ARRGH! I am so tired of the nay-sayers being right! I am tired of Doctor Gloom and Doom, and Nurse Depressing always winning. I know they don't want to win. But they keep doing it anyway, don't they. Isn't it time for the dreamers to win one? For the long shot to carry the day.
If you hadn't guessed, I have miscarried again. I just can't f-ing believe it. I just can't believe the Universe is this mean. I mean, honestly, is anyone at the helm up there?! Really, we needed more than just losing our boys? That wasn't enough of whatever the hell this is, whatever storm we are supposed to be weathering or life lessons we are supposed to be learning. I surrender. I surrender!! Now will you just stop?!
When I called the nurse today to find out what my latest numbers were, she came back and said, "Lisa, I am so sorry. I don't have good news for you. Your beta number is 8.6"
I'm thinking, Beta number? Oh, that must be different from Hcg. That must be like lbs to kgs or something. That's why it went from 234 to 8.6.
"I don't know what a beta number is" I replied. "I'm calling to find out my hcg number".
"Beta/Hcg: it's the same thing".
I can now feel my blood pulsing in my face. This can't be happening. Not again. Come on. Really? This is our story?
"But I still feel pregnant. I'm hungry all the time: it wakes me up at night. And I'm tired and moody." It sounds weak as I hear myself saying it, pleading with this nurse to somehow reverse the facts.
"We can re-run the test, if you'd like, " she offers.
"With a beta level of 8.6, if I pee on a home pregnancy test, it would come out negative, right?"
"Yes, that's right".
I get off the phone and run to find the box under the bathroom sink that I hoped I'd never have to use again. I pull out the remaining test and with shaking hands yank off the plastic wrapper.
Three minutes later, the test reads, "Not pregnant."
I'll spare you the description of me sinking to the bathroom floor, where I discover our bathmat needs a good washing. And of all the ensuing wailing and nashing of teeth and weeping phonecalls to Bruno at work, and to the family and friends that knew. You know the drill. You've seen it from me before.
I'm not sure I'm off the mat yet. I did get some sleep, and I did shower and I did chew my way through my toast and coffee; for those of you who know Bruno's coffee you know I mean it when I say chew. And I suppose I am sitting here trying to crack a joke.
But my spirit is still on the bathroom floor. It doesn't want to get up. It wants to spite the Universe: "Fine, you want to put me through hell? I do not accept. You do this to me, you lose me. I'm staying right here. You just go on without me, you bastard"
You all know me. You know I'll f-ing get up off the mat. I was born and raised to be that kind of good girl. But, I can tell you this: this time, it's not going to be pretty.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Monday, January 26, 2009
That Said,
I always said that the only way you can successfully keep journal writing going, is if you forgive yourself from the obligation to "catch up" the journal when you fall behind. Otherwise, once you have a break in your writing, you never want to sit down to write again.
That said, I feel compelled to do a little emotional catch up: I need to go back to when I had just miscarried Curly Five, while Bruno was in Japan. To be honest, I'm not sure I've ever been so low in my whole life. Even when we lost the boys, I was cushioned by huge amounts of shock and I was with Bruno, to whom I clung as if we were the twins. I think the loss of the boys came on me in waves: my mind protected me from experiencing the whole loss at once.
With this loss, I was without my buddy, it took me a while to call out to my family for help and I had no cushion. Instead I had the weight of everything that had already happened, everything we had already lost crushing into this fresh wound. I wandered around the house, literally wailing like a bad Greek tragedienne. A dear friend called and left a message, "I hope you are doing OK". I called back and ranted into the phone, "Of course I'm not OK, I am not remotely OK, I am nothing even approaching OK. I am a highway for little baby souls to die in and everything is pain and everything is blood, blood, blood...." She told me I sounded almost Joyce-ian. She got me to pause for air, and in that pause I heard what she had just said, and it made me laugh. Thank G-d for dear smart old friends.
Bruno came home, and we mourned together, and then time marched relentlessly on with holidays and parties and the New Year forcing itself into being. We squeezed in a few doctors appointments, one with our Ob/Gyn, and one with a perinatologist who specializes in cervical issues.
The perinatologist was maybe the most confident man I've ever met, for the good and the bad. I suppose you want someone like this on your team, but his confidence also led him to make a statement that set me back quite a ways, emotionally. He is completely convinced that if he performs a cerclage (a stitch in the cervix, done at 12 weeks of pregnancy), we will have a 90% chance of encountering no cervical problems again. Fabulous. He went on to say that because we were in small town Oregon when we had trouble, there was no one there with as much experience as him, no one with enough confidence to push back Pedro's bag of waters and perform an emergency cerclage. But now we had happily found our way into his fold, and he wouldn't let us out of his sight, and we would be fine.
OK. Gulp. Let me get this straight, Dr. Ego: if we had been in San Francisco and under your care, my sons wouldn't have died? And since when is Portland "small town Oregon". I immediately flashed back to early conversations from Oregon where my parents and brother and sister-in-law were angling to get us medivac'd to Stanford. I believe someone even suggested renting an RV and paying a nurse and driving me down to the Bay Area. And we told them all to leave us alone, that we were fine and receiving excellent care. And we were just going to quietly wait it out past all the trouble. And everything was fine, for three weeks, until it wasn't anymore.
Now, since that conversation, my Ob/Gyn told me that he knew of three emergency cerclages Dr. Ego had done in the last three months, and not one of them worked. But the damage was done to my psyche, and waves of fresh guilt lapped at my mind all through the holidays and well into the New Year.
Meanwhile, for these first two weeks of the 2009, I'd been harboring a secret fantasy that I was pregnant again. I knew it was nearly impossible, and that it must be some sort of mind game I was playing to get myself through. I started to bleed last week, and I picked up some medicine my Ob/Gyn wanted me to take after the return of my period. And all the while, I couldn't shake my fantasy. The first day I was due to take the medicine, I put it off all day, thinking: I'm pregnant. I finally confessed my little delusion to Bruno, who told me to take a store bought pregnancy test, just in case.
It came up pregnant.
I called the emergency hotline, was told NOT to take the meds, and to show up for a blood test to confirm the pregnancy. The test the next morning confirmed it, with Hcg levels of 70. Come in tomorrow for another test, they asked. Elevator going up: Hcg level of 98.8. Come in for another at the end of the week. Hcg level 234. They told me they think it is a little low.
OK, now you are just being mean.
The levels are more than doubling every 72 hours. What the hell good does it do to freak me out? There is no difference in treatment, no matter what the numbers. Nothing to do but think good thoughts, and see what is in store for us at the 6 week ultrasound. Which is next week.
Wish us luck.
That said, I feel compelled to do a little emotional catch up: I need to go back to when I had just miscarried Curly Five, while Bruno was in Japan. To be honest, I'm not sure I've ever been so low in my whole life. Even when we lost the boys, I was cushioned by huge amounts of shock and I was with Bruno, to whom I clung as if we were the twins. I think the loss of the boys came on me in waves: my mind protected me from experiencing the whole loss at once.
With this loss, I was without my buddy, it took me a while to call out to my family for help and I had no cushion. Instead I had the weight of everything that had already happened, everything we had already lost crushing into this fresh wound. I wandered around the house, literally wailing like a bad Greek tragedienne. A dear friend called and left a message, "I hope you are doing OK". I called back and ranted into the phone, "Of course I'm not OK, I am not remotely OK, I am nothing even approaching OK. I am a highway for little baby souls to die in and everything is pain and everything is blood, blood, blood...." She told me I sounded almost Joyce-ian. She got me to pause for air, and in that pause I heard what she had just said, and it made me laugh. Thank G-d for dear smart old friends.
Bruno came home, and we mourned together, and then time marched relentlessly on with holidays and parties and the New Year forcing itself into being. We squeezed in a few doctors appointments, one with our Ob/Gyn, and one with a perinatologist who specializes in cervical issues.
The perinatologist was maybe the most confident man I've ever met, for the good and the bad. I suppose you want someone like this on your team, but his confidence also led him to make a statement that set me back quite a ways, emotionally. He is completely convinced that if he performs a cerclage (a stitch in the cervix, done at 12 weeks of pregnancy), we will have a 90% chance of encountering no cervical problems again. Fabulous. He went on to say that because we were in small town Oregon when we had trouble, there was no one there with as much experience as him, no one with enough confidence to push back Pedro's bag of waters and perform an emergency cerclage. But now we had happily found our way into his fold, and he wouldn't let us out of his sight, and we would be fine.
OK. Gulp. Let me get this straight, Dr. Ego: if we had been in San Francisco and under your care, my sons wouldn't have died? And since when is Portland "small town Oregon". I immediately flashed back to early conversations from Oregon where my parents and brother and sister-in-law were angling to get us medivac'd to Stanford. I believe someone even suggested renting an RV and paying a nurse and driving me down to the Bay Area. And we told them all to leave us alone, that we were fine and receiving excellent care. And we were just going to quietly wait it out past all the trouble. And everything was fine, for three weeks, until it wasn't anymore.
Now, since that conversation, my Ob/Gyn told me that he knew of three emergency cerclages Dr. Ego had done in the last three months, and not one of them worked. But the damage was done to my psyche, and waves of fresh guilt lapped at my mind all through the holidays and well into the New Year.
Meanwhile, for these first two weeks of the 2009, I'd been harboring a secret fantasy that I was pregnant again. I knew it was nearly impossible, and that it must be some sort of mind game I was playing to get myself through. I started to bleed last week, and I picked up some medicine my Ob/Gyn wanted me to take after the return of my period. And all the while, I couldn't shake my fantasy. The first day I was due to take the medicine, I put it off all day, thinking: I'm pregnant. I finally confessed my little delusion to Bruno, who told me to take a store bought pregnancy test, just in case.
It came up pregnant.
I called the emergency hotline, was told NOT to take the meds, and to show up for a blood test to confirm the pregnancy. The test the next morning confirmed it, with Hcg levels of 70. Come in tomorrow for another test, they asked. Elevator going up: Hcg level of 98.8. Come in for another at the end of the week. Hcg level 234. They told me they think it is a little low.
OK, now you are just being mean.
The levels are more than doubling every 72 hours. What the hell good does it do to freak me out? There is no difference in treatment, no matter what the numbers. Nothing to do but think good thoughts, and see what is in store for us at the 6 week ultrasound. Which is next week.
Wish us luck.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
With a Little Help From My Friends: Part II
As a result of reaching out to my circle, I found myself with the chance to pick the brain of the Director of New Works of a theatre I am very interested in here in the Bay Area. I was grateful for the chance, and before the day of the interview, I thought through all the questions I wanted to ask about the theatre scene here.
As the day arrived, and Bruno sailed off to work, I started imagining how the interview might go. I imagined trying to find each other in the Starbucks, some awkward laughter. I imagined buying him a coffee and settling into a table. And then I imagined him welcoming me to the Bay Area and saying, "Tell me a little bit about yourself"
And then the vision went to the static screen that comes on the TV when it runs out of programming.
Yikes. How the hell do I answer that question right now. There is only one thing flashing in my mind by way of an answer, and I'm certainly not going to lob that his way. How the hell did Bruno do his job interviews? How did he answer these kinds of questions while our grief was still throbbing just under the skin. I feel a new level of respect for my husband who did what he needed to to keep his family going when his partner was unable to shoulder her part of the load. And I feel a fresh wave of terror at the prospect of fielding this question this afternoon.
As the tears began to swell, I lunged for the phone, dialed my dear, brilliant friend Rachel, and nearly fell to the floor with relief when she answered the call.
"Who am I," I managed to croak out.
"I'm sorry?" queried Rach
"I have an interview this afternoon and the guy might ask 'Tell me about yourself', or, 'What have you been up to lately' and I can't remember who I am. Who am I?"
And then this dear, lovely friend, began to thoughtfully remind me of who I am.
"As an artist", she began, "You have always been a study in contrasts. You began your theatre work with a real interest in authentic emotional experience, Method Acting, Uta Hagen. You enjoy being a lightening rod for emotions and taking your audience on a journey that way. But as you continued pursuing theatre, you began to find real enjoyment and skill in more physical ways of expressing: clown work, choreography. And you find you are at your strongest when you can bring those two things together. You also really enjoy being part of someone else's visions, being a team player and collaborator, and yet you also find times when you are compelled to make your own work, and you seem to organically weave those two opposite pursuits together."
"As a person, " she continued, "you have always enjoyed having a wide range. You act and sing and dance, and you love math, and you love education; you are a homebody and are now discovering the joys of travel. You got married and lived in three different places all in the last four years. And you arrived in the Bay Area in the middle of a personal tragedy, did a lot of hard work to start healing, and are now ready to start rejoining the theatre world."
As I listened to her tell me who I am, I thought: Everyone should do this! Everyone should call a dear friend who knows them to their core, and ask to be told who they are. The elements she pulled together for me, leaving aside all my complaints about myself, my worries and neurosis, and distilling the best parts of me, left me feeling so confident and so proud that I couldn't wait to get to the interview.
As it turns out, the questions I feared never got asked. But I'm sure that the boost Rachel gave me by letting me see myself through her mirror was what allowed me to be so relaxed and happy throughout the interview, and for several days afterward.
As the day arrived, and Bruno sailed off to work, I started imagining how the interview might go. I imagined trying to find each other in the Starbucks, some awkward laughter. I imagined buying him a coffee and settling into a table. And then I imagined him welcoming me to the Bay Area and saying, "Tell me a little bit about yourself"
And then the vision went to the static screen that comes on the TV when it runs out of programming.
Yikes. How the hell do I answer that question right now. There is only one thing flashing in my mind by way of an answer, and I'm certainly not going to lob that his way. How the hell did Bruno do his job interviews? How did he answer these kinds of questions while our grief was still throbbing just under the skin. I feel a new level of respect for my husband who did what he needed to to keep his family going when his partner was unable to shoulder her part of the load. And I feel a fresh wave of terror at the prospect of fielding this question this afternoon.
As the tears began to swell, I lunged for the phone, dialed my dear, brilliant friend Rachel, and nearly fell to the floor with relief when she answered the call.
"Who am I," I managed to croak out.
"I'm sorry?" queried Rach
"I have an interview this afternoon and the guy might ask 'Tell me about yourself', or, 'What have you been up to lately' and I can't remember who I am. Who am I?"
And then this dear, lovely friend, began to thoughtfully remind me of who I am.
"As an artist", she began, "You have always been a study in contrasts. You began your theatre work with a real interest in authentic emotional experience, Method Acting, Uta Hagen. You enjoy being a lightening rod for emotions and taking your audience on a journey that way. But as you continued pursuing theatre, you began to find real enjoyment and skill in more physical ways of expressing: clown work, choreography. And you find you are at your strongest when you can bring those two things together. You also really enjoy being part of someone else's visions, being a team player and collaborator, and yet you also find times when you are compelled to make your own work, and you seem to organically weave those two opposite pursuits together."
"As a person, " she continued, "you have always enjoyed having a wide range. You act and sing and dance, and you love math, and you love education; you are a homebody and are now discovering the joys of travel. You got married and lived in three different places all in the last four years. And you arrived in the Bay Area in the middle of a personal tragedy, did a lot of hard work to start healing, and are now ready to start rejoining the theatre world."
As I listened to her tell me who I am, I thought: Everyone should do this! Everyone should call a dear friend who knows them to their core, and ask to be told who they are. The elements she pulled together for me, leaving aside all my complaints about myself, my worries and neurosis, and distilling the best parts of me, left me feeling so confident and so proud that I couldn't wait to get to the interview.
As it turns out, the questions I feared never got asked. But I'm sure that the boost Rachel gave me by letting me see myself through her mirror was what allowed me to be so relaxed and happy throughout the interview, and for several days afterward.
With a Little Help From My Friends: Part I
As 2009 dawns, I find I am beginning to reenter life. And I am thus beginning to find out just how socially lobotomized this whole experience has left me. At our Hanukkah party, I mostly played with the kids: that's about the conversation level I can handle.
A few weeks ago at an audition, I met another actress from NYC: I thrust my business card at her and asked if I could take her to coffee and pick her brain about transitioning to the Bay Area. To my delight and terror, she contacted me, and invited me to go to the theatre. In Berkeley. Oh G-d: a social date and a car trip. But I'm going balls to the walls this year, and so I said yes, struggled to squeeze my still heavy body into clothes that weren't sweat pants, gamely typed the address into my dashboard friend, and was off.
I had a triumphant beginning: I made it to Berkeley only hearing one snide "recalculating", and I parallel parked! Nothing can stop me now! I arrived at the theatre early, walked in, and found myself face to face with the one casting director in the area I know from previous work in California. She recognized me, gave me a huge hug, and told me of work she already had in mind for me. And I stuttered and stammered, and thanked her, I think (G-d, I hope). And then continued to talk to her, trying to prove I was in fact a human being instead of the rutabega I had managed so far, and it was only a few minutes later that I realized we were standing in front of a large group of people all wearing black and white and now staring at me; she had been conducting a meeting with that evening's volunteer ushers, and here I was completely oblivious and yammering away like an idiot. Oy Vey. Can I go home now?
But there, through the glass front door, is my new friend, waving and looking bubbly. She comes in and rescues me, grabs us wine and talks non-stop. I stop beating myself up for the opening fiasco, and melt into the torrent of her energy. She knows everyone in the room. She waves to person after person, walks over and introduces me. People look at me expectantly, and I can't think of a thing to say.
I used to be able to do this. I could walk through a room of strangers, introduce myself, ask them about their work and tell them about mine. Exchange cards. Now, I'm starring dumbly at all these nice people thinking: "I just experienced tragedy and I'm struggling to survive. That is my current work." But ofcourse you can't say things like that in a theatre lobby. Well, I suppose you can, but even I am not that bold.
But G-d bless my new friend, she bulldozes right over my silence and proceeds to tell all her friends how I am this fabulous actress just arrived from NYC, and that they are all going to want to work with me (mind you, this friend has yet to see my work). She holds me by the elbow, and her chatter and her warmth bubble over me, and I stop worrying and take a back seat and listen. I listen to her talk, and ask and listen. I watch and I relearn how to converse, how to chit chat.
The show is starting; the schmoozing is done. I relax into my seat in the darkness: this part I can handle. We see six new plays that evening, and I am delighted, revitalized, by the power of fresh new work, new ideas, raw, just hatched. I am in love, again, with theatre, it's collaborative nature, the honest helpless passion of it's participants. I think I could step back into this. I think I could let this continue my healing.
I walk out of the theatre with tears in my eyes. I am grateful for the whole evening: for the writers, the actors, for the bubbly new friend by my elbow guiding me back into life. Grateful for my boys, my little angels who are causing me to rebirth myself as well.
A few weeks ago at an audition, I met another actress from NYC: I thrust my business card at her and asked if I could take her to coffee and pick her brain about transitioning to the Bay Area. To my delight and terror, she contacted me, and invited me to go to the theatre. In Berkeley. Oh G-d: a social date and a car trip. But I'm going balls to the walls this year, and so I said yes, struggled to squeeze my still heavy body into clothes that weren't sweat pants, gamely typed the address into my dashboard friend, and was off.
I had a triumphant beginning: I made it to Berkeley only hearing one snide "recalculating", and I parallel parked! Nothing can stop me now! I arrived at the theatre early, walked in, and found myself face to face with the one casting director in the area I know from previous work in California. She recognized me, gave me a huge hug, and told me of work she already had in mind for me. And I stuttered and stammered, and thanked her, I think (G-d, I hope). And then continued to talk to her, trying to prove I was in fact a human being instead of the rutabega I had managed so far, and it was only a few minutes later that I realized we were standing in front of a large group of people all wearing black and white and now staring at me; she had been conducting a meeting with that evening's volunteer ushers, and here I was completely oblivious and yammering away like an idiot. Oy Vey. Can I go home now?
But there, through the glass front door, is my new friend, waving and looking bubbly. She comes in and rescues me, grabs us wine and talks non-stop. I stop beating myself up for the opening fiasco, and melt into the torrent of her energy. She knows everyone in the room. She waves to person after person, walks over and introduces me. People look at me expectantly, and I can't think of a thing to say.
I used to be able to do this. I could walk through a room of strangers, introduce myself, ask them about their work and tell them about mine. Exchange cards. Now, I'm starring dumbly at all these nice people thinking: "I just experienced tragedy and I'm struggling to survive. That is my current work." But ofcourse you can't say things like that in a theatre lobby. Well, I suppose you can, but even I am not that bold.
But G-d bless my new friend, she bulldozes right over my silence and proceeds to tell all her friends how I am this fabulous actress just arrived from NYC, and that they are all going to want to work with me (mind you, this friend has yet to see my work). She holds me by the elbow, and her chatter and her warmth bubble over me, and I stop worrying and take a back seat and listen. I listen to her talk, and ask and listen. I watch and I relearn how to converse, how to chit chat.
The show is starting; the schmoozing is done. I relax into my seat in the darkness: this part I can handle. We see six new plays that evening, and I am delighted, revitalized, by the power of fresh new work, new ideas, raw, just hatched. I am in love, again, with theatre, it's collaborative nature, the honest helpless passion of it's participants. I think I could step back into this. I think I could let this continue my healing.
I walk out of the theatre with tears in my eyes. I am grateful for the whole evening: for the writers, the actors, for the bubbly new friend by my elbow guiding me back into life. Grateful for my boys, my little angels who are causing me to rebirth myself as well.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
She's a Maniac (maniac on the floor...)
Today I'm under the influence of some kind of hormonal storm front. At least that's the story I'm sticking with. It's a real shame too, because it is such a beautiful day outside. We even went out in it, climbed a mini mountain near our house. You'd think that would have done the trick, snapped me out of this funkadelic gully. And I think it might have had a shot of working. But then my husband made a fatal mistake. He decided, post hike, with my adrenaline high and my blood sugar low and no clear read on the status of the emotional storm front, that this would be a good moment to teach me to drive a stick shift.
Bad idea. Very very baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad idea.
He had tried to warm me up to this idea on the hike, and you'd think from the chilly reception his brainchild had received that he would have pressed the abort button by now. But no, not my ever ambitious husband, who believes that through the sheer force of his will he can get people to enjoy the things that he enjoys, whether that be skiing very quickly down a mountain, or enjoying the supposed extra control of the vehicle that driving stick shift affords. I'll also take this moment to remind you that I resent very strongly no longer having the NYC subway system available to me, and I do not, generally, enjoy having what little control I do currently have over my vehicle.
Danger, Danger Will Robinson. Abort. Abort.
I get in the driver's seat of his car, a cute little pearly white Subaru Impreza. That is all I can tell you about the car: it's color and it's name. Oh, and it has some ugly little fin thing on the hood that I think is necessary because of something called Turbo. I asked if we could get the car without the fin thing and was summarily told: No.
I adjust the seat until my knees are up my nose, allowing me to fully depress the surprising third petal, the almighty CLUTCH. Bruno asks me to put my right foot on the brake, and I promptly get disoriented by the involvement now of my left foot in the process, and touch my right foot to the gas. The car makes an unpleasant revving noise. Bruno starts hollering, "Gas and Brake haven't changed! It's the same as in your car!"
I am not off to a good start.
At this point, I seriously can't remember which petal is the gas and which is the brake, which as far as I'm concerned disqualifies me from ever driving stick shift again, but my ever optimistic husband has set his sights on success and insists we continue. I take a deep breath, try to visualize being in my car (will I have time to do this while barreling down the highway?), and press the break. Under Bruno's instruction, I move the stick into neutral.
Clutch still depressed, I now am told to press lightly on the gas, until the little needle thingy is between 2 and 3. OK, mission accomplished. Are we done now? Nope, now I've got to keep my gas foot just where it is, move the car into gear #1, and slowly, gently release the clutch.
Seriously, people do all these different things at once while moving at great speeds? See, this is why they INVENTED AUTOMATIC.
OK, I manage to do all these things, and the car actually starts moving forward without any more of those revving or chugging or choking noises. OK.
And then the people appear.
What had been an empty street at the end of a mountain has now rolled into a little residential street with people. And dogs. And little kids.
I ask Bruno how to stop, and he tells me I'm doing fine. I repeat my request, through gritted teeth with a shrillness in my voice exposing the state of complete panic I am now in, and am once again told that I am doing fine.
EEERRRCCCHHH! <---- That's my best approximation of the sound the car now made as I stepped on clutch and brake simultaneously and immediately, tossed the stick back into neutral, wrenched up the emergency break, and hopped out of the pearly white devil car.
I marched around to the passenger seat, passing Bruno on his march toward the driver's. He looked about as angry as I felt.
He starts up the car, drives us in silence away from the residents, dogs and kids, and then we both start to shout at once:
"Why do you have to panic all the time!?" "Why wouldn't you tell me how to stop!" "Why can't you just trust me, you were fine!" "I was in a moving vehicle and I didn't know how to stop it, I wasn't fine!" "What do you mean you didn't know how to stop it: you just stopped it" "I took a guess: I didn't know what the hell I was doing! And who are you to decide what I do and don't need to know?!" "YOU WERE FINE!"
Needless to say, all of this excitement pretty much eliminated the idea that our hike would put me in a better mood. I've been an emotional maniac all afternoon. Although I must say, writing this posting (aka: tattling on my husband) has made me feel much, much better.
Bad idea. Very very baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad idea.
He had tried to warm me up to this idea on the hike, and you'd think from the chilly reception his brainchild had received that he would have pressed the abort button by now. But no, not my ever ambitious husband, who believes that through the sheer force of his will he can get people to enjoy the things that he enjoys, whether that be skiing very quickly down a mountain, or enjoying the supposed extra control of the vehicle that driving stick shift affords. I'll also take this moment to remind you that I resent very strongly no longer having the NYC subway system available to me, and I do not, generally, enjoy having what little control I do currently have over my vehicle.
Danger, Danger Will Robinson. Abort. Abort.
I get in the driver's seat of his car, a cute little pearly white Subaru Impreza. That is all I can tell you about the car: it's color and it's name. Oh, and it has some ugly little fin thing on the hood that I think is necessary because of something called Turbo. I asked if we could get the car without the fin thing and was summarily told: No.
I adjust the seat until my knees are up my nose, allowing me to fully depress the surprising third petal, the almighty CLUTCH. Bruno asks me to put my right foot on the brake, and I promptly get disoriented by the involvement now of my left foot in the process, and touch my right foot to the gas. The car makes an unpleasant revving noise. Bruno starts hollering, "Gas and Brake haven't changed! It's the same as in your car!"
I am not off to a good start.
At this point, I seriously can't remember which petal is the gas and which is the brake, which as far as I'm concerned disqualifies me from ever driving stick shift again, but my ever optimistic husband has set his sights on success and insists we continue. I take a deep breath, try to visualize being in my car (will I have time to do this while barreling down the highway?), and press the break. Under Bruno's instruction, I move the stick into neutral.
Clutch still depressed, I now am told to press lightly on the gas, until the little needle thingy is between 2 and 3. OK, mission accomplished. Are we done now? Nope, now I've got to keep my gas foot just where it is, move the car into gear #1, and slowly, gently release the clutch.
Seriously, people do all these different things at once while moving at great speeds? See, this is why they INVENTED AUTOMATIC.
OK, I manage to do all these things, and the car actually starts moving forward without any more of those revving or chugging or choking noises. OK.
And then the people appear.
What had been an empty street at the end of a mountain has now rolled into a little residential street with people. And dogs. And little kids.
I ask Bruno how to stop, and he tells me I'm doing fine. I repeat my request, through gritted teeth with a shrillness in my voice exposing the state of complete panic I am now in, and am once again told that I am doing fine.
EEERRRCCCHHH! <---- That's my best approximation of the sound the car now made as I stepped on clutch and brake simultaneously and immediately, tossed the stick back into neutral, wrenched up the emergency break, and hopped out of the pearly white devil car.
I marched around to the passenger seat, passing Bruno on his march toward the driver's. He looked about as angry as I felt.
He starts up the car, drives us in silence away from the residents, dogs and kids, and then we both start to shout at once:
"Why do you have to panic all the time!?" "Why wouldn't you tell me how to stop!" "Why can't you just trust me, you were fine!" "I was in a moving vehicle and I didn't know how to stop it, I wasn't fine!" "What do you mean you didn't know how to stop it: you just stopped it" "I took a guess: I didn't know what the hell I was doing! And who are you to decide what I do and don't need to know?!" "YOU WERE FINE!"
Needless to say, all of this excitement pretty much eliminated the idea that our hike would put me in a better mood. I've been an emotional maniac all afternoon. Although I must say, writing this posting (aka: tattling on my husband) has made me feel much, much better.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
My Circle
Today, at my husband's urging, I reached out for help generating a new artistic life here on the left coast. I contacted many people who have been fans from the past: actors, directors, producers, artists, educators, writers, friends, -and asked for help. I called it my "Phoenix from the Ashes" campaign. The response was overwhelming.
Most of these people don't know the story of Pedro and Archer, and I wasn't sure whether to burden them with it. But the idea of sending a sunny, "Hi, how are you? Things are great out here in California" email made me feel hollow. I decided that there was no way to move forward without embracing my whole story, and so I wrote each person a brief summary of recent events (and pointed them toward this blog if they wanted more details: hello there!) Again, the response surprised and moved me to no end.
People wrote back expressing their sympathies, telling me their similar stories, offering names of contacts and friends, sending e-mails on my behalf, naming months for West Coast visits. People I haven't seen in years offered empathy, sympathy, love, prayers and well wishes. I feel so surrounded and protected by a circle of artists and educators and friends. I feel so lucky.
Thank you, to everyone I am lucky enough to know. Like a phoenix from the ashes, I will rebuild myself, to honor my sons, my husband, my family and my circle.
Most of these people don't know the story of Pedro and Archer, and I wasn't sure whether to burden them with it. But the idea of sending a sunny, "Hi, how are you? Things are great out here in California" email made me feel hollow. I decided that there was no way to move forward without embracing my whole story, and so I wrote each person a brief summary of recent events (and pointed them toward this blog if they wanted more details: hello there!) Again, the response surprised and moved me to no end.
People wrote back expressing their sympathies, telling me their similar stories, offering names of contacts and friends, sending e-mails on my behalf, naming months for West Coast visits. People I haven't seen in years offered empathy, sympathy, love, prayers and well wishes. I feel so surrounded and protected by a circle of artists and educators and friends. I feel so lucky.
Thank you, to everyone I am lucky enough to know. Like a phoenix from the ashes, I will rebuild myself, to honor my sons, my husband, my family and my circle.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A Gift
I bought myself a gift today: a set of 81 glittery gel pens. I got it at Costco for $16.95. I am super excited about it.
They come in a stand; the marketers called it a "stadium stand". And truthfully, that's what it looks like: 81 jewel-like caps topping 81 crystaline tubes housing 81 shimmering colors of icecream-smooth ink, standing in tiered rows, looking like a circus audience.
My stadium of creative sentinels stands at attention on my desk, next to my computer. All day, I've been making lists just to see the fresh inks glide onto the page. And then I've been completing the things on my list, just for the pleasure of scratching a line of one color through words of another.
It's funny the bribes we give ourselves, to get the jobs done, to get through the day. Today was especially productive, as my page of scarlet and sapphire will attest.
They come in a stand; the marketers called it a "stadium stand". And truthfully, that's what it looks like: 81 jewel-like caps topping 81 crystaline tubes housing 81 shimmering colors of icecream-smooth ink, standing in tiered rows, looking like a circus audience.
My stadium of creative sentinels stands at attention on my desk, next to my computer. All day, I've been making lists just to see the fresh inks glide onto the page. And then I've been completing the things on my list, just for the pleasure of scratching a line of one color through words of another.
It's funny the bribes we give ourselves, to get the jobs done, to get through the day. Today was especially productive, as my page of scarlet and sapphire will attest.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Glass in the Bed
Last night I dreamt there was glass in our bed. And that my mother had been in the bed and had somehow escaped without getting cut by the glass, but now we were in the bed and I was very worried, because I knew the glass was in here with us, and I was just waiting for it to cut us.
We made the decision around Hanukkah time to buy a beautiful double frame, put a picture of Archer and a picture of Pedro in it, and place in on the dresser in our bedroom. It has been a mixed blessing. The whole pregnancy was beginning to seem like a dream, like something that must not have really happened, and so seeing their beautiful selves, their sweet little faces, has brought it back home to us that they are real, that we really did have two sons.
But every time I walk through the bedroom and pass their pictures, from the moment I wake up until the moment we turn out the lights, I utter two phrases as I pass:
"I love you"
and, "I'm so sorry".
Seeing them makes me feel oh so strongly what we've lost. All the potential these two little lads had in them, with their long limbs and their big, perfect feet. Bruno's swarthiness reflected in Pedro's dark crown, and Archer's pale and worried brow: my side of the family.
We're not sure whether the pictures can stay. Each of us has gotten lost, gotten stuck just standing in front of the frame, staring at the two little bodies. It's hard to forgive ourselves, forgive the Universe, to just keep moving. And we're both afraid of the moment when we become used to the picture, when we walk by without noticing, without acknowledging.
We're waiting for the right moment to put it away. A moment of pause, when both of us feel ready, to gently put the picture away, for now, knowing we can take them out when we want to, when we need to. We haven't found that moment yet, so for now I keep chanting, I love you; I'm so sorry.
And apparently my dream self has figured out that no matter when I put the double frame away, I will always be aware of the glass in the bed.
We made the decision around Hanukkah time to buy a beautiful double frame, put a picture of Archer and a picture of Pedro in it, and place in on the dresser in our bedroom. It has been a mixed blessing. The whole pregnancy was beginning to seem like a dream, like something that must not have really happened, and so seeing their beautiful selves, their sweet little faces, has brought it back home to us that they are real, that we really did have two sons.
But every time I walk through the bedroom and pass their pictures, from the moment I wake up until the moment we turn out the lights, I utter two phrases as I pass:
"I love you"
and, "I'm so sorry".
Seeing them makes me feel oh so strongly what we've lost. All the potential these two little lads had in them, with their long limbs and their big, perfect feet. Bruno's swarthiness reflected in Pedro's dark crown, and Archer's pale and worried brow: my side of the family.
We're not sure whether the pictures can stay. Each of us has gotten lost, gotten stuck just standing in front of the frame, staring at the two little bodies. It's hard to forgive ourselves, forgive the Universe, to just keep moving. And we're both afraid of the moment when we become used to the picture, when we walk by without noticing, without acknowledging.
We're waiting for the right moment to put it away. A moment of pause, when both of us feel ready, to gently put the picture away, for now, knowing we can take them out when we want to, when we need to. We haven't found that moment yet, so for now I keep chanting, I love you; I'm so sorry.
And apparently my dream self has figured out that no matter when I put the double frame away, I will always be aware of the glass in the bed.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
Breath of Fresh Air From the Past
My Mom, my lovely Mom, forwarded this to me today, to remind me of happier moments from the past. For me, it was a breath of fresh air, a reminder of less heavy times, a glimpse of who I was, the breathless, excitable girl who is still in there somewhere. Thought you all could maybe use a breath too in this journey, so here it is:
"June 6th, 2003:
Well,
Bruno asked me to marry him this weekend, and I said yes!!
Couldn't have been more romantic: B&B at Lake Tahoe, a bike ride through the woods, wine in an outdoor hot tub, a fancy dinner out, then back to our little cottage for a second hot tub dip, this time in our room, lit by fireplace and candlelight. He went to get "wine" out of the ice bucket, and as I looked at the shadow he cast on the wall in front of me, I noticed the shape his hand was holding didn't look like a wine bottle. Instead, in front of my eyes, was a beautiful green box containing an even more beautiful green sapphire in an antique white gold ring setting.
I started saying "OHMYG-D" and couldn't stop for like a minute solid. When I finally shut up, Bruno asked, "Will you marry me?" And I said yes, and we cried and hugged.
Then, I pulled back and, ham that I am, I said, "Do it again!"
And this lovely man I'm marrying asked me again, and I said yes again, and isn't life fun sometimes?!"
And for those of you really paying attention, yes, the second hot tub was a private one in our room, so, yes, this was a naked proposal.
Isn't life fun sometimes?
"June 6th, 2003:
Well,
Bruno asked me to marry him this weekend, and I said yes!!
Couldn't have been more romantic: B&B at Lake Tahoe, a bike ride through the woods, wine in an outdoor hot tub, a fancy dinner out, then back to our little cottage for a second hot tub dip, this time in our room, lit by fireplace and candlelight. He went to get "wine" out of the ice bucket, and as I looked at the shadow he cast on the wall in front of me, I noticed the shape his hand was holding didn't look like a wine bottle. Instead, in front of my eyes, was a beautiful green box containing an even more beautiful green sapphire in an antique white gold ring setting.
I started saying "OHMYG-D" and couldn't stop for like a minute solid. When I finally shut up, Bruno asked, "Will you marry me?" And I said yes, and we cried and hugged.
Then, I pulled back and, ham that I am, I said, "Do it again!"
And this lovely man I'm marrying asked me again, and I said yes again, and isn't life fun sometimes?!"
And for those of you really paying attention, yes, the second hot tub was a private one in our room, so, yes, this was a naked proposal.
Isn't life fun sometimes?
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