To live like you were dying

May 22, 2011

    Yesterday (Saturday May 21, 2011)  the world was supposed to end. Clearly, it didn’t. But Friday something rocked my world… more than the idea of the whole world coming to an end was the idea of something awful happening in my own little world. Don’t think I’m so self-absorbed but I the end of the world reports were pretty far fetched, whereas this was very close to me. Like, in my right leg close. I was at my normal doctor’s appointment, a 38 week prenatal check up. And everything was not all right.
    I guess it’s part of human nature, or maybe the height of hubris, to go through life feeling like nothing bad is really going to happen to me or my loved ones. I worry enough about it, of course-- about all the possible car accidents, germy germs, anvils to fall on my head-- but never in a real, fear-gripped way. It’s abstract. It’s out there somewhere. Not here. Not in my world.
    Having a baby-- well that seems like a pretty safe, natural thing to do. Normal. Usual. Somewhat mundane even. No one goes into it thinking about fertility problems, or having a child who isn’t perfect in the traditional sense, or having a miscarriage, or having problems giving birth. If we considered all the risks I think we would probably never do it. I wouldn’t, anyway. It’s riskier than skydiving. Less risky than driving to the supermarket though. Curious how things get compartmentalized and the more dangerous things are shuffled into the necessity category, while things with the adrenaline rush of danger are sometimes statistically safer.
    So while all these dangers are lurking, I walk though life in ignorant bliss, assuming everything is just fine and dandy. Until my doctor looks at my right leg. As anyone who has been pregnant knows, things swell up. A lot. My foot and leg didn’t seem more swollen than would be normal in pregnancy. But I watched my doctor purse her lips, shake her head, and frown a bit. I started breathing harder and felt a stab of fear in that place that feels physical, way deep in your chest, though it’s probably just some kind of emotional response, like blushing or cringing in embarrassment.
    She noticed my look and immediately assumed that calm demeanor so familiar in doctors and nurses and flight attendants. Stay calm, it’s just a bit of turbulence.
    “I don’t like this leg,” she said. It sounded strange but I knew what she meant. “I’d like to have a Dopplar done on it, just to be safe.”
    When medical professionals are worried but they don’t want to show it to the patient, things happen fast. Normally you wait for 45 minutes on a freezing table wearing nothing but a paper napkin while they take their time. That day, I was in radiology within 20 minutes. Shortly after that I was having another calmly smiling ultrasound tech rubbing cold gel on my leg. Again with the lip pursing, the slight frown, the subtle head shake.
    “Right there,” she said, pointing to something indistinguishable to the untrained eye on a screen of wavy gray lines.
    She explained that there was a clot behind my knee, only a partial blockage, and at least two more completely blocked veins in my calf. Being a professional hypochondriac and a dabbler in all things medical, my brain immediately translated: deep vein thrombosis. A diagnosis that can lead to pulmonary embolism (clots in lungs), heart attack (clots in heart) and aneurysm (stroke, clot in brain). And oh yeah… all three potentially fatal. And left untreated, eminently fatal.
    I’m 32. No history of blood clots. Perfectly normal, healthy prior pregnancy. I drink my milk. I eat my five servings of fruits and vegetables. I take vitamins. I try to do what I can to stay healthy.
    And there is a baby boy in there, not quite ready to come out. My medical dabbling left me no idea of the danger to him, though I assumed that me dying wouldn’t be a good thing for his survival-- and no idea of the long term effects of all this. All I knew was something was wrong and I could die. I could die.     That thought wouldn’t leave my head. I could die, he could die, and I could miss out on the rest of my life.
    I’ve always said that I feel okay about my future. I’m prepared-- life or death, I feel like I know the outcome. Not all the details, but I believe there is a heaven, a home, a place for my soul to go when my body is done. I’m not afraid of death. I used to be terrified, but I feel now like it’s something we all have to go through to get to the next step. I believe firmly that I’m headed to heaven someday, to be with God, Jesus, and everyone else who’s gone before.
    But I forgot about how much I love my life, too. I know it’s temporary and I know we all have to leave sometime. But I don’t want to go yet. I will if I have no choice, but I want to have my baby. I want to live to feel his fingers wrapped around mine. I want to see my son Isaiah play baseball and graduate college. I want to see my little Madelyn play soccer and have dance recitals and I want to worry when she goes on her first date. I want to live and love my husband for the next sixty years or so.  Maybe it’s wrong to be so attached to life here. But I can’t help it. And I was terrified.
     I am still in the hospital, having treatments and waiting.  And making promises to myself. Two years ago I made promises to myself when I was diagnosed with a malignant melanoma. I spent six or eight months remembering, reminding myself to do all the things I wanted to do, because you never know when you’re at the end. And here I am again, making vows. I vow to love my husband every day, and make sure he knows he’s loved. I vow to love my children and help them the best way I know how, to grow up to be people of substance, men and women of character and depth and compassion and quality. I vow to help strangers and show kindness instead of spite . To not waste time complaining, but to look for the good side of every situation. I vow to keep my word, to not be wishy washy. I promise. I promise. I promise.
    Maybe it takes a few near death experiences to make a person remember the really important things. I don’t know. I hope for me this does it. As much as I appreciate being alive more than I did on Thursday, I hope to not have to survive many more reminders like this. I will remember how this feels.
    A good friend of mine told me once that the times that she feels down and overwhelmed and in despair, she remembers her brush with death. She remembers the feeling of permanence that accompanied the fear, and she keeps that feeling close to her. Because really, any time could be the last time.
And it’s encouraging.
     I know that sounds weird, but facing death makes you feel like anything goes and experiences are what counts. Because really, why are we here on this earth except to learn? If this is just a holding cell that we have to survive, to get through, to pass the time until we go to our “real” home, then what’s the point?     My theory? We’re supposed to be down here learning, soaking up experiences, living, loving, finding out what it’s like to be human. Isn’t that how Jesus did it? I mean, he had a more specific mission than most of us are aware of, and a little extra help because he actually knew he had said mission, but to me that doesn’t mean that we should all just assume we don’t have a purpose for being here. Until we figure it out I think we need to have that open minded attitude.
    We have to go through our experiences soaking up as much information as we can. I’m treating it like a fact-finding mission-- to boldly go where no man has gone before. Well, not no man, but boldly go where I haven’t been before, anyway. I am Jean-Luc Picard. I am Captain Kirk. I am Ahab, obsessively searching for that white whale. I want to know more, feel more, live more. Not only just in case I die soon. But because I’m alive now.
    We all have an expiration date in mind, and I want to get what I can out of this experience, whether my date reads tomorrow or in fifty years. I want my children and my family to know who I was and what I stood for. I don’t want them to have to guess. A little mystery is good sometimes, but I plan to live like an open book. I will make mistakes. Many, many mistakes. But I will take that information and learn from it. I have to.
    And I may not do it perfectly the first time, or the second, or the seven hundredth time. But my goal is to do my best. Not to try-- “trying” is a set up for possible failure. My plan is to shoot for the best I can do. You only get out of life what you put into it. I plan on putting a whole lot more into it from now on. I will keep this experience close to my heart, and always remember what it felt like. And not in a bad way. I’m not going to walk around being sad and morbid. Or force myself to enjoy things just because it might be the last time I’ll get to. But I will remember this feeling.

Song lyrics so romantic, you'll have a physical reaction to them....

Your Love

Woke up this mornin'
There was a hurricane warnin'
Went to the store to get some supplies
Can goods and wata, but there as not a
Single roll of toilet paper inside
And it made me think that a oooh


Your love is like a good toilet paper (good toilet paper)
It never falls apart when the going gets tough I said uh
Your love is like a good toilet paper (good toilet paper)
When its stormin' outside, I cant get enough
Said uh I can't get enough

Baby when I think about you
Can't think of something that I want to
I know I couldn't live without you in my life ooh-o-o-oh
I gotta have you near me (near me)
Don't want your love to disappear see (see)
Don't know what else I can say for this next line
But it makes me think that uh ooh


Your love is like a good toilet paper (good toilet paper)
It never falls apart when the going gets tough I said uh
Your love is like a good toilet paper (good toilet paper)
When its stormin' outside, I cant get enough
Said uh I can't get enough

Rap

Oh yo oh yoy
Can you hear me now good!
If you ever wonder why I say what I say
Da good toilet paper keep me clean everyday
You stay by my side never ever go away
And never running out is what I hope and I pray
Your lovin' is so fresh and so clean and so strong
Girl like a roll of Charmin girl your lovin' last long
Your love is so good and you girl are so pretty
With your love behind me girl I never feel shhh LORD!

Back to the drawing board...

I had an epiphany today. I am a good photographer. I've won awards for photojounalism. I'm no slouch on any sports photography venue. But I also need to evolve.

I moved back to California after enjoying a lot of success as a photographer in Hawaii. I thought I could pick right up where I left off. The problem is that as a self-taught wedding/portrait photographer, I forgot something really important. I'm not in Hawaii anymore.

Hawaii was beautiful and I never had many issues shooting there. The light and backdrops were always ideal. I seldom had problems finding nice, soft, diffused light. California is different. Not only is it much more competitive for photographers here, there's the challenge of finding just the right shooting location, the difference in light, and all the aforementioned competition to deal with.  Yes, I need to build my portfolio, figure out a new angle. Mostly, I just want to shoot. I miss taking photographs. I want to experiment. And I want to find new ways to take photos and make them art. I've seen a lot more of this lately and I am really excited to try my hand.

I'm a realist and I realized that I need to get back on the training track. There are so many incredible photographers out there doing so many fantastic things. I watch their blogs and progress and I really enjoy their work.

Mariea Rummel Photography is one, and I've recently also discovered Jessie Lee O'Ferrall, of Rustic Barn-- both great. My cousin-in-law Sara has SaraJane Photography also fabulous.

So I'm back to training. I am committing to learning everything I can about studio photography and portraiture and locations and shooting in California. I am inspired. I am rejuvenated. I am ready to build my portfolio and get down to work.

So.... if anyone is looking to have portraits done, I am ready to start the process. Well, give me a few weeks to have a baby and THEN I am ready. I am looking for candidates with newborns, infants, babies, children-- actually, anyone with a face will do. Thank you to my friends who have already volunteered, and anyone else interested, hit me up via email.

How Disney Malignes Stepmothers

    Why do fairy tales, particularly Disney stories, have the bad guy be the evil stepmother?  Okay so it’s not all of them… but notably, Cinderella’s stepmother and Snow White’s stepmother (the Evil Queen). They are some first class baddies, no denying it. Why do stepmothers get such a bad rap? The way Disney puts it, stepmothers are hell-bent on destroying the hopes and dreams of any children not naturally related to them.

    My stepdaughter, Madelyn, doesn’t seem to make the connection or care much. When we read Cinderella we sometimes call the stepmother the “bad lady” and the stepsisters we refer to as the “mean sisters”-- this is more for me than for Maddy, to whom I am her Julie, as if that is my title rather than my name. Maddy and I got acquainted two years ago at our church’s Easter Egg-stravaganza. Justin and I weren’t even dating yet but he brought her to the event and they hit my bounce house station first.

    It took Maddy a good thirty seconds to decide I was about her most favorite person in the world, at least for that moment. She was just a little over three, blue eyed and chubby cheeked, and there was nothing cuter than the pair of them, Daddy and his little girl, to melt my heart completely. At the time I was once again a single mom of my own little blue-eyed monster, who hadn’t had the smoothest road when it came to stepparents. My son was a lot older, eight, when he met his now stepdad, but it was clear from the beginning that though he was prepared to love Justin as “the guy married to his mom”, he was not going to be as easy to transition as Maddy.

    Life as a stepparent is hard and Justin definitely faced more challenges than I did, despite the lack of Disney step father villains. He and Isaiah are doing really well. Isaiah loves Justin and looks up to him, respects him, but it’s definitely a different dynamic and a tougher road to bond with an eight year old than a three year old. Luckily Isaiah is also at that stage when he’s craving male role models and drawing back a bit from “mommy” so Justin fits the bill in that respect quite nicely. I don’t worry as much about their relationship though-- they’re guys, and it seems like they communicate through sports and video games pretty well.

    Throughout the past two years Maddy and I have made great strides. I love her so much and there is no difference in my mind and heart or my treatment of her that indicates we are not as close as if we had been able to be biologically related. Still, the “stepmother” stigma bugs me sometimes. I hate the idea and I worry that someday in the future I will hear those dreaded words-- you’re not my real mommy. Because of course, I’m not,  nor do I have any delusions that I will ever be. There is a delicate balance between stepparents and biological ones, and it’s a balance I have no desire to upset. She has a mom, and she has a Julie. I just want there to be room in her heart and her world for me. Hopefully exposure to Disney movies won't be detrimental to that desire.

    There is a temptation to be softer on her than I would on my “bio” kids, to court favor and make sure those horrible words never emerge from her cute little mouth. But to do that would be a reverse favoritism that would only damage, and I know that as well as the next person. There are words that “bio” kids are capable of spouting that are just as hurtful -- “I wish you weren’t my mom,” or “I hate you”-- that’s a great one-- or one of my personal favorites, which I just heard from my son last week-- “I’d rather go live in an orphanage.” That was classic and I can only imagine he got the term from a book-- kid reads a lot. I don’t even think there are such facilities anymore, at least not in the U.S. We have something that can be much worse called foster care-- I shudder to think of my sensitive, precocious boy in a foster care scenario. He didn’t realize what he was saying, obviously-- but words like that are only meant to hurt.

    They do. Someday Maddy will figure it out too-- whether she draws parallels from the evil characters in her beloved fairy tales or just one day figures out that she can hurt me if she chooses. These days, at five and a half, she mostly goes the other direction-- wanting all my attention, wanting to do things with me as much as Daddy-- it’s a girl thing-- and accepting me as a parent figure without question. It may continue like that forever-- after all, she really doesn‘t remember life before I was in the picture.

     I’m hopeful that we will always have a good relationship. She doesn’t love being told to make her bed and the occasional time outs I dish out when behavior warrants, but she’s not eating poisoned apples, being locked in towers or being forced into slave labor while the prince wonders where she is. Although when it comes to princes hanging around, that’s a whole other worry. One I hope we won’t have to face for years to come.    

Baby Beats: Biological Inequality

It Begins:
 
    Never watch birthing videos at 8 months pregnant. Just don’t do it. It’s scary and violent and you begin to fear greatly for the future of your lady parts. For me I also hate hospitals-- particularly the one I’m going to deliver at. They are filled with sick people, for one-- diseased and germy people around my nice new clean baby. Who will come out all covered in goo though... hmm.

   There’s the other stuff too-- epidurals and IV’s and monitors… aye. It’s not looking good. The videos where people are giving birth naturally at home-- aye again. Not for me, either. Yuck. I have no idea where I’d really want to give birth, and at this moment the entire idea both disgusts and scares the hell out of me. It’s awkward and embarrassing, messy, there’s yelling and it’s just not very dignified. You lose all your sense of modesty.

  And giving birth is just the end game of this awkward process. Sex-- the thing that got us all into this mess-- that's a whole other can of worms. It reminds me of a part of Lady Chatterly’s Lover, by D.H. Lawrence. Constance talks about the visuals of sex, how ridiculous it is to see and hear. She’s totally right. They reference it in the movie Dogma as well-- as a big celestial joke that God and the angels all have a good laugh over every time they see humans going at it-- it’s just that. Awkward and embarrassing, with rude sounds and things slapping and flapping around grotesquely.

  But as that's what got us into this in the first place, it’s only fitting that another like act would get us out of it. And it doesn’t happen to men-- as with out social status and capital, women lost the equality lottery biologically, big time. Talk all you want about the miracle of birth and the things we get to experience that they never do, but the fact is that the burden isn't split fairly by biologically. We got screwed. It's a fact. I’d so much rather be a woman than a man, no question, but you have to admit we got the short end of the stick. We’re physically weaker and easier to overpower. The whole pregnancy thing is on us-- men have the power to pull a conceive and leave whenever they choose, and we’re stuck holding the bag.

  Even in the Bible women like Hagar had to just take it from the men and if things didn’t go as planned. She had no recourse and she and her kid were left to die in the dessert by a supposed man of God. It’s a little frustrating. We’re the ones with The Scarlet Letter and good old Dimmesdale just sits by and watches without taking any responsibility in the matter. Sure, he gets it in the end courtesy of fate and poetic justice but if he had his way he would have just sit there forever and let Hester take the brunt of it for their joint crime.

   I’m just saying. We all know about social capital-- where men get more appealing and better looking as they age and women tend to go down hill, along with their social capital. Single older women become “cougars” -- older women who prey on young men-- while men become George Clooney and Sean Connery. They're matched up against Catherine Zeta-Jones while the women get to be mom's and grandma's in movies even when they're still gorgeous-- Anette Benning does not get to play the love interest of Robert Pattinson.

   And all the slang vernacular associated with female genitalia deals with weakness and cowardice (i.e. a “pussy”) whereas if you have balls you are quite brave and strong. Well, I have ovaries, thank you, and I’m saying it takes a lot more courage and strength to be a woman. We might get the short end of the stick but we stand up to it with more tenacity. I'd like to see men be responsible for perpetuating the species. They're just not built for it. So next time you want to give someone a compliment, tell them they've got ovaries of steel. Because yes, we do.

Not abandoned... I promise!

I know I promised to update more and that I was back to blogging for good... and I am. I have good reason for being MIA lately... I'm writing! Not that this online column isn't writing-- it is-- but I've been frantically working on my novel and my brain needs rest at the end of the day. Apparently it's true that in the third trimester of pregnancy, your brain cells actually lose mass. Don't worry, I'll gain it back after the baby is born.  For now, though, my focus is on making the babies-- the one currently under construction in my belly, and my baby novel. The good news is I'm nearly halfway done with the novel, and the baby... well, he's about seven weeks away from joining us all in the real world. Until then, I feel like this blog is going to take a backseat. A temporary hiatus. A sabbatical, if you will.

But I will be back, make no mistake about that. I have an upcoming series in the works, on the way-- going to try to hone my topics a little, instead of being all over the place, and do a four part blog series on being a mom and a writer simultaneously. So keep an eye out in the future for "Baby, Ink"-- it may be a completely separate online column though, so that I can keep this one for my more esoteric, abstract, subversive ventures. Man, I sound cool. And anyone who reads this should feel cool too-- misunderstood by the world, totally involved in a hidden universe that only a select few are a part of, and just very, very cool. I'm excited.

Love you all and stay tuned! :-)  

Polymaths, dilattantes and the Renaissance Woman

    My great grandmother could do anything. At least that's what I thought at eleven years old. She crocheted afghans. She could gut fish, can tomatoes, and make the best peanut butter cookies in the universe. After so many years my memory of her is dim and probably colored with inaccuracies and stories that aren't true memories, but I always thought she was somewhat remarkable in her versatility and the things she could do. 

    I'm a dabbler. I know a little about a variety of subjects, but I would probably fall in the category of loving many things, mistress of none. It's shameful to me, the fact that I haven't ever stuck with anything long enough to master it. I dabble and flit between activities, taking up one thing for a few months and dropping it when something shiny catches my eye.

    A few months ago I came in contact with a woman, we’ll call her Beatrice. That’s not her name but it’s interesting. Beatrice shined with an ultra-violet light. I was immediately drawn to her personality. She was a woman who had lived. We started chatting and it seemed like she had experience in every subject that came up. She had just finished hiking Mt. Whitney, making the 22-mile trek-- in one day. I did it in three days, with a full posse of guys to set up and break down tents, cook, carry gear, and fetch water. Beatrice climbed the highest peak in the contiguous United States at 62. I was 23 and nearly collapsed.

    She shared delicious gourmet recipes with me, which included ingredients I’d never heard of, like endives and shallots. Endive is basically a kind of lettuce used in salads, and shallots are onions. They sound so much more exotic. She brought cuttings from her garden of plants and knew the biological names for all of them. Beatrice hiked with her dog almost every weekend. One day, Beatrice showed up in painter’s pants because she had what she called an “outdoor day” planned-- painting, finishing cabinets she was building, and changing the oil in her car.
 
    Before she retired she was a teacher. For five years she taught school. Then she got bored. She started her own line of couture. She sold her business when she was ready to move on and with the proceeds she bought a motorcycle, some new camera gear and took herself on a  a trip to Europe. She got a job at the post office. She worked for a senator as an administrative assistant. She was a docent at the museum of natural history. She was a photographer and her work was shown at the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. She was married and had four children and eight grandchildren.

    Her husband died, so she moved to Japan for a year and taught English. Then she moved to San Francisco. She lived in New York for a year. She was fluent in Italian, Spanish, and Japanese.

    I realized after a few months of knowing Beatrice that she and I are not so different. She was a dabbler too, a jack-of-all-trades. Only she would be what’s referred to as a Renaissance woman or polymath. A person  well educated or who excels in a wide variety of subjects or fields. I know a little about a lot of things. Beatrice excelled in a lot of things. But the world wouldn’t criticize someone like her. She’s not so different from me. She skipped around from career to career, never settling on a single option. She did things that she wanted to do and when she got bored, she switched.

    Despite this seemingly drifting nature, she developed her skills as a part of her life and made it work for her. She told me once that she didn’t want all her eggs in one basket, so with a teacher’s pension and a post office pension, she was covered. Plus she saved by doing things for herself instead of hiring people whenever she could. She was efficient and thrifty without losing out when it came to comfort and style.  She stayed healthy and trim and in style-- she didn't look her age, despite her long silver hair. She sometimes wore men’s shirts and work boots and she still looked as cool and stylish as she did in her Seven for All Mankind jeans or yoga pants. She pulled off a lot of different looks-- her personal style was as varied as her life.

  After meeting her I realized I am not as much of a “failure” as I have sometimes thought. I am an aspiring Renaissance Woman. There are so many things out there to learn, so many interesting subjects to invest time in and master. It's thrilling and I feel the energy surge every time I think of the things I want to do. I don't think life has to be limited to just one passion, one commitment.

    My first commitment is always going to be to my writing, but I have plenty of second best affections to bestow. It's liberating to know that it's okay to be multi-faceted-- to realize I don't have to apologize anymore for my interests or be ashamed if I express a desire to start a band or become an astronaut or learn to write shorthand. I can do it all if I want-- no holds barred. I can blog and still write novels. I can learn to ride a motorcycle and play the guitar and fish and garden and knit and build model airplanes if I want to. My only caveat-- and it's a newer ideal-- is to master each skill I commit to. If I want to learn to play guitar, I will work until I can do it. It’s a pretty exciting idea and I’m ready to get my hands dirty.

    So here's to Great-Grandma Jean, to Beatrice, to new adventures, and to never, ever settling for ordinary. Cheers!