything, we traveled the world.  They exposed us to so many different things.  I carry all those memories with me every day.  I give my dad a hug, and kiss his scratchy cheek (he has stopped shaving every day since my mother died … I think it is his treat to himself) and I feel beyond lucky for the two people who raised me and gave me the gifts they gave me.  I am inherently my father’s daughter.  That has never been in question.  But when I see my mother’s eyes looking back at me in the mirror, or look down and see her hands typing, my heart swells with such gratitude and love … and pain that she is gone and I (and my brother) are all that is left of her.

It doesn’t matter how much time has passed since we lost her.  It doesn’t matter that time-very insensitively — marches steadfastly forward, and I have to experience things without her.  The pain is real, it is immediate, the sense of loss is one of the real-est things I’ve every grappled with.  Sometimes I need her so much I think my heart will stop beating with the squeezing pain.  I look into the nothingness, into the void, and wonder how I will possibly cope without her to tell me what to do.  How will I continue to move forward without her guidance?  It is an unanswerable question.

And it’s then that I see her in me.  That I feel her voice in my soul.  That I remember that she made me, and that the answers are there.  They just aren’t as easy to find.

Mama Bear, I am doing my best.

xox, g

 

reset

It’s been a minute since my last post.

I was feeling a little lost.  A little … unclear about what was going on with life.  Because my mother died, of course.  But with that came so many other things.  Life irrevocably changed.  My dad is different, our family is different.  Everything feels seismically shifted since we lost her.  I am alone, floating, directionless.  Confused.

So, after awhile, I thought maybe I should come back to the blog.  Write.  Scream into the void.  Maybe it would help.  Maybe writing the things I don’t say would be therapeutic.

But I don’t know where to start.  I began this blog as a cooking blog but that changed with my MS diagnosis.  Also … because, I mean, I like food.  And I like eating.  But cooking and creating recipes?  Not really my thing.  I guess that’s something that comes with age.  Knowing yourself so much better.  Knowing when to call it, when to say, “Yeah, that’s not my bag, thank you very much.”  I worked in the hospitality/restaurant industry for 22 years and I can say with all confidence, it wasn’t really my bag.  Did I love things about it?  Yes.  Was innovative food exciting and the beauty and art of wine sort of intoxicating? Absolutely.  And being in the industry while it became the hottest industry in the country … yeah, that was pretty cool.  But that saying about doing something you love and never working a day in your life?  It didn’t apply to my time in restaurants.

Since stopping working I’ve been sort of in love with a couple things … exercise and wellness, skincare and my all-time deepest love, entertainment.  So I figured I’d just come back to this space, write about what’s on my mind and what I’m reading/watching/listening to.  And maybe I’ll find a direction as I go.

What I’m Watching:  So, Husby and I just finished watching Deadwood (both the three seasons of the HBO show and the movie they recently made to give fans closure after 13 years).  Once we go through the first couple episodes and settled in, we really enjoyed it.  It wasn’t perfect.  There were entire episodes when we weren’t really sure what was going on.  But Ian McShane made it all worth it.  He is utterly brilliant.  And the character studies were sort of beautiful.  Flawed people, the grayness between right and wrong and the things people do in the name of survival.  The portrayal of a prospecting town and the beginnings of ‘civilization’ coming to the wild (north) west.  The beauty and subtlety of certain stories outweighed some of the flaws or stereotypes and strangely written dialogue.  I felt the movie was an apropos closure written for fans and gave satisfactory payoffs to stories left dangling when the show was abruptly cancelled in 2006.

We also watched a couple good movies yesterday.  I say ‘good’ not because they are Oscar worthy films (or that we are the type of people who only watch those kinds of movies) but because they hit different sweet spots.  We watched Murder Mystery with Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston on Netflix and that was just fun.  I read one review that said the writer wondered what dropping a blue collar American couple in an Agatha Christie novel would be like and I have to say, that’s a pretty excellent description, intended or not.  If you aren’t looking for anything too heavy and are up for a good time (without too many questions or deep character studies) it’s an enjoyable romp.

After watching that, we switched it up and watched Juliet, Naked which I enjoyed as a film but also because there were so many English things — the sound of the seagulls, the town, the beach.  It made me nostalgic for Berwick-upon-Tweed, visiting my grandparents, and waking up in their attic bedroom, the seagulls singing good morning.  I loved the gentleness of the movie, and the observations about human nature and human relations.  About how we view others, and the assumptions we make about other people’s lives, based on very little information.  About the choices we make as people, our mistakes, our intentions.  About the gray-ness of life.  And the unexpected bright spots.  I won’t lie, I’m watching it again as I type this, and I’m enjoying it all over again.  Human communication through written word (not Instagram, or emojis or text messages but letters, complete sentences, thoughts on paper).  A beautiful thing.

What I’m Reading:  Husby and I created a shelf for all our unread books after Christmas this past year.  It sits right under our television.  I haven’t read nearly enough of the books that sit there but I am trying.  I am working hard to put my phone down and explore other alternatives.  It’s a challenge.  Currently, I am reading a book from Reese Witherspoon’s book club called The Alice Network.   What I have loved about it is the readability, but also the historic facts that inspired it (sort of like the real people who informed Deadwood  … I guess that’s my thing right now).  There was a woman at the beginning of the First World War who served as a spy for the British and her story is fascinating.  The book weaves that truth in with its fiction and it is an easy, imminently readable book.

 

What I’m Listening to:  Husby & I watched the Tonys a few weeks ago and I fell head over feet in love with the music of Hadestown.  The jazz and folk-influenced music used to tell a story of ancient Greek myths.  Near perfection.  Plus, the performance and the light design stole my whole heart.  We downloaded two different recordings ~ the new Original Broadway Cast (which won’t be completely available until the end of July due to a character-based rollout of the music) and a recording from 2017 entitled Hadestown: The Myth. The Musical. which features Chris Sullivan (aka Toby from This Is Us) as Hermes.  Husby and I love his interpretation of the music, his Puckish stylings and his overall narration through the music.  As a sidenote, I also love Andre de Shields interpretation and love having both recordings.  I also adored de Shields’ Tony acceptance speech and his three points of life advice (1. Surround yourself with people whose eyes light up when you enter a room, 2.  Slow is the fastest way to get to the places you want to go and 3. The top of the mountain is just the bottom of another mountain.)

Okay.  So that’s me for now.  Recovering from surgery, stuck on the couch.  Trying to enjoy my down time (and missing exercise something fierce!).

xox, g

 

 

motherless daughter

My mother died on December 30th, 2018.  It was 4.15 or 4.16pm.  I don’t remember exactly.  I was holding her hand.  It was warm but lifeless and her breathing had gotten progressively more ragged as the minutes ticked by until it just stopped.  I was telling her that he was on his way.  ‘He’ being my brother, flying home from Ireland.  I was like a broken record.  “He’s coming Mama Bear.  He’s on his way.  He’s almost here.”  I said that even though he wasn’t almost there.  I didn’t want him to miss her, I didn’t want her to miss him.

But in the end, they did miss each other.  The wheels of his plane touched down the minute her breathing stopped for good.  I know this because my poor husband was sitting in the cell phone lot at the airport, waiting for Dave, waiting to bring him to us.  And he got my text message (yeah, I regret that but at the time, I don’t think I was aware of anything) and Dave’s message that the plane was on the ground at the exact same time.

No one and nothing can prepare you for that moment.  I promise you that.  I like being prepared and I was not unaware of what was happening.  But simultaneously, it’s so much more than your brain can even comprehend or process.  It’s the dichotomy of something irrevocable having occurred but also nothing changing at all.  The rest of the hospital kept on about its day.  Their lives hadn’t ended.  Not like my mother’s.  Not like ours.

I waited at the door for Dave and John because I wanted to be there for my brother as soon as I could be, but also because I wanted to prepare him.  And my Dad & Aunt … they were in the same bizarre limbo I was, just more raw, I think.

Dave is my little brother, but he isn’t little.  He’s over six feet and he’s a mountain-climber, among other things, so he’s strong and solid.  When he came in the hospital doors he looked unnervingly calm.  He was quiet.  Later, I found out that he’d comforted John as John, burdened with the task of telling him that she wasn’t alive anymore, began to cry.  I worry about him.  His stoicism and his distance.  I wonder if he knows how much he means to us, how loved he is.  He’s always so far away.  Literally and figuratively.

Everything changes and nothing changes at the same time.  Lucy still needs to go out for walks and get her breakfast and lunch and dinner.  Her medicine.  I still have MS. I go to yoga.  I do Peloton classes on the bike.  Dave still lives in Texas and tours the country in his Starwagon, living adventures most people dream about – hiking and skiing and camping and rafting….  But she isn’t there anymore.  She isn’t sending me messages or soothing me when I’m frustrated or sad.  She isn’t helping me be thoughtful and strong when I need reminding that life is a gift.

You take things for granted that you didn’t even realize were things.  The comfort of knowing that my mother loved me unconditionally – that she was always worried about me and cared about my life – that she understood and accepted my struggles because she had her own and knew that other people couldn’t understand.  That she never pressured me or made me feel less than – that she supported me and only wanted the best for me.  That she smiled and cradled my face and called me ‘Mousekin’ and that’s all I needed to know that I made her proud.

She gave me recipes in the last six and half years of her life – recipes she used for food that I loved … yorkshire pudding, raspberry fool, Scotch eggs … and delivered them to me casually in plastic, hole-punched sheets (so I could add them to a binder she also gave me) with handwritten notes on them.  “I use this recipe but I use Harvey’s Bristol Cream, not Dry Sherry.  You *can* use either.” “This measurement is in Imperial measurement so you have to adjust the milk portion.”

She was everything perfect and wonderful and she was my ultimate hero.  I feel lost without her.  I feel lost every day.  And some days are better than others, but that feeling of drifting aimlessly has yet to lessen or go away.

Sometimes I’m angry with her.  Why didn’t she have the screenings that would have detected her cancer years before it was discovered, already progressed to stage IV? But I know the answer.  That wasn’t her thing.  Doing tests and staying up on her health.  She lived well, she ate well, she excercised and didn’t smoke.  Discovering she had cancer was a betrayal of having lived a good life.  She felt betrayed.  We all felt betrayed.  It was maddening and unfair.  But it was still true.

Here are some facts.  My Mama Bear survived longer than most people diagnosed with stage IV cancer.  She had a good six years.  She travelled, she laughed, she spent time with people she loved.  She took impromptu road trips.  She never let anyone be morbid about it.  That wasn’t her style.  She told us all, many times, how much she loved us.  She demonstrated more than told us, that she was a fighter.

The end was horrific.  It felt fast but it also dragged out unendingly over weeks.  It felt untrue to her, but how can you ask people who love someone more than life itself to make the smart, level-headed decision?  Isn’t that what doctors are for?  Isn’t it? 

I have bad memories of those days.  I question if I did the right thing or the wrong thing.  Did I leave the hospital too soon?  Should I have stayed longer every day?  Did I say the things I needed to say to her — did she hear me?  There were two or three days when we all had hope, when she opened her eyes and was trying to talk. When physical therapy came in and gave her excercises to strengthen her arms.  I can still see her doing them, fighting to the end.  It brings me to my knees every time.  We took those days for granted.  We thought it would get better.  But it didn’t.  And Dave flew to Ireland and then he had to fly home.  I had to ask him to come home in a text message after hearing that Mama Bear was going to be moved to hospice.  I failed as a sister.  I really did.

I try to remind myself that I am her daughter and nothing can change that or take it away from me.  But something feels like it shifted.  Things that felt close feel further away.  Her Britishness and in turn my inherited Britishness feels false now, as though I lost that when she died.  I lost that part of who I am, I lost that part of my life.  It feels like so many things were lost that day, that moment.  When life with her ended, and life without her began.

I’ve been told it gets less immediate as time goes by, but it never really changes.  It just feels less raw, less exposed.  I feel like the more time goes by, the more I ache, the  more I miss her and need her.  I feel angry that I lost her and broken that she is gone.  There is a darkness and a silence that will never change.  Not ever.

I think about that last day, those last few hours, as we all watched the clock and stroked her hands and talked to her as though she could hear us.  I *should* have just told her I loved her.  I should have told her it was okay, that we all loved her and that if she was too tired, it was okay.  But I didn’t say those things.  I just kept saying that Dave would be there.  I think I thought if I kept saying it, she would keep fighting.  And in a way, I think she did.  But then it just got to be too much.  And I know she was tired.  But selfishly, I just want my Mama Bear.  That’s all.  I”m not really sure how to do this whole life thing without her.

 

energy

I was inspired recently to revisit a book I began reading a few years ago and never finished.  I bought it because Gwyneth Paltrow wrote the forward (and I love Gwyneth Paltrow) and the book was supposedly about weight loss.  Something I was struggling with at the time.

It isn’t about weight loss at all.  I mean, it is.  But it isn’t.  And I will confess that I never finished it.  But the ideas within it I carry with me every day.  Because the book is about … um, enlightenment.  Sort of.  I’m struggling to properly articulate what Dr. Sadeghi writes about.  Because it all sounds cheesy.  And yet, to me, the book is so far from actually being cheesy I really don’t want to do it a disservice.  So I’ll use Dr. Sadeghi’s words — the book is about self love.

When I began my job a month ago, my District Sales Coordinator handed me (and everyone on our team) a book called “The Energy Bus.”  I happen to love books like that, so I was looking forward to cracking it open.  But before I had a chance, she and I talked about it.  And I heard myself talking about Dr. Sadeghi’s principles with such conviction I knew I had to go back and finish “Within.”  (**As I read both books, I am in awe of how similar many of their ideas are — just presented in slightly different ways and in different contexts.  It makes me smile.)  

I don’t know that I have always tried to evolve as I’ve grown but I think, looking back, it happened without my conscious awareness of it.  John (the hubs) always teases me that early every year I go through my “Self Help” phase.  I find a book and read it cover to cover in a matter of days and then try to apply principles and new practices to my (and John’s!) life.  I find comfort in it.  Trying to be more aware, trying to be better.  Trying to understand life & myself more.  I loved so many ideas in Dr. Sadeghi’s book (y’know, the part I read).  He talks about self love, yes, but he also talks about energy and the power of our mind & heart.

When you have an incurable disease like mine (or maybe any struggle, really) there’s a different perspective about health.  Or, to be more precise, wellness.  And more and more, I read articles about the power of positivity in the workplace, in life, in healing.  Its pretty profound.  And I can say from personal experience that where my mind is at very much affects my physical wellness.  My first neurologist handed me information on four different drug therapies when I received my MS diagnosis.  He told me to read about each one, and come back and tell him which medicine I wanted to take.  He said he didn’t like picking medicines for MS patients because he believed that if I believed in the medicine there was a greater chance of it being successful.  In retrospect, that was exceptionally powerful and has (clearly) stayed with me. And the medicine I picked did work.  It just had rough side effects. The therapy I am on now my current neurologist prescribed to me three times before I went in and had my first infusion.  And I only went in after sitting in an office with him for hours debating the pros and cons, discussing the potential health risks.  I left believing it was the best option for me and would work.  And it has.

I guess what I’m getting at, in a very fractured manner, is that I have deep faith and belief in the power of our thoughts.  Being positive and optimistic are part of the battle.  Every day. I can physically feel the difference when I am down or feeling discouraged.  I can feel it if someone near me is full of angry, negative emotions.  We are all energy.  And our energy feeds off other’s energy.  Everything is interrelated.  Its profound to me, and mind-blowing, and gives me infinite faith in life.  It helps me in  my journey every day.  To make better, smarter choices.  To eat better food.  To take care of my body.  To focus my mind on constructive, positive, enriching and nurturing things.

only numbers

I turned 38 earlier this month.

I’m pretty sure that every member of my family ‘teased’ me about my obsession with numbers at one point or another (this year, and every year …. this month and every month).  But I think I see life like a big, gridded calendar and knowing where everyone lies helps to quiet the never ceasing chaos of my brain.

Here’s the thing.  I’m okay with being 38.  I’m actually better than okay with being 38.  It fits me.  I fit into the grid nicely on December 12 and currently, at the age of 38.  I’ve enjoyed my 30s.  I don’t look my age (thank you Rodan + Fields and not having children) but even if I did, I think I’d be okay at 38.  Every moment in life is a learning moment, something that helps you (hopefully!) become better, more thoughtful, more well-rounded. Something that helps you appreciate where you are at this very moment. 

Today, my mother turns 70.  I’m fairly certain she wouldn’t love me saying that.  Most people don’t (although I routinely say people’s ages as I know them and their relationship to my own age — even if it’s in days, minutes, hours or years).

My mother is the best that seventy combined years has to offer.  She is thoughtful, kind, intelligent, funny, insightful, open, understanding, opinionated, strong … she has a distinct voice not only in my world, but in THE world.  She is measured in her responses, but that doesn’t prevent her from being cutting when she deems it appropriate (or necessary).  She believes in things and stands by them.  She soldiers on through the most unfair, the toughest of odds and she does it with a smile.  Her eyes still sparkle, she still gets dressed up, she still has the delight of a child when something new, or unexpected surprises her.

She looked at me across the dinner table last night, and gazed down at her son, my little brother, seated at the end of the table, and I could see the love and pride in her eyes.  She did an exceptional job raising us — she was the most lovely, most creative, most perfect mother a child could ask for.  She treated us like people (she always said it was because she was not meant to be a mother, but I think it’s because she absolutely was meant to be a mother — our mother).  She taught us, and took us on adventures, and made everything seem interesting and fun.  She encouraged learning, and welcomed us onto her bed at night to read stories (during which she did all the voices).  She made huge sacrifices we didn’t understand and she never burdened us with in order to give us the life we had as children.

As adults she has listened, supported us, allowed us to stretch our wings and both fall and fly.  She has embraced our chosen partners (even dusting off her French to speak to David’s lady in her native tongue).

She is — quite simply — exquisite.

And despite my bizarre obsession with numbers, that’s all they really are.  Just numbers.  They don’t define an age, a person.  They merely track time.

Anyway, today and every day I love my mummy.  My mama bear.  At every age.  At any age.