Hard Times

I've started this post a dozen times or so, over the course of the past few days.  I keep hitting the delete button and starting over.  Kind of like wishing I could change things, I guess.  Kind of like wishing I could stop time, or pass over the next month.

December is coming, whether I like it or not, and I'm fighting an uphill battle with my emotions.  For the past six years I've had a love/hate relationship with December. I've been crying for weeks, it seems.  Not continuously, in fact, no so that most people would even notice.  I just tear up, impatiently wipe my eyes, and march on, doing what needs to be done.

Yesterday, I was crying before I got my coat off in my classroom.  It started with my neighbor teacher asking me how my Thanksgiving was, and I replied cheerfully, "Great!  Well, mostly great.  Well, actually, sometimes it was kinda hard."  And I looked at Bob, and just teared up.  I could, because Bob knew what I meant.  

Thanksgiving was great. Jessica came home and we had a lovely two days with her.  Thanksgiving morning, I got deep satisfaction and a few chuckles listening in as Jess bantered with her sister Kailyn via skype.  With Kailyn in France, we made the most of modern technology, Jess and I puttering in the kitchen, with Kailyn virtually on the counter. It was a good weekend, too.  My nephew was home from Texas, and it was so good to see him, even though telling him good bye I got teary and he said in his deep voice, "Now Aunt Sandi, don't you cry." Wrapped in his bear hug, I swiped at my tears, then held his face in my hands and told him I loved him. He reminds me so much of my son.

December kills me, little moments at a time, gobbles up my laughter, freezes my smiles, strangles my gaiety. I can be perfectly "normal" one minute and sobbing the next, with little warning. I can't overplan enough, and even doing that, I'm still caught unaware. This is not to say I don't love the spirit of Christmas, the lights, the smells, the beauty of December.  Like I said, I have a love/hate relationship with December.

Most nights I wake in the dark, and my thoughts are on events that are out of my control, and chained to the past.  Sleep eludes me. I chase it around the room, but just when I get close enough to touch it, I remember.

Tonight at my regular counseling session,  I told Terry that I have a sub next week for a "mental health" day, and just knowing that helps me get through this week. And, she already knew I have a sub the following week for one day, so I can get through that week. We talked about grief, and how I am often frustrated that I can't seem to let go of what will never be. That what I miss most is not so much what I had, but what I will never have.  

I don't want to let go of my memories.  I want to remember.  My memories are what make me smile, and rejoice in what was.  Memories are warm apple pie, birthday candles, peanut butter and honey kisses.  Memories sustain me.  Terry tells me that I honor my son with my memories, and writing about the impact his life had on me, and others also honors him.

This Sunday is my son's birthday.  He would have been 36.  The last time I saw him alive was at his 30th birthday, a surprise party his wife and I planned.  I made him a quilt, with 30 squares, and I remember teasing him about the fact that the 30 squares represented his age.  Never in a million years did I expect my words to be prophetic, and that he would be gone in 12 days.  I also had a journal I had been keeping for him, but I didn't give it to him that day, because I wanted to write about the party, and planned to give it to him for Christmas.  

I still have the journal.  I still write in it sometimes.  I don't know who, other than myself, will read it.  Maybe someday one of his sisters will.  And, I will read it on Sunday, and write.  His whole life is in that journal, from his birth to his death, and all the milestones in-between.

I've also been working on a "birthday post" but, I'm not sure if I'll finish it.  Just in case I don't, I'll link last years post here. (I hope this works. Deb showed me how after we got back from our antiquing trip, but I may not have followed the directions correctly.  If it doesn't, I meant it to link to Dec 4, 2010.)

One of the reasons I hesitated to write tonight, is that I don't want people who read this to think I am seeking sympathy.  I'm not.  I write because it helps me think, and yeah, I cry, but, it's ok.  I miss my son every day, but like the old saying, "That which doesn't kill us makes us stronger".  I am a stronger, wiser, deeper person than I was before my son died.  I have lost much of my urge to control my world.  I know that I can't.  (That doesn't stop me from trying on occasion, but I do know now that I can't.)

Every blessed, stinking day is a gift. Even in December. Especially in December. I write to keep my perspective. And, to remember.

Treasures

Some days are so picture perfect that you just wallow in the sweetness of it.  Today was one of those days.

Behind our heads is a sign saying, "We Buy".
They knew we were coming!

Two or three times a year, Deb and I plan a day with a mission to find treasures, and bask in the warmth of each other's love.  Both early risers, we meet, and travel the highways and byways of Oregon and Washington, with a semi-serious plan, and no time clock or agenda.  We talk non-stop, cheerfully interrupting each other, laugh often, and usually cry at some point. 


This morning we were heading out Highway 14 toward bustling Bingen to an antique shop we knew, and before we'd been on the road for 30 minutes, we were deep into discussing the newest common thread binding us further together, the anniversary of our children's deaths.  I think I was the first one to weep today, but the tears were short lived.


Our history is as rich and eclectic and sensory as the objects we seek and often find when we're together.  We met officially when Deb was my oldest daughter's fifth grade teacher, and discovered our many heart connections on our first antique adventure at the end of that school year.  Over the next few years, we taught in the same building, she had my youngest daughter in class, and eventually became next door teaching pals.  I miss those days of knowing Deb was next door, and remember her comforting arms around me the day my son died.  She is a heart and soul type friend, and a pleasure to travel with.

The Gorge was magnificent today.  It was crisp, clear and cold, with snow in the nearby hills, and autumn colors to die for.  Our first stop, Antiques & Oddities, was just a warm up.  Deb found a couple of good deals, and I just browsed.  The snow was so close!

We both bought one of these 
for our classrooms.

One of several journals we found . . . 
and bought

As the day was young, we decided to travel east and cross over at The Dalles, which ended up being devine!  I found several lovely things at the Red Wagon, we both spent too much in a fantastic book shop, (the oldest in Oregon!) and ate the best meal I can remember at a darling French Cafe. 

Eventually, we wound our way back to Camas (our original destination when we planned this day!) and savored the last hour in one of our favorite shops. We both bought cute jingle bell earrings to wear next month!

We are not antiques, we are vintage!

It was a perfectly perfect day. Deb and I seem to move at the same pace, delight in the same pleasures.  I feel appreciated, loved and honored in her presence.  More than all the treasures we have found, I treasure her friendship the most. She has been my co-worker, counselor, cheerleader, confidant and comforter. I love going treasure hunting with my treasured friend, Deb!

Reality Check

Sometimes, I find myself living in denial.  I'm sure that many can relate.  I can talk myself into the most outlandish beliefs; in fact, I'm really good at it.  Oh, I might have a lucid moment, say, while reading someone else's blog post, and I think, "Yeah, I can relate to that!  I should . . . "


Yet, it doesn't go much further than thinking on the topic at hand, into actual movement toward the change in behavior.  Eating less, exercising more, following through on improvement plans, being more organized,  keeping up with laundry . . . these are regular situations where I know I need to do something, but am easily swayed into taking the path of least resistance, as in, ignore it and maybe it will go away.  Right, like that's going to happen!


So, most everyone reading my blog has been living vicariously through my partial knee replacement recovery since late June.  But, I was determined to recover, and did everything I was supposed to do (not without a substantial amount of whining, I know) and I found myself gleefully recovered!  I was walking, and sort of hiking, and working, and doing just fine, or so I thought.


The past month, I've been distressed to discover that while my new joint is doing relatively well, I have an entirely new area of discomfort, as in the outside of the same knee, which used to work quite well.  It isn't anymore.  And I'm alternately angry about it, and frustrated, and, quite honestly, scared.  I do not want to go through another knee surgery, yet I've been faced with the thoughts that maybe I should have just had total knee replacement instead of partial.


In my full crazed denial, I fully believed that if I just kept forcing myself to move, walking, hiking, biking, I'd force my new aching part of my knee to improve.  And, I was half right.  All that movement is a good thing.  The problem was pointed out to me by my 22 year old daughter's best friend last Saturday night, who is studying to become a physical therapist, and whose mom is one.  I said, "Elisa, come over here and feel this knee. It didn't used to do this."  I was referring to the crinkling and crackling that I can feel on the inside and also when I place my hand on the outside part of my knee.


She massaged it for a few minutes, said it was a combination of scar tissue and something else I don't recall.  She asked, "How often are you icing?"


I had to sheepishly reply, "Never. I probably haven't iced for a month."


So I proceded to receive a lecture about how I should be icing as long as there is even a little discomfort, and that icing is also preventative, not just for managing pain.


I hate icing.  It's cold. I have to sit in one place.  I forget to do it. In all honesty, it really didn't seem to help much. But, not doing it isn't helping my recovery either. Rats!


This past week I've been a little better about icing, most of the time. I'm also back to riding the stationary bike for a minimum of 10 minutes before work. So far, I have seen or felt little improvement.  I'm still aching all night (both knees now) and more than a little disgruntled about what seems to have been a wasted summer in recovery. And, as I've definitely had worse pain since the ill-fated recent marathon hike, I'm truly regretting not icing after that!




I'm tired of being consumed by aching and fatigue.  But, this brings me back to the beginning of this post. I know that part of the reason I'm tired is that I'm hauling around extra weight, some of which I accumulated during the "summer of sitting around".  


Every single day this week I have begun with the intention of eating well and exercising. Oh, and icing! 


Every single night as I've lain in bed, I've silently lambasted myself for weakness in the presence of food.


I've read about others success in finding happiness with particular dietary changes, and I want that, I really do.  But, I'm petrified to begin another plan, and lose weight, as my MO is to simply gain the weight back after a year or so, and be worse off than I was before. I know this about myself.  I know I have an addictive nature, and I am scared. 


I've been on several plans in the past: Weight Watchers (I've been a "lifetime member" for 23 years, but only been at goal weight about 2 years of that time), Overeater's Anonymous (basically low carb, no sugar, nothing white) lost a considerable amount of weight, and most recently paid a horrendous amount of money for HMR (eat their food with your own fruits and veggies) and a million other spur of the moment attempts.  I've been highly successful losing the weight,  staying on some plans for well over a year, sometimes two years, but the minute I ate one bite of a forbidden morsel, I began the steady assent to weight gain. Each time I'm at a "new high" where I have to fight my way back, always believing I would "get back on track" but didn't.


I'm scared to try again.  The thought of being without my favorite foods makes me angry and resentful.  I am frustrated that I have become this fat person, as I wasn't a fat child or young adult.  


This morning, I am 21 pounds away from my all time high, and scared I'm not only going to reach it, but surpass it.  Three years ago, I lost 54 pounds and felt fantastic, then got sloppy and have gained back 33.


It's no wonder I'm scared!


It's been really hard to admit all this; in fact portions of this post have been percolating for months.  I'm appealing to my blogging friends, for any "experience, strength and hope"  or advice or even lectures! 

HELP ~ I'm trapped in my body and can't get out!

Lacamas Park Revisited

This afternoon my sister Pam and I decided to take a hike around Round Lake.  We left a little after one o'clock, intending to be home by 2:30, as we both had a to-do list a mile long.

By 1:45, we had begun our journey and were marveling at the warm late October sunshine

Somehow, although I must have walked this trail dozens of times, I never noticed this sweet little peek-a-boo tree!  I had to take a photo!

I asked Pam if she'd ever been to the Potholes before.  She didn't recall, so we took a little detour off the main trail.  They were beautiful in their mossy coat.

I said, "Let's keep going for awhile up this trail," which was rock strewn and cobbled with tree roots.  Probably not the best trail for me to be on, but I was overcome by the opportunity to get out in nature.

As we meandered along, I snapped this photo of a tree with ferns bursting out of the trunk, as far up as I could see!  

We snapped a photo of the two of us, smiling, enjoying our time together. The weather was stunningly perfect, no breeze, and sunny skies.

Before long, we emerged from the side trail at a crossroads, with a sign I'd seen before. I'd forgotten where this particular trail ended, and we realized that we had gotten quite a bit further along, and away from Round Lake, than we had expected.

Somehow, we convinced ourselves to take a lower trail along the creek,

 and that would be the correct direction. 

It wasn't. We ended up way south of the lake, heading uphill.

We began climbing and climbing, and climbing some more.  Twice, we turned back, then turned around again,  coming back to where the second trail had ended.  We were feeling a little lost, even though we knew that sooner or later we'd end up somewhere, just not necessarily in the same area as we had started from.  Pam called her husband, a Camas boy, who wasn't much help.  (We were surprised to have cell service!) So, we kept going, huffing and puffing, and now sweating quite profusely.  We were a couple of sorry souls, and hadn't passed any other people for over an hour!  (This is typically a busy park, by the way!!)

Pam finally said, after nearly 2 hours (from the beginning), "Let's pray!"  So, we did!

As you might expect, about 10 minutes later we saw two people fly by in front of us on bicycles, on what was surely a road or path.  We were too late and far away to hollar, but we excitedly picked up the pace to see if there was a sign.  There was, but it wasn't much help, (and I forgot to take a picture!)  It told us that back the way we came was the loop to the Lower Falls (we weren't going back) and if we went left it was "Access Road" and right was "Crown Road".  

I was pretty sure we should go toward the Access Road, but Pam said she thought she could hear cars from the Crown Road and voted for that direction. She was all for finding the road and calling one of our husbands to come rescue us.  

Instead, I called my daughter, Jessica, who I was certain could tell us which way to go from the sign, but Jess didn't answer her phone.  I texted "HELP! Seriously lost!"  Hoping she'd answer, but no luck.  Just about then, two people came toward us on bikes from the Crown Road direction and we waved them down.  I asked, "What is in that direction?"

The man answered, "Not much, a white gate and a small parking area."

We explained that we had gotten away from our original path and wanted to return to Round Lake and the parking lot.  He directed us to go straight on the Access Road (which I knew already, but refrained from telling Pam, "I told you so!")

And, away we trudged, grateful to be going in the right direction, but still a good distance from the car. 

Eventually, we came to the following sign, showing us that we were definitely on the right trail.

It's too bad the sign doesn't show the elevation.  When we had finally seen the two folks on bikes, we were almost to the Parking area at the bottom of the map. What had begun as a quick hike around the lake, (which takes about 40 minutes on slow days!) ended up being nearly 3 hours.  

Jess called me back just as we were passing back over the little dam. She didn't seem too surprised that we managed to find our way back.

We got our exercise, had a good chat, enjoyed the fresh air and what will likely be the last good "hike" for awhile.  I just hope my sister is willing to go with me again.  I have this affinity to see what's around the next bend,  and it can take me places I don't expect at times.  I'm not in the best physical shape at the moment, but I'm in no worse shape than when I started out on this little journey today.  My new knee is working very well! (Except for the downhill . . . but it's working!)

It's Official, I'm Old

Well, it's official, I'm certifiably old.  I've been fighting it for months, but I finally gave in to the inevitable.  I have known for some time that I'm a little hard of hearing.  My husband is good natured about it, but I am continually asking, "Could you please turn the volume up a bit?"  I truly wanted to believe that he was just messing with me, and that he was just pretending to hear the whispering coming from the TV.

I really, really didn't want to go here.  I half-heartedly "tried" wearing hearing aids last spring, but mostly, they just bugged me.  I felt like they amplified everything, and I was driven to distraction with all the paper rustling and pen top popping.  After a couple of weeks, I took them back and sweetly said, "Thanks, but no thanks!" I thought that would be the end of the matter.

But, this year, it's more apparent than ever before.  When I caught myself repeatedly asking students to "Speak up, please" or "Tell me again" or "I'm sorry, I didn't hear that" it started getting old, even to me. And it was happening every day; a lot of times every day.  It was time to face facts.

So, I made the call, and plunked down the money, and I'm wearing hearing aids.  Sheesh, I don't have a single blood relative that wears hearing aids, and I can't believe that this has happening to me.  It certainly doesn't run in the family.  Even my really old relatives don't wear hearing aids! Dentures, yes, but hearing aids, not a deaf ear among them! (Thank God I don't have dentures . . . yet!)

Right now I'm attempting to reconcile myself to the new me.  Today, they were sort of "ok". They didn't bug me overmuch, and I don't think I asked as many kids to repeat themselves as I usually do.  I did notice that during conferences, I actually heard pretty much everything the family members said, which isn't the case for the conferences I held earlier in the week!  Well, except for the Spanish parts.  I sort of heard it; I just didn't really understand much of it!

I'm thinking I'm going to need a new 'do.  I always push my hair behind my ears, and even though the tubes are pretty tiny, I can see those things and I want some coverage now!  I guess perhaps I'm a little vain about this whole situation, but I am what I am.  Today I managed to use clips and a little dramatic drape to conceal the evidence, however, I'm a "wash and wear hair" kind of old lady, with no desire for all this messing around every morning.

Big Sigh! It's probably going to take some time getting used to having things in my ears.  I guess, as I begin to notice what I've been missing, I might feel a bit more reconciled to this new situation.  I can only hope!

Monday, Monday

I don't know what it is about Monday, but it seems like the longest day of the week.  I woke up tired, drug myself to the pool, back home again, and then to work.  I've managed to pull it together to pretend I'm "up" for my job, but, I'm home now, and I am giving in to the weariness. This is what I would like to do . . .

Sleeping Nikki

But, even if I could get down on the floor and curl up with her, it would be too much trouble to try and get back up, so I won't!

This is conference week, possibly the most exhausting week of the year, next to the last week of school!  I've spent many hours preparing, gathering work samples and assessments, writing out my usual 1/2 page of notes detailing progress in all academic areas and behavior.  Parents nearly always appreciate my efforts, and when it's all said and done, I really like meeting with families and talking about their kids.  (Or maybe, I just like to talk!)

Still, it's tiring work, prepping and meeting, and still planning and teaching all week. This year I have four conferences with an interpretor, something I haven't found necessary since my second year of teaching.  The first one was today after school.  The parent arrived 20 minutes late, stayed 30 minutes, and brought her older child with a grandchild. (My student stayed after school with me to wait for her mom to arrive.)  I got a taste of what Kailyn must be feeling, as I sat at the table with five people all talking another language, and me not knowing what was being said! (I just smiled and nodded, hopefully at all the right moments!)

Tomorrow is an early release day, and I've got eleven 20 minute conferences scheduled.  If they all show, I'll be almost half way done! Makes me tired just to think about it!  That's a lot of talking . . . and listening, I hope.  

Because it isn't all about me, and what I want for these kids.  I need to listen carefully to the parents, pay attention to their needs, and hopes for their children.  More than ever before, I need to be compassionate and sensitive to cultural differences, as 40% of my students come from homes where English is not the first language. I am awed by this knowledge.  And impressed by these students who come to school every day, working hard at translating what they are learning from English, to their home language, and back again to English to respond.  I admire their tenacity.

It's Monday, a little closer to bedtime, (hallelujah!) and I'm pondering the swing I've made from being tired, to being inspired.  To looking forward to bringing hope and encouragement to each family I've been given to work with this year.  

And, to getting to bed at a decent time, so I can be rested and energized for this upcoming week.  

Family Ties

I spent today with some of my favorite people.  My dad and Mary Lou are leaving for Arizona in a few days, but he wanted to drive up to Lacey to visit his sister and her husband before he left.  My sister and I went along for the ride. I forgot to take photos today, but this one is from our visit last fall.

Aunt Syd, Dad, Mary Lou, Uncle Julay

My aunt and uncle have been married for 67 years, and they are quite possibly the sweetest couple ever!  She was diagnosed with Alzheimers about seven years ago, but has been on an amazing medication that has kept her  in a pretty constant place.  She knows her memory is impaired, repeats herself quite a bit, but has such a fantastic sense of humor, that you can't help but just laugh with her and enjoy her company. Uncle Julay takes such good care of her, patiently allowing her to do everything she is able to do, and helping when she can't.  Even with Alzheimers, she can be sharp as a tack.  When one of us asked if they still had a computer, Aunt Syd said, "I had to get rid of it, I was afraid he'd find himself a girlfriend online!"  Then they both laugh, and he says, "It's in the closet!"

Someone asked, "The computer or the girlfriend?"  Everyone laughs.

When my dad and his sister get together, it's stories all day long that would literally curl your hair, and even though I've heard most of them a million times, I still crack up, especially because they see their crazy, chaotic childhood as so darn funny.

They grew up in a tiny town called Grays River, situated in a valley on the road still called the Ocean Beach Highway by oldtimers in Washington state.  While my grandmother made a heroic effort to get out of town, attending Portland State University in the 1920's, and marrying an engineer, she returned  with her two young children to live with her parents when her engineer husband was attracted elsewhere.

While Dad and Aunt Syd lived with their grandparents, life was good.  Great Grandpa owned a store, and a large dairy farm, so there was plenty of food.  My dad's earliest memories are of following his grandpa around as he milked the cows, and living for awhile in a couple of different hotels his mom managed.  Later, he would spend most of his youth milking his grandpa's cows, until he started high school and moved to another coastal town, and eventually, Vancouver.

At some point, my dad thinks he was about five, grandma married Ed, "the boy next door," someone she had grown up with but probably wasn't in love with.  Ed had also been raised on a daily farm, but was then a logger, and a good friend of her brother, Dick.  The guys enjoyed their liquor, perhaps a bit too much.

One of dad and Aunt Syd's favorite stories to tell is of going hunting with their Uncle Dick and Ed.  It was the mid 1930's and there was never enough food. The men would remove the back seat of the car, take off searching for deer, and when successful, would put the deer in the back, cover it with a blanket, and tell my dad and his sister to "sit on it".  Then, enroute to  home, they would stop at a tavern to celebrate their good fortune, leaving the kids in the car to "hide the deer" from the authorities.  Dad just laughs about it, and Aunt Syd says, "Gawd, I hated having to sit on those damn deer!"

My sister and I are appalled that this scenario played itself out more than once! We ask, "What did Grandma think about this?"

They both laugh and say, "She just butchered it up and was happy for the meat."  It's hard for me to reconcile the prim and proper grandma I knew with this woman who allowed her children to ride on top of a dead deer and be left sitting outside a tavern.  But, then again, perhaps she didn't know about that part of the story, at least at the time. (She sure as heck wouldn't have let her grandchildren have any part of any illegal activity! By the time we came along, she had returned to college, earned her Master's and was a social worker.)

Today Dad says to Syd, "Remember that old run down house Ed found for free rent?"

She laughs, "No water or electricity, falling down outhouse."

"Broken windows.  I don't know why Ed didn't replace the windows. I guess they didn't have any money" says Dad.  "I remember helping him lay pipe from the spring for water.  I was about six years old."

"Oh, and those bats!  I hated those bats!" Syd shudders.

Laughing, Dad proudly says, "I'd get mom's old tennis racket and start chasing the bats around the attic!"
 
Aunt Syd, with tears of laughter streaming down her face cried, "I'd be laying there with the blankets over my head, because I was afraid of the bats getting in my hair, and your dad would whump me."

Dad, now practically falling out of his chair, would defend himself saying, "I always warned you when one landed on the bed before I swung at it!"

There are more stories, sitting around the dining room table, laughing till my jaws ache.  Uncle Julay is right with them, even though he didn't meet Aunt Syd until she was a senior in high school.  He's heard the stories so many times, it's like he was there. He often brings up details they forget to mention!

Then Dad reminds us of when Grandma died, on the day of her 50th wedding anniversary.  We had been planning a huge celebration, with family and friends coming in from all over the US.  Instead we have a funeral.  There is silence while we all remember how much my grandparents ended up loving each other, sharing a long life of boating, travels and beach trips.

Dad says, "I moved Ed to our house, with his chair and the cat, Skooter.  I still remember him sitting there, watching Lawrence Welk, tears streaming down his face, missing mom so much."

My Grandpa only lived a few months after Grandma.  He gave up wanting to live the day he found her gone in her bed,  October 15, 1986.

It just now dawned on me that Grandma died twenty-five years ago today.  I don't think anyone else realized it.  Yet there was a heightened sense of connection. It was palpable throughout the day; we wanted to be there, together.


As we were hugging and kissing my aunt and uncle  before leaving, Aunt Syd was weeping and holding each of us so tightly, begging us not to go.  We tore ourselves away, with promises to visit soon, hoping she'll forgive us for not staying, knowing she'll likely forget we were even there. I wondered if Aunt Syd sensed today was different.

On the long drive home, we all agreed that we were glad we had made the trip.  No one mentioned a sense of loss, but looking back, I felt it.

For some reason this year, as my dad readies himself to leave for Arizona, yearning for the warmth that soothes his achy joints, I find myself tearing up, wondering if it will be the last "Good bye".  He isn't as healthy as he could be, there have been several medical emergencies the past few years. I'm not ready to let go, and I empathize with Aunt Syd's tears this afternoon.

And I know, I'll never be ready to let go. But, I have been bountifully blessed with strong, loving family ties. And that will have to be enough.