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The art of love…

Tuesday, January 31st, 2012

I have to tell you, I loved my most recent From Left to Write selection from the moment I opened the package. For one thing…the cover The Art of Hearing Heartbeats is lovely…absolutely lovely. And for another…I loved the writing style. Most of all, however, this book spoke to me on so many levels that I wondered what I would write, which one aspect of my life I would opt to relate it to.

See, my life is all about love…the love I have for my children, my family members, my friends, and most of all the love I have for S. While everyone but Kenna has been around a reasonably long time, S has been new. Our relationship is closing in on four years old this June. (The blog will be three!) And our marriage will be a year old in September.

I remember Julia’s conversation with her mother from the beginning of the book, just before Julia left for Burma. I remember the mother explaining the relationship with her father, where there was no trust, where she had to spy on him. I remember how he told her he would love her, but not necessarily the kind of love that she wanted. In truth, his heart always belonged to another. And yet Julia’s mother married him anyway. She was too proud, too stubborn not to.

And I understand that.

I think, in part, that was how the relationship with S started out. He told me from the beginning that he was still trying to get over an ex, that he didn’t know if he could love me. And I didn’t care about being loved. I didn’t look at him as forever. I looked at him as a lovely distraction and a really good friend. We had this…connection that couldn’t be denied.

Time passed. He went from not knowing if he could love me to loving me, but not being in love with me. And I was fine with that. I figured by then that I could love enough for the both of us. I had never known anyone who needed my love more.

More time passed. He finally realized that he not only loved me, but was also in love with me. He just wasn’t ready to be an instant dad to a teen and a tween. He still felt like a kid himself. And in all his years imagining marriage…she was younger and had never been married. They had all their firsts to enjoy together. I understood that. I didn’t imagine falling for a younger man. I didn’t need to spend my years worrying about losing to a younger woman.

I tried to walk away. I really did.

Only that wasn’t to be. Sometimes the connection is too great. Sometimes the connection overcomes what was once a thought to be too great a stumbling block. Sometimes you have to simply accept that life is progressing as it should, even if it doesn’t entirely fit with your vision.

He came after me.

S asked me to marry him, even if he wasn’t entirely ready to marry yet. He asked me to live with him and be his family even though he wasn’t sure how to be a family yet. He built a life with me even though he wasn’t sure it was the life he wanted yet.

And once he accepted it, accepted that it was me…it had always been me in his heart…we married.

There were those who thought that he would get cold feet. Instead, he was rushing me to get to the marina where we were wed. There were those that thought he would have to be talked off the ledge before our nuptials. Instead, he was calm and collected.

We’ve been through so much in the last three and a half years. The product of our love is currently on life support. Ah, but love is strong. And her father has changed immensely. He has faith that Kenna will come through this. He tells me not to worry about things I can’t control. I think those are the only things worth worrying about. If I can control something, I don’t have to worry about it now, do I?

What I know for certain is that the only way we’re going to get through the next few months is the same way we’ve made it through these last few years. We’ll love each other through it.

I received this novel for free through From Left to Write online book club. This in no way impacted my review.

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Expecting Adam: Believe in miracles…

Wednesday, November 9th, 2011

Once again I was blessed to receive an amazing offering from the From Left to Write online book club. Expecting Adam is a memoir by Martha Beck. Being pregnant is challenging enough, but Beck faced additional challenges when she discovered the son she was carrying had Down’s Syndrome.

I have problem pregnancies. Most people do. Few women that I know get away without any difficulties, whether it be a little morning sickness or some manner of discomfort. Ah, but Martha and I tend to go a little farther in that department.

It was, in fact, my very first problem pregnancy that made me believe in miracles. Please understand. I don’t think miracles are always a matter of getting what you ask for. Instead, I think these miracles come in the form of getting what you need. And maybe part of the miracle is that you recognize it for what it is.

All I know is that I was twenty years old, and twenty-seven weeks pregnant. I was being hospitalized in Vermont while I really resided in New York. And the drive to visit took a fifteen minute car ride to the ferry, a twenty minute ferry ride, and another good twenty minutes to the hospital. If the timing was perfect, I was an hour from home. If the timing wasn’t, I was closer to an hour and a half. That was one of the excuses my ex gave for not coming to see me.

I had been in the hospital for two weeks while they struggled to figure out what was wrong with me. I didn’t have a textbook case of anything. Some days I showed a slight improvement. Some days, I took a nose dive. And every day some specialist there wanted a piece of me.

All of a sudden, I had a massive headache one night. They rushed me to the maternity ICU. My blood pressure had sky rocketed. And when I woke from the seizures, they explained what was happening. I had to be induced. They were concerned I’d slip into a coma. There was nothing to do to save me, but deliver the baby.

I was in a lot of pain. I was writhing around. They couldn’t bend my bloated body to accept an epidural. And I was alone in the room when the baby was born. I remember trying to stay conscious so that I could tell someone, anyone. Little did I know, the monitor has shown she’d died an hour before.

I was too empty to cry. I felt too alone. I didn’t know what to do as I lay there struggling to recover in the hospital night after night. Hospitals are really lonely places.

Then one night, as I lay there, drugged out of my mind, a woman appeared. She was dressed like the nurses, wearing floral scrubs. And I couldn’t get my eyes to focus well enough to register her name. All I know is that she brought me the comfort I needed to push through, to recover.

nurse: You are the bravest woman I’ve ever met.

I didn’t know her. I didn’t feel brave. I didn’t even feel like a woman. I felt like a child playing at being a woman. I was married, but my husband had visited twice in two weeks. And I just wanted to go, but didn’t know how to go on.

Something about her words made me hold it together. Something about her faith in me gave me faith in myself.

I asked about her. I wanted to thank her before I was released, but no one knew who she was. She was my miracle. And though I can’t explain it, she gave me what I needed to carry on.

Join From Left to Write on November 10 as we discuss Expecting Adam. We’ll also be chatting live with Martha Beck at 1PM Eastern on November 10 on From Left to Write.

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Lost Eden: Lost Myself

Wednesday, October 26th, 2011

I recently received another free read as a member of the From Left to Write Online Book Club. The first thing that struck me about this book was that the shipping envelope was hand addressed…BY THE AUTHOR. The next thing that struck me was the personalized note on her stationary. Jamie Patterson sure does know how to make a great first impression. And then…I was completely enthralled by her novel, Lost Edens.

See, in the novel, Jamie Patterson struggles to save her marriage which may or may not be already over. Keeping her attempts a secret from her family, she struggles to mold herself into the wife her husband wants her to be.

It spoke to me. In fact, I managed to read it in one sitting…a matter of just a few hours. I felt like she could have been…me. Or…I was her.

My first marriage was less than ideal. That’s why it was my first marriage, rather than my current marriage. It was a learning experience. And what I learned more than anything…not to lose myself.

See, it’s so easy to become consumed with making someone else happy, keeping the peace, that you forget what you want and what makes you happy. It’s so easy to overlook the signs. Sure, everything screams that he’s cheating, that he’s betraying me, that he’s broken the vows, that he will continue to do so. At the same time, I was so determined for it to work.

I was only going to marry once. I was going to live the American dream and have the kids and the house, the garden and the family dog. And I guess I didn’t imagine much past that. I didn’t imagine what the relationship would look like. Because on paper…we were there. We had a daughter and a son. We had a nice house. We lived in a great neighborhood. We traveled at least one weekend a month. There were fancy dinners at really nice restaurants. There were operas and the theater, pro sporting events and concerts. We always sat in the suites or the VIP section. When we were home, we always found a festival to go to, friends to hang out with, a reason to keep super busy.

There’s something about sitting still. Had we done that more often, we never would have lasted as long as we did. When you sit for too long, you begin to see the imperfections. You begin to see the problems. And for us, there was nothing between us. We had nothing to say to each other. We weren’t friends. It’s hard to be friends with someone who has disrespected you, who has hurt you so deeply, who has so little regard for your feelings and your needs.

I think I finally realized all of that when I realized how old the kids were, how big they had grown. And I panicked. Soon we would be stuck alone together. And even after sixteen years together, I had very little experience in that. Our dates usually went badly. Our nights where we tried to go out on the town went worse. And I knew I’d be miserable.

It was strange when I was finally on my own. Sometimes it is still strange now. I’m still figuring me out. And I’m thirty-nine. S is patient with me. He lets me be me. He encourages me to do what I love. I need that. Love and patience. It’s the only way to grow and thrive.

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Carry Yourself Back to Me…

Sunday, October 2nd, 2011

My most recent free read received as a part of my membership in the From Left to Write online book club was Carry Yourself Back to Me, by Deborah Reed. And while we don’t actually review the books we read, just know that I loved this one. Maybe that is because I related so much to so many different situations in the book. Of course, the one that I couldn’t understand at all was what had driven a wedge between the siblings: Annie and Calder.

Sibling relations can be a challenge. We all know this. I’m blessed because my kids are close. They get along. Keenan is easy going and still lets Rachel boss him around a bit, even though he’s pushing 14 and she’s 17. He’s a really good sport. That’s why they work.

And I remember what it was like growing up with my sister. We might have issues with each other. We might make each other angry. We might have our own battles. Ah, but it was always us against the world. You didn’t mess with my sister. And she felt the same way.

That’s why when my now ex-husband did the unthinkable and hit on her while we were still married, not only did she turn him down, but she did what must have been really difficult to do…she told me. We talked. I wanted and needed details, although I won’t bore you with them here. It was a risk, for sure. There are some women who are so in denial that they would turn on their sister, accuse her of being the problem, inciting the situation, and turn on her. That wasn’t me.

I believed her. I appreciated her honesty. I needed the hard truths, even if they weren’t what I wanted to hear. And for that, I will always be grateful to her.

We all need people like that in our life. Even better if that person happens to be a sibling who is tied to you forever. Friends come and go, but family is forever.

So, that is why I struggled with imagining a brother who not only knew that his sister was being cheated on, but was duplicitous enough to be the cheater’s alibi. I couldn’t imagine a situation where my sister would ever do anything like that to me. It isn’t in her. It violates the code…the code being the ’sister code.’

We have had our issues, but while other men have come and gone, other friends have fallen off the grid, having a sister is for always. And I’m so blessed that she is mine. Thinking of you, Allison. Mwah!

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Maybe this anecdote will leave you In Stitches…

Tuesday, August 9th, 2011

So, my most recent fantastic free read through the From Left to Write Online Book Club was a memoir by plastic surgeon, Anthony Youn titled, In Stitches. Since we don’t write reviews based on the books, but instead write about what the book inspired, I had a lot of leeway here. On the one hand, I have considered plastic surgery. You can’t help but consider it when you are with someone eight and half years your junior who has dated models. (Or at least model.) Ah, but because I can’t stand to think of myself as that superficial, I’ll instead share the lengths I went to one time in order not to embarrass myself at the doctor.

Sure, most everyone is careful to bathe and be extra clean, to take grooming that extra step in preparation for a doctor visit. I may have gone a tad extreme in this situation. Don’t worry. I paid for it.

See, I had a large mole on top of my pubic bone. Past tense. My family doctor had noticed it during one of my visits and decided that it should be removed and biopsied just to be safe. I thought that was a smashing idea. It wasn’t exactly super noticeable, given that it was covered by my panties and other layers on a daily basis, but I was aware of it.

After being told to make sure to remove the hair prior to the office procedure, I prepared for the biopsy that morning. Typically, I used a combination of shaving and Nair for hair removal at that time. And I didn’t see any reason to alter that. So, I shaved in the shower that morning. My razor seemed a bit dull and I wasn’t happy with the results. No worries. Post shower, I patiently Naired the area.

Oh, but I still wasn’t satisfied with the results. Some of those hairs were being particularly difficult and resistant. I’d just hit them with a razor again.

By this time you can imagine that the entire region was feeling more than a little assaulted and my skin was getting a bit angry with me. Deciding that my efforts were good enough, I proceeded to get dressed. Well, I hadn’t made it very far when a thought crossed my mind. The scary part is that I actually thought this through.

The minute those panties came off, the room would fill with Nair fumes.

And this is where I made a critical mistake, exhibited a horrible lack in judgment, and had one of my ‘life imitating art’ experiences. You know what’s coming. Yup. I sprayed my already sore crotch with perfume. McCauley Culkin had nothing on me. There was a great deal of dancing around screaming. There was a great deal of fanning my nether region. There was some extremely colorful language that no one was around to hear.

It’s possible that this memory has played a part in preventing me from having some of the other surgical procedures that I’ve considered. Or it could be my bank account. Still, I worry over the results so I focus on loving me the way I am. I’ve been lucky with my blunders and lapses in common sense. That was a painful learning experience. Next time, it could be so much worse. Lesson learned, universe. Lesson learned.

Anthony Youn’s memoir In Stitches gives readers a look into the training of a medical doctor who discovers his passion is plastic surgery. As a member of From Left to Write book club, I received a copy of this book for review. You can read other members posts inspired by In Stitches by Anthony Youn, M.D. on book club day, August 9 at From Left to Write.

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Oh, to be 29 again…

Sunday, April 10th, 2011

That was the premise of my most recent free read from the From Left to Right online book club. In 29, by Adena Halpern, the main character, Ellie Jerome celebrates her 75th birthday in the traditional manner. She blows out her candles and makes a wish. Only this time, the wish comes true and she is gifted with one day of being 29 again. So she spent the day doing things she hadn’t done before, righting wrongs, and altering her future.

I’m almost ten years removed from 29. Still, I would love to go back. I think. I was slightly thinner. I had no reason to dye my hair other than pure whim. And my skin was definitely younger. Ahhh, the unappreciated beauty of the 29 year old body.

At the same time, it’s not about a vast change in outward appearance that would drive me to want to be 29 again. Instead, if I had the opportunity to go back to 29, I would want the entire move back in time. I’d want to go back and set myself up to not make the mistakes I’ve made that have altered my life so greatly. I would have made sure I divorced sooner. I would have planned better for my move to Charlotte. I would have started blogging that moment. I would have the confidence of years of dusting myself off and the knowledge that just about everything can be survived to back me.

There’s an often overlooked strength that comes with aging, a combination of experience and wisdom that change a person. As we age, we get a sense of entitlement. We speak our mind more. We do what we want with less concern of the constraints of society. That’s the beauty of 75.

What really matters, however, is truly living in the moment, enjoying the here and now. Learning to live while we’re alive so that when the time comes for it be over, we don’t look back with regret for things left undone, unexplored, un-lived. Life is a journey, not a destination.

If you haven’t entered the custom necklace giveaway, go enter. Right now. Time is being wasted.

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Funny. I dream in Spanish…

Tuesday, March 8th, 2011

When the From Left to Write Book Club supplied me with my latest free novel, Mr. Rosenblum Dreams in English, it inspired me to begin to truly think about my big dream. More than anything, I want to travel and live abroad, or overseas, or anywhere more exotic. While I had considered it previously, in times of stress, this time I thought differently about the potential experience.

Never before had I considered what it might truly mean to live in a country other than the United States. It isn’t that I have some great dislike for America. It isn’t that I want to run away. It isn’t that my safety is in jeopardy if I stay. Instead, a move of that nature would be me running toward my dreams…our dreams. S and I dream of blue water and white sand. We long for a simpler life. We believe less truly is more.

And so we dream in Spanish. We think about what life would be like if we moved further south…like Belize or Costa Rica. We study and plot and plan. We weigh our options. We know that there are pros…like the scenery, the weather, the water, the change and newness. There’s something to be said for a fresh start. We know there are cons. There are spiders that are THIS BIG! There are scorpions. There are snakes.

Some of the changes would be an experience. We could see the pods of whales as they travel through. We could enjoy the dolphins as they frolic. We could travel to watch the sea turtles as they lay their eggs or as they hatch, or both. I really like the sound of that.

It’s not like these are third world countries we’re talking about. I’m not convinced that it would be a drastic culture shock. We have already discovered that they have McDonald’s, the ultimate sign of progress, and KFC, Taco Bell, Burger King, Quiznos…that kind of thing. Sure, S may suffer some at the thought that there will be no more Bojangles. Somehow, I think he would survive.

As for the kids? I raised them right. They would thrive anywhere. They are smart and tough and inquisitive and resilient. They are the best of me.

And that’s why, at the end of the day, when I finally get to rest…I dream in Spanish. I dream of lush paradise, ocean views, sipping margaritas made by people who know how to make them, and collecting more sea debris than we know what to do with. For now, it’s just a dream.

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The Swan Thieves…

Wednesday, January 12th, 2011

When I first received The Swan Thieves as part of the From Left to Write online book club, I wondered how in the world I was ever going to complete it over the holidays. Luckily, we were granted an extension. And I’m still down to the wire.

It’s not just that. I was trying to find my story. That’s what we do. We write our story from the story.

So while I could relate to any number of the aspects of this book, I want to think about pleasantness and beauty. And so I’ll be writing about France. I was blessed with the opportunity to go there once…when I was a junior in high school. I had been studying the language for four years. With our proximity to the Canadian Border and Montreal in particular, I had many opportunities to use it.

It was safe to say that I was enamored with and loved everything French. While in France, we visited a perfume factory, which was nice. And we visited the Eiffel Tower while it was all lit up at night. We took a boat ride down the Seine. We ate crepes from a vendor not unlike the New York City hot dog counterparts. And there was a glorious afternoon where we dined at a cafe.

There was an entire day spent touring Versailles. I love castles. It’s the romantic in me. I love the beautifully manicured gardens, the fountains, the water features, the stunning architecture. I marveled at the Hall of Mirrors, with all its history. Simply incredible.

All of that, however, paled in comparison to the time we spent at The Louvre. Nothing can compete for my attention when I am surrounded by art work, or when I am in a library surrounded by books. I absolutely lost myself in this museum. (And this was long before The DaVinci Code romanticized so many elements of it.)

The Mona Lisa was carefully protected as she smirked at me from behind glass. The Venus di Milo was glorious in a place of honor in the center of one of the galleries. There were paintings there that were larger than the walls of my bedroom. And I became completely enamored with one of them. It was dark and haunting, a drowned and bound woman floating in the foreground, a looming mansion in the back.

What I remember most about The Louvre was that the building itself was a work of art. The ceilings and walls were painted and intricately molded. I had an appreciation for that type of effort and architecture even then.

*sigh* Someday, I shall return. And that time, instead of sharing it with virtual strangers, I hope to share it with my family, those that I love.

The Swan Thieves was provided to me for free as part of the From Left to Write Online Book Club. I received no compensation for this piece. And why should I. I probably made you long more for France than for the book. Guess you’ll just have to read the book to figure out how all that factors in.

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Take the Cake…

Wednesday, January 5th, 2011

It came upon me so quickly, my commitment to write about one of the many books I have been blessed to receive for free. And for a moment, I wondered what I could say about Take the Cake: A Working Mom’s Guide to Grabbing a Slice of the Life You’ll Love! I shouldn’t have worried. It came to me like that.

Yesterday was a day. Make that..a DAY. Yes, deserving of capital letters even.

It all began when I missed a phone call from Rachel when I was in the shower getting ready for work. I called her back, via the school office phone. Oh, but she wasn’t there. They had sent her back to class, since I hadn’t responded to her SOS.

Well, I made it to the school as soon as possible figuring it would be a brief detour on the route to work. It wasn’t. It was merely the beginning of a giant detour that took over the rest of my day.

See, once I arrived I found Breanna getting picked up by Spring. So glad the girls spent all weekend together at our house and the ex husband’s. Guess they had caught something together. Great.

And so by the time they agreed to call Rachel down to the office, it was after 9am. I was officially half an hour late to work, and I was literally mentally counting the minutes until I could get to work. Only that didn’t happen.

Soon after I collected Rachel and heard her breathing, I knew that she was going to the doctor. So, I called the doctor and tried to get her in as soon as possible. That would mean that they were squeezing her in at 11am. So, I had an hour to kill before heading to the doctor.

The wait wasn’t so bad. I saw one of my patients. He came over to talk to me, but I warned him away since we didn’t know what Rachel had. And then it was back to waiting.

After a while, Rachel was in a room. They were used to us by now. This office had watched Rachel grow up. They knew of her fear of needles. And they loved our witty banter, the way we played together.

Rachel had a list of ailments that rivaled an 80 year old man. Her throat hurt. When she coughed she saw black dots. Her lungs hurt. Her heart was palpating strangely. The list went on and on. Slowly, patiently, the doctor worked to find a cause and thereby a cure. It was a slow process. And there were long waits for test results before proceeding to the next test.

By the time we left, I was mentally drained and Rachel had had her first (and hopefully last) EKG. Luckily, there was nothing wrong with her heart. And it was on to the pharmacy to get her antibiotics.

Oh, but the first pharmacy, the one closest to home, didn’t carry the drug he prescribed. So, we were off again. seeking another pharmacy that stocked her prescription. It was…not fun. It wasn’t fun because she was hungry and didn’t feel well. And even though she was wearing pajama pants and her sleep cami, it wasn’t the same as actually being in bed.

Finally the script was filled and we headed home. The biggest blow came when she realized that she was going to have to wait another hour to eat. It resulted in a major meltdown. And my patience were waning.

After all these years of child rearing, I have come to embrace the routine of life. I like things predictable. I power through when facing a giant monkey wrench, but mostly I have created a life I am comfortable with and have control over. Sickness…well, I can’t control that.

And recently, my writing and writing commitments have really taken over. I am literally working all the time. But this is the year that I will focus on finding balance, a new way to make everything happen. It is, after all, the only way that everything will be accomplished. And if there’s anything a working mom needs, it’s a sense of accomplishment.

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The Kids are All Right…and so am I…

Monday, October 11th, 2010

After reading The Kids are All Right, the latest From Left to Write Online Book Club selection, which magically appeared on my doorstep a few weeks back…for free, I thought about how different life was for the four siblings. Even though they were raised by the same parents, products of the same gene pool, their experiences were dramatically dissimilar. And I looked at my own life and realized…we’re all like that.

Even more, I realized that life isn’t so much about surviving our experiences, but growing and learning and thriving on the challenges we face. Like the Welch kids, my father passed away unexpectedly when I was fifteen years old. There was no air of mystery surrounding his passing, really, after a coroner proclaimed his unattended death the result of a massive coronary. And that’s just one of many childhood events that changed the course of my life and impacted the person I would become. Before that my parents had separated, though never divorced, two years previous. And there were the financial challenges that face a single mother that I now know all too well.

Instead of focusing on things that once bothered me, like the disparity between the way my sister and I were raised, (simply a product of birth order rather than favoritism), I chose to treat it as a learning experience. At the tender age of twelve, I learned how to be self-sufficient and take care of a house. I mowed our acre lawn by myself for years, since my sister (three years my junior) was too young. And she was pretty much too young until I went off to college…despite being a good five inches taller than me. The same was true of shoveling. And much of the housework. And starting dinner. Don’t even get me started on the chocolate pudding incident.

I’m still smarting from that. Obviously.

Only…I’m not. I’m proud of the fact that I can survive just about anything. Really. I am your go to girl in a crunch. I can asses a situation and problem solve with the best of them. I like that. I like that my kids think I can handle anything.

Our life experiences shape who we are. Our childhood is what we spend the rest of our lives trying to overcome. And I like who I am. I like where I came from. I have tons of happy memories of my childhood. I wish my sister and I were closer now, but I’m not dead yet and neither is she. I keep hoping that there is time. At the same time, if there is anything life experience has taught me, it’s that life itself is tenuous and time is short. We don’t know how long we have and should make the best of the time we are given.

This post was written in reaction to this month’s From Left to Write Book Club selection that I received for free. Hopefully, no feelings were hurt in its creation, since that was not the intention of the author.