An Open Letter to My Son...

I wish people would stop telling you that you're lucky. Over and over, from cops and friends and strangers and people that know you but don't know me, I keep hearing them say how lucky you are. You are not lucky, kiddo.
You deserve to be loved and respected and honored and allowed to make mistakes without getting beaten or ignored or given up on. You deserve hugs and wrestling and sarcasm and faith in the man you're going to become. You deserve second, third, and fourth chances at getting things right. You are 14, which is one of the worst ages to be. You have been tossed around and tossed out of the way, when you should have been put first and in the spotlight. You are brilliant and smart and funny and you don't know any of that.
You are an amazing being and have strength beyond measure. I look at you every day in absolute wonder at how you smile and attack the day and every opportunity it sends your way. By any right, you should be so angry, but you're not angry. You're grateful. And when those people tell you how lucky you are, you agree with them. Yes, you have a chance at life that many kids in your situation don't have, but that doesn't make you lucky. It is something that you and every single one of those kids should have had but didn't. And won't. And I can't help everyone of them, but I can help you. I have the gift of you in my life, and I honor and love you like a child should be. *I* am the lucky one in our family. I get to see you for what you are inside and teach you what you're worth and show you what a real family is and how sometimes, to the most blessed of people, the opportunity to MAKE a family comes along. You are more than your biology. You are standing in the sunshine with a wide-open heart and mind despite every attempt to knock that out of you, and I love you more every day for it.
I can't possibly give you everything you deserve, like all the video game systems, an awesome bike, a car when you're old enough, clothes with good labels, organic produce at every meal, or crazy vacations twice a year. But I can hug you every day. I can tell you that I know how hard you're working to be good. I can be there for every success and every failure and every time you try it again. I can support you and punish you so you can learn about rewards and consequences, and I can show you that love has no conditions. And that THAT is the kind of love you should always have had. I can't fix or take away everything that hurt you, but I can be an endless supply of Band-Aids and peroxide until those things heal a little.
I can take what you already know and adapt it to a new life. I can teach by example even though it changes the way I live my own life. I can put you first and never look back at what I used to be. I can wash and fold and cook and clean and give and take as needed, and I can do all that for you because I WANT to. And you know that. I can be the mom in your life for the rest of mine, and do it thankfully, because I am so very, very lucky to have the chance to do it at all.
You are not lucky. You are a precious, precious gift to the world. And the fact that you have love in your life doesn't make you lucky, it just makes things right.

Because it's semi-private..

There are about two people who will even realize that I have updated this space, but I have something to say and I have no other appropriate venue, so here goes.

I am going to India.

I can't even tell you how many people (and on some occasions, multiple times from the SAME people) have said, "Why India?" and I have responded with some lame one-size answer about religion, midwifery, Doctors Without Borders, why not? and the like. And while I thought for a while that I wasn't exactly sure why, the truth is I know precisely why, but I'm scared to say it. Now, though, with three weeks to go, exactly, I have to say it out loud. To myself, mostly, but also to the universe or to my ladyfriends or whatever.

I am going to India to grieve.

I am going in order to take the time, as far away as I can get before I'm on the way back on the other side, to mourn the loss of my beloved career. To mourn the fact that I can't have everything I want in life, and that I have to change what I'm doing to get where I want to go. I have to grieve the fact that I am not going to have children. I have to accept it. I have to acknowledge that, although still possible, it is very unlikely and should it come to pass that there are no children of my own, that will be a regret on my deathbed. And I have to be okay with that for the next 35-55 years. I am grieving the finality of my youth, the aging of my parents, the growing hardness in my heart. I am grieving the pain of all these changes, the harshness of my reality, and the things I have let slip past me unnoticed until it was too late.

I am going to India to celebrate.

I am celebrating the strength that continues to surprise me in it's unending supply. I am celebrating the fact that a girl who grew up with nothing is seeing the world in time to enjoy it and tell her parents about what she saw. I am celebrating a different philosphy on everything. I am celebrating a wide open future and the courage to tackle anything, even if I have to do it alone. I am celebrating the fearlessness of my soul, which has always been my favorite thing about me. I am celebrating the friends who are sending me off, the friends I hope to meet, and the fact that I have realized that I must be a better friend to myself.

I am going to India to change.

I don't know how, why, when, or how much, but I know I will be different, and I trust that I will come back changed for the better. At least I will be changed for good. (Pardon the Wicked reference, it just seemed to fit.) I hope to know the answers to all of my questions. I hope to be fixed of my addictions and in a comfortable spiritual place. I hope to write and photograph and live and breathe and sleep and touch everything I can, and to feel the electricity of it come up through my feet.

I am going to India for one other reason.

I laid in bed one night and imagined with all my being that I was on my deathbed and about to kick it. I looked back at the life I imagined I'd had and thought, honestly, about what I would regret not having done. There were five things I could come up with, and I wrote them down. Two are done already, one is unlikely to ever happen but COULD, and one is up to someone/thing that I can do nothing about. The last is to see India. And I told myself that if, on my deathbed, there are no children or grandchildren to see me off, knowing I went to India, did everything I wanted to do, sucked every last bit of marrow from my life and left the world better than I found it will be enough consolation that I could pass with an easy heart. I don't plan on dying anytime soon, but just in case, three of five is pretty good. I don't ever want to regret anything, and I would definitely regret not finishing that list while I could.

Now I just have to figure out how to have a beer with Dave Matthews.

Between friends..

The title is misleading, really. What I mean to say is that between Stephanie's latest blog (My favorite redhead to the right there) and Charity's visit, I'm rethinking my choices. I have one class down and like, 13 to go before I am officially a nurse.
Do I still want to do it? Yes.
Do I still think it's the best idea? Yes.
Am I going to miss radio more than even I can imagine?

Yes.

Yes, yes, yes.

Steph's comments about how great she felt while walking out of school on her last day really made me think. I don't think I will feel that way at all. I think I will cry, and hard. I LOVE my job and I still think I made the right decision when I switched OUT of nursing and INTO broadcasting 15 years ago. And while it feels just as right to switch back right now, I can't help but wish that things were different and I didn't feel this as such a necessity. I love being in school, but somewhere in there I wish it was a Masters Degree in Broadcast Arts as opposed to a certificate in Practical Nursing, you know?
And Charity said I'll have to find a way to do both. I believe she's right.

The world can be so wrong...

Terry Kleiman did something so horrifying to a dog just like this that I can't even bring myself to type it. Hug a dog and give some money to a shelter today, please. And hope that somebody does it back to him.

35

Holy shit. It's coming.
I've been having some long talks with my all-time BFF this week. She's quiet and lovely and keeps things to herself; in our 20+ year friendship, I have seen her cry maybe twice. So when she called and was wavery in the voice, I knew the news was not good.
However, there are two sides to it...it's never good when a long relationship ends, but good comes out of it if you end up happier, right? And she is. The last three conversations we've had about it were more about the weight off of her shoulders, the joy in her heart at not having to pretend anymore, and hopefulness, which has been missing from her beautiful face for far too long. I just love her to death, and I think now we are going to make some serious plans to spend the second half of our lives closer to each other. Our friendship is Hallmarkable fo shiz, since we became very fast friends at an early age and even though she moved away 6 months later, we have always stayed just the way we were to each other when we were fourteen. She truly is the most precious gift I've been given.
Her birthday is next week. She is the first of my childhood friends to turn 35, and now I am OBSESSED with it. Next Wednesday, the day before her birthday, marks exactly three months until I turn 35. Thirty five. Thirty. Five. I have been fine with every other single birthday I have ever had. This one, not so much.
First of all, I have a lot of things/ideas associated with this impending number. I was 12 when my mother turned 35, and shortly thereafter she freaked out and left town with our tv and all of my childhood things packed into the back of an Oldsmobile I would inherit when I got to college. I have three 'Plans B' in effect for when I turn 35 with three different boys. If they all work out, look for some polyandry on N. 14th St come July, though I doubt I can actually lay claim on them. I have to stop smoking and start having annual hoo-haw lookie-loos and breast exams. My children are more likely to come out retarded, if I have them at all. My skin will be less pliable, my wrinkles deeper, my hair thinner, my ass fatter, my chance of every single disease in the world increased ten-fold, and I'll probably have a full beard within a week. Basically, I expect to wake up on July 1 looking like my grandma.
Of course I know this isn't true. And I promised myself a fantastic birthday gift. Maybe this sounds insane, but when I turned 18 and had my first tattoo, and the long-lost Teshannon and I were smoking cigarettes in a parking lot while picking off the dried blood, I said to her, in a conversation I recorded plainly in my journal at the time, "Tanna", because that's what I called her, "If I am not married or am divorced at 35, I am gonna have this turned into a sleeve that covers almost all of my arm." "Why?" she asked, to which I replied, "Well, the only reason to not get a sleeve, really, is so that you look good in your wedding dress, right? And if I haven't worn one by then, I'm probably not going to. So, why not get a great big tattoo to commemorate it?"
Voila.
2009.
35 years old.
Made the appointment today.

It's gonna be the best part of this birthday, and to be honest, I can't wait. :)

It's Friday, I'm in love...

Ah, these glorious, glorious days when everything is okay.
1. It's cold, but sunny.
2. The Pillowman is reminding me that I do, in fact, LOVE to direct.
3. Reservations are made for the coolest wedding I will ever go to.
4. Private, but I'm smiling about it like I'm r-tarded. (Also, I'm trying to catch that on; it's pronounced, 'are-tarded'. I think it's a kindler, gentler version of retarded, and also, it is nice for Pirates.)
5. Flat out, I LOVE love Michael Jackson's music. Fuck who knows it.
6. This weekend, I am going to put my bed into a frame with a real headboard. Like a grownup.
7. I bought that headboard with an excess of cash, some of which is still available. I could even go out to eat, drink freely, and buy shoes in Marquette if I wanted to .
8. My friends. Seriously.
9. The hopefulness that new people bring to me. Especially when they come and sit at the bar for HOURS while I am working and engage me in what can only be described as 'canoodling'.
10. Itunes on random.
11. Severed prop toes and the fact that I rule at making them.
12. Still liking my mom.
13. Giving a cat to the girl who is dating the guy from 5 posts ago, which is excellent because he hates cats and once she has one, it means they are not ever planning on living together. Plus also, the doctor told me to thin out the herd or it may contribute to me nearly dying again.
14. The following lyrics: When the easy wind blows, they let their sails fill up and drink a hot cup of family....singing, "If I'm not strong enough, will you help me? And if I get tired, will you lay me down? And if I can't stand you no more, will you walk out my door or will you wait till I come around?' which were written by someone I know.
15. Rachel, who looks SUPER great from running, and who makes me want to run.
16. And Fridays.

How I Quit Smoking

Ah, it's nearly spring. Sure, we have a whopper of a storm on the way yet this week, which is PROBABLY not even the St. Pat's Extravaganza we usually enjoy, but still, it's coming. I bought plants, seeds, and garden extras online today, and am planning a marvelous display of agricultural fortitude this season. Of course, I always do. Really have some cool plans to try this year, though, and maybe have chickens again. I loved it.
I was planning this charming blog entry this week, and have been thinking on what to write for two weeks. Spring is in the air, I might be in mutual like with someone, I have some money, I got to see my girls this past week...things are great. The Full Monty is over. It was a smash hit and I have been super careful about only taking the credit due me on it, but now that only three people are paying attention, I'm going to go ahead and say that I fucking rocked that shit. It was the biggest hit we've had in years, and the only show that rivaled it in attendance over the past five years was One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. And that's all I'm going to say about it.
School is fine, I'm in love with my mom all of a sudden for the first time ever, and aside from some nagging laziness that's been pulling at me whenever I have a spare minute, I've been feeling joyful and happy.
However, (and here's the deep dark twist) I very nearly died last week. I am prone to drama, as I am well aware, so let me preface this story by saying that I am not exaggerating it, and I was so scared of doing so that I asked the doctor and two nurses if I really was as bad off as I felt, and the answer was a definite, if amused, yes. I really, really, really almost died. And it was as jarring as you'd think times about a trillion.
I guess I always assumed that I would have my life flash before my eyes, cry at the injustice of it, think of all the things I hadn't done, regret a thing or two, think of my parents, think of my friends, etc. But none of that happened.
I wasn't even going to write about this because it's so goddamn upsetting everytime I think of it, but I have to tell someone, and even if no one ever reads it, at least it's said. Here's the thing...it was just a black, sad, sucking, acute, stabbing....lonliness. And had I have kicked it right then, feeling that indescribable drowning aloneness, I'd never be resting in peace. A soul can't possibly fade out like that...it's petrifying. It's not fair. I knew the EMTs that were in the ambulance, but they don't KNOW me, you know? And I couldn't breathe to cry, so I just laid there, strapped down, thinking, "This is my last breath. THIS is my last breath. THIS is my last breath" with every little gasp, and these tears were pouring out of my face and I kept looking at the two of them for some connection to stave off how singular I felt in the world at that moment, and the only thing I thought of was Dodge. Seriously. My fucking dog. And it was only for a second. The rest of it was just, "please don't let this be the last thing I feel. PLEASE." And I wasn't asking anyone in particular, no God showed up at the last minute (although I guess it wasn't REALLY my last minute) like I thought might happen, I was trying to convince myself to think of something, anything, that wasn't so lonely. But I never did. And then my oxygen normalized some, I started breathing with a little depth, and 45 minutes and 3 IVs later, I was the proper color and texture and able to stand up for xrays to find out that I had a particulary bad pneumonia that I had been ignoring.
There's more to it, but basically, I'm haunted by the lonliness thing. I've heard that it's like that before..everyone dies alone, you know? I mean, when you're born, you're coming OUT of another person, so even though it's something you technically do by yourself, you're WITH someone the whole time. But dying is different. Even if you're surrounded by people who love you, who KNOW you, who will stay with you until it's done, it's about the only thing that you absolutely do by yourself. And when that moment comes where you either fade out or decide to let go...what if that really is what it feels like?