Incompatible with Life

I’ve been nursing a lingering cough since before Christmas. At first I didn’t think too much of it. I’d caught the upper respiratory virus that circulated through my kindergarten classroom, but after suffering through a few feverish nights and a week of congestion, all that remained was a mild residual cough. It stayed with me through the holidays. By mid-January my patience was waning. Any attempt at physical exertion left me winded, which hampered my daily exercise habit, which increased my stress level, which made me reach for comfort food...you get the picture. I found myself shivering in the evenings, unable to get warm enough, which was unusual for my hot-flashy self. Yes it was colder than normal outside, but I was chilled to the bone. Until I went to bed, at which point I started sweating like Frosty in a greenhouse. My frustration came to a head last weekend. Tired of being tired and sick, I dragged myself to Urgent Care. The doctor thought my lungs sounded clear,...

I was introduced to the concept of choosing a focus word for the New Year by a dear friend who was participating in the One Little Word scrap-booking challenge. I did eventually sign up, but abandoned ship after the first month when I realized that my capacities and supplies for creating visual art of any form were limited. The idea of selecting a word to grow into over the course of the year stuck with me, though, and I’ve continued the practice. As the old year closes, I pick a word that speaks to me—a word that embodies a change I need to make or something I’d like to expand in my life. I always make a collage of magazine photos and text that exemplify that trait or concept. The collage isn’t exactly a vision board, just a cut-and-paste visual reminder of my word. I hang it in a place of honor in my bathroom—don’t laugh, that idea came from a licensed therapist—where I see it often enough to prod my mind into remembering it. The first year I tried it, my word was SHINE. I’d...

Silent night Holy night All is calm All is bright Hospital bed Middle of night Doctors and nurses Witness the plight Round yon virgin Mother and child Holy infant So tender and mild Tiny blue babe Fights for each breath Mother and father Await her death Sleep in heavenly peace Sleep in heavenly peace.

It was eight o’clock when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” I called to Scott, who was otherwise occupied with carting in armful after armful of holiday loot from the car and dumping it under the artificial fir tree in our foyer.  This brief sojourn at home was the midpoint in our annual Christmas Eve tour of gorging and gifting. Having finished a traditional holiday dinner at my mom’s, we’d stopped at the house just long enough to unload the current batch of presents and let the dog out before hopping back into the car for the next round of merriment at my sister’s.  I opened the door and there, on our front porch, stood Santa Claus, flanked by a sullen pair of teenagers in green and red elf hats who were clearly mortified to be spending the night before Christmas trailing their dressed-up dad as he canvassed the neighborhood for young believers.  He must have been a neighbor, but I didn’t recognize the face under the beard and—I’ve got to admit—I felt a lit...

Our 2006 Christmas photo, two months after Anna's death. One of the hardest parts of losing a baby is the wondering. A stream of questions without discernible answers emerges in the wake of loss. Who would this child be? What would he or she be like? What parts of family temperaments would have merged to create his or hers? What would family life be like if this little member had lived? Which of this child’s interests and talents would we be supporting as parents? And, conversely, which of his or her quirks would be driving us berserk? These are the questions that creep up on me in the middle of ordinary days and haunt me in the dead of night. When I lost my youngest daughter, I lost any semblance of the future I’d planned. My sugar-candy former life dissolved into a murky puddle of grit, gratitude, and grief. What appears clear on the surface—even now, years later—is muddied and dark at its depths. One of the ways I cope with sadness is by imagining what life would be...

Loss takes many forms--the loss of a job, the loss of health, the loss of a loved one. Every year, we are reminded that the holidays magnify loss. Yet as we approach the holiday season, much as we’d like to provide support, many of us wrestle with how to reach out to a grieving friend or family member. We imagine that by acknowledging their pain, we'll somehow reopen the wound or destroy a mourner's fragile peace. We're afraid of saying or doing the wrong thing, or worse yet, being rebuffed for our efforts. It's not as difficult as it seems to provide support to someone who is suffering. All it takes is the willingness to put ourselves in their shoes. Thoughtful consideration of how we would want to be treated if we were in their position enables us to plan a course of action. If I were living with chronic, life-altering illness or injury, would I feel up to steaming full speed ahead into the usual hustle and bustle of the holidays? How would I reconcile my...

I had a disappointment last week. I’d submitted my book to an indie writing contest and the winners were to be notified by Thursday. I didn’t get the notification. It’s not that I expected to win. Wait, scratch that. My disappointment indicates that indeed, on some level, I did expect some kind of recognition. Maybe I wasn’t expecting to take the grand prize, but I was hoping for at least an honorable mention. Acknowledging that was the first step in being able to let it go. Once I recognized my expectations as a cry for validation, I saw them clearly as a self-imposed burden of proof meant to silence the inner critic who keeps raising doubts about my writing talents. My disappointment wasn’t about the quality of my work—it was about my need to prove myself. What I am learning—slowly, painfully, and inevitably the hard way—is that disappointment is an inside job, rooted in my expectation of how the events in my life are supposed to turn out. I keep slapping my preconceived...