One Crafty Mother

My Heart's A Stereo

2012-01-28T09:42:00.000-05:00

Thursday I had the feeding tube put in, which meant one full day of no food or drink of any kind for almost 20 hours before the procedure, followed by about an hour and a half surgery (under general anesthesia), and waking up in the recovery room hungry, thirsty, in pain and more than a little confused about what exactly had just happened to my stomach muscles.

Steve met me back at my room and stayed with me for a bit, and I was so grateful he was there because the after effects of the procedure were WAY more painful than I had anticipated. The doctors told me to expect to be "uncomfortable", but these felt like labor pains - contractions that ripped across my abdomen every few minutes. It makes sense, I guess, because to insert the tube, they have to cut through stomach muscles and into your actual abdomen, then stitch in three "tacks" that hold the tube in place for a couple of weeks until scar tissue forms and the tacks can be removed. I'll spare you the pictures, but the pain was much worse than anything I was emotionally prepared for.

As Steve left to go home that night, I thought about the next day with some trepidation. We didn't expect this surgery to be that big of a deal, so nobody was scheduled to come see me until my brother was going to pick me up after radiation treatment later that afternoon. In the morning we thought there would be people training me on the use of the feeding tube, but this turned out not to be the case - the training would happen when a Visiting Nurse came to see me at home that night.

All that would happen during the day was that nurses would periodically check my vitals and the "button" site. They wouldn't even tell me when I was scheduled to be released, but assured me it would not be until much later that afternoon or early evening.

By 10am yesterday morning, I was a wreck. I hadn't slept much at all the night before, and my mind was racing with all sorts of awfulizing thoughts. The combination of lonely, scared and in pain had reduced me to silent tears that I would sneakily wipe away whenever the nurses came in to check vitals or something.

So there I was, sniffling away, feeling sorry for myself, wishing I could call someone and chat, but my cell phone battery was lower-than-low and I needed to save the juice, when "BINK" - my cell phone chirped at me that it had a text.

It was from Heather. "Check your email," it said, simply.

Thankfully, I had brought my Kindle Fire with me, so I clicked on her email, opened the attachment, and found this:

Operation Spiritual Airlift from Heather King on Vimeo.

Even though we are separated by many miles - from coast to the coast - my amazing friends got together and showed me that I'm never truly alone. Suddenly, I wasn't scared anymore. They reached through the pixelated miles and gave me a virtual hug that made my spirit soar.

Thank you, Heather (click on the link to her blog to read about what gave her the idea to do the video, which involves a little connection I have with her daughter Elsie Jane), Lisa (from Smacksy), Maggie (from Maggie, Dammit), Eileen (from Calandro Clan), Becky (from The Tales of Married Mikkimoto), Ann (from Ann's Rants), Jessica Bern (from Bern This), and Lee (from so many things I linked to her Twitter account). And, as I understand it, Lee's fabulous husband for his editing talents.

Consider Operation Spiritual Airlift to be a roaring success - just when my spirit was about as low as it has been through this whole journey, there you guys were. JUST EXACTLY when I needed you.

Words fall so short for how much you all mean to me, but I did manage to take this pic from the hospital yesterday -- that smile on my face? You put it there:

Love, Fear, Courage and Faith - What Cancer Does to a Family

2012-01-25T05:37:00.000-05:00

I never intended this to become a cancer blog, any more than I intended it to become a recovery blog when I first started it to be a jewelry blog four years ago.

It won't always be a cancer blog, but cancer - like active alcoholism - is a totally absorbing, all consuming thing. Everything in my world - literally everything - revolves around having cancer. The kids' schedules, my husband's schedule, my schedule - nothing can be set in stone until my treatment logistics are pinned down.

And that's just the practical part of having cancer.

The emotional part is the real all consuming thing - for all of us. The kids having to make adjustments to my weakened state, learning to be more self-sufficient, being brave about new sitters and going on play dates at school friends' houses they have never been to before. Getting rides from Mommy friends of mine that they know, but haven't driven with before. Any one of these things would have been a big deal Before Cancer. After Cancer they are learning to adjust on the fly, because they don't really have a choice. I am so proud of both of them, bravely extending their horizons, stepping almost daily outside of their comfort zones, managing their fear of my illness along with all these new things.

My husband is working so hard - both at his job and here at home - he is parenting the kids most of the time, and being a care-taker for me, all while managing the regular day-to-day business of full time job. He amazes me every day at the patience he shows the kids, even when I know he is stretched to his limits. He asks me over and over, what do you need? What can I get you? He is a strong shoulder for me to cry on when I need to, even as he tucks his own worries away he strokes my back and tells me everything will be okay. He looks out for ways to make my life easier - a laptop table next to my bed, cleaning out cabinets to make things more accessible, finding just the right thing to cheer me up.

Cancer impacts the whole family, on every level.

I struggle to come up with things to write about that aren't cancer related -- but those thing don't exist in my world at the moment. My thoughts are consumed with managing symptoms, pain, sleep, medications and trying to keep fear at a healthy arms' length away.

I have been stripped down, emotionally, to an almost child-like state.

I think back to where I was a year ago - preparing to fly to the Blissdom Conference in Nashville, meet up with friends, speak on a panel, network and try to spread the word about Crying Out Now. I had recently met my weight loss goal of 65 lbs, and was generally feeling on top of the world.

These days there is no room for dreams, for ego, for thinking about building my business or networking. Those days will come again, I believe, but at the moment they feel long gone.

These days it is all about "what did you eat today, hon? Anything?" "How is the pain?" "When did you last take such-and-such medicine?"

And then my least favorite: "Have you, you know, gone today yet?" (like with children, bowel movements, or lack thereof, are a hot topic. Sorry if that is over sharing, but the doctors are concerned and I'm concerned, so the whole family is involved in finding foods that will help Momma GO.)

So maybe I'm more like a potty-training toddler.

My thoughts are so centered around me, not in an egotistical way at all, it's just there isn't room for anything else. I go into the kids' bedrooms at night to kiss their foreheads while they sleep and my heart aches; there is so much I don't know about their day-to-day life right now. Their worlds are held safely in the hands of my Mom, my friends, and sitters.

I'm still grappling with fear, too, although it is so much better than it was. Stripping my life down to its barest essentials meant that a lot of my former day-to-day fears were stripped away, too. They almost make me laugh, the things that I worried about Before Cancer. Things like not measuring up, trying to fit in, neuroses about why so-and-so seems upset with me, or so-and-so hasn't called in while. Those petty concerns about keeping up with the other Moms, being successful in business and raising kids - doing it all, and doing it all well - they seem very, very far away.

These days I live in a nearly constant state of deprivation.

I can't eat, I can't drive anymore, I can't talk easily on the phone (or at all, because of the pain), I don't have the energy to do much of anything. Deprivation does funny things to your mind. First it drove me nearly insane, as I struggled against it. I fantasized about my old life: about exercising, about biting into a cheeseburger, about going to the grocery store and piling food into my cart, about meeting up with friends for breakfast, or a night out.

Slowly, slowly, I am adjusting to my new normal, and now I don't think much about those things anymore. There isn't any point; it only brings misery. I have tucked myself into my little nest of a world, and I'm waiting it out. I know there are things - important life lessons - I will learn through this experience, especially coming on the heels of another tough life change: losing my Dad so suddenly in June. I had barely begun to process his death when the cancer came along. I've decided to put all the Major Life Lessons on a shelf, though, for a while. I don't have to figure this all out now. I just have to put one foot in front of the other, keep my heart and mind as open as I can, and get from one end of the day to the other.

And then I have to get up and do it again the next day. But I'll think about that tomorrow.

And, of course, my "what if I get cancer someday" obsession -- a fear I carried with me my whole life like a nasty, heavy piece of baggage -- now that it's part of my daily world, it isn't nearly as scary as I imagined as I cultivated my fear-fueled obsession with disease. Because we adapt, we do, in astonishing ways.

There is an issue with the lump on my neck; the one that holds the tumor inside. Last week it got bigger, and then a LOT bigger, and the doctors and nurses tried to downplay it, but I speak fluent non-verbal communication among doctors and nurses now and I knew they were concerned. There was talk of doing a CT Scan to see what is up, but that wouldn't change the treatment protocol at all, so it was decided to stay the course. And the lump is getting smaller again, slowly. Hopefully it will continue in this direction. The doctor yesterday basically (again, in doctor-speak) prepared me for the idea that I will very likely need surgery to remove the lump after chemo and radiation are done.

"And if we find there are active cancer cells in the lump after we remove it?" I asked. I am not afraid of answers anymore. I do not stick my head in the sand. I want to know. Sometimes I don't even recognize myself when I hear myself speak to doctors

"Well, then we celebrate that we took it out and didn't wait to see if it would shrink," was his guarded reply.

I decided not to press it, because I know he doesn't have a crystal ball, he doesn't know why tumors behave the way they do. He did tell me he had one other case like this, where the tumor just wouldn't shrink, but when they removed it after treatment was done it was just "rubble" - no cancer.

Steve heard "rubble"; I heard "only one other case." So the fear thing is a work in progress, but I've come a long way.

Tomorrow (thankfully) the feeding tube goes in - I don't know if it will be overnight procedure or not, but they will have to put me under general anesthesia to place it in. My throat is too far gone for me to be awake, even under conscious sedation.

I am hoping the feeding tube helps me get some strength back - I'm lucky if I get 800 calories (all liquids like Ensure or Carnation Instant Breakfast) into me during the day. I should be having, in my compromised state, closer to 1800 calories. So I hope the tube helps with the healing and the energy.

The kids are calling it my "belly button straw", which makes me laugh even as I dread having one at all.

This print can be found in the Etsy shop RococcoLA
I wasn't paid or compensated in any way to promote it. I just love it.

Thank you for being here, reading. Your comments and support help me SO MUCH. Being able to write through this has been healing for me. As hard as they are, I want to remember these cancer days, too, because there are so many moments of breathless beauty and bravery, and I want to capture those, along with the pain and the fear.

It's bringing my family closer, even as I feel like I'm drifting away. Writing helps me not lose sight of how my kids, my husband, my Mom, and my friends - OH my friends - are carrying me when I don't always feel like carrying myself.

So thank you. Thank you so very much.

Halfway There

2012-01-20T12:07:00.000-05:00

I am halfway through.

While I am grateful for this milestone, the halfway mark appears to have brought with it the kind of pain that the doctors and my fellow tonsil cancer survivors have been talking about.

It didn't build gradually, getting a little worse each day. Somehow, the pain slammed in the back door yesterday afternoon, after my radiation treatment, put its feet up and has made itself at home.

It settles over all my emotions, thoughts and words. It cloaks everything in a kind of prickly haze. It makes me squint my eyes, like I'm looking into the bright sun. The kids' images and voices come to me through the pain, as if from afar. I nod and try to smile; I don't want them to know how much I hurt.

Talking is impossible today. Some days are worse than others, and I'm hoping today is just a bad day and that I will have a good day, soon.

The medication helps some, but there is only so much it can do on days like today.

My world is becoming so small, like a pinprick. I don't go anywhere anymore; I'm not driving. I can't speak on the phone comfortably. My universe revolves around getting to treatment and back. I walk wide-eyed through the halls of the hospital, marveling at the pace of everything, mutely taking it all in.

I don't feel well enough to read, even. I think the only reason I can write is that it soothes me, like a balm on a fiery burn. Writing about the pain makes me feel at arm's length from its bite, at least for a while.

Cancer treatment is such a bizarre thing. I read a quote that said something like: "treating cancer is like trying to rid a dog of fleas by beating it with a stick". Every day cancer patients willingly, even eagerly, submit to more pain and discomfort, because we know the pain is chasing away the disease.

But on days like today I wonder how on earth I'm going to get radiated 16 more times.

The other odd thing about the pain is that tomorrow I could wake up and it will be lighter, like a fog dissipating in the bright sun. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to it. It comes and goes as it pleases.

I just realized this is my third post in a row about pain. Clearly, it dominates my little world at the moment, but it isn't the only thing.

There are moments of such tenderness, too. Yesterday, I was lying on my side on the couch, spent and exhausted, trying to summon enough energy to go upstairs. Finn walked up to me and started rubbing my back, ever so gently, and asked, "Does this help, Momma? Does this make you feel bettah?" When I told him it did, the smile that burst forth on his face was priceless.

It's hard for the kids to see me sick, but it is bringing out the caregivers in them, teaching them that they can make a difference - a big one - to someone who is suffering.

And after one of the longer, harder afternoons I've had so far, last night there was another message from Greta waiting for me in my Prayer Box:

The Proverbial Goalpost - Pain Medication, Recovery and Cancer

2012-01-18T13:53:00.001-05:00

Do you remember an old episode of "Desperate Housewives" where one of the housewives (I haven't watched the show in ages, so I don't remember which one - or her character's name) gets into her son's Ritalin and goes on a speed bender? She gets all productive, can't sleep but is accomplishing so much she doesn't care or notice.

The scene I remember in particular is one where the other housewives find her at dawn on a foggy morning, clutching the goal post at her son's soccer field, rocking like a baby and muttering to herself because she finally crashed.

I keep thinking of this episode, because the steroids they give me when I receive chemo every Tuesday (to prevent an allergic reaction to one of the chemicals) have this effect on me. I come home from chemo all charged up, feeling awake and alert and ready to be productive. I can't usually sleep on Tuesday nights because of it, but I give in to it and use the time to do quiet (but productive) activities like making jewelry or responding to emails (last night found me up at 2am, wrapped in a blanket and sipping tea and working my way through my Inbox).

After about five hours of sleep, I popped out of bed this morning at 7am like a whirling dervish (I felt like that Kelly Ripa commercial where she whips clothes out of the dryer and they fall effortlessly onto her kids). After the kids got on the bus I made overdue phone calls, vacuumed the first floor, folded laundry and picked up most of the rooms in the house. All before 10am. My husband joked that we don't need a cleaning service - we just need to feed me a couple of steroids every other Tuesday and set me loose.

The crash comes, though, by tonight, and I'm back to the bone-tired weariness and lots of sleeping.

All of this is a steroid-induced preamble to my point, which is that I've received lots of emails from people in recovery asking how I'm handling pain medication during the course of my treatment.

The answer is simple: carefully, and with respect. I respect that the pain is real, that I need to take medication for it, and that I need to follow the doctor's advice. I'm very vocal with all the doctors and nurses about my history of alcoholism (and I clarify that even though my history doesn't involve drug addiction that doesn't mean I don't need to be as careful with drugs as any addict would be). I don't necessarily take a first recommendation at face value; I always ask about other options, addictive qualities of medications and whether natural options are available that would work just as well as what the doctors are suggesting (this was true in the earlier part of my treatment - Melatonin for sleep is an example).

I examined all my pain medication options, and chose the one that seemed the best for me, that had the least likelihood of becoming habit forming for me over the course of my treatment. In my case, at this point, it's a patch that I wear that dispenses medication slowly and is replaced every three days. I like that it doesn't involve my discretion on when to take it, or how much to take, and so far it isn't producing unpleasant side effects or cravings.

I may need to take more, heavier dosage pain medication as my treatment progresses, and at every step I will be careful and respectful. I am talking to people in recovery about it, too, getting advice from all sides.

Some people in recovery feel strongly about the topic of pain medication (mainly that it should be avoided if at all possible, and some even consider it a relapse), and I listen to what they have to say, but I will choose the course that is right for me, my treatment and my pain. I've been around the recovery world long enough to know that if you ask 100 people the same question, you will get 100 different answers, and some of them will be very opinionated. The trick is to listen with an open mind and heart, but to always balance advice with what is right for me, and then to run what I think is right for me past my inner circle of recovery- my most trusted friends - who will tell me if I'm lying to myself.

The Desperate Housewives image - as funny as it is - is also a reminder to be careful.

As a woman in recovery I don't like feeling out of it anymore. I don't like the feeling that I'm looking at the world through a fog. Thankfully, so far that isn't happening, and with the exception of the steroids I haven't noticed any appreciable side effects from any of the medication I'm taking.

As difficult as this is - this whole journey through cancer - I want to be present for it, feel the emotions, work through the tough stuff. When I come out on the other side I want to have grown.

If I were still drinking, there would be no growth. If I were drinking, cancer would be a Grade A, World Class excuse to drink, no matter how bad it would be for my body and my treatment.

There are moments when I want to escape - to pull some secret trapdoor and just drop out of my life for a while. When I get like this, I start talking, because I know it's the first step towards wanting to be out of it altogether.

For now, though, I will enjoy my bursts of productivity, while keeping a wary eye out for the proverbial goalpost.

Spiritual Airlifts

2012-01-15T12:15:00.000-05:00

I feel like I'm surfacing from the bottom of a shallow pool - not from the bottom of a deep lake or pond or something, because I've been right there beneath the surface of the water, able to see and hear all that is going on around me, but unable to be part of much of anything.

I can see you out there, shimmering away in your busy, busy world, running from one thing to the next, chatting on phones, tapping away on your devices. I don't feel part of that world anymore, but it's okay. Just the thought of rushing anywhere makes me too tired

There is a freedom in this kind of tired.

When I was kind-of-sort-of-tired-but-not-totally-tired I was way more frustrated; I had that nose-pressed-against-the-glass feeling, like I should be out there participating but just can't. Now that I'm full-on-bone-weary-tired I'm happy to let go, to lie down and rest. I don't have the energy for anything else, anyway.

I'm about halfway (well, almost halfway) through treatment, and the honeymoon phase of this is over. The reality of what I'm up against plunked into my lap last week, wiggled around, and made itself comfortable.

I am no longer driving myself to treatment, because it's too tiring to sit up that long. My appetite has all but disappeared, and I can't taste anything anymore. Except for COFFEE. I can still taste coffee - thank God for small miracles. I'm down about 16 lbs in two weeks. The ulcers/sores in my mouth make it impossible to eat anything solid (although in a fit of desperation and determination last night I sent Steve out for a cheeseburger from McDonald's and damned if I didn't nibble that thing half to death) so I'm on a liquid diet.

The feeding tube will go in this week, and now I'm actually looking forward to it. My body craves nutrition.

I spend most of my time sleeping, or reading. I don't get on the computer much these days, and I'm way behind in responding to emails. If you sent me an email in the past week and haven't heard back - I'm sorry. I'm here, shimmering beneath my pool of water - and I'll slowly work my way through them.

I didn't set out to give a laundry list of all my symptoms and struggles, though. Although it does feel good to get them off my chest. And maybe it will make what I really wanted to talk about more powerful, because what I wanted to talk about was how overwhelmed and amazed I am at the generosity that surrounds our family. It is hard to admit that you need help - at least it is for me - and I balked at the idea of needing people for the first couple of weeks. I'm over that, now. We need you, and we are so very grateful for all your help.

To all of you who bring meals to our front door step - THANK YOU. I'm usually coming home from radiation around 6pm, dog tired and weary, and to walk in and see my family sitting around the table eating a nutritious meal means so much to me. The mommy-guilt part of being sick is tough - all the things I can no longer do -and your delicious meals do more than feed my family - they feed my spirit.

Thank you for all the cards, notes and emails. I read them all, sometimes again and again. I can't respond to every one of them, but they matter to me. They matter a lot.

Thank you for the Amazon gift card - so many of you contributed to keep me up to my ears in books (and apps!) for my Kindle. Thank you for the Grocery Delivery gift card - we used some of it this week and it was a life-saver during a particularly difficult time.

Thank you to my incredible Mom, who is steadfastly by my side during treatment, keeping me company, coming to my house to watch the kids so Steve and I can sneak off to a movie. The other night she came armed with her favorite recipes and putting them in my blender. She knew it was difficult for me to to smell the delicious meals coming into my house and not be able to taste/eat them - so she blended them, one by one, into delicious soups. They are so good; even the kids like to eat them.

All of your generosity keeps my little family trucking along, keeps their lives as normal as possible during this less-than-normal time.

My friend Sean, and his lovely wife, Sue, came by a few weeks ago with a Prayer/Hope Box. I have known Sean for over fifteen years now - we worked together back in the 90s and have remained friends ever since. Sean and Sue have been through their share of health struggles, and their unwavering faith has always been inspirational to me.

It's a pretty bejeweled cigar box, and inside they filled it with inspirational Scripture and Psalms. I take them out and read them when I need a boost, when I'm feeling at the end of my rope and my own faith is wearing thin. This morning, I pulled this from the box:

Be strong and courageous;
do not be frightened or dismayed,
for the Lord your God is with you
wherever you go

Joshua 1:9

Sean encouraged Steve and the kids to put messages/pictures in the box, too. When his wife was ill, he would put tickets to things they would do together when she felt better, along with messages of how much he loved her.

The box sat on my bedside table, forgotten by everyone but me, I thought.

The other night I had a bad reaction to some medication and was throwing up for most of an evening. The kids were still up, and Steve got them into bed as I was retching in the bathroom.

When I finally stopped dry heaving and made my way - slowly - into my bedroom, I saw the Prayer Box sitting on my pillow.

With tears in my eyes, I opened the lid, and saw this:

A note from Greta that says: "Cancer has the word 'can' in it."

She knew I was having a rough night, and she remembered the Prayer Box and added this note all on her own. She was still awake, so I tiptoed into her room and gave her a big hug.

"Thank you," I said. "Your note was just what I needed. I feel so much better."

She beamed. "I'm sorry you're sick, Momma," she said. "But I know you can do it."

And I can; with all of you to help me along - all your prayers, generosity, words of support, encouragement and advice.

I can.

People-Pleaser In Pain

2012-01-11T10:15:00.002-05:00

I have two weekly consultations with the oncology and radiation team. They always start by asking me about pain. How much I'm in, how often, etc.

I don't know how to answer this question. And it brings out all my people pleasing tendencies.

"Well, how much pain should I be in?" I'll ask.

The nurse just raises her eyebrows at me, as if to say "are we really going to go through this charade again?"

I mean, something I consider major pain may be no great shakes to someone else. I don't want to come across like a wimp, for crying out loud. But I don't want to answer too high, because I did that once and everyone started running around aflutter and calling in more specialists to stare down my throat. I didn't like that, so I want to answer in such a way that lets them know I am in pain, but I just don't know how much without knowing how other people at this stage in treatment answer the question.

That's the way us people-pleasers roll.

So they bring out the chart. You know - this one, with the faces:

I don't know what that bottom row is all about. Maybe people with oval shaped faces experience pain differently than us round-faced folks.

I stare and stare at the chart, wanting so badly to pick the right answer.

But seriously? I can experience all those emotions in like five minutes when I'm PMSing. And that fourth round face from the left? That's how I look when I lose my car keys (which is an experience that can be quite painful, when you think about it). Number three round face from the left is how I look when I'm day dreaming about Spencer from iCarly. Or chocolate.

Number eight of the oval faces is how I look when I stub my toe. And Number Ten Oval-Face is how I look when my kid asks me his one-millionth question in five minutes.

The chart is no help to me, so I give comparatives, which frustrates the nurses to no end.

"Well, today it hurts less than slamming my finger in the car door, but more than a swift kick to the shins. Can you write that down?"

She sighs, and writes something down, but I think it has more to do with my mental health than any pain scale.

Someday I'd really like to get a peek at the notes in those charts.

"So," she sighs, "is it accurate to say you are in some pain, that it is increasing week to week, but that it's manageable right now?"

"Ummmm. Sure." I answer, noncommittally.

"How about this," she says. "When the pain starts keeping you up at night, or is preventing you from eating food, will you let us know?"

"Oh, I haven't been able to eat food without pain for a while now, " I say. "And sometimes I am up at night from pain, now that you mention it."

She rolls her eyes again, sighs, and leaves to get the doctor.

"But really - it's not that bad!" I shout after her, wanting her to be proud of me, or like me, or something.

The View From Here

2012-01-08T14:07:00.000-05:00

I love our master bedroom.

One whole wall is floor-to-ceiling windows, with a pretty french door that leads to a second level deck. The arc of the sun at this time of year makes it the brightest room in the house.

The walls are the palest blue, and the trim is bright white. It has a Caribbean bungalow feeling, and it has always been a space that brings me peace.

This sanctuary will be where I fight this cancer fight. The physical symptoms of radiation and chemotherapy are kicking in, bringing with them the mental part of this battle.

Up until mid-week last week, I felt pretty good. My throat was getting more sore - both from the radiation and from an outbreak of thrush brought on by the steroids - but my energy was good, I was sleeping better, and able to eat most soft foods.

This has changed, and quickly. The thrush has gotten worse, making any type of solid food nearly impossible. Even liquid shakes burn on the way down. I have been given a numbing solution - something I can drink before I try to eat that numbs my palate and throat - and I have to sip this continuously to get any food down at all.

The radiation causes chronic dry mouth, which means I wake up frequently during the night totally parched and needing to sip water.

And I'm tired. Yesterday Steve and I went to an afternoon movie as a date, and it totally wiped me out. It's a bone-tired weariness, like I have the flu. Except it's cancer. And I'm not even a third of the way through. It's only going to get tougher.

I spend most of my time in my Caribbean sanctuary, sleeping, reading and playing hours of Mah Jong on my Kindle Fire. Except for when I have to get to the city for treatment every afternoon, I am mostly resting.

There are bright moments, for sure. This morning the kids piled into bed with me, bubbling with stories and questions and snuggles. We lolled around in bed, a tangle of limbs, for over an hour.

Finn gave me a squeeze, told me he loved me and that he's glad that I have "the lucky cancer" and that I will be okay.

Tears sprung to my eyes as I gave him a bear hug and told him I'm glad I have the lucky cancer, too.

I have come to terms with the fact that the feeding tube needs to go in this week. I am hungry all the time, but because I can't eat much the weight is coming off fast.

It's like a triathlon - each leg of the race brings new challenges. And to train for my race I have to keep surrendering, keep letting go. Instead of running harder, my training regimen is to flop back and lie still. Staying in bed most of the day is harder for me than running a half-marathon would be.

So I sit in my sun splashed room - me and my lucky cancer - and I breathe through the tough moments. I try not to think about bacon double-cheeseburgers while I sip my protein shake. I try not to cry as Steve and the kids head out for a nature walk on a beautiful January morning and I settle in for a nap.

I try not to feel sorry for myself. But sometimes I do.

And sometimes I feel like the luckiest cancer patient in the world. Especially at the infusion center, where I receive chemotherapy treatments once a week, and I see what unlucky cancer looks like.

I don't like writing about the tougher bits; it feels like complaining, or like I'm begging for sympathy.

It's neither.

It is simply my truth of the moment from my Caribbean sanctuary on a sunny Sunday afternoon.

A Warrior's Sense of Peace

2012-01-06T10:13:00.000-05:00

"Things are always in transition, if we could only realize it. Nothing ever sums itself up in the way we like to dream about. The off-center, in-between state is an ideal situation, a situation in which we don't get caught and we can open our hearts and minds beyond limit. It's a very tender, non aggressive, open-ended state of affairs."

~Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times

One of the reasons I adore Pema Chodron's teachings/writings, is that she shines such an honest, gentle, light on the darker shadows of the mind.

I have been feeling disjointed - disassembled - as though the old me (or my perception of the old me, at least) was being deconstructed one bit at a time, just as my tumor is destroyed, little by little, piece by piece.

My external and internal worlds are getting smaller, simpler. And Pema Chodron is right - this off-center place is where I can open my heart and mind beyond their usual, well trodden paths. There is a tenderness to it, too, because my horizon has suddenly been pulled right up close, like a sheet tucked under my chin.

Until I got sick, I don't think I fully understood my Ego's desire to fly from the mundane.

I don't get up in the morning with a head full of ideas anymore - for writing, or jewelry or adventure. My mind was often like a house-afire .. always groping and searching for the Next Big Thing. Anything to save me from Tuesday, from the dull, repetitive thump of my days.

I wanted to feel something extraordinary, or do something extraordinary, every single day. Maybe it was to write that piece that would finally set the internet on fire, or have a creative idea that would launch my business into the stratosphere, or find more ways to spread the word about women and addiction - bigger platforms, louder megaphones, more ears listening.

Next, Bigger, More - those concepts drove me much more than I realized. I hardly ever just woke up, stretched, and said, "why, hello, Tuesday".

These days my thoughts revolve around medication schedules, traffic patterns to get to radiation on time, side effect management, what I will (or won't) be able to swallow today. I experiment with soft foods - banana yogurt is a hit!, chocolate pudding is not! - and gently move myself from one end of the day to the other.

I spend a lot of time waiting. In my car in traffic, in waiting rooms, in exam rooms. I've gotten really good at it. I sit in the Radiation waiting room and study the increasingly familiar faces there. Sometimes we exchange a smile or a nod, as we sit in our polka-dotted johnnies and socks. We keep a respectful silence; this is not a place to exchange symptoms, side effects or diagnoses. It is a place to simply be.

Simple tasks like folding laundry bring me pleasure. The fresh, clean scents, the making of a messy pile into something orderly - I am noticing the simple pleasure in these things, and they are a balm to my darker thoughts.

I am finding the extraordinary in the small places - brushing my daughter's hair in the morning, helping Finn sound out a word, teaching them a card game. I know they were here all along, these moments, and sometimes I would see them, if I stopped long enough on my mad rush to the Next Big Thing.

But now they feel like little gifts, these moments, not something to get over with quickly.

And when the darker thoughts come - and they do come - I am learning to open my arms and embrace them, because I can never, ever outrun them. It's futile to try.

"To stay with that shakiness - to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge - that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic - this is the spiritual path."

~Pema Chodron, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times

Although nothing about my life feels familiar at the moment, being ill is bringing me closer to my center. It is forcing me to walk through boundaries, through walls that I thought protected me from fear and vulnerability, but really only separated me from true peace of mind.

As I slash and whack my way towards truth, shed light on dark corners of my mind that I never thought I'd have to visit (hello, Cancer Patient; hello, Pride; hello, Avoidance; hello, Fear) I am getting closer to a true sense of self, a warrior's sense of peace.

No Hopeful Flourish In This Post. Otherwise Known As Progress.

2012-01-03T23:57:00.004-05:00

The steroids they give me to prevent an adverse reaction to one of my chemo cocktails gives me so much energy that I finally know what it feels like to be Type A+++. I don't know if I should be jealous or offer condolences.

It's 11:30pm and I'm nowhere near sleep.

I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, listening to the petulant little five year old who stomps up and down the hallways of my brain braying thoughts like a deranged donkey. She won't leave me alone. Writing sometimes quiets her, so I'm giving it a try.

Today was a double-whammy day; both chemo and radiation treatments mean a full day at the hospital. I had blood work, a consult with the chemo nurse, radiation treatment, then back up to the oncology department for the chemo administration, which takes about three to three and a half hours.

Long days like this mean that our fabulous new sitter, I'll call her Laura, will be stepping in to be me for the day. She will meet Finn off the bus, be there when Greta gets home from a play date, help with homework, take Finn to karate, feed snacks and start dinner. She is a true God-send, more than capable, and the kids (and Steve and I) adore her. It will be a dark day in this household when she goes back to college later this month.

As I'm snapped into the immobilization mask, preparing for my 7th radiation treatment, I glance at the clock, and realize they are probably getting Finn into his karate uniform and getting ready to head off to class. I lie there, pinned to the table like a science experiment, and let little sad waves flow over me.

Treatment is forcing me to let go in so many ways. Sometimes I go gracefully. Other times, not so much.

Did Greta have fun at her play date today? Did she start her homework? How was the first day back from vacation? My minds spins as the radiation beams hum and hiss in my ear. I treasure the first moments home; that's when I get most of my tidbits of information. By the time I drag myself in the door at close to 8pm I barely have time for a hello before it's their bedtime.

They are totally okay; Laura is cool and fun, but firmly in charge. I can tell they get a rush being with her. I'm happy for them - for us - but my heart still breaks a little.

Damn cancer.

Bedtime arrives, at least on paper - I'm not tired at all - but I dutifully climb into bed and wait for sleep. My legs feel jangly, odd. My thoughts refuse to stay in the moment, pinging far ahead into scary, unchartered waters. Then the pendulum swings back to the weekend. I fought and railed against my dual diseases- alcoholism and cancer - for most of this past weekend. I was ungainly, volatile, jealous, resentful, victimized. I was angry. You'd never know it to look at me in public, but behind closed doors I was not a pretty sight.

I'm terrible at falling apart, because I let it go too long before I realize I'm over the edge. Then it's all snotty-cries and bubbling resentment and self-pity.

Eventually, I beat myself up enough and ask for help. But not before paying a price with my sanity, with the balance in my family, with a little piece of my soul. I'm like an ogre, and I know it, and I can't get out of my own way.

I finally, stubbornly, reluctantly and with more than a little shame, reached out and got the help I needed. I went to a meeting, and spent a lot of time on my knees in my room surrendering over and over and over.

Today, the clouds parted a bit. Today I feel emotionally shaky, but in touch with what's really going on inside me. Today the gratitude is back, weakly waving her hand and whispering, "remember me?"

I have to remember, though, this is just today. Twenty-four hours. Tomorrow I have to get up and do it again - surrender, ask for help, touch the truth, give the ogre - I dunno - a hug? A primal scream? I don't think she's going away anywhere soon, and I have a lot of work to do.

It's hard for me to write here about the ugliness. Not because I want to appear perfect - not even close. It's because the ugliness scares me so much I don't really even have access to it. I prefer to live in gratitude, serenity and peace. It's so much nicer there. But the ugliness is there, simmering beneath the surface, and if I don't respect it, talk about it - even acknowledge it - it corrodes my spirit, my sanity and my sobriety.

The ugliness makes me feel very, very vulnerable. And vulnerable is hard.

What You DON'T Know about HPV and Oral Cancer Could Put Your Child At Risk

2011-12-29T12:58:00.000-05:00

When I was first diagnosed with tonsil cancer, I presumed it was because of my history of drinking.

I was wrong.

My tonsil cancer is a result of the Human Papillomavirus, commonly known as HPV.

What I have learned about HPV and oral cancer in the past six weeks is frightening. If you are a parent of a child between the ages of 9 and 12, or if you will ever be a parent of a child between the ages of 9 and 12, PLEASE read on.

I had heard of HPV before; I knew it was linked to nearly all cases of cervical cancer in women. I knew a vaccine existed (Gardasil is the one I had heard of) but that there was some controversy surrounding the recommendation to vaccinate girls as young as 9, because it is considered a sexually transmitted disease.

I filed all this information away in my head, and resolved to talk to Greta's pediatrician about it when she got a little older. Until my own recent experience, I never would have known that HPV is an issue that effects Finn, too.

Here is what I didn't know: HPV is behind what doctors are calling a "growing epidemic" of oral cancers in young adults - people as young as their 30s and 40s (typically, "lifestyle" induced cancer - oral cancer caused by excessive alcohol or tobacco use - doesn't present until people are in their 50s or 60s). A doctor at Dana Farber in Boston was quoted recently as saying that he is seeing "at least 2 or 3 new cases of HPV+ oral cancers a week."

BOTH men and women (although men make up the majority of the HPV+ oral cancers) are at risk for HPV+ oral cancers, which means that BOTH boys and girls should be vaccinated, and doctors are recommending this as early as age nine, as oral HPV is easily transmitted - from skin to skin contact. It is said that it will become known as "the kissing disease".

The statistics surrounding HPV are staggering. As many as 24 million Americans are actively infected with HPV at any given time, with an additional 6 million new infections per year. The virus is typically short-lived (up to about a week) and asymptomatic. Most people never know they had it.

By age 50, 80% of women will have been infected with HPV.

Caveat: I am clearly not a medical doctor, so I am relating in layman's terms what I have learned from my team of doctors in the following paragraphs.. obviously consult your own physician for more information about HPV before making any decisions to vaccinate your child.

What makes HPV tricky is that a person is typically infected in his/her teens or early adulthood. The virus is 'live' in a person's system for about a week - this is the ONLY time a person is infectious. After the virus leaves the system, the person is no longer contagious, and is also immune.

However, for a small percentage of people, the virus leaves a remnant behind, at a cellular level. If this remnant becomes entangled (for lack of a better term) with the DNA of healthy cell, thus creating an abnormal cell, then tumors develop. This process can take decades to develop. Most people infected in their teens (or young adulthood) don't develop HPV+ cancers until years down the road, and for oral HPV there isn't a reliable way to test for its presence in your system.

Being HPV+ does not mean you will develop cancer. In fact, the majority of people who are HPV+ will not get cancer because of it. To date, though, it is not known why some people get cancer and some don't.

HPV is relatively simple to find in the cervix, and a check for HPV is routinely done during an annual pap smear. A vaccine for the most dangerous strains of HPV is available for girls (and now boys) starting at age 9, and to date it is the only known weapon against preventing HPV related cancers in the future.

It is not possible, however, to reliably test for the presence of oral HPV, as there are too many 'nooks and crannies' for the virus to hide in.

The bottom line?

PLEASE talk to your child's pediatrician about HPV. This is not just a cervical cancer virus anymore, so mothers of boys - especially because MORE men than women will get HPV+ oral cancers - need to talk about getting their boys vaccinated as well.

Some parents are hesitant to talk to pediatricians about it, or to vaccinate their children, because HPV carries a stigma of being a sexually transmitted disease. Some parents are concerned they are encouraging promiscuous behavior by vaccinating their children at such a young age. I'm here to tell you that a simple first kiss, or other innocent skin-to-skin contact, can also transmit this virus.

As I lie in my immobilization mask with radiation beams aimed at my increasingly sore neck and throat, I think a simple vaccine is a very wise step to take indeed.

For more information about oral cancer, including symptoms, click here.

For more information about HPV and oral cancer, click here.

For more information about the HPV vaccine, click here.

5am Thoughts

2011-12-27T06:32:00.000-05:00

It's 5am, and I finally give up on sleep and come downstairs to write.

I don't know why you need to know that. I guess I want to clarify that these are 5am thoughts. The writers and worriers and dreamers and poets and nursing mothers and insomniacs and perfectionists out there know what I mean when I say: these are 5am thoughts.

I woke up thinking about my Dad. About how profoundly I felt his physical absence this Christmas. I watched my brother's strong, capable shoulders as he carved the roast, and I thought: Dad. I counted the number of place mats and chairs we would need, and I thought: Dad.   I sat in church and sang along to "O Holy Night" with tears streaming down my face and thought: Dad.

Christmas was beautiful this year. I didn't know what to expect - how could I picture Christmas without Dad? His spirit was everywhere, though. As we sat around the table, chatting and even laughing, as we opened presents, as I watched his grand kids play. I felt joy and sadness in equal measure; I didn't realize those two emotions could cohabitate so effortlessly together.

After everyone went to bed Christmas Day Eve, I sat and sipped my tea, took in the colorful lights of the tree and the presents piled everywhere, and thought: this is good. We are lucky.

I woke up thinking about my Dad for another reason: today I start chemotherapy. I didn't talk about it much on this blog - it wasn't mine to talk about - but my Dad was a cancer survivor. He had Lymphoma. It was confined to his spleen, so after his diagnosis the recommendation was to 'wait and watch'. When his spleen became too enlarged, it was removed, along with all his cancer.

As his daughter, I never felt truly scared for him, not really. I know now that he must have worked at not showing too much fear to his kids. It's possible, too, that maybe he didn't feel a lot of fear. I sit here waiting for my first day of chemotherapy and I'm kind of wondering when the fear will show up.

Maybe what he felt was gratitude, an appreciation for the small things, for what really matters. Maybe he had strong faith in his doctors, and in his God, and that kept him strong. Maybe he knew that pounding his chest and wailing about the unfairness of is all is a complete waste of time and energy.

My Dad never experienced radiation or chemotherapy, because the surgery extracted all the cancer. What he did experience - and I'm learning that it's the toughest part of the whole thing - was the waiting. The periodic scans he had to take - even after the surgery - at 3 months, then 6 months, then every year.

Ultimately, he died in a roundabout way from cancer; without a spleen he couldn't fight back an infection in his blood. I'm glad for him that he didn't know that day was coming, that he didn't have to endure months of a slow decline. He proudly wore his "Live Strong" bracelet, and I will always think of him as a cancer survivor.

He knew what it felt like, though, to be cruising along in life, only to glance at the appointment book, see scribbled at 2pm the next day "PET Scan", and think - oh yeah, cancer.

It changes you. It has to. I realize now that there is a Cancer Me. I never knew her before - how could I? If anyone even mentioned the word cancer to me before, my heart rate elevated and I broke out in a cold sweat.   I could never, ever, have envisioned that Cancer Me is calm, determined and grateful. Cancer Me is also apprehensive - mostly because I don't know what chemotherapy will be like, how sick I'll be. It's new, and new things are scary. But Cancer Me doesn't spend a lot of time wondering about the future, if the treatment will work, if I'll beat this thing forever. Cancer Me doesn't lose herself to fear.

In this respect, Cancer Me is a lot like Recovery Me. Fear is toxic to me - even more so than the chemicals that will be coursing through my body later today. Fear makes me want to hide from myself, from my family. Fear is a dangerous trigger for me, and I have to treat it with respect. I have to acknowledge that it's there - of course it's there - but the only thing that is actually in my control is how I respond to it.

I'm totally powerless over the cancer in my body. I'm totally powerless over alcohol. The two things aren't that different, really.

So I look fear in the face, pay my respects, and move on. In hindsight, I can see how much fear governed my life before I got cancer: fear, ironically, of doctors, of getting sick, of getting freaking cancer.

I'm free of that now that I actually have cancer.

Recovery is similar to that, too. I spent so much time in fear of what life would be like sober - how would I live? How would I get through the witching hour? A party? - and once I was in recovery living smack dab in the middle of the thing that scared me most, I realized: I'm strong, I can do this, and I'm free.

I let Cancer Me and Recovery Me hang out together as much as possible. They have a lot in common.

I'm just along for the ride.

Downstream

2011-12-21T10:33:00.000-05:00

Today is the beginning of the next chapter.

Steve and I head in to the hospital to meet with my cancer team: a social worker, a swallow team (they are taking a baseline of my swallowing today, as it will deteriorate as treatment progresses and they want to ensure I can maintain my baseline as much as possible), the radiology and chemotherapy doctors.

Today is a 'dry run' - they want to be sure my immobilization mask fits, that the machine is calibrated, that all is in working order. They will do everything but push the button to start radiation. That will be tomorrow.

I looked at Steve yesterday, bewildered, and said, "I start cancer treatments tomorrow, Christmas is in four days, the kids' schedules are nuts, we have a new sitter starting, and I still have orders to finish and last minute shopping to do. Why aren't I totally crazy right now?"

He grinned at me. "I don't know," he said. "But I'm grateful you're not."

I think it's partly because a cancer diagnosis puts things into perspective. All the little things I would have been freaking out about last year - those infuriating little details that strangle you as Christmas approaches - they just don't seem very important this year.

We will have a good Christmas. We will be together as a family. We are so blessed with amazing friends and an incredible network of support. We are lucky.

I also think I'm calm because it feels so much better to be calm. My good friend Ann designed a necklace for herself, one that reminds her to go with the flow. It was a simple stamped rectangle that said "downstream". I loved it so much I made one for myself, and I added a soothing aquamarine crystal and a Yin Yang charm. I'm wearing it today, as I hold my chin up and march towards this next chapter of my life.

Downstream reminds me to pick my feet up and let the current take me where I'm meant to go. It helps me stay in acceptance and surrender. That's not the same thing as giving up - not even close. It has everything to do with being present, with feeling gratitude for what is, rather than resentment for the way I wish things were.

I took a picture of myself today, at the beginning. I'm wearing the 'downstream' necklace, and I will keep its message close to my heart. I am determined, I am hopeful. I am also tired. And it's all okay.

It's just the beginning of the next thing. There will be many more next things, many more beginnings.

Onward.

Home Base

2011-12-16T09:33:00.001-05:00

I stare at my list, reading each item over and over silently in my head: acceptance, surrender, trust.

I'm not feeling it.

The past two days have been miserable; I'm edgy, angry, resentful. I can't get out of my own way. My back hurts again - a lot. When Finn was sick this past weekend I carried him upstairs into bed; maybe that did it. I don't know; all I know is that every movement hurts.

It feels like the last straw. I don't want to have cancer. I don't want to have an injured back. I just want my life back.

The kids are running all over the place, playing some kind game that is a combination of hide-and-seek and tag. Their squeals of delight grate on my already frayed nerves.

I just want my life back, I think again, miserably. I want my only worry to be last minute Christmas shopping.

Finn slips on the hardwood floor and goes down hard. I don't go to him. I just can't. I hear Greta soothing him - you're okay, buddy. Just rest for a minute and then let's play again.

I am frustrated with myself, because I know I'm making myself miserable. I realize that I can choose how I feel, how I react to my situation, but I'm tired of the high road. I'm tired of brave and strong.

Taking a deep breath, I read my list again. Acceptance, Surrender, Trust. I say it over and over again, hoping the repetition will drum them into my stubborn head.

The kids resume their game, and I reluctantly pull myself up out of my chair. There are lunches to pack, breakfast dishes to wash and put away.

As I scrub bowls coated with dried up oatmeal, I think of the days to come. I haven't even started treatment, and already I feel weary right down to my bones.

Greta bursts from behind a closet door, runs up to me and wraps her arms around my waist. "Home base!" she yells. "Momma's home base!"

Momma's home base, I think, wincing. But for how long? Until the radiation and chemo take their toll and I can hardly get out of bed? And what if the treatments don't work? Who is going to be their home base then?

Tears spring to my eyes; thankfully Greta runs off and doesn't notice. I creep upstairs, clutching my list, and flop face down on my bed, my back yelping in protest.

I cry, hard, for a few minutes. I haven't cried much since the diagnosis, and the emotional purge feels good. The kids are still running around downstairs, laughing, and I find myself smiling, just a little.

I roll off the bed and onto my knees. Please, God, I pray, help me find peace of mind. Help me get out of my own way. Help me have gratitude. Help me surrender.

Faith. The words pops into my head, unbidden. Have a little faith.

Leaping up, I grab a pencil of my bedside table and scrawl another word onto my list: Faith.

I wipe the tears off my cheeks, and make my way back downstairs. Finn pinwheels around a corner, with Greta hot on his heels.

He grabs my hand, smiling triumphantly. "SAFE!" he yells. "I have Momma, and I'm SAFE!"

My New Normal

2011-12-13T09:47:00.000-05:00

"Mom? Can I have breakfast?" Greta's voice reaches me through a deep sleep.

"Sure," I mumble, glancing at the clock. It's 7:14am; Greta wakes me up at the exact same time every morning.

I swing my legs to the floor, thinking about the day: Greta has a birthday party today, gotta buy a present. Finn needs to bring a donation to school today, have to finish that jewelry order.

Rubbing sleep from my eyes, I pad into the bathroom, splash cool water on my face and reach for my toothbrush. Glancing in the mirror, my stomach does a little flip-flop as my eyes rest on the lump on the left side of my neck. Oh yeah, I think. Cancer.

I shake the thought from my head and finish brushing my teeth without looking in the mirror.

Downstairs it is the usual whirlwind of activity - packing lunches, finding shoes, hats and gloves. The kids pepper me with questions: does the Elf on the Shelf get cold when he flies back to the North Pole every night? How many days until Christmas? Can I have a play date today?

I move effortlessly through the finely choreographed dance that is our mornings, deftly answering questions while finding a stray sneaker under the couch. The familiarity of it soothes me, even as I try to ignore the new, silent soundtrack to my life: will I be able to do all this in a few weeks, after treatment starts?

The kids twirl in the driveway as they wait for the bus; their breath puffing white in the cold. I wrap my hands around my coffee mug, treasuring its warmth. Enjoy it now, comes the unwelcome thought, when you need the feeding tube there won't be any point to coffee anymore.

The bus rumbles to a stop at the end of our driveway, and I wave and shout: "Love you! Have a great day!" like I do every morning. The bus pulls away, and I walk back into the house. Its silence makes me edgy.

I pull a huge load of clean, dry laundry out of the dryer and walk upstairs to fold, grateful for the strength in my body. I'm told I will be very tired. I don't grumble about doing laundry anymore; the normalcy of this small chore feels like a gift.

As I fold the clothes and put them away, my mind wanders to darker thoughts. I try to push them away. Don't go there until you get there, I think, rolling a piece of advice from a member of my cancer support group around in my head. But the darkness persists, poking its unwelcome nose into my day.

This is my new normal, the reality of my days as I wait for radiation and chemotherapy to start next week. I can go for little stretches of time where I don't remember, where life feels like it always did, and then wham - I hit a little speed bump, a thought or fear drops into my head and I remember: cancer.

Eight days until treatment starts, I think. Eight long days of waiting, wondering what it will be like. I start to make a list of everything I need to do to clear my decks, prepare for treatment: firm up the babysitter, type up a schedule of the kids' activities, clear out the freezer, finish up jewelry orders... the list goes on and on, and it makes me feel overwhelmed.

I crumple up the paper and make a new list:

1) Accept
2) Surrender
3) Trust
4) Don't go there until you get there

Then, after some thought, I smile and add one more item to the list:

5) EAT

I will enjoy every treat, every warm meal, every cup of coffee, every dessert over this holiday season. I will lose weight on the feeding tube, I will lose my sense of taste for months during and after radiation treatment, so I'm going to wallow in food for the next two weeks.

The panic that was stirring in my gut settles down as I gaze at my list. One moment at a time, I think, just like recovery. I'm only truly miserable when I resist my situation, when I wish things could be different than they are. Accepting something you desperately don't want to be true is hard, but it works. It brings peace of mind, even during the worst of the fear.

I can do this moment, I think. In this moment, I'm okay. Now, on the next one.

This post is part of Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's link-up, Just Write, where we - well, just write. Unedited, unscripted and straight from the heart. To join us, click here.

The Luckiest Unlucky Girl

2011-12-08T09:25:00.001-05:00

My Mom and I are sitting in the oncologist's office, listening to instructions on proper mouth care during neck radiation.

I have just come from being fitted for an 'immobilization mask', which is a sheet of webbed plastic that is molded to your head, neck and shoulders to keep you completely still while the radiation is administered.

It didn't hurt to be fitted, but it was an unpleasant, claustrophobic feeling. I'm told I will get used to it. The mask is a giant leap forward for radiation treatments; in the not-so-distant past they would have had to tattoo my neck and face with 'X's to know where to aim the radiation.

It's such a strange feeling, this see-saw of unpleasantness and gratitude. On the one hand, I don't want to be here at all. I don't want an immobilization mask, or radiation treatments. On the other hand, I don't have to have my face tattooed. I'm consistently grateful for things that would have been unthinkable a mere two months ago.

In the past week and a half, I have had four scans: one MRI, two CT Scans, and a PET Scan.   The PET Scan, which is used to detect the presence of cancer anywhere in the body, was Tuesday night. It is the one I am the most nervous about; if cancer is found anywhere else I'm not sure I can take it.

I can't concentrate on what the nurse is saying about oral care. Before this appointment I handed the head oncologist a CD with my PET Scan results, and we're waiting for him to return and tell me how it looks.

"As you near the end of your treatments," the nurse says, "you will have what is essentially a bad sunburn across your whole neck.  Here is a list of products we recommend to ease itching, soreness and wound weeping."

All I hear is 'wound weeping'.

She finishes up, asks me if I have any questions, and leaves. A few moments later there is a soft knock on the door, and the head oncologist comes in the exam room, closing the door behind him.

His face is unreadable.

"It's good to see you, Ellie," he says, still poker faced, as he settles onto a stool.   There is an interminable silence of about ten seconds, which feels more like ten minutes, and then he looks at me and says, "So, your scan looked good."

All the air rushes out of my lungs; I hadn't even realized I was holding my breath. I'm so grateful I feel like crying.

"OH, thank you," I say, as if he had something to do with my cancer not spreading.

He starts going over my treatment schedule, but once again I can't concentrate. The scan looked good, the scan looked good, is running through my head.

And there I am again, on that see-saw of fear and gratitude. I have stage four cancer, I will have to endure seven weeks of daily radiation and six chemotherapy treatments, and here I sit full of gratitude and relief that it is only in my neck.

It's a reality of life with cancer. It's the reality of life. It can always, always be worse.

I feel like the luckiest unlucky girl.

Storytellers

2011-12-04T10:53:00.000-05:00

In the midst of all the new, scary things that are going on in our family these days, nothing makes me smile like my kids' made up stories.

Finn, in particular, is quite the storyteller these days. Sometimes he recounts his dreams (most of them involving the Elf on the Shelf lately), sometimes straight from his imagination, and lately he has been making picture book stories .... they tend to run on the long side, so I've spared you about a ten minute chunk and showed you two short highlights from the beginning and the end of the "Apple Spaceship Story".

Here's Finn:

Now imagine this goes on for about ten minutes longer, before we move into the big finish:

Greta has a new story, too - narrated (in her jammies) here for your viewing pleasure. A very short tale of jellybeans run amok:

It's the simple things that matter most - simple moments, simple stories, simple smiles. These are the gifts my kids give me, every day.

Growing Pains

2011-12-02T16:43:00.003-05:00

My emotions have been up and down so much for the past couple of weeks.

The slap-in-the-face shock of the initial diagnosis, the dazed-and-glazed feeling of information overload, the slow-burn-panic of getting test after test, scan after scan, and waiting for results.

I can go from 'Yay Team We're Going To Beat This!' to knee buckling fear in the blink of an eye. It's exhausting.

There are moments of profound gratitude - deeper than I've ever experienced before - as I look into my kids' eyes and simply wonder at the beauty of their existence, of how truly lucky I am.   Twenty minutes later I'm watching them play dress up together, giggling and worry-free, and I sink into a sadness so deep I feel I may never get out.

But, of course, I do.

Up and down I go, travelling this unknown road, and marveling at the unfamiliar sign posts; some are staggeringly beautiful, others fill my soul with fear.   It's all so new.

I cherish the moments of sweetness, of peace. I don't care about mundane worries anymore, and there is a feeling of freedom in that. I spent ten minutes marveling at my son's long eyelashes yesterday, lost in my deep love for him.

That would not have happened before.

We had a couple of big decisions to make: (1) whether or not to have surgery to remove the secondary tumor in my neck (the primary tumor was in my tonsil and removed during the tonsillectomy) before starting radiation and chemotherapy; and (2) where to receive treatment - the world class cancer facility 20 minutes from our house that treats only cancer but that doesn't see many head/neck cancers, or the world class facility in Boston that sees only head/neck cancers, but will be difficult to get to everyday for radiation.

Today we consulted with a team of Boston doctors who work exclusively with head/neck cancers.   I walked into that appointment feeling overwhelmed, lost and more than a little fearful and confused.

I left the appointment feeling lighter, hopeful, confident. I walked out with a plan. I'm always better when I have a plan.

Not only do these doctors and nurses really know their stuff, they are full of compassion and humor. The humor part matters to me. A lot. We talked for four hours like human beings, not like doctors talking at a patient.

I do not need surgery before beginning chemotherapy and radiation, which is great news. I was worried about what the results of my recent scans would show, and my chest CT scan was clear, so the cancer didn't spread to my lungs, which is where it goes after the lymph nodes if it spreads.   I sent more than a few prayers of thanks up for that one.

I can receive a different type of chemo than I had discussed with the other oncologists; one that has side effects that are MUCH less stressful on my body. I won't lose my hair. I'm embarrassed to admit how much relief I felt when I heard that, but it's the truth.

I will need the feeding tube in my stomach, but not before treatment begins, like the other team had recommended. It will be put in about halfway through treatment, unless I need it earlier.

Thank heaven for second opinions. I'm so glad we took the time to get more information, that we didn't reject the idea of going into the city just because it's inconvenient.

And I realized something today, sitting in the exam room, chatting with the physicians. I'm adapting. Eight weeks ago I was so nervous to go to my primary care physician just to have a simple check-up that my blood pressure skyrocketed. Today I'm sitting in a room full of cancer doctors with no butterflies in my stomach. I'm even laughing.

I can feel it - the stretching and growing in uncomfortable ways. I don't like the pain, of course I don't, but I know that I learn the most when I'm stretching myself into places I don't like to go.   I spent so much of my life in fear, and here I am smack dab in the middle of it and I'm okay.

The human spirit is a wondrous thing.

Behind the Veil

2011-11-29T09:24:00.002-05:00

I'm sitting on the crinkly paper in an exam room at the Cancer Center, wearing the ubiquitous polka-dotted cloth johnny, waiting for what feels like the millionth doctor consultation.

I can feel myself slipping into self pity. I don't want to be here. Not at all. I used to drive by this shiny new facility, only about 20 minutes from my house, and avert my eyes. I hope I never have to go there, I'd think.

Now here I am.

I feel as though I've slipped into a parallel universe, behind a veil that others don't see.  The cancer veil. It's another world behind here, one where the petty concerns of my previous life seem very small indeed. I watch the world rush by on the other side of the veil, a world where people's minds are full of everyday concerns like holiday shopping, meetings, work, errands.

I watch them, and I miss belonging there. Now that I've stepped behind the veil, I don't know that I'll ever inhabit that world of industrious obliviousness ever again.

The doctor pokes his head in, saying "Knock Knock", like they all do. He smiles, introduces himself, and does a quick examination.   He tells me to get dressed and calls my husband in for a consultation. He is the medical oncologist; the expert on chemotherapy and radiation, and he will tell us what the next three months of our lives are going to be like.

Keeping a practiced smile on his face, he talks about seven weeks of daily radiation, three doses of chemotherapy, interspersed at weeks one, four and seven.   You will lose your hair, he says, slipping this tidbit in amongst the medical stuff. And you will need a feeding tube.

My stomach drops into my feet. Feeding tube? I knew I might lose my hair, but definitely?

Despair rolls over me like a fog. I can see Steve and the doctor chatting there on the other side of the veil, and I'm grateful he is here, because I'm speechless, lost. I hear the doctor say they will put the feeding tube in - a standard procedure, nothing to be concerned about, just a tube that will be inserted directly into your stomach near your belly button - before the chemo and radiation will even start, because once they start my throat will be too ravaged to eat or drink.

I'm sinking lower, fighting back tears. I grope for gratitude, and I can't find it anywhere. I love my hair, I think. I love food. I don't want to do this.

~~~~~

But of course I will. And I won't do it alone.

Here behind the veil there is an army. I sit in waiting rooms and I glance at my fellow soldiers, some with hair, some without, some wearing bandages or looking weak and pale, but all with a look of determination and courage. They are bruised and battered, but not broken. They fight with all they have, and I will too.

There are incredible nurses with just the right combination of cheer and realism, who possess a compassion and humanity that boggles my mind. They are the generals who lead our army bravely into battle.

There are doctors who perform miracles with their hands and their smarts every day. They are the Chief Executives, the strategists, the ones who refuse to be beaten by this disease.

There are the survivors - there are oh so many survivors - who share their stories of fear, pain, hope and triumph.

You do not meet people like these - the patients, nurses, doctors and survivors - very often on the other side of the veil. Together we do what none of us can do alone.

~~~

We drive home in a stunned silence. My mind is flip flopping between sadness and fear. I have three more scans to endure in the next week - a CT Scan, and MRI and a PET Scan - to complete the "staging process" - a fancy way of saying they will tell me if there is cancer anywhere else.

I push away the fear and search for things to be grateful for, making a mental list: I live close to world class care, I have an incredible support system, it appears my cancer is treatable.   This helps a little, but I feel the weight of the veil pressing on me, making it hard to breathe.

Stop fighting and surrender, I think. What happens is not up to you. I close my eyes and think of the army, of the hope and courage they carry in their hearts, and I let go.

Thankful

2011-11-24T19:07:00.002-05:00

Steve and I have been waiting a while in the exam room, shifting uncomfortably and keeping our chatter to lighthearted topics.

We're waiting for one of the country's best head and neck surgeons, with a specialty in oncology, to come give us his opinion about my treatment plan.

Finally, he steps into the room, and I'm immediately comforted by his open, warm and confident manner.

He introduces himself, gives his credentials and a warm hello, and rolls a stool up next to the big, blue examination chair I've been sitting in, getting increasingly nervous, for over twenty minutes. He has seen all my files, reviewed my CT Scan and the case notes, and I'm bracing myself for what he has to say.

He surprises me by placing one hand on each of my shoulders and saying, "Ellie, please look at me."

I'm startled, but I stare into his eyes; his face is mere inches from mine.

"A lot of what we are going to talk about today will be frightening and unfamiliar, so I want you to really focus on what I'm going to say next.   Are you with me?"

I nod, unable to speak.

"Ellie, this is treatable. It will be hard - really hard - and this holiday season will probably be the toughest of your life. But you will have many, many more holiday seasons to come. You are going to be okay."

Tears spring to my eyes, and I manage to stutter out, "Thank you.  Thank you so much."

He goes on to talk - true to his word - about frightening things. My treatment will involve more surgery, chemotherapy and radiation. For weeks.   But ringing through my head is one sentence, and I cling to it like a life raft: I am going to be okay.

This Thanksgiving I have so many reasons to be thankful. We're facing a long hard road, for sure, but I am surrounded by loving family and friends and I feel confident, hopeful and strong.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone, from our family to yours.

Cancer Monkey

2011-11-22T11:01:00.001-05:00

I slowly come awake, feel the sun on my face, hear the scampering of little feet downstairs, and all feels normal in my world, until it hits me: I have cancer.

I'm getting used to the idea of cancer, to the diagnosis and all the new fears and questions it brings. I roll the words around in my head experimentally: I have cancer. I am a person who has cancer. I am fighting cancer.

After living my entire life - quite literally - in fear of a cancer diagnosis, I'm a little surprised at my reaction.

The earliest memory I have of being scared of cancer is when I was twelve years old, and convinced myself that the stomach pains I had been having meant I had stomach or pancreatic cancer. I spent two weeks living in utter fear, my arm clasped across my mid-section, convinced the end was near.

Those who know me the best have heard me confess my private fear of cancer over the years. It became something of a joke, really. "Stay away from Dr. Google," my friends would warn if I complained of a headache or other ailment. "You don't need any encouragement to worry too much."

Now it's here - a cancer diagnosis - and I'm strangely peaceful. There are a lot of reasons to be hopeful, which helps. I will know more in the coming days, after consults with oncologists and more tests, but early signs indicate that my prognosis is good.

I go about my day, help with homework, read to the kids, make jewelry, take naps. Every now and then the knowledge that I have cancer will jump into my head, like a dirty little unwanted monkey dropping out of the sky into my arms. The monkey will hang on me for a while, drape itself across my back or cling to my arms, making me feel sluggish and slow. Finn will ask me to play a game with him, and I can feel myself mentally shifting my monkey from arm to arm, trying to summon the energy to act as if nothing is wrong, that there is no monkey there, that Momma is fine.

The monkey gets in the way of loving my kids, of being fully present for them. The times I am the most frightened are when I tumble into their eyes and think: no, no. I need to be here. For a long time. I feel myself pull back from them: don't love me too much, kids. I have cancer.

But I know that's just the monkey, whispering in my ear, trying to get me to succumb to fear.

I will not.

I put the monkey down, because I need those arms to wrap around my children, to play games, read books, to laugh and love in the moments that are right in front of me.

The cancer diagnosis has honed my world to a fine point, but to my surprise it's not all about fear. Not even close.  The useless, petty concerns of life drop away in an instant, and a deep appreciation for what really matters becomes crystal clear.

As we were drifting off to sleep last night, my husband mumbled in my ear: "It's Thanksgiving week. What are you thankful for?"

I thought a moment, and then whispered, "Everything."   And I am, really and truly, thankful for all I have, for all the amazing people in my life, for my incredible little family.

I never, ever thought I could get a cancer diagnosis and feel so damn grateful. And lucky.

I have my moments when the monkey takes over, when I lose myself to sadness and fear. I crumple to the floor in tears, thinking about how unfair it feels. I have thoughts of 'why me?' and 'why now?'   I let them come, pour out of me in cleansing sobs.

The reality is: Why not me? Why not now? It's my turn, and I'm ready.

~~~~

This post is part of Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's link-up, Just Write. To join in, click here:

The Big Scary

2011-11-18T23:18:00.001-05:00

When the phone call finally came, the one we've been waiting three agonizing days for, the one with the results of the further testing on my lymph node and tonsil, I wanted to run away.

My husband answered the phone in the next room, and I could tell by his tone that it was the doctor.  Reality tilted dramatically, threatening to slide me off the edge and into the abyss.

"Hon, you need to come here and pick up the phone," he said, carefully. My Mom and Greta were playing a board game in the kitchen. We've been using a lot of careful tones around the kids these days.

I don't want to, I don't want to, I don't want to, I repeated childishly to myself, as I robotically put one foot in front of the other, until the phone was in my hand.

My husband's face said it all, so as I slowly lifted the receiver to my ear I wasn't surprised to hear "...cancer.. further testing... hopefully isolated...need to get you an oncologist quickly... come to my office Monday"

I started to shake, ever so slightly, and felt a well of panic rise up in my chest. The doctor was still talking "....prognosis likely good.... maybe radiation or chemotherapy..... next steps will be up to the oncologist"   I nodded my head, as if he could see me. As if I could even begin to absorb these terribly unfamiliar words poking their way into my life.

I set the phone down, slowly made my way upstairs to the bedroom, and perched stiffly on the edge of my bed. I was waiting for the panic bubble to burst, for a tidal wave of emotion to rip me apart.

Instead, I saw color. Beautiful explosions of color as the late afternoon sun streamed through our windows and illuminated the blanket on our bed.  I ran my hands across our comforter; it's so soft, I thought. I heard Greta's laughter as she played with my Mom, heard my dog's contented sigh as she stretched her head into a patch of sunlight.

Time slowed to a crawl; a second seemed to take a minute. I had all the time in the world to take it all in.

So this is what it's like, I thought, to actually be in a moment. Just one moment. It's beautiful.

I don't know what this next chapter of my life will be like. I'm sure it will be scary and sad, at times. I've been living so long in fear of this exact thing happening to me that I'm expecting scary and sad.   Now that it's here, though, I can see the beauty and simplicity found in fear, too. And freedom. The scary thing is here and I see beauty all around me. I feel hopeful. I'm really, really scared, but that's not the whole picture.

Perhaps I'm meant to go through this, because it will set me free from a lifetime of fear. But, like with all obstacles in life, in order to be set free, I have to get through to the other side, first.

And I'm going to need a lot of help. Physical, mental and spiritual help. I have to surrender to cancer like I did to alcoholism; it's bigger than me, and I can't do it alone.

I am praying to stay grateful for the beauty tucked away in the in-between spaces, the tiny moments that sparkle and shine even in the face of fear.

I am praying to maintain a sense of wonder and awe, instead of fear, of modern medicine and technology.

I am praying that I will be able to get out of my own way, keep my heart and mind open to the things I'm meant to learn, the ways I'm meant to grow, the people I'm meant to meet. Every time I go through something difficult - and this ranks up there as one of the hardest - I am introduced to incredible people filled with spirit and hope. Or I find out that someone I've known all along is full of spirit and hope and I just never knew it until I needed his/her help. That is already happening.

If I can keep faith and not lose myself to fear, I know I will grow in ways I can't possibly imagine.

But right now, as I start out on this next journey, I'm mostly scared, and pulling my family and friends in tight around me.

Your prayers and thoughts are needed, and received with a very grateful heart.

Moment By Moment

2011-11-13T15:57:00.001-05:00

I'm having my tonsils out tomorrow.

After a series of tests on the swollen lymph node in my neck, with a diagnosis of 'abnormal cells' in both my left tonsil and in the lymph node, my doctor decided to take my tonsils out. This will allow him to do more tests on the tissue, to hopefully determine what is going on.

The surgery is outpatient, and if all goes well I will be home tomorrow evening. I'm told to expect a recuperation period of one to two weeks.

As I've written about recently, this all hits on ground zero of my lifelong fear of doctors, health problems, and surgery (which I've never even had before, I've just always been afraid of it). I've been dealing with this for more than a month now, and although I'm scared about tomorrow, I'm ready.

I spent today getting everything organized: all the laundry is clean, folded and put away. The fridge is stocked with a week's worth of food. I've lined up help for the kids - play dates and rides to their activities for a full week. The house is sparkling clean. Keeping busy is good; it helps me keep my mind in the moment.

I've spent a lot of time praying, trying to keep my heart and mind open, to hear and feel the messages this challenge is meant to teach me. All my life I've suffered with this irrational fear, and pushing through this is stretching me in uncomfortable ways. Practicing acceptance and living in the moment is so much easier when life is sailing along predictably. The past month has forced me to sit with fear, to find gratitude in the smallest things, to pull my mind into the present moment when it threatens to spin into that place of awfulizing, of certainty that the worst will happen.

As difficult as it has been, I can feel myself growing. I understand more now about how powerful the desire to control the uncontrollable really is, how my mind likes to travel down the familiar ruts of anxiety and fear. I'm digging new paths, and it's hard. It's worth it, though, and I believe that I'll emerge on the other side of this tough patch having learned important things about myself, my faith, my ability to let go, to trust and to ask for help.

I'm noticing the small everyday gifts life gives, feeling my heart swell with joy over the simplest things. I'm hugging my kids a little tighter. I'm embracing the love and support from my family and friends with overwhelming gratitude. I am blessed in so many ways.

I am doing my best to stay in the moment. When my mind drifts towards fear, towards worry about the test results, towards pain, suffering and uncertainty, I throw up my hands and surrender. What happens next is not up to me. All anxiety and fear do is pollute the moments I have right here, right now.

Thank you to everyone who has reached out to me, offered words of comfort, support and prayer. I appreciate it more than words can say.

I'm off to wallow in my family. Moment by moment.

Safe and Warm

2011-11-08T09:13:00.000-05:00

I pad through the house, shutting off lights one by one. My head is heavy with thoughts.

Peeking into the kids' room, always my last stop before bed, I find my daughter lying awake, looking at the ceiling.

Tiptoeing up to the side of her bed, I lean down and whisper, "Can't sleep?"

Wide-eyed, she looks up at me. "My brain won't stop thinking, Momma," she says.

Sitting on the side of her bed, I stroke her hair.

"My project is due in nine days," she says, her lip quivering, "and I have a spelling test tomorrow. Now it's late and I'm worried I won't ever fall asleep."

"My brain does this too," I whisper.

I stroke her hair a while longer, and she closes her eyes.   "Think about right now, this very moment," I say. "You are safe and warm in your bed, the world is sleeping. Listen to the sound of your breaths. Don't think about tomorrow; clear your mind."

"Say it over and over to yourself: safe and warm. I am safe and warm."

"Safe and warm," she murmurs. "Safe and warm." She reaches out and clutches my arm. "Stay for a bit, Momma, please?"

I stay, whispering into her ear: You are safe. You are safe."

Gradually, her grip on my arm relaxes, and her breathing slows to a steady rhythm. She is asleep.

~~~~~

Later, my eyes fly open. Outside the wind is howling, and I pull the covers up to my chin.   The middle-of-the-night thoughts scratch at the door; adult sized worries thumping to get in. My world feels precariously perched, spinning like a top. So much is unknown these days - test after test to try and diagnose the lump in my neck. An operation to remove my tonsils in six days. Phrases like 'abnormal cells' ping through my brain. A cold finger of fear runs down my spine.

I close my eyes and reach under the blanket, find my husband's strong warm body, and wrap my trembling fingers around his forearm. I can feel the steady pulse of his heartbeat, hear the soothing sounds of his sleeping breaths.

Safe and warm, I think. Right now, in this moment, I'm safe and warm.

Tomorrow's worries fade with each thump of his heartbeat.

Slowly, slowly, I fall asleep, safe and warm in my bed.

~~~~~~

This post is part of Just Write, Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's link-up where we, well, just write. Come join us, by clicking here.

Endings and Beginnings

2011-11-06T12:28:00.000-05:00

I love words.

For me they are little doors; behind each one lies a precious truth, or perhaps a secret. Words give us a glimpse into the soul.

Words are powerful.

We can use them as weapons of hate, to fuel jealousy, deceit, fear or resentment. One simple word spoken or written in anger can have devastating effects.

Words can also be healing; a salve to ease pain, fear, isolation or torment. Words bring community, support and comfort.

I feel like I have lost my way with words.

I am not going to write about my recovery on this blog anymore. Somewhere along the way, my awareness of audience led me astray. I lost the ability to write purely, experientially, authentically, because my ego got caught up in delivering a specific message of hope or inspiration.

I lost sight of what was really going on, deep inside of me.

This is dangerous, because it pulls me away from the private, anonymous, soulful work I need to do on myself. I was looking outwards - at the impact my words have on the world - instead of inward, into my soul. I lost access to my truth.

I stopped writing for writing's sake, and began delivering a message instead. The urge to post about pain or difficulty with a hopeful flourish was irresistible. I believed in the hopeful flourish, in the message, and I was always truthful on this blog, but I found out - in the hardest way - that the danger lies in the things I wasn't saying, the truths I wasn't even allowing myself access to.

Because of this I stopped knowing how to ask for help; I put myself in a position of having my own answers. I substituted this blog for the hard face to face work of recovery, which is done in the grittiness of a circle of strangers at a meeting, or intimately, and privately, with trusted friends. This work is not meant to be shared publicly because it is impossible, I have learned, for my ego not to be aware of how it will be received.

I still believe - very strongly - in the power of voice and healing in addiction and recovery. I don't regret the words I have written here.  I believe that addiction thrives in silence, and Crying Out Now - where hundreds of women come share their stories- will continue to break down those walls of silence, stigma and isolation. The women speaking out are brave, and the community forming there brings compassion and healing.

I don't want to stop writing. I want to get back to the place where writing enables me to metabolize life in a pure way. In an observational way. I don't want to be a message deliverer anymore. I can't.

Life has thrown me some curve balls lately. I have some large obstacles to climb mentally, spiritually and physically (health wise). I am going to need words, writing, to maintain curiosity, hopefulness, and gratitude, and I am going to need the comfort of the community sharing my words brings. I will also need words to have direct access to my fear, pain and uncertainty. Not in the context of recovery - mine or anyone else's - but purely and simply just as they are.

I have been thinking a lot about whether to shut down this blog or not. I talked to many trusted friends, and received lots of advice. I prayed over it. A lot. I'm struggling with the role of Ego in blogging. It is impossible to divorce Ego from any form of writing, but in the blogging world the instant response received - and the desire to be heard - is addictive, and it can be dangerous.

I have been thinking about great writers and speakers, like the Dalai Lama, who share their words, emotions and beliefs with the world without being swallowed whole by Ego.  Last night I watched a teaching by the Dalai Lama, and I was amazed at the power of his words, at the healing comfort they brought. He spoke about Ego, how Ego as better-than, Ego that is used for power or grandstanding, is dangerous and toxic.

But he also said that Ego is necessary to build self-awareness, confidence, self-love and compassion. In this way Ego is important, he explained, because if we can't have compassion for ourselves, we have no hope of having compassion for others. Ego, he said, must always, always, be balanced by humility and a genuine love for all beings.

I fell asleep last night with his words ringing in my head, and I had a dream. In the dream I was at a spiritual retreat, in a open pavilion with swaying palm trees, the sound of ocean surf nearby, surrounded by colorfully dressed women from all over the world. They were laughing, sharing stories, lifting each other up with words.

One woman glanced my way, saw me cowering in the corner, silent and alone. She threw open her arms and flashed me a brilliant smile. "Come," she said. "Let me hear your story."

"I'm afraid," I said.

"If you are afraid then you are not speaking from here," she said, pointing a slim finger at my heart. "If you speak from the heart there is no reason to be afraid. But you must get this out of the way," she said, pointing to my mind.

"My child," she whispered, placing her hands on either side of my face, "words are a gift. We heal with words. We sing with words. We praise God with words. What is life but a wonderful story?"

Taking A Break

2011-11-03T15:27:00.000-04:00

Things lately have been really tough, in ways that I'm not ready to talk about here, yet.

I'm pulling back, taking a break. Right now my focus needs to be on my family and my recovery.

I'm still in the throes of crippling anxiety, and it has put my recovery in jeopardy. I'm getting medical help for the anxiety, but it's a slow process, and I hope to have some answers soon.

In the meantime, I need to focus on my recovery in a non-public way. Sometimes it helps to talk things out here, but sometimes it becomes too draining for me, and it makes me lose focus on the really important things in my life, or distracts me from doing the hard work I need to be doing on myself.

I still don't have all the answers to the medical problems I have been talking about; I hope to have some soon. I'm surrounded by loving family and friends. I'm in good, capable hands.

I'm not shutting the blog down, but I'm going to step away for a while. I will focus my online energies on Crying Out Now, so if you're here to read or learn more about addiction and recovery, I strongly encourage you to head over there read those brave, inspiring words.

I'll be back; I just don't know when.

I treasure all of you and your words of encouragement and support you've given me over this difficult time, so thank you - from the bottom of my heart.

-Ellie

Climb

2011-10-26T12:33:00.000-04:00

I feel a little uncertain writing about what's going on. It may seem crazy to some to share here, in this space, these intimate details and fears.

But I'm grateful for the urge to write, to come here and put words on a page. I feel like I'm on shaky ground, and writing orients me, plants my feet firmly underneath me.

The next few days are going to be challenging.

Earlier this month, when I first went to see the doctor about my swollen lymph node, in a fit of bravery I also scheduled an annual physical and routine mammogram. I hadn't had a physical in two years, and had yet to schedule my first mammogram, even though I'm 42 - two years over the recommended age to begin having annual mammograms. Fear has always stopped me, before.

The physical was Friday, and the doctor recommended an ultrasound of my neck, as well as an ultrasound of my ovaries; when I delivered Finn they discovered cysts and I was supposed to follow up and monitor them. Six years ago.

My mammogram was on Friday. I knew going into it that follow-up pictures and ultrasounds are very common, so I steeled myself for the call that said I had to come in for follow-up. My doctor even said to me that many women have to have follow-up visits, and - in her words - she advised me "not to freak out".

All my bravado didn't help much when the call came today, asking me to come Monday for more pictures and a bilateral breast ultrasound, to follow up on questionable images that appeared in the mammogram.

Over the next five days, I have an ENT appointment for my swollen lymph node, neck and ovary ultrasounds and an additional mammogram and breast ultrasound.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't scared.

My rational brain says to me: Good for you, Ellie. You're covering all the bases, looking for answers, facing all of these issues head-on.

Unfortunately, not all of my brain in rational. As I hung up the phone after getting the call about the follow-up mammogram, I was trembling with fear. No more, I thought. I can't take anymore.

On the heels of this thought was a craving for a drink. It hit me like a tidal wave - a knee buckling desire to hide from everything.

I walked to the couch and sat down, taking deep breaths. The craving followed me like an imp from hell, leaping madly about and cackling: you don't have to feel this, you know, .

I sat with the craving for a while; examined it curiously. I can go to the liquor store anytime I want to. The kids are at school, I could have a couple of pops and sober up by the time everyone got home. The imp waved its hands over its head in delight, squealing: yes! yes!

Feeling something almost like regret, I sighed, because I knew I wasn't going to drink. A drink would leave me ashamed, afraid and alone, and none of my other problems or fears would be any better. I know this, but it doesn't stop the cravings from coming. I'm an alcoholic; the urge to drink may always be my default reaction to fear.

I stared at the phone, knowing I should call someone in recovery and talk this through, but I didn't have the energy. Just sit with it for a while, Ellie, I thought. Think it through.

After a while it came to me, what the trigger to hide is about: uncertainty. While I am afraid of a scary diagnosis from any of these health issues, I'm much more afraid of the not-knowing.

What I can't stand is being in this purgatory - this limbo - where my anxiety is free to run wild.

This is what life on life's terms is really about: uncertainty. The irony is that the uncertainty is always there, but it's only when something comes along to knock us off the rails that the full scope of uncertainty comes into view.

It's like we're walking along a flat, grassy plain, the moments and days sliding effortlessly by, when suddenly we round a corner and are met with an obstacle: a rocky mountain path.

We have a choice. We can fall in a heap at the base of the mountain and bemoan our situation, disappear in a drink, a drug or other form of escape, wondering why me? Or we can climb, slowly but steadily, and tackle the mountain one step at a time, instead of collapsing under the thought of its massiveness.

I choose to climb.

On Not Leaping Before Grace

2011-10-22T22:10:00.000-04:00

This isn't a post. Not really.

I haven't blogged or written a word in almost two weeks; that's never happened before. My creative/writing brain is off somewhere... it has fled to the hills, or wherever it goes, and I don't have it in me to write something creative. So this is just an update, of sorts.

I've gotten so many 'where are you' and 'are you okay?' emails, and I appreciate each and every one of them. Thank you, everyone, for all your heartfelt words of encouragement, advice and support. I will try to respond to all of them, but truth be told I'm not on the computer much these days.

I'm okay. Mostly. Or, at least, I will be.

I'm in a kind of purgatory, an emotional limbo. The anxiety is still there, and it sucks so much of my mental energy that I've scaled way back, simplified my life, focusing my energy on the thing that matters most: my family.

There is some kind of medical thing going on; the swollen lymph node in my neck that I wrote about in my last post is still there, and it is the source of most of my anxiety. I don't have answers, not yet, as to what it is. I'm getting lots of tests, talking to doctors and specialists. I'm not sticking my head in the sand and ignoring it, which would have been my old response to fear. I'm talking to people - my close friends and family - and I'm not isolating, even though I want to. Badly.

I don't get to go around things anymore; I don't hide in a bottle or curl up into a ball. I'm mostly grateful to be sober, to be present and feel my feelings, work through this instead of skirting around it. Whatever the outcome, I know this is a hurdle I'm meant to face; I'm learning, slowly, how to sit with fear, breathe and talk through it. Fear is forcing me to grow and stretch in ways I haven't had to do since I got sober. It hurts, but it's like the ache you feel after a tough workout - I feel a twinge of pride in the pain, knowing that I'm pushing myself towards something. A breakthrough, not a breakdown.

Day to day life hasn't changed much at all. I shuttle the kids back and forth to activities, make small talk on the sidelines of soccer fields and birthday parties. I play with the kids, help with homework, administer baths and read bedtime stories. I pack lunches and prepare dinners; I show up where I'm needed, and I try mightily to be fully present for my kids. Through all this an engine of fear churns madly in the background of my brain, and during the day I tuck it away, put my Mommy poker face on for the kids.

Then I tuck them into bed, the house grows quiet and the engine churns louder - it's clanging and banging is a familiar soundtrack, now.

I reach for other distractions - reading, exercising or sleeping, mostly. Two things I don't do? I don't drink or eat myself into oblivion. I have to keep reminding myself that this is progress.

I've been thinking a lot about control, about how badly I want the hard stuff to be solved - tied up in a neat little package with a pretty bow on top. So much of the challenges in the past few months have been completely outside my control. My Dad's sudden death in June, and my unexplained health problem. These things just are, and I can't think my way out of them. Anxiety is my brain's way of trying to control the uncontrollable.

I ride the emotional ups and downs. I sit with pain. I breathe through fear. I have gratitude for the peaceful moments. I hug my kids and my husband. I talk and talk and talk.

I try not to leap before grace.

I don't know how much I will be writing here in the coming days. That's outside of my control, too. I know I can't force words that don't want to come. I have faith they will come back, in their own time.

In the meantime, I wait.

Talking About It

2011-10-11T09:37:00.000-04:00

I'm typing this post - just sitting and writing - without any idea what I'm going to say. Usually, when I sit down to write, I have been rolling a thought, image or idea through my head for a couple of days, mentally writing and editing the post, so by the time I sit down to type the words flow freely.

But there isn't much that is usual about things these days.

I'm struggling.

The anxiety I wrote about in my last post has a stranglehold on me. It's so hard to write about it, to find words that describe the breathless, panicky feeling that permeates my existence these days. It leaves me feeling spent, exhausted, flat, and I move through my days like an automaton; the simple act of moving from one end of the day to the other feels overwhelming, most of the time.

It's ironic, in a way, because in the wake of the Redbook article I'm getting several emails a day from women who saw their own story in the words, and most of them are asking one simple question: HOW? How do I get through just one simple day without my nightly crutch of wine?

The advice that pores from my fingertips is straightforward, and yet hard to do: get honest, start talking, ask for help, break your old patterns, find healthy distractions, and don't try to do this alone.

In the grip of anxiety I feel exactly like I did when I first got sober, like my skin has been peeled back and I'm a walking exposed nerve. Lights and sounds bother me, I struggle not to be short with the kids, and the simple act of going to the grocery store feels overwhelming. To keep the panic at bay, I slip into neutral, my face and voice go flat, and the spark in my eyes is dim. I read and sleep a lot -- two places where my brain leaves me alone for a period of time - and drop eagerly into the escape they bring.

It's a balancing act of facing fear head-on and keeping things as simple as I can. I'm breaking old behavior patterns, changing my old reactions to fear. Health worries have always been where my anxiety manifests itself the most - even when I was a child - and now that there is a legitimate concern my mind obsesses on it, constantly. Instead of sticking my head in the sand and avoiding the doctor due to fear, I'm talking to her, trying to get some answers and some help.

I'm also cutting out stress where I can. We made the difficult decision not to sell our house, for a variety of reasons, but the stress it introduced into my already fragile state was a factor.

I'm talking to people. A lot. When trusted friends ask me if I'm okay, I answer honestly that I'm struggling. The mere act of unburdening my load - sharing it with others - is a profound relief. It's hard to tell people I'm not okay, that I need help. My ego winces - shouldn't I be able to handle this? But I know in my heart that I can't make it through this alone.

Logically, I understand where this is coming from, that my Dad's sudden death triggered this ancient fear, and the added stress of selling the house and health worries were simply too much. But I can't think my way out of this; knowing where it's coming from is of little help when I'm in the grips of a panic attack.

It's bigger than me.

And I know, too, that I will be okay. I know I'll be okay because when obstacles are thrown in my path it means I am in the process of stretching, growing, learning. Whatever the outcome, of any of this, I know that because I'm going through it, not around it, I will emerge with deeper self-awareness, strength and faith.

In the meantime, I'm talking, getting help and I'm not going through this alone. The power of sharing my truth, and the support, comfort and community it brings to me, will never cease to amaze me.

~~~~~

This post is part of Just Write, a free writing link-up hosted by Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary. To learn more about it, click here. To join us, click here.

Anxiety

2011-10-04T12:14:00.000-04:00

I'm sitting on the ratty couch at Finn's karate class. Greta is wiggling beside me, bored, playing Angry Birds on my phone.

My mind is racing, thinking about my more-than-full plate; it has been a stressful week. Steve is away on a trip, gone five days now, and I'm in the final throes of negotiating an offer to sell our house. Contractors and inspectors have been traipsing through my house for days; between them and meetings with brokers, juggling our hectic schedule and working, I feel stretched beyond my limits.

I sigh, and lean my chin on my hand. My body freezes: what's this? The heel of my palm feels a lump in my neck. As my fingers probe deeper, feel the contours of a hard, round ball nestled just below my jawline, an icy blade of fear slices through the middle of me.

My hands start to shake, my palms sweat. My extremities go cold with panic, and my gut clenches. I can feel myself start to shut down.

Somehow I make it until the end of Finn's class, shuffle the kids home and go through the motions of cooking dinner, doing homework, brushing teeth. They chatter on about the usual things, oblivious to the raging sea of panic that boils within me. I can barely concentrate, my brain is paralyzed with horrible images.

I tuck them into bed, slump downstairs and curl into a ball. I'm dying, I think. It's got to be something awful. The anxiety that has been dogging me since my Dad's death, flitting around the edges of my consciousness, kicks in the door and settles on me like a cold blanket.

I remain frozen in a ball, unable to fight back the fear. A tiny, rational part of me knows my reaction is disproportionate, that I'm coming unglued, but I can't help it.   I just don't have any reserves left.

I think about all the times I have told women to face fear, to talk about it, to feel pain and not go around it. I would do anything to go around this, to disappear from myself for a while. A drink would do that, I think. Just a couple of drinks to take the edge off the fear, bring me back to baseline.

Even as I think these thoughts, I know I'm not going to drink. I know what I need to do. I pick up the phone with trembling hands and make a doctor's appointment for the following morning. Face it, Ellie, I think. Don't hide. After making the appointment I call some friends, cry a little, and box myself in. I tell them what is going on, and ask them to make sure I go to the appointment. I know I'm in a place where I can't trust my own thinking.

~~~~~

The doctor rips off the blood pressure cuff with a loud scritch, and gives me a concerned look. She tells me my blood pressure is scary high, and asks if I have been under stress lately.

I open my mouth to say 'yes, but nothing I can't handle', and instead hear myself babbling on about all the pressure I'm under, the knife blade of fear, the anxiety that won't leave me alone.  I am surprised to hear myself talking about how my Dad's death from an infection - so unexpected, when he was so healthy - has left me paralyzed with fear.  "It's all so fragile," I say. "It scares me." The tears run down my cheeks as I unload it all.

"I need help," I choke. "I can't live like this anymore."

Three simple words: I. Need. Help.   Oh, they are so hard to say, but once the words are out of my mouth, I feel a weight lifting, and a sense of lightness and peace comes over me.

We talk awhile about anxiety, about how it is effecting my health, my blood pressure, and how there are medications that are safe to take in recovery.  She tells me it isn't about will power, that I can't think my way out of it, that anxiety is a physiological condition, and in it's acute form - like I'm experiencing - my usual tools of exercise, rest and good nutrition aren't enough.   We talk about how the anxiety jeopardizes my recovery, how I'm triggered when I'm hit with a panic attack.

"It's okay," she says. "This has nothing to do with how strong you are."

I've been here before, when I got sober, and I know the drill. Surrendering my will is hard, it feels like defeat, but I know in my heart it isn't. It's the way out of my mental prison, the path to freedom.

We agree to watch the lump in my neck - I have other symptoms of a cold, so it could be a virus or infection causing a swollen lymph node - and make an appointment to follow up again in a few weeks.

As I drive home, I think about acceptance, about how my brain longs to control something uncontrollable.  No amount of emotional hang-wringing or anxious thinking will change the outcome of anything; all anxiety does is ruin the moments right in front of me, here and now.   The fear tickles at my consciousness, scratches at the door, whispers: let me in.

I breathe in faith, breathe out fear, and bring myself back into the moment.   I'll get through it, whatever it is, I think. One moment at a time.

~~~~~~~

This post is written for Just Write, Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's writing exercise, where we, well, just write about our ordinary and extraordinary moments. Come join us, here.

Parenting and Teenage Drinking - What Would You Do?

2011-09-30T09:35:00.000-04:00

We are very open with our kids about alcohol.

We explained to them that I have an allergy to alcohol; at their ages this is the best way to explain a concept as complicated as alcoholism. Greta has asked if she has an allergy to alcohol, too, and we told her that we can't know yet, but that alcohol allergies are hereditary, and she will have to be more careful than most about drinking.

We also explained that drinking at a young age increases her chances that she will have a problem with alcohol later in life. A recent study indicates that people who reported starting to drink before the age of 15 were four times more likely to also report meeting the criteria for alcohol dependence at some point in their lives.

Her response was to say "Well, then, I'm never going to drink alcohol. If someone asks me I'm going to say NO THANK YOU!"

If only it were that simple.

The statistics about teenage drinking are hair-raising. 72% of teenagers in the US admit to using alcohol at least once, and 2 out of 5 teenagers say they drank alcohol within the last month.   Studies also show that when teenagers drink, they tend to binge drink - consuming 4 or more drinks at a time.

As parents, we all want to believe our teenager would be one of the 28% of teens who don't try alcohol. We do our best to teach our children to make smart choices, we advise them of the dangers of drinking. We consider good grades or a stellar athletic track record as indicators that our kid couldn't possibly be drinking. But the statistics are frightening, and even if our own kids are trying to make smart choices, chances are they have friends who aren't.

We all remember the power of peer pressure, of wanting desperately to fit in. Smart choices have a way of fading into the background in the face of peer pressure.

I can see it in my mind's eye - Greta and some teenage friends hanging out in a parking lot after a movie, or having an innocent get together at a friend's house. Suddenly a bottle appears from someone's pocket, and gets passed around. When the bottle lands in her hands, I would love to believe that all our education and open communication would lead her to say 'No thank you,' like her 9 year old brain believes she would. I would also like to believe she would remember the dangers - elevated for her - and pass the bottle along without taking a sip. I know she would want to make the right choice, but would she?

I remember my first sip of alcohol, how it calmed my nerves, made me feel whole, comfortable in my own skin. For someone who struggled with anxiety her whole life, alcohol was like a magic elixir. Greta has anxiety, too, particularly in social situations, and my gut churns to think about how her resolve not to drink may fall to pieces when she feels alcohol's magic effects.

I also know I am powerless over what happens, to a large degree. I can educate, encourage her to communicate with us about drinking, spell out the consequences from drinking in startling clarity. But how can I put more power into her hands to make the right choice, to help her fend off peer pressure?

It's a fine line between trust and facing a stark reality: most teens drink.

Technology, of course, is coming up with new devices to address the growing problem of teenage drinking. Sober Link is such a device; a wireless blood alcohol level monitor that a teen can blow into from anywhere, and it wirelessly and immediately provides parents with their child's blood alcohol level and location.   My immediate reaction upon hearing about this was at a visceral level: I trust my child, she will make smart choices. I won't need something like that.   But then I watched the video below, and thought about it some more:

I thought about the scenario in the parking lot, of the bottle being passed around. If Greta wanted to make a smart choice, but felt pressured to drink, having this device in her pocket would give her an out, would empower her to say she can't drink.

It feels draconian, on some level, but it doesn't have to be. I do trust my children, and I wouldn't give her a device like this one because I don't trust her, I would give it to her to empower her to make the right choice, if she wanted to.

At nine years old, Greta is eager to listen and receptive to our advice. I hope she stays this way through the difficult teen years, but I hear stories of how communication changes - and not for the better - when kids hit their teenage (and even pre-teen years). I recognize that I can't stop her from drinking, if she's determined to try. Kids make mistakes, they make wrong choices, and oftentimes we learn more from our mistakes than from our successes. But the stakes are so high with teenage drinking; one wrong choice can have disastrous consequences.

What do you think? Would you give your teenager a device like this? If you wouldn't, why not? How do you talk to your kids about drinking, and at what age do you/did you start?

~~~~~

Full disclosure: this is a sponsored post. I get a lot of requests for sponsored posts, but decline them because they aren't topically relevant to my blog, or of interest to my readers. I am fascinated by how technology can help (or hurt) teenage drinking, so I jumped at the opportunity to talk about this more.

Giggles and Grace

2011-09-28T22:17:00.002-04:00

Greta is nine.

NINE.

Long gone is our chubby cheeked little baby; she is growing into a young woman, full of giggles and grace.

This is for you, sweetheart. We love you. HAPPY BIRTHDAY:

Song is "Whole Wide World, by Mindy Gledhill. Thanks to Heather for introducing me to this song; Greta and I love to sing it into our hairbrushes...

Tightrope

2011-09-27T09:50:00.000-04:00

The kids run ahead of me, clattering up the walkway to my Mom's house. I trail behind, laden with bags of presents, an ache in the middle of me.

"Happy Birthday, Greta!" my Mom chirps from the doorway, bending down for hugs.

This moment is always hard.

I can see him there, in my mind's eye, standing behind my Mom and grinning his big, proud grin.

"Hey there, kid" my Dad would say, and give me a wink as he wrapped me in his strong embrace.

But, of course, he isn't there.

The absence of him seems impossible, because in my mind and heart he's everywhere.

My Mom and I exchange a hug and a smile; behind the real joy in her eyes I see the sadness, and a silent acknowledgment - I wish he was here, too - passes between us.

Finn scampers away, digging around for toys and snacks. On the table in the living room is a colorful pile of presents, and Greta flashes me a big grin.

As my Mom and the kids chatter - how is school, what's your favorite subject, do you like riding the bus - I breathe deep, let the emotions come.

I picture him standing in the kitchen, "El, can I get you a cuppa?" he'd say, bringing out mugs for coffee. Then he'd give the kids a mischievous glance and make that funny sound with his mouth, the one that makes them collapse into giggles.

I need this private indulgence, this ghost landscape of what would have been. I carry memories in my heart, take them out and roll them through my mind like glittering treasure, and through the ache they comfort me.

We move through the day, go through all the usual motions, balancing the profound feeling of loss with happiness, like tightrope walkers. We're figuring it out as we go along, eyes locked straight ahead, because if we look down we could lose ourselves to the sadness.

As Greta rips into her gifts, Finn slips silently into my lap and leans his head on my shoulder. I stroke his spiky hair, and place a little kiss on the top of his head.

After a moment, he buries his head into my chest and whispers, "Momma? I miss PopPop."

"Me too, buddy. Me too."

~~~~~

This post is part of Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's link-up, Just Write, where we free write about our ordinary and extraordinary moments. Learn more about it here, and then click here to join in.

The Last Cookie

2011-09-22T11:53:00.003-04:00

I'm sitting with five or six other moms, at a little lunch get-together at a friend's house. We're sipping coffee and chatting, pleased to be at the stage in our lives where we have school aged kids and can finish sentences, bond together as women and not just as moms.

The hostess places a platter of homemade chocolate chip cookies in the center of the table. We make the usual exclamations, and reach out simultaneously to pluck a cookie from the plate.

Minutes pass, sipping and chatting, and eventually there is only one cookie left. Every now and then someone's eyes dart to the platter, but nobody reaches for it. I call this the 'cookie dance' - nobody wants to be the one to grab for the last one, even though we're all thinking about it.

After a while we drift away to sit and chat on the more comfortable couches, and by the time I stand up to leave the last cookie is gone. Someone, at some point, snuck away into the kitchen and polished it off when nobody was looking.

On the drive home I think about the last cookie, about the unspoken code that nobody wants to be the one to eat more than the others. Part of it is politeness, perhaps, but my suspicion is that somehow scarfing the last cookie represents some kind of weakness, a feeling of need that nobody wants to reveal. Or, perhaps, it is a fear of vulnerability, that the other women will somehow have something over you - they could restrain themselves, and you had to have just one more.

But you know who's really not going to reach for that last cookie? Someone with an unhealthy relationship to food. For that person, who is sitting and chatting like everything is fine, that cookie is speaking to her. Her fear of revealing her dark secret, her obsession with food (too much or too little of it), is too great.

It reminds me of my drinking days, when I would put on my mask of normalcy, laughing and chatting with friends at a party and all the while my mind was racing, calculating how much I could drink without judgment. When the hostess would come by with a refill, I would place my hand demurely over the top of the glass and say, "No thanks, I'm driving," and then later at home, when nobody was looking, I would drink like I wanted to.

We go to great lengths to conceal suffering and vulnerability.

All this makes me think about how important our reactions are to people who take the brave step and admit their vulnerabilities out loud. For someone struggling with a secret obsession, like drinking or food, the expectation of judgment is so great, it keeps them silent and stuck in their secret would of suffering.

If a friend came to you and admitted she had a problem with food, that she was turning to food for comfort and distraction from boredom or pain, would binge eat in secret and then feel terribly about herself (or maybe purge), how would you react? Would you say "Well, I can stop at one cookie, why can't you?" Would you feel that tug of superiority that you don't have that problem? Or would you find a way to identify with her silent suffering, her feelings of inadequacy, her pain?

When someone breaks out of their silence, comes forward and admits they have a problem, they are extremely vulnerable because we are hard-wired to fit in, to color inside the lines, to stay with the pack. But our sense of the pack is skewed - when you're struggling you think everyone else has it figured out, that you're weak or flawed. The reality is everyone has something they wouldn't want the world to know about, a way they think or behave in the privacy of their own little world that they don't want anyone else to see.

I realize that alcoholism is really hard to understand for people who don't have any first (or second) hand experience with this disease. The behavior patterns and thought processes of an active alcoholic (or problem drinker) are baffling. Why on earth would anyone DO that to their lives? Why would they make such poor choices? Why would they risk so much for another glass of wine?

The answer is simple, really. They have a disease, an allergy, an obsession - call it whatever you want - that has taken over their minds and their lives. They don't want to drink too much, and they are as baffled by their own behavior as you are. THIS is why getting sober is so hard to do on your own; you are held prisoner within your own body and mind, and need help getting free.

But asking for that help is hard, because judgment is so prevalent.

Most women, on some level, can understand food problems, I think. Our culture is so riddled with images of bodily perfection that just about everyone I know diets, or talks about dieting, or has body image issues.

I find it interesting that visibly obese people are still victims of so much judgment, when most people - especially women - can understand on some visceral level struggling with food/dieting/body image. We can empathize to a point - when someone says they are dieting we are quick to offer support. But when someone crosses the line into obesity empathy becomes harder to find, because being significantly overweight pings a fear reaction in people. That person took too it too far, we think, and instead of offering support and empathy, we avoid, we gossip, we compare instead of identify.

When someone admits to struggling with drinking, or has slid into active alcoholism, they face a lot of judgment. A large part of this is likely rampant lack of understanding about addiction; people mistakenly believe it is a moral issue or a strength of character problem. If strength of character was enough to stop addiction, there would be no addicts. But another part of it is a fear response; that person has taken it too far. We go into that place where we compare ("I'd never drink that much") instead of identify ("she is suffering, and I understand suffering").

My hope is for a world where we can reach past judgment and fear and find empathy. A world where someone can show vulnerability, admit a problem out loud, and find compassion. We can't understand all problems - and addiction is one of the most difficult to understand - but we all understand suffering. Stepping outside the pack - reaching for the last proverbial cookie and admitting something isn't perfect - takes courage. And just like we can all understand suffering, we can all understand courage, too.

On The Inside

2011-09-20T11:44:00.001-04:00

As the sky begins to lighten - the first wisps of light poking through a grey sky - I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.

A glance at the clock tells me it's 5:30am.

I've been lying awake here for a while now, my mind a racing stream of thoughts. Yesterday was not a good day, and I went to bed early last night, just to have the day over with, with hope in my heart that the dawn would bring fresh perspective, and perhaps a few answers.

It didn't.

The stampede pounds rudely through my mind, thoughts pinging effortlessly from the profound to the ridiculous: Finn needs to take money to school to buy lunch I don't know how to deal with the hurt I feel Greta has to wear a raincoat today I think maybe I'm overreacting where did I leave that permission slip.

The hyperactive squirrel in my brain is on full tilt, burrowing madly for little acorns of anger, hurt and fear.

I try to bring in the voice of reason, my Gentle Observer, the one who pulls me up and out of these hateful little ruts. But, as usual, she cannot be summoned at will, so I lie there blinking at the ceiling in frozen frustration.

Is back-to-school night Wednesday or Thursday I can't believe they said that about me did Greta do her homework last night am I making a mountain out of a molehill the septic inspector is coming at 9am God I'm angry the kids need to wear raincoats today WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?

This last thought causes my teeth to clench, every muscle to tighten. It's been awhile since I've gone there, to that self-deprecating space, the one that makes me want to curl up in a ball and sleep for days.

Finally, she shows up, my Gentle Observer, and she whispers softly to me: Breathe.

I breathe deeply: in. out. In. Out. IN. OUT. Gradually, my body unclenches and my mind clears.

Stop thinking, Ellie. Find your center. Are you there? Good. Now lean into it, my friend. Lean into the discomfort, anger and pain.

But their words hurt me, the squirrel butts in, madly waving a nasty little thought acorn.

Get back to center. Breathe. Listen to your heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump.

You don't get to control people's reaction to you, to what you say, what you do. The squirrel pauses, ears pricked up and alert, but remains blissfully silent.

Let it go. Drop the anger and hurt, and listen to your heart. It won't lead you astray. Find the message in the hurt; what is it trying to tell you? Don't think. Just listen.

I close my eyes and listen to my steady, strong heartbeat, feel the rise and fall of my breaths.

Some time later I'm jarred awake by a little voice. "Mom? Can I have breakfast?"

~~~~

This post is part of Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's free-writing exercise Just Write, where we, well, just WRITE. Come join us. Click here.

Que Sera, Sera

2011-09-18T08:41:00.000-04:00

I'm up early this cool Sunday morning, sipping my coffee and thinking about the day with excited anticipation.

We're trying to sell our house - the place we have called home for the past seven years - and today is our first open house.

We have found another house in the same town, one better suited to our growing family. It's isn't a huge change, as changes go. It's only about a mile away from where we are now.  It's far from a done deal, though. If we can't sell our house at the right price, we will stay where we are. Right now we're living in a state of suspended animation; hoping we can get an offer on our house so we can make an offer on the new property.

My stomach gives a little flip-flop as I think about change. I am a person who likes control, and so much of what happens in this deal is out of my hands.

This whole process has been about doing my best and letting go of the outcome. The first part of that equation isn't so hard; I clean like a madwoman, muck out closets, clear off surfaces and hound the kids to keep their toys put away.   It's the letting go part that is more challenging.

When we first found the new place, I was awash in desire. I needed the new place; it would change everything for the better.   I spent hours obsessing about it. It isn't a straightforward deal; there are several moving parts that need to fall into place for the transaction to happen. My mind went round and round, thinking it through as though I could make it work by sheer force of will:  first this needs to happen in order for that to work, then we need to get through that for that other thing to succeed. If all those things fall into place, there is still that other thing, though.

This has been going on for a while, too. We first saw the property back in the spring, and it became something we might actually be able to do  in July.

It was all making me a little nuts. I needed to know, dammit, how it was all going to turn out.

I channelled all that restless energy into getting our house ready to sell. I tucked and straightened, waxed and polished, sorted and organized, all with a lusty feeling rumbling in my belly: gotta get it, gotta get it, gotta get it.

One evening, after spending the day sorting and cleaning, I sank back into the couch, exhausted, and gazed around our sparkling home. All around me were the ghosts of memories: the wall where Greta meticulously wrote her name in pen and then unsuccessfully tried to blame it on her two month old brother; the little step into the sunken living room where Finn learned to turn his chubby little diapered butt around and climb down; the yard where my Dad and Steve happily toiled for hours splitting wood to prepare for winter; the cafe curtains my mother lovingly sewed for our kitchen; the closet where I used to hide my booze; the bathroom floor where I sank to my knees and finally asked for help on one fateful August morning.

I love this house, I thought. And then it hit me: we are okay. No matter what, we're going to be okay. No matter where we live, there we are. Together.

Whatever happens is meant to be, I think. We'll do our best, and then see where the universe takes us.

I finish the last of my coffee, and smile to myself. This is going to be interesting, I think, my heart full of gratitude and peace.

Speaking Out - Redbook Article about Mothers, Drinking and the Power of Sharing

2011-09-14T23:09:00.000-04:00

In the October issue of Redbook Magazine there is an article about moms, drinking and the power of sharing our stories.

I was interviewed for the article, (click here to view it online) along with my sober sisters Heather of The Extraordinary-Ordinary and Corinne of Trains, Tutus and Teatime. Another amazing woman, Deb, is also featured in the article. She isn't sober, and she has the grace and courage to talk openly about how she feels about her drinking. Her story will resonate with so many women who have nagging thoughts about alcohol, but who don't feel safe talking about it. Deb is helping break down the walls of silence and fear, and I am so grateful to call her my friend.

Sometimes I forget to remember that these incredible women wouldn't be in my life if I wasn't sober; their friendship is as essential to me as oxygen.

Although I've been writing about my addiction and recovery for a couple of years now, sometimes my own words make me cringe, and I wonder: why in the world am I putting myself out there like that? There have been many times I held my finger nervously over the 'publish' button, contemplating whether I was sharing too much, aching to alter the story to make it prettier, or to make myself less vulnerable.

Especially in the early days of blogging, I would click 'send to publish' quickly, before I could overthink things too much and change my mind. Then I'd sit nervously by and peer at the comments with trepidation, bracing myself for judgment, condemnation or ignorance.

They never came.

What came instead were words of support and encouragement, and email after email from women saying "your story is exactly like mine", or "I see myself in your words".

A pivotal moment in my own recovery happened early on, as I sat reluctantly in the back row of one of my first recovery meetings. I hated being there, hated myself. I thought I was irretrievably broken and weak. I honestly believed I was a terrible person, that I was alone with my horrible thoughts and deeds.

An attractive woman, a mother, about my age approached the podium and introduced herself as an alcoholic. She didn't look the part, in my mind's eye. She can't be nearly as bad as me, I thought. The words that flowed from her mouth that night told my story. We were the same; we thought the same, felt the same, did the same things while we were drinking. She was two years sober, and she was glowing.

In that moment, I realized I was not alone. That I was surrounded by people who understood, who had walked the path before me, who could help. Even more staggering to me was that my story moved them, too, helped them stay on the path of sobriety. I didn't think I had anything to offer anybody, and here we were, leaning on each other in comraderie and kinship.

So when I put my words out there, tell my truths here in this space or in a magazine article, I remember that feeling from that night. That bolt of electricity and hope that shot through my body: I am not alone. There are many women who struggle in silence, who aren't about to walk into a recovery meeting - not yet, and maybe not ever - and who would never know they weren't alone if it wasn't for the stories shared online, or in magazines, or memoirs. In these safe places they can see themselves in the words, and realize there is hope. There are thousands upon thousands of women exactly like them who have fought back addiction and won, a day at a time.

Writing my truths here has brought me great healing, too, and the unbelievable people I have met on this path - people like Corinne, Heather, Deb and so many more - are one of the biggest gifts I have received in recovery. The emails I get from women who are struggling - who gulp back the fear and type out their truths - they help me so much. I am humbled by their bravery, inspired by their honesty and grace.

Addiction is a disease of silence and isolation. If you're reading this and you are struggling in silence and shame, please know you are not alone. Find someone safe - reach out and connect with someone who understands. Try a recovery meeting, join a recovery chat room, or send an email to a sober blogger whose story touches you. We understand.

The response from the Redbook article is amazing; I have received many emails from women who saw themselves in our stories, and are taking that first brave step of reaching out and telling their truth - some of them for the first time ever.

A big thank you to Redbook for tackling this sensitive, controversial topic - the more we talk openly about this, the more we can heal.

And an extra special thank you to Nancy Ramsey, author of the article, for her professionalism, talent and kindness.

The Sign

2011-09-13T10:28:00.003-04:00

I'm zooming down the snowy hill; the icy wind makes my eyes water. My body feels young, loose, and I'm laughing with delight. I hit a bump, the sled is airborne and I throw my arms out. I'm flying.

Poke. Poke.

I peel one eye open and see two big pools of brown. I ache to close my eyes again, lose myself in the dream.

"How do you spell cwazy fish, Momma?"   Finn is mere inches from my face, holding a Sharpie marker and a tee shirt and looking at me expectantly.

I swing my legs out of bed; after the youthful feeling in my dream the creaking in my middle aged joints surprsies me.

There is a bite to the air this morning, the first tendrils of autum, and I pull a sweatshirt over my head as I pad downstairs. The kids trail after me like ducklings.

"If Sharpies smell so strong to us, can you imagine how they smell to a dog?" Greta says; she is fully dressed for school already. Her fear of missing the bus looms large over each morning; she is ready to go at 7:30, even though the bus doesn't arrive until 8:45.

"Or a fly? Flies and dogs have a sense of smell that's like a thousand times greater than ours."

Bleary eyed, I pour milk into two bowls of cereal while the kids orbit around me like little planets. Their non-stop chatter tugs at my half-awake brain.

"How do you spell Rhododendren?" Greta wants to know, holding a notebook she made of pressed leaves. She is meticulously labeling each page.

"I'm not wearing undahweah," says Finn, "and the dog had anothah accident in the playwoom."

"Hon? Can you pick up my shirts?" my husband pokes his head into the room, shaving cream covers half his face. "By 9:30?"

"What about Dandelion? How do you spell that? And Hydrangea?"

"Dis is my cwazy fish!" Finn chirps proudly from the kitchen table. My brain finally registers that he is drawing on the tee shirt with the Sharpie.

"It's 8:25, Momma! We need to get out for the bus soon!"

With a flurry the kids shrug on backpacks, tie shoes, and jostle out to the end of the driveway to wait for the bus. It won't come for at least ten minutes, but Greta needs to be out there by 8:30 or she panics.

The sun peeks through the early morning fog, and I turn my face up to soak in its warmth.   The kids spin and laugh, whacking each other with their backpacks. Inside the house the dog barks insistently, like she does every morning, unhappy that she is left out of the fun.

I smile to myself, lost in thought. Each morning is a carbon copy of the last, and for some reason today this thought comforts me.

An unfamiliar blue pick-up truck pulls up at the end of our driveway, and the kids turn and look at me with wide eyes.

A stocky woman clambors out of the truck, wielding some kind of large tool.

"I'm here to put up your sign!" she calls. "How about right here?"

As she hammers the For Sale sign into our front yard, my stomach gives a flip-flop of nervous anticipation.

Change, I think, as the warm embrace of familiarity drops away.

~~~~

This post is part of a link-up called Just Write, the brain-child of Heather at the Extraordinary Ordinary. We're free writing about moments in a day, describing snippets of time, without clarifying or explaining what we want to speak about in the post. We're just writing about an experience - pure and simple - finding the extraordinary in the ordinary.

Want to participate? Click here to learn more and here join in.

Shadow Dancing

2011-09-10T17:31:00.002-04:00

I'm pacing back and forth at the end of my driveway; Finn is late. He's on his first bus ride ever, and my heart is caught in my throat.

After thirty minutes of edgy waiting in the rain, the bus company finally calls.

"We have him," they say. "There was a mix-up at the school. He's supposed to be on Bus #1, but they put him on #2. Hang tight; he's almost home."

I keep my voice light as he skips down the bus stairs. "You okay, buddy?"

He gives me a puzzled look. "Sure. I wasn't scared. We drove by the house once and I saw you standing there. I told them 'Look! There's my Mom!' and so they knew where to go."

I give him a squeeze, smiling with pride, and we head into the house for a snack.

I take a moment to check email and by the time I get into the kitchen Finn is standing on a stool, the ingredients for a sandwich spread out in front of him; he's spreading jelly onto a piece of bread with a plastic knife.  His tongue sticks out in concentration.

He catches me staring and gives me a grin. "Look, I can do it all by myself, Momma," he says.

I tell him I can't believe how grown up he is, the same thing I've said to him countless times in the past few days as we prepare for the first day of school, but this time the words trigger a distant, unwanted memory, and the power of it stops me dead in my tracks:

Greta stands on her tiptoes, reaching for a bag of chips on a high shelf in our pantry. I'm sitting at the kitchen table, watching her, swirling my glass full of red wine.   I'm glowering, nursing a morose, dull feeling, a mixture of rage and boredom. It's 6pm, and I have no plans for dinner.

A good mother wouldn't let her have a snack this late, I think, but I make no move to stop her. I'm on my second glass of wine - or is it my third? The warm glow of the first glass feels long gone, replaced by this sour dullness. I'm lost in self pity, thinking about how long the days are, how I don't want to fix another dinner, I just want to disappear.

She reaches the chips, and breaks into a smile. "Look, Momma! I can do it all by myself!"

I give her half a smile, and take another sip of wine.

She stares at the wineglass a moment, looking uncertain. "Aren't you proud of me, Momma?"

"Sure," I grunt, and get up to refill my glass.

As she slumps away, I'm thinking a nasty little thought: jeez, the kid can't even get a bag of chips without needing validation.

I realize what has been dogging me these days: Finn is the age now that Greta was when I got sober. He is hitting all these big milestones with his observant, loving, present Mom right by his side. The shadows that follow me are the ringing memories of the past, of how it was for Greta to spend her first five years with a drinking mother.

The guilt wells up, crushing me; I can barely breathe. Oh Greta, I'm so sorry.

The flood gates open, and oily, black memories flow into my head: Greta poking my inert form under the covers, asking to play, her crestfallen face saying 'Momma, you're ALWAYS tired'; getting up again and again while we play a board game- Mommy will be right back! - to sneak sips from a stashed bottle of wine; reading her a bedtime story with booze on my breath.

I leave Finn at the kitchen table, munching on his sandwich, and go lie down in my darkened bedroom. I let the shame and guilt wash over me, let the memories come.

After five minutes or so I take a deep breath, and push the memories back into the shadows. I can't let guilt take the wheel. I lived so long with guilt as a drinking Mom; as a sober Mom I can't afford to lose myself in the past. I can't change what has happened, and if I let the guilt win out it will lead me back to a drink. Guilt is, at its root, a selfish emotion; it makes a painful situation all about me, how I feel, how hard it is for me. And it's not about me anymore. It's about being a present mom, one who lives her amends to her children as best she can. Here. Now.

~~~~

I'm a different mother now, but not it the ways I expected when I got sober.

In sobriety, I have learned that I'm a more impatient person than I realize. More anxious, too. I'm capable of rage that is more potent than anything I ever felt when I was drinking. When I was still drinking and dreaming of sobriety, I saw myself as an apple cheeked, effervescent mother, smiling serenely through the long days, wallowing in my kids. That's not how it turned out. I do feel more joy, serenity and peace of mind. But the tough emotions - anger, boredom, irritation, resentment - are all so much pointier, now that I'm not hiding from them, going around the tough stuff by numbing out.

I'm more snappish now than I was when I was drinking, more quick to reprimand or lose it over something small, like spilled juice or sibling rivalry.

The difference, though, is I don't feel guilt like I used to. I don't have that nagging voice in my head that whispers: you're like this because you drink. When I forget appointments, lose homework, show up late or over-react and yell at the kids, I know that it's because I'm human. I can own my part in things - apologize if necessary - and move on.

Drinking made me so self-centered; I was constantly awash in guilt. My disease liked it that way; the guilt drove me right back to the bottle, again and again. As a sober woman, I refuse to let shame own me anymore.

I take a deep breath, and walk back into the kitchen. Finn is finishing the last of his sandwich with a sticky purple grin.

"Let's go wait for Sissy's bus, okay?" I say, and the last of the guilt scuttles away into the shadows.

I Need Your Help

2011-09-07T11:19:00.001-04:00

As most of you know, I run another website called Crying Out Now.

It's a website where women come tell their stories of addiction and recovery. Many of the women who post there are telling their truth for the first time ever; they can do so anonymously, if they wish, and it is growing community of women helping each other get, or stay, sober. I am pleased that it has grown so much in the past year and a half, but I'm always interested in opportunities to spread the word, help more people who are struggling understand that they are not alone.

A local affiliate of CBS runs an annual contest for Boston's Most Valuable Blog, and this year Crying Out Now is a finalist in the Health & Wellness category.

There isn't a big prize for winning, so that isn't why I'm asking for help - it's a great opportunity to get the word out there about Crying Out Now, and I'd love it if you could take 30 seconds to pop over to their website and vote.   There is no registration - it is literally ONE click, and you can vote once a day until September 9th.

The contest has been running for a while (One Crafty Mother is also a finalist in the Life category, and you may have noticed the widget in my sidebar asking for votes) but I only found out about Crying Out Now's nomination yesterday.   Had I known it was nominated, I would have asked for votes there, instead of here, because Crying Out Now is really where I want recognition and growth. Thousands of people across the globe read the site (even though it doesn't get a lot of comments, probably because of the subject matter) and I get several emails a week from women looking to post their story, or who just want to reach out to a comforting voice.

So, PLEASE, can you take a second to head over there and vote? The link is here, or you can go to: http://boston.blogger.cbslocal.com/most-valuable-blogger/blog/589-crying-out-now/.

If you're in an extra generous mood and can help me spread the word about the contest link (or just link back to this post, if that's easier) through your Facebook pages or tweets, I would be so very grateful. If you do tweet or FB about it, leave a comment below that you did and on Saturday I will randomly choose one person to win a $35 gift certificate to my Etsy shop (my daughter will pull a name from a hat).

Thank you, so much, for your ongoing support. It means so much so me, and it is helping many, many women learn more about alcoholism and find the courage to get honest and get help.

And if you are interested in posting your story at Crying Out Now - you don't need to be sober, you don't need to be a writer or a blogger - I would love to hear from you. Click here to learn more.

-Ellie

Caterpillars

2011-09-05T17:31:00.000-04:00

I was doing okay until we hit the shoe section.

We're back-to-school shopping with the other procrastinators; school starts tomorrow. We pick through the remains of school supplies, lunch-sized snacks and new outfits.

Greta had a growth spurt over the summer; she grew more than an inch in one month, and she needs
new shoes. We steer the overflowing cart into the kids' shoe section, and begin hunting through pink sandals and glittery sneakers.

Not one pair of shoes fit. Not the kid size 3. Not even the 4s.

We end up in the women's section - the women's section - and find a pair of size 5 1/2 clogs that fit just right.

Greta sashays up and down the aisle, a hand on one hip, a proud smile plastered across her face.

I feel like an old hand at this back-to-school stuff, so I didn't think I was going to be emotional about school this year. But somehow, right under my nose, she has blossomed into a striking young woman.

She flicks her hair over her shoulder and does a little spin. "What do you think, Mom?" When did she start calling me Mom? What happened to Momma?

I manage a smile, and a quick nod. "Perfect," I choke.

This long-legged beauty, with a hint of a womanly curve in her hip, is my little girl.

In the car on the way home, she prattles on about the usual things, then grows quiet for a moment before saying, "I'm a little nervous about tomorrow. Not a LOT nervous, but I have the caterpillars-in-my-tummy feeling. It's kind of like a happy-nervous, I guess."

I tell her I remember the feeling so well, how the scent of a new pack of pencils made my stomach churn with nervous anticipation.

We get home, unload the school supplies, and Greta sets about packing her backpack for tomorrow.

Finn shuffles in the room, dragging his careworn blanket in one hand and his brand new backpack in the other. "Will you help me wif my backpack too, Momma?"

Oh my God, I think with a start, my baby is getting on the bus. Somehow this milestone - my youngest starting Kindergarten - has been relegated to a mental back shelf, lost in the shuffle of Second Child Syndrome. He curls up on my lap with a contented sigh, and rubs my arm distractedly.

"Are you excited to start big-kid school?" I ask.

"Sure," he says.

"Are you nervous?"

He is quiet a moment., "No," he says, "Sissy told me all about it. And my fwiends will be there. And I have the same teacher Sissy had, and she's willy nice."

I rock him gently in my lap, and I think about how it's another beginning, having both my kids in school. Sending Greta off to school every year was cushioned by Finn's presence, of having a child around most of the time.

When they were small, I pined for this moment, for the freedom of unencumbered days, for the chance to focus on me again - my goals, my career, my identity.

Now that it is here, I'm ambivalent. What is this next chapter of life going to look like?  I am contemplating a job that would accommodate mother's hours but get my head back in the working game. It hasn't been formally offered to me, yet, but the possibility exists that I will re-enter the work force sometime in the near future.

Closing my arms around Finn, I inhale his earthy boy scent and think about how I feel about it all.

I have the happy-nervous, caterpillars-in-my-tummy feeling, too.

Dr. Fear

2011-09-03T12:36:00.000-04:00

My hands are shaking a little as I reach for the phone. I'm finally going to make the call, the one I have been avoiding for weeks. You would think I was calling to turn myself into the police, my fear is so great. But the pain has reached an intolerable threshold, and I need to do something about it.

This is a small thing, really, not worthy of more than a few minutes' attention. But my brain - oh, my brain - has other ideas.

My lower back has been bothering me, to varying degrees, for about two months now. It started right after my Dad died.

Just after his funeral in late June the twinges started, and by my birthday weekend on July 4th my back was in full-on revolt.  Along with the lower back pain comes my old nemesis, Anxiety, who convinces me that this couldn't be a simple back spasm, that it has to be something awful.  Unlike many hypochondriacs, though, I am one who avoids the doctor, preferring to keep my head in the sand where it is dark and quiet and I can wallow in the not-knowing.

My back improved after a week or so, and I set about forgetting it ever happened.

About a week and a half ago, though, it came back. I rested and stretched, took Motrin and alternated ice and heat -- anything - ANYTHING - to avoid calling the doctor.

By yesterday morning, though, the pain was finally too much and I called, hoping they would tell me they couldn't see me for at least a week. They had an opening for 3:45pm that same day.

My anxiety kicked into high gear, horrible scenarios and outcomes tramped through my head all day.   By the time they called my name in the waiting room, I was a complete wreck. My heart was beating scary fast and my palms were sweating. The fear was so bad that I barely felt my back pain at all.

I sat on the crinkly paper with a wild look in my eyes as the doctor asked me some basic questions, and I found myself spilling it all out - my Dad's death, the stress of the summer home with two kids, my anxiety about coming to the doctor. I'd like to say she had all kinds of advice for me, but all she did after I finished my tirade was blink a couple of times, and say, "Okay."  Her response didn't matter, though, because I immediately felt so much better, just from the unburdening of it all.

She put her hand on my lower back and told me she could feel that the whole left side was in spasm. After some more checks for neurological (disc) damage, she diagnosed back spasms and mild sciatica and recommended a regimen of ice/heat, rest and medication for the next week.

All that fear, all that wallowing, all those hours listening to the whispering voices of anxiety, for a diagnosis of a back spasm.

As I drove home from the doctor's with a new lightness in my heart, and a sense of pride coursing through my veins that I actually did it - I went - I thought about fear.

There is fear that comes from things that are actually happening, and then there is anxiety, which is fear of things yet to happen.

I thought about when I got sober, the fear and anxiety I felt during that tough time.

I experienced real fear of something that actually happened: I stopped drinking.   But most of the fear around getting sober was anticipatory - our old friend Anxiety. I spent hours running the list through my head: what about my birthday? Christmas? Vacations? What about so-and-so's wedding next October? How will I get through the witching hour?

And then, little by little, those things happened. I faced the fear and made it through each one. Looking back, I can see that the anticipatory fear - the anxiety - felt so much worse than the fear I actually experienced as I went through each of these milestones.   Anxiety doesn't come wrapped in a sense of accomplishment, like walking through fear does. As scared as I was at the doctor's yesterday, I felt a undercurrent of strength and pride: I'm doing it. Here's me facing my fear.

Anxiety is such a waste of time, I thought. Fear is useful, to a large degree. If we're in real danger, we rely on fear - that old fight-or-flight response - to get us out of danger unscathed.   Anxiety is fear run amok. My brain latches on to a fear - like the doctor's, or flying in an airplane - and runs with it.

I had a lot of anxiety in early sobriety. All that hand wringing - wondering about events down the road - robbed me of gratitude, peace of mind and a sense of accomplishment for the day I was actually living, right then, sober.

Anxiety is the brain's feeble attempt to control fear. Genuine fear - like a plane actually crashing, a doctor finding a tumor or not drinking when every cell in your body wants to - cannot be controlled, it can only be felt.

When I'm experiencing anxiety it is because I'm trying to go around something, like I did when I knew I had a problem with alcohol but tried everything I could to avoid this hard fact, instead of staring it down and doing something about it.

Looking back now, I can see that the anxiety I felt about getting sober, or staying sober, was so much worse than facing the fear itself. Each time I faced a fear and moved through it, I was rewarded with a sense of accompishment and peace. Anxiety carries no rewards, no growth, no sense of accomplishment or peace.

Of course, my brain being what it is, by the time I got home from the appointment, Anxiety was already whispering in my ear: the spasms could be from some underlying cause, maybe tumors pressing on your spine, and the doctor missed it.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders and said, out loud, "we'll cross that bridge if we come to it."

With a smug smile, I think to myself: Face fear, let go of anxiety. So there.

Click

2011-08-28T16:22:00.002-04:00

I've been thinking about the 'click' lately.

Maybe you know the one? After you've had a drink, or two, and life just seems to click into place? The edges get all warm and fuzzy, you love everyone and everything, and boredom and anxiety feel like distant memories?

Yeah, that click.

It is Friday night, and we are hanging out at our beach camp, lounging on the porch and watching the sun go down. The neighborhood has gathered on someone's porch for drinks, and they are having a grand old time. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses permeate the air, and I listen wistfully.

I have that sun drenched, salty feeling; the one that goes so well with a smooth glass of wine.

My back is sore - I threw it out again early last week - and the kids are clamoring for dinner. The thought of sweating over the grill, or the stove, makes me tired right down to my bones. Oh, how I want that click. It would ease my back pain, make the idea of cooking dinner seem palatable, I think.

To distract myself, I go for a little walk, up to the lighthouse on the point next to our cottage. I sit and listen to the birds, feel the cool evening breeze on my face.

I think about all the women I have met recently - either in person or through emails - who are brand new to sobriety, or who are struggling to get sober.

This is why it's so hard, I think, to stay away from that first drink.  Nothing beats that click, not really. It's the antidote to boredom, a prescription for instant relaxation.

I take deep breaths, feel my lungs inflate with the fresh air. In. Out. Think it through, Ellie.

The difference between me and a normal drinker is that the click is just the beginning for me.

Normal drinkers ride that warm feeling, have a drink or two and coast along on happy, relaxed sociability. They milk the click for all it's worth, but for them it stops there.

I was born without an off switch. Once I hit the click, I no longer control how much I will drink. It has always been that way.

I remember how I tried everything - everything - to get to the click and stay there. I tried only drinking beer. Or wine. I tried only drinking on weekends, or only when I was out with friends.  Even if I only drank on occasion, there was no telling where I'd end up once I started. Sometimes I could control it, and for years I thought only about those times when I was able to rein it in, stop at the click.   There were only a few examples to choose from, but I kept them close at hand, and discarded all the evidence to the contrary.

With a sigh, I turn and head back to the cottage, a heavy feeling in my bones. I miss it, I think. And that's okay. Ride it out. It will pass.  It always does.

~~~~~~~

Later that evening, after the dishes are washed up and dessert devoured, we settle down at the kitchen table to work on a 550 piece puzzle. The only light comes from a portable gas lantern, and it casts a warm glow over the kids' faces, like a campfire.

"It's family puzzle night!" Greta grins.

Finn furrows his brow, looking for one certain piece. When he finds it his face lights up: "I FOUND it, Momma! That makes FWEE pieces for me!"

I would have missed this, I think. I would have gone into numbness, there-but-not-there, my mind distracted by whether it would be okay to pour another drink.

Greta leans her head on my shoulder, "I love family puzzle night," she says with a contented sigh.

And, all of a sudden, there it is: I'm content, relaxed. I'm happy.

CLICK.

How It Works - One Year Later

2011-08-24T17:43:00.000-04:00

I wrote the post below exactly one year ago today, hoping with all my heart that she would grab recovery with both hands and hang on tight. And boy, did she ever. Here we are, one year later, and she has done so much hard work on herself, inspired me on a daily basis and helped so many people.

It has been an honor to be part of her journey so far.

Happy Anniversary, Amanda. One day at a time we can do this, my friend. I love you.

THIS. This is how it works:

August 24, 2010

I know a woman with kind eyes and a lion's heart.

She's a touch-stone, a soul mate; being with her feels as natural to me as my own skin. It's a finish-each-other's-sentences kind of friendship, a lifetime of late night giggles, whispered secrets and knowing smiles.

We prop each other up, leaning steadily and sturdily on one another through soaring joys and crushing blows.

When I'm with her it's like two puzzle pieces clicking into place - separately we are colorful and interesting, but together the picture feels complete.

Over the years our paths have serpentined away from each other and back again, winding and twisting along different paths as lives do, but always orbiting the gravitational pull of our twin heartbeat.

~~~~

One night, a little over three years ago, I called her. I was drunk, scared, alone and desperate for her love, understanding and friendship.   "I'm in trouble," I told her. "Please come."

She'll understand, I thought. She'll know why I drink; we're two halves of a whole, after all.   She'll tell me I'm okay.

An hour later she arrived, eyes blazing with love and pain, but with a determined set to her jaw.   She marched into the kitchen and poured out all the booze, bottle by bottle.   Then she turned to me and told me the hard truth: I had a problem, I needed to stop, I needed to get help.

It was not what I was expecting her to say, not at all.    I knew in my gut, for the first time ever, that she spoke the truth.   I needed to stop, and I needed to get help.

She stayed with me that night, and in the morning as she left she hugged me and said, "You can do this, El.  I love you."

That day I checked into my first rehab.   My journey had begun.

~~~~

Today, as we stood trembling and teary in the intake area of the treatment center, my eyes were ablaze with the same determined love.

"You can do this," I said to her as we hugged. "I love you."

I opened her hand and pressed a little bronze medallion into her palm.   Etched into it is the Serenity Prayer: God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.   It was given to me at one of my first recovery meetings by a woman I don't know, and haven't seen again.   She had many, many years of sobriety, and told me she wanted me to have it.   For strength, she said.

"This was given to me when I was new," I whispered to my friend, through tears.   "And now I'm giving it to you."

Our eyes locked, and for an instant we were little girls again, finding our way through life together, always together.

Her journey is just beginning.   But someday?   I hope and pray that she will give it to someone else.   She will pay it forward.

Because that's how it works.

Awkward Birds

2011-08-22T10:44:00.001-04:00

"Mom? Will you brush my hair?"

The question takes me by surprise; usually if I come within four feet of her head with a hairbrush, Greta runs away screaming.

"Sure, honey," I reply, smiling. "I love it when you let me play with your hair."

We sit thoughtfull for a few minutes, while I work out the summer snarls. She loves to wear it loose and flowing around her shoulders, but it's so long now it tangles quickly. In the summer it's a battle that isn't worth fighting, the please-lets-cut-your-hair-no-I-won't-I-hate-how-I-look-in-short-hair fight we have dozens of times during the school year.

"Do you know why I want you to brush my hair out?" Greta asks, quietly. "Because I want to look like the teenagers on those posters."

My stomach gives a little tug of fear. "Which posters?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.

"The ones in Target? In the shampoo section? Their hair is so shiny. And wavy. Why isn't my hair wavy?"

I know the posters she means; they are all over the store. Oversized homages to perfection: teensy women in bikinis in the bathing suit section, dewy complected women in the facial cream aisle. And shiny-curled teens in the shampoo section. I caught her staring at those posters the last time we were there, while I perused the wrinkle creams. She gazed intently at the beaming teenagers, with their full heads of bouncy waves, before running her hand self-consciously through her own hair.

The irony that my daughter was being drawn in by those posters while I searched in vain for a cream that would instantly take ten years off my face didn't escape me, but I left it alone.

"Your hair is beautiful. What's not to love about the Chocolate Waterfall?" I say with a smile, using our pet name for her hair, which falls - stick straight - all the way down her back. It is an impossible deep, rich, dark brown.

"It's just that is doesn't have any curls," she pouts. "How do those Target girls get such pretty curls?"

We have the same talk we've had before, about how she is perfect just the way she is, but I can tell that I'm losing the battle to peer pressure and glitzy media campaigns. It breaks my heart a little to know that as young as eight, girls are already picking apart their own bodies, holding themselves up against unattainable perfection.

It makes me afraid. Lately, as she steps out of the shower, Greta will stick her belly out comically far, and ask "What would you say if my belly looked like this? Would you tell me I'm fat?"

Fat isn't a word we have ever used in our house. Even during my diet, we carefully avoided the f-word. I try my best not to let her see me gazing critically at my own body. I never let her hear me disparage my own looks. But who am I kidding? I fall for the same ideals she does. Why else would I spend so much on wrinkle creams?

She will run her hand over her impossibly tight, muscular belly, and tell me her stomach isn't as flat as so-and-so's.

I swallow my fear and ask her what she means. "My friend Melissa talks about how fat her tummy is all the time. But her stomach is smaller than mine, so I must be fat, too?"

Oh, God, I think. It's starting.

"I want to show you something," I say. We sit down at my laptop and Google "air brushing before and after". Her mouth drops open as she points and says, "LOOK! They made her neck longer! And her boobs are bigger! And her butt is smaller!"

It's a slippery slope, though. Even as I part the curtain and show her what goes on behind the scenes to create images of perfection designed to make us feel badly about ourselves so we'll buy more product, I'm showing her that the world values long necks, big boobs and small butts.

"Do you think these women look better like that?" I ask.

She stares at the pictures for a while. "No," she says, firmly. "They look too skinny. And like big, awkward birds or something."

"We'll have to keep talking about this," I say. "Women spend a lot of time thinking about how they look. I do it sometimes, too. Instead of appreciating all that is beautiful about our bodies, we pick it apart. I hope you will keep talking to me about how you feel about yourself, even if you know I'm always going to tell you you are beautiful just the way you are."

She nods. "Is that why you always say that? Because you want me to be happy about myself, and not sad?"

"Yes," I smile. "There are all these images our there that just aren't real, and it makes me sad that they can make us feel like somehow we aren't beautiful because we don't look like something that never existed in the first place."

~~~~

Later, we're walking in the mall. As we pass the Victoria's Secret store, she points to the life-size and scantily clad advertisement hanging in the front window and says, "Look, Mom!! False Advertising!!!'

Score one for Mom.

1,459 Days - Who I See

2011-08-15T15:12:00.001-04:00

She looks back at me with desperation and defiance shining in her eyes.

Somewhere, deep down inside, she knows it's over, but that fact scares her too much, so she hangs onto anger like a shield - a force field - to deflect this hard truth.

She doesn't look like herself, not at all like the woman she pictures in her head, the woman she was for so many years. Her pretty ivory skin is blotchy and bloated, and she can see the beginnings of tiny, pink burst capillaries on her cheeks. She remembers that these are called gin blossoms, and her stomach churns with shame.

There is a slight tremor in her hands; these days it appears if she goes mere hours without a drink. She is vaguely scared at this idea, but not nearly as scared as she is of stopping. She cannot imagine life without alcohol.

I can't give it up, she thinks. It is the only thing holding me together.

Slowly, she ticks through the list she carries in her head - a careworn and dog-eared list of all the reasons she can't possibly be an alcoholic.   It's a familiar mantra by now, and it is sounding thin even to her own ears.

The other list - the one she tries not to think about - is getting longer. She pictures the nearly constant disgusted anger in her husband's eyes.   She remembers her five year-old daughter's desperate pleas - but Momma, you're ALWAYS sleeping - when requests to read a story or play a game are met with a muffled grunts from beneath the sheets.

She looks back at me and begs me to tell her that she will figure it out, that she will get a handle on her drinking, that she isn't that bad.

Slowly, the defiance drains from her face, and she is left with only desperation. The hard truth lands on her like a stone: you're going to lose everything. You're an alcoholic and you need help.

~~~~~

That woman was me, 1,459 days ago, the day I had my last drink.   My husband had just told me I would be heading back to rehab - again - and that he didn't care what happened to me after that. I was sinking, he told me, and he was done. He said he wouldn't let me drag the whole family down with me.

So the afternoon of August 16, 2007 I found myself staring at my own reflection in the mirror, desperate to hang onto the one thing that was ripping my life apart.   The chasm between the way I presented myself to the world and the way I felt on the inside had finally opened up and swallowed me whole.   It happened quickly.   I began the summer with swaggering promises to get help, go to meetings, to stop drinking.   All those promises did was drive my drinking deeper underground. I drank on the way to meetings. I drank on the way home. I popped breath mints and drank coffee to disguise the odor on my breath.   I spun flimsy webs full of lies, but the only person I was fooling was myself.

In two months I was hospitalized twice and attended two rehabs - one inpatient and one outpatient. I listened to the advice I got, to the stories I heard in meetings and from fellow patients.   I wrote copiously in my journal, determined to get a handle on my drinking. I did everything but the one thing I had to do to have a fighting chance at getting sober.

I didn't surrender.

I still believed that there must be something I could do to drink like a normal person. I thought I needed to be stronger, to fight harder, to resist the temptation to keep drinking after one or two.   I really believed if I tried hard enough, I would be okay.

In the course of two months my world fell apart, and I stubbornly clung to my right to drink, even as I hurt the people I loved the most.  I was so scared. All the time. Scared to keep drinking, and scared to stop.

On August 16, 2007 I looked at my reflection in the mirror and I saw a bloated, desperate shell of my former self. Unshowered, trembling and alone in the world, I finally hit bottom.

I gave up. I went back to rehab - thirty days this time - and I got out of my own way.

Take it, I prayed to whatever-might-be-out-there, take what happens to me out of my stubborn hands.

~~~~~

Today I gazed at my reflection in the mirror and thought about the journey so far.

The face looking back at me is thinner, the crinkly laugh lines around my eyes are more prominent.  There is a steely determination in my eyes, as well as an impish glint that wasn't there before.

The woman I see is strong, self-confident, determined. I like her a lot. I've only known her for three years, now - the first year of sobriety was full of anxiety and fear. But slowly, she emerged from the darkness, wove her way into my day-to-day life. Each day without a drink she grew stronger.

The woman in the mirror is also vulnerable. Her emotions ripple right beneath the surface, now that they aren't anesthetized by alcohol and denial. She feels things more strongly: she hurts more deeply, but she loves harder than ever before.

I meet my own gaze and whisper: I love you.

And I do. Not an egotistical I'm-better-than-you love, but a gentle, accepting, motherly kind of love. I treat myself with the same kindness I do others. I have to, because when my disease comes knocking it tells me that I don't measure up, that I need to hide from fear, to anesthetize boredom and anxiety.

I spent years erasing myself from the picture, lost in shame and fear. Every day without a drink I draw those lines back in - with confident strokes and bold colors.

I like what I see. Finally.

The Middle of Me

2011-08-10T11:21:00.001-04:00

I'm standing stock still amid throngs of people. The DJ's music is blasting, women clad head to toe in sparkles whirl around me, laughing, clutching their drinks.

On the dance floor hundreds of people gyrate to the pulsing music. I'm at Sparklecorn, a notoriously raucous party held on the second night of BlogHer.

I don't know how this celebration of frivolity has become a place where I experience epiphanies, but it has. Last year at Sparklecorn I danced sober for the first time.

This year my good friend and sober running-mate, Heather, is back in the room tending to her adorable two month old daughter, Elsie. Heather's need to be with Elsie has kicked me out from under the safe protection of her wing, forced me to spread my own wings and try to fly solo.

I debated for a long time if I should even go to Sparklecorn. I have always been someone who likes to be in the middle of everything, and I was puzzled that I didn't feel more of a compulsion to go. My fear was that I would feel left out, other-than, sober and serious amongst all the party-goers. I wasn't in a particularly fun mood. I was tired from the time change, and my feet hurt from walking all day. On some ancient level it felt cowardly not to try, so I squared my shoulders, donned a sparkly top, and set out for the party.

I didn't know if I would be brave enough to enter the party alone, but thankfully I ran into some friends on the way over, and we walked in together.

Somehow I become separated from my friends. I find myself standing alone, on the outskirts of the dance floor, clutching my club soda and cranberry.

Here I am, experiencing one of my worst fears, I think. I'm alone, sober, in a room full of people who seem so fluid, so relaxed, so lubricated.

I wait for the fear, for that stomach-churning feeling that I am no longer fun, that I don't fit anymore, because I can't drink.

It doesn't come.

I sip my drink and observe the room, bopping my head slightly to the music. Everywhere I look I see people I know, good bloggy friends, waving their arms over their heads and gyrating to the beat.

Good for them, I think. I'm so glad they are letting off steam, having fun.

I realize I have a choice - if I want to be included, all I have to do was step into the circle and start dancing. Nobody is shunning me, nobody is deliberately leaving me out.

I'm tired, I think. I want to go back to the room.

I realize, with some surprise, that I really do want to go back to the room. I'm not running away. I'm not fearful of missing out on something. I don't need to be in the middle of anything.

I'm my own middle, I think with a smile.

This seems like such a small thing, but for me it is huge. For so many years I searched for the center of me outside of myself - in throngs of dancing people, from the validation I thought I received from other people accepting me, inviting me in. My ticket to entry was a drink, or two, or five. Alcohol greased the skids, propelled me into confidence, manufactured a feeling of belonging.

I set down my drink and wander out of the party, onto an outdoor balcony under the stars. I close my eyes and breathe in the cool night air.

I am free, I think. I am free of the self-centered fear of rejection.

I don't have that nose-pressed-against-the-glass feeling anymore. I don't know when it went away, but I am so very grateful it is gone.

Without looking back, the two of us - my middle and me - head back to the room.

How To Prepare for A Blogging Conference In 44 Easy Steps

2011-08-01T22:57:00.000-04:00

In less than 48 hours I'm going to BlogHer in San Diego.

I have been to a grand total of three blogging conferences now - this one makes my fourth - and I'm starting to notice a trend in my pre-conference ~~weirdness~~ preparations. For any of you attending your first conference, I thought it may be helpful to share them with you:

THREE WEEKS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Make a well organized and lucid checklist of everything to bring to the conference.

SOMEWHERE BETWEEN THREE WEEKS BEFORE AND TWO DAYS BEFORE:

1) Lose checklist.

TWO DAYS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Gaze thoughtfully into mirror and notice self for the first time since the last conference.
2) Frantically call every hairdresser in town to schedule an appointment to foil hair.
3) Buy expensive wrinkle cream.
4) Open cosmetic travel bag and find exact same cream purchased for last conference.
5) Stare into closet with glazed expression. Search for perfect outfit to present sleek, put-together look.
6) Realize you do not own one single "outfit".
7) Drag unhappy children to trendy boutique. Pay too much for sexy top.
8) Hang sexy top next to last year's sexy top, which was never worn because it didn't feel like you.
9) Remember you are recovering people-pleaser and tell self people will have to accept you for who you are. You are YOU. You are authentic.
10) Notice wardrobe contains only black pants, black Capris, black shorts and earth tone tops. Wonder if you really have to be that authentic.
11) Apply wrinkle cream before bed.

ONE DAY BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Wake up and generously apply wrinkle cream.
2) Stare into closet with glazed expression.
3) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
4) Drag unhappy kids back to boutique to purchase trendy, uncomfortable shoes to draw attention away from black pants and earth tone tops.
5) Engage in pre-flying obsessive/compulsive thinking.
6) Kiss the kids goodnight and attempt to ignore thoughts of a fiery plane crash death.
7) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
8) Try on pointy uncomfortable shoes.
9) Fall down.
10) Stay up too late writing a blog post about going to blogging conferences.
11) Apply wrinkle cream.

TWELVE HOURS BEFORE LEAVING FOR CONFERENCE:

1) Open empty suitcase.
2) Remember all the laundry is dirty.
3) Start laundry.
4) Call blogging friend to talk about how you really should be packing.
5) Take clean clothes from dryer and stuff into suitcase.
6) Pack enough shoes for a one month stay.
7) Ponder luggage weight limit. Shrug and leave everything in suitcase.
8) Apply wrinkle cream generously.
9) Get into bed and lie with eyes open until alarm goes off.

DAY OF CONFERENCE:

1) Apply wrinkle cream.
2) Fend off flying jitters with thoughts of how much more talented/funny/popular everyone else is than you.
3) Totter off plane in trendy, uncomfortable shoes.
4) Purchase band-aids for blisters.
5) Enter hotel wearing mask of bored self-confidence.
6) Flee to room and apply wrinkle cream.
7) Stare with glazed expression at clothes in suitcase.
8) Try on sexy top.
9) Discard sexy top and pointy shoes.
10) Wear black pants, earth tone top and sensible shoes.
11) Take deep breath.
12) Enter conference with mask of bored self-confidence.
13) See a friend.
14) Realize it is all going to be okay.

Where I've Been, And Where I'm Going To Be

2011-07-30T17:34:00.000-04:00

I can't believe I have only posted four times in July - less than half as often as I usually post.

It's not that I don't have a lot going on, or that there is nothing to say. It's more like I'm taking an existential pause, keeping things as simple as I can, taking each day carefully and cautiously.

My Dad died six weeks ago. It feels like a long time ago and the blink of an eye at the same time.

I'm still grieving, of course, but with each passing day my grief shifts, evolves. Little by little I'm accepting that he is gone. The sudden nature of his death makes it hard for my brain to process that he isn't here anymore. It's not denial, exactly, because I know he is gone. It's just that my brain can't handle keeping that information in the forefront of my brain for very long. It is as if my brain thinks he is simply away somewhere, and that someday soon this business of him being gone will be over. Every now and then it hits me - the full force of my grief - and I have to breathe deep, cry a little, or call a friend to talk about how I feel.

It is as if my brain is feeding me grief bits at a time - smaller, more manageable bites that I can process little by little.

I think this is healthy. I think it's normal. But I have never been through this before. I'm just taking it as it comes, feeling my feelings, sitting in the discomfort and pain, and absorbing the moments of gratitude and peace as best I can.

One of the things I am most grateful for right now is the gift of creativity. I spend hours making jewelry - elaborate beaded patterns that transfix my mind, my spirit, and usher me away from sad, from grief.

Here are some of my favorites (click on the links below to view in my Etsy shop):

Shimmering Silver Squares Bracelet

Turquoise Dream Bracelet

Lovely Lavender Faux Sea Glass Bracelet

I made a bracelet to remind me to keep it in the day, that each morning is a chance to start over, that no matter how bad I feel in any given moment, that it will pass. I wear it to remind me to keep it in the day, carry gratitude in my heart and not lose myself to fear:

Just For Today Bracelet

~~~~

On another note, I'll be heading to BlogHer '11 in San Diego on Wednesday. I will be spending a lot of time in the Serenity Suite (click on the link to hear more about it from my good friend Heather), so if you're going to BlogHer please do come by and say hello.

Onward.

Addiction is a DISEASE, dammit.

2011-07-24T11:19:00.001-04:00

In today's Boston Sunday Globe there are two full length obituaries.

Above the fold is the tragic tale of soul/pop singer Amy Winehouse's death from drug and alcohol addiction at 27 years old. I am profoundly impacted by her death, although it isn't much of a surprise. Her struggle with addiction has been plastered across headlines for years now. I remember a couple of years ago a British tabloid was running a contest - a morbid countdown of sorts - asking readers to bet on how much longer she would live.

Her obituary spells out in sad clarity the ravages of drugs and alcohol; her life cut short, her talent squandered to the disease of addiction.

Below the fold is another obituary, George Brewster, who died after a fifteen year battle with cancer. He was 70 years old. Despite a life full of challenges, his children describe a man of unbridled optimism, someone whose spirit shone through adversity. His daughter describes how even near the end he would talk about embracing the "glorious day", how he would walk every day; even as cancer treatments weakened his physical condition, his spirit soared. He was 27 years sober at the time of his death, and the obituary describes how he was active in AA, a pillar of the recovery community, always ready to lend a hand to help a fellow alcoholic in need.

The juxtaposition of these two lives leaves me trembling with gratitude and fear. Gratitude that I am sober, that I didn't lose my own battle with the disease of addiction, that I am able to embrace life, with all its ups and downs - as a sober woman of grace and honor. Fear because I know so many people who are struggling to get sober, who haven't surrendered to the fact that alcoholism is a disease, one that cannot be cured. You can't think your way out of addiction any more than you can think your way out of cancer.

Fear because addiction kills. Just last week a member of my home AA group died from an alcoholic seizure. My heart aches for the people I know who are struggling to get sober, because death - as horrible as it is - isn't the worst thing alcoholism does to you. First it destroys your life, your spirit, your family.

Now that I have been in recovery for almost four years, I fully understand the power of the disease of addiction. It is a disease that tells you you don't have a disease, that if you just tried harder, had more will power, you could beat it. It drives you into isolation, full of shame and fear, and slowly erodes your spirit, your will. It wants you silent, alone and afraid.

I am humbled and honored to be able to help women who are struggling to get sober. It helps my own recovery to reach out, share what I have learned, be an empathetic voice at the other end of a phone line, or over coffee. I know I can't get anyone sober. I realize that in order to get sober a person has to surrender, to accept that they are powerless over alcohol, that they need help. All I can do is encourage them to get honest, to be a safe harbor in their sea of bewildered hurt.

But I'm scared. I'm scared for everyone who is in the clenches of alcoholism. I know first hand how hard it is to wrench yourself from the jaws of addiction.   The statistics aren't good. I hate talking about statistics, hate how despairing they are; I prefer to focus on the hope. But the bleak reality is that alcoholism eventually kills the majority of the people afflicted by this horrible disease.

And it is a disease. I am aware that this is a controversial topic, and I listen with an open mind to to those who argue that it isn't. But I'm done being polite about it, because I know it is a disease. It is a disease of the mind, body and spirit. No addict wants to destroy their life. When bewildered loved ones ask addicts "WHY? Why are you doing this to yourself?" I know the answer is this: because they have a disease. An alcoholic who drinks can no more control how their body reacts to alcohol than a diabetic can control their body's insulin.

People who argue against the disease concept - and many of them are in recovery themselves - don't like the loophole it creates, fearing the alcoholic will keep drinking, saying "I can't help it. I have a disease."

My response to this is simple: my disease isn't my fault, but my recovery is my responsibility. My responsibility is to stay away from that first drink, the one that will activate my disease. To stay away from that first drink I choose a program of recovery; I surround myself with other alcoholics in recovery, I talk about how I'm feeling. I ask for help. A lot.

I didn't choose to be someone who can't have one or two drinks safely. I would never, ever have done the things I did, taken myself and my family down such a dark road, if I had been able to stop drinking on my own. I don't know that I will ever be able to find adequate words to describe what alcohol did to my brain. It possessed me. Even when I wasn't drinking, it nagged at my consciousness, pulling me back in over and over. I don't know how to describe to someone who isn't an alcoholic what it feels like to wake up in the morning thinking, "Oh NO. I did it again."

I have a disease. A disease that springs to life if I have one drink. It may not destroy me right away, but eventually, it will. I have no control over my own life when I'm drinking, because alcohol calls all the shots.

The only way out of the disease of addiction is to surrender to it. To accept in your heart that you can't have even one drink without triggering the craving, the obsession.

Surrendering is hard. It takes more guts to surrender than it does to fight, because surrendering involves vulnerability, and we're hard-wired to avoid feeling vulnerable.

The stigma of addiction keeps people unsurrendered. People simply don't understand what alcohol does to an alcoholic, how it eventually takes over every aspect of our thinking. It is hard to ask for help, because the response is all too often, "well, why don't you just stop, then?"

Choking out the words, "I can't stop," feels like defeat of the worst kind. It feels like you are the weakest, most morally corrupt person on the planet.   Ironically, choking out those words is the bravest thing anyone can do.   Eventually, alcohol degrades a person's life to the point where drinking feels like the only good thing left. And then the script changes, goes from "I can't stop" to "I won't stop".

THAT is the disease of addiction.

To break the cycle, to get out of the spiral, you have to surrender. You have to look yourself dead in the eye, and admit that you have tried everything you can to stop, and nothing is working. That you aren't in control when it comes to drinking. Peel your hands off the wheel, and go get help. Fall back into the arms of people who understand, who can carry you until you feel like carrying yourself.

When I die, I want to be that sober person who faced the ups and downs of life with gratitude in my heart and a hopeful spring in my step. I want to grow and learn through adversity, not skirt around it, shrinking from the hard truths in a bottle.

I didn't choose to be an alcoholic. But I can choose surrender, I can choose recovery.

I feel sometimes like I end every post about addiction and recovery this way, but I will keep saying it over and over: if you are struggling with alcoholism, open your mouth to save your life. Tell your truths. And please, please surrender.   You will never be able to have one drink in safety. If that thought sends terror into your heart, go find the people who understand, who have walked the path before you, who can show you that a life full of light and hope is waiting for you.

Because here is the bleak truth: it will kill you. But first it will destroy your spirit, your happiness, your ability to love.   It will.

Little Light of Mine

2011-07-15T10:34:00.000-04:00

I am amazed at the power of voice.

Think about your darkest secret, the thing that makes you most ashamed. Now imagine yourself at a podium, speaking about it to a room full of people. Thousands of people. Your tiny voice reaching tens of thousands of ears.

Or think about your proudest moment, something you have overcome or accomplished in your life, and imagine the same podium, the same thousands of eyes and ears fixed on you.

My most shameful secrets and my proudest moments are one and the same. As time goes on, I'm beginning to understand how our darkest times, our biggest obstacles, can lead to our greatest triumphs.

What I love about blogging is that you don't need validation, experience or approval to put your voice out into the world. You don't need a publisher, or an established audience, or an agent. All you need is a computer screen and your voice.

When I started this blog, I was lighting a tiny flame, a little tea light, and setting it adrift on the vast ocean. I knew the odds that anyone would notice it were slim. But I also knew that if one person was drawn to my little light, my voice, that would be enough.

Writing openly about my addiction and recovery is the scariest and most rewarding thing I have ever done. I could never have imagined, in my darkest hour, full of secrets and shame, that one day I would be broadcasting my pain to the world. More importantly, though, I could never have imagined the healing, empathy and peace sharing my voice would bring.

Every single time I have opened my heart, used the power of voice to reach out, gifts have come my way. People emerge from the dark unknown to share their own experience, strength and hope, tell their own stories of pain and recovery. Together our little lights spark a mighty flame, creating a roaring fire for all the world to see.

The light chases away the shame, you see; it drives the shadows of fear, isolation and guilt away. They can't take purchase, because together we are a force to be reckoned with; a megaphone of hope.

I am humbled to be an honoree for the BlogHer Voices of the Year for my post, Look. I didn't know I was nominated, that a good friend had submitted this post for consideration. When I got the email yesterday saying it was one of 20 honorees in the Life category, I cried tears of gratitude. And joy. I get itchy talking about recognition or accomplishment. More often than not I'm on the other side of this, wishing it was my voice that had been recognized, feeling that little twinge of jealousy that I wasn't picked. And I know, too, that it is all arbitrary; that there are thousands - tens of thousands - amazing voices out there that deserve to be honored, and my voice is just one tiny drop in a sea of talent.

I'm talking about it here, though, because that post is about the worst, most shameful, day of my life. It happened in 2007, about two months before I finally got sober. As I lay curled on a stretcher in an emergency room, desperate, sick and forgotten, I wished that I would finally slip away. I couldn't imagine life without alcohol, and I certainly couldn't imagine I would ever overcome the shame and fear I felt that day.

And here I am, only four years later, looking back on that horrible day and feeling gratitude in my heart. Not because it is recognized as a Voice of the Year, but because I know, now, about the power of voice. I was stuck, alone, and I had clamped my heart and my mouth shut, determined that nobody could ever, ever know the depths of my worthlessness, my weaknesses, my shame.

All that changed when I let go of pride and fear, opened my mouth, shared my pain and asked for help. The power of voice saved my life.

If you are riddled with fear and shame, if your dark secrets are eroding your spirit, your sanity and your soul, there is hope. Use your voice, light your own little tea light, open your heart. It doesn't have to be at a podium, or on a blog; the size of the audience doesn't matter. One is enough.

Start telling your truth, ask for help. I promise you that your fears of discovery, of being shunned or discarded, are only one piece of a broader picture, an unknown future that is full of grace and hope.

Find one safe person, and start talking.

Use your voice. Your little light could start a mighty flame.

Doppelganger

2011-07-11T22:07:00.003-04:00

I've gone quiet, and I have gotten lots of emails from people asking if I'm okay. Thank you for checking in; I will never cease to be in awe of the power of the connections I've made through this blog.

I am okay. I'm doing better than last week, and each day brings a little more healing, a little more perspective. I haven't been posting because I don't have much to say, and writing about smaller, everyday things feels odd to me.

I keep waiting to want to post about something else: family, recovery, life. There is certainly a lot to say. But just like there are moments where I can't understand how the world just keeps on going without my Dad in it, I have a hard time finding the right time to switch gears, stop writing about grief and loss when those two things are dominating my world at the moment.

Not writing about it feels like saying good-bye, and I don't want to say good-bye, even though I know I have to.

So I will start with something small. A silly thing.

Who is who? One is me at eight years old, and the other is Greta, yesterday:

Down The Rabbit Hole

2011-07-05T23:34:00.001-04:00

It is possible to be okay and not okay at the same time.

Yesterday I turned 42. We went up to my Mom's condo in NH, which is nestled on a beautiful lake. We went swimming, watched fireworks, went for walks, played games. I didn't really want to celebrate my birthday, but of course we did anyway. It's what you do. You keep on going, no matter what. There is a picture of me smiling over my birthday cake, made by my brother and given some extra flair with frosting by the kids. The smile is real - I'm happy, I'm grateful. And I'm also really, really sad.

People ask me a lot "How are you doing? You okay?" I give them a smile and say that yes, I am okay, that I'm muddling through.

But the reality is that I'm struggling. I am functioning - I shuttle the kids to their activities, go to play dates, the gym, out with friends. I smile and sometimes even laugh, but underneath it all there is a kind of flatness, a bewildered feeling that I can't shake.

I'm forgetful. I lose my train of thought all the time; I grope for words and mix up my kids' names. If it weren't for the reminder alarm on my phone I would forget about Finn's karate or Greta's soccer camp. I can't hold a thought for very long.   Things that used to light a fire inside me, like making jewelry or writing, barely produce a spark of interest.

It is way more than sad. It feels more like lost.

I spend as much time as I can with my Mom, who is teaching me so much about grace and gratitude, even as she navigates her grief, takes tentative steps into her new life without my Dad. They were married for forty-six years. I am in awe of her ability to be vulnerable and strong at the same time.

I go about my day, groping my way from one moment to the next. I am not curling up into a ball. I am functioning. But sometimes, just barely. Every now and then, without warning, the world in front of me seems to shimmy and shift, reality slides off the page, and I fall apart. But I always pick up the pieces, take a deep breath and keep on moving.

The thing I notice the most is that my old nemesis, Anxiety, has come home to roost.  She perches on my shoulder, a dead weight, and whispers into my ear a constant stream of unwelcome thoughts.

I have always been an anxious person. I know now that it was likely at the root of my drinking. I would self-medicate, drown out the whispering voice of fear.

But now, of course, I don't have that particular rip cord to pull; I can't simply drop away from myself, numb the sharp edges.

I don't drink anymore, but I have my own private rabbit hole, a tiny place in my head where I can slip away, even as I robotically go about my day. I lived here a lot in new sobriety, as I tried to get from one end of the day to the other without a drink. In my rabbit hole I am safe from the whispering voices of fear. I know I'm not fun to be around when I'm there; I'm mechanical and flat, going through the motions, phoning it in.   But I'm upright, I'm putting one front in front of the other, and sometimes that has to be enough. I'm simply not capable of feeling it all.

My rabbit hole provides temporary relief from the anxiety. I haven't felt anxiety like this in a long time.

There is something wrong with my back. Perhaps I twisted it or strained it, but I don't recall anything specific. Maybe it is stress, maybe a combination of both.  When I'm on my game, when I'm not hobbled by grief, an injured back is simply a call to the doctor to make an appointment; something to check off my To-Do list.

But my brain isn't functioning on all cylinders, and instead of coping I'm paralyzed with fear. It has to be something awful, it tells me, something incurable.   Instead of picking up the phone to call the doctor, I obsess about all the symptoms, adding brick after brick to my monument of fear.

My stomach churns when my kids aren't with me; I'm convinced - with a lot of help from the whispering voices in my ear - that something tragic is going to happen.

Now I know that someone healthy, vibrant and alive can just be gone in the blink of an eye. I always knew that, of course, but now I feel it in my bones, how fragile it all is, and it makes me very, very afraid.

There is a ray of hope, I guess, because I can observe all this, as if from afar. I understand what my brain is doing; it doesn't want to process my Dad's death, so it is occupying itself by worrying over other things I can't control, like my health, or what happens to my kids when I'm not around.  My brain is like a cat batting around a crippled mouse before going in for the kill.   Needless torture and pain, but it's something to do.

This ability to observe myself, even with my neuroses clanging away, ensures that I will be okay. I can talk about it, work it through.   On the other side of this is growth and enlightenment. I know that is true.

I have to do all the things I did in early sobriety. I have to keep talking, be gentle on myself, not succumb to guilt that I'm not the best mom to my kids when I'm hiding in my rabbit hole. I have to put faith in front of fear. I have to do the next right thing - like call the doctor - instead of allowing my anxiety to grab the wheel and steer the bus off the cliff.

I have to surrender, let the current take me where I'm meant to go. My job is simply to keep my head above the water, and let time do what time does best: heal.

Surfacing

2011-06-30T23:28:00.002-04:00

Grief is like being underwater.

One moment you're swimming along effortlessly, your strong strokes slide through the surface of the clear blue water.

Then without warning, you're sinking. Down, down, into the silence.

You hang there, weightless and still, and you wait.

You know that right above you, shimmering just out of reach, people move about their day, unaware of this silent world-beneath-the-world.

But you? You are in a state of suspended animation, without even the rush of air filling your lungs to distract you. All you hear is the steady beating of your own heart; its rhythm is the antidote to the sadness: I'm. Still. Here.

It's nice, in the quiet. Here you are invisible; safe in your cocoon of grief where nothing can reach you. Out there in the world light and sound are jarring, rudely poking their noses into your consciousness as you tiptoe from one moment to the next. Out there you have to Smile and Move On. Here you can simply be.

How odd, you think, that grief is comforting. Wrapped in its tight embrace you have permission to drop away from the mundane needs of everyday life, to not cope for a while.

You don't want to let go of the silence, the calm, the reverie. When you're here you can close your eyes and imagine the world as it felt before.

But you can't stay, no matter how much you want to. You are only a visitor here. Your lungs begin to twitch, aching for air, and you know you have to return.

Taking one last long look around, you smile. Good-bye.

You tilt your face upwards, and with a few strong kicks of your legs you feel the sun on your face, and hear the sound of your children's laughter from the shore. "Come see, Momma!" they shout.

And you do. You go see.

You surface.

Dependent Arising

2011-06-27T06:13:00.002-04:00

I'm sitting on my porch in the early dawn light, sipping my coffee and staring at a fence post.

That post started its life somewhere as a mighty tree, I think. Someone, somewhere, cut down a tree, and shipped it to a processing plant where it was fashioned into a post and then shipped it to a store - did it travel on a barge? a truck? - where some previous owner purchased it and installed it around our little house.

I wonder who painted it first, and how many years ago. I ponder what their life was like at the time; did they have a gaggle of kids running around? Were they sweating in the hot summer sun? Did they think they would always live here?

I remember when Steve applied a fresh coat of paint to the fence a few years back. I barely noticed.

Get a grip, Ellie, I start to think. It's just a fence post.  But I've been looking at life through these new lenses a lot these days, as I struggle to adjust to my New Normal. I think about the inter-connectedness of all things, and how all these little non-events, these non-things, barely register as we rush through life.

There is a name for this concept, and I search my brain until I remember what it's called: dependent arising.

It's a Buddhist concept, one I read about in a book at some point. A cornerstone to Buddhist philosophy, an essential element of Natural Law, it states that all phenomena are arising together in a mutually interdependent web of cause and effect.

Dependent arising, I think.  We don't notice how interconnected we all are until something comes along to knock us off the rails.

We are self-centered, as a whole, believing that the direction and flow of our lives emanates from us, from our will. We like to believe that we are firmly in control; it is more comforting that way.

In reality, though, life flows through us, around us, the culmination of millions of decisions, thoughts and relationships. We don't register that picking up the phone as we were running out the door, instead of letting it ring, could have saved us from a car accident, or led us straight into one. Or how a kind word to a total stranger creates a ripple effect of positivity in the world. Of course, the opposite is true, too.

We don't think about how many little events had to occur to culminate in each individual moment of our day - how many things had to fall into place to run into that person at the supermarket, or be there to pick up the phone when a friend needs a warm voice.

Eveything we do, everything we think, everything we say - it all matters. A lot. It's just that we don't think about it much, because we're rarely in a moment, always thinking about the next thing.

When life knocks you for a loop, when someone you love is ripped away, you do think about these little non-events. Last phone calls, last visits, become treasured memories instead of just another conversation.

The last time I spoke to my Dad, he called my cell phone - something he rarely did - to give me the name of a Trust and Estates lawyer he knew, so Steve and I could get started on a will. I was rushing around Target, making little decisions about groceries, and I was distracted. He also wanted to tell me he was going through his things, looking for tools and equipment he didn't need living life in a condo. He told me he was setting some things aside for Steve to look over the next time we visited. A next visit we will never have, because two days later he was gone.

I think back over this conversation a lot. The irony that he called to talk about wills and giving away some of his things is not lost on me. Dad and I usually ended our phone conversations with an 'I love you'. I'd like to think we did this time, too, but I don't remember.

These new lenses hurt my eyes sometimes. It's difficult to feel the importance of all the small things, and easy to succumb to fear. When every moment, every decision, feels so important - what if it's a last moment? what if making this small decision leads to disaster? - it makes me want to curl up in a ball and sleep.

But slowly, slowly, I'm adjusting to this new found clarity.   The trick, I'm learning, is to surrender to the fact that we're buffeted about - buoyed, really - by dependent arising. We suffer when we fight against the natural flow of things, when we rail against a current that sweeps us in a direction we hadn't planned on going.

Mostly, this new clarity is helping me keep my head and my feet in the same place. I remember to utter that kind word, to try to bring gratitude, and not fear, to the forefront.   It helps with anger, too. Because sometimes I'm just really, really angry, and I stamp my existential feet at the unfairness of it all.   I want him back, I think. I want just one more hug, one more chance to say I love you.

But, of course, one more time could never be enough, and I find peace when I recall that I ended every visit with a hug, every phone call with an 'I love you'.

As I sip the last of my coffee, the first rays of sunshine peek over the horizon.   Dependent arising, I think, and vow to carry wonder, awe and gratitude in my heart today, to appreciate the culmination of events, people, thoughts and decisions that carry me from one moment to the next.

What I carry in my heart is the only part I have control over, really, I think, with a final glance at the fence post, and I choose love.

For Dad

2011-06-24T21:43:00.001-04:00

**This is the eulogy I wrote about my father; I read it at his funeral yesterday. It is hard to describe how full my heart felt to see almost five hundred people come to his funeral to honor his memory.

I love you, Dad, and I miss you more than mere words can express.

~~~~~

I have an enduring image of my father.

We’re on a family hike, Mt. Moosilauke, perhaps. There were many family hikes, but my Dad’s outfit never varied. He’s wearing a red “crusher” hat, a blue bandana tied around his neck and wielding a walking stick he fashioned out of “perfectly good” wood he found in the forest. A folded map pokes from his back pocket, and his pack is stuffed to the hilt with anything we could ever possibly need for our climb: a green water canteen, moleskin, more maps, a compass, band-aids, bug spray. And, of course, Gorp – a concoction of granola, peanuts and M & Ms

I’m about ten years old, and it feels like we’re never, ever going to get to the top. My sister and I moan and complain, stopping more than necessary to drink water and pick the M & Ms out of the food bag.
My father is undaunted, patiently leading us on, pointing out the blue trail markers blazed on the trees. “The trick,” he says, “is to pace yourself. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other and before you know it, you’ll be there.”

And, of course, we do get there, slowly but surely, and as we hit the summit Dad breaks into a smile. “Isn’t it something?” he says, as we gaze out over the peaks of New Hampshire’s White Mountains. And yes, it really is something.

This image stays with me because it encapsulates so much about what it was like to grow up under his loving, patient, steady guidance.

Words seem too small to describe Dad. To us he was larger than life, a steadfast presence, someone who would always be there to help us along the way. He wasn’t one for lectures or finger wagging; he taught us what we need to know about life by living it. And he always, always put family first.

My Dad worked hard, but of course as kids we couldn’t appreciate what he did for a living. What we knew was that he was home for dinner – every night. He would often have to work late into the evening, or head out again for a meeting, but each night he would walk in the door just as we set dinner on the table.

Family vacations were spent camping, hiking, canoeing, skiing or fishing. Dad loved to get off the grid; some of my fondest memories are of our times out at our beach cottage, bobbing around on the sea fishing for flounder. We would spend days together as a family in tents, paddling down rivers, hiking through the woods. Everywhere he went, Dad brought his unbridled curiosity about the world, and his seemingly endless knowledge of all things natural. Even during our eye-rolling teenage years, we would eventually be swept up in Dad’s quiet enthusiasm.

Dad taught us the importance of hard work, responsibility and balance by embodying these values and infusing everything he did with dedication, humor and patience.

He made us want to succeed in life, but it had nothing to do with prestige, pedigree, recognition or prominence, and everything to do with doing our best, giving back and having a grateful heart.

Perhaps the greatest gift my father gave us was to teach us compassion. He gave back – tirelessly – to every community he served. He gave his time – he gave himself – to his friends, family, church, town, school and to the less fortunate. As children we couldn’t appreciate how special this was, of course. As we grew into young adults, however, we began to understand that Dad’s compassion and dedication to giving back were at the very core of everything he stood for, everything he taught us.

Dad preferred to see the good in people, the possibility. He expressed a limitless curiosity in the things that interested us. Whether it was photography, horses or making jewelry, he wanted to know about our lives, who we knew, what we were doing, and would ask thoughtful questions in his own unobtrusive way. When we strayed from the path, got lost through poor choices or circumstance, he was there to gently nudge us back onto the rails - not with judgment, but with love and encouragement.

He taught us how to navigate adversity by playing to our strengths, rather than dwelling on our weaknesses. His motto would not have been ‘I Told You So’, but rather ‘I Believe In You’.

He wasn’t one for grand proclamations or recognition, and so it is possible that this next statement would have made him uncomfortable, but it is true: he was beloved by everyone who knew him. He was respected by so many because he was, himself, so respectful.

I realize I don’t have to search for words to describe Dad. All I have to do is look around this church, at all the people who have come together today from near and far, to honor his memory. Whether you knew my Dad as a colleague, friend, a co-committee member or trustee; whether you knew him from church, school or around town, from the good old days or only recently, you know what I mean about his authenticity, compassion, loyalty, humor and dedication, because he brought his whole self to every interaction, every relationship.

Dad taught us that you get back from the world exactly what you put into it; if you bring light, love and compassion to the world, then you will get light, love and compassion in return. And when you do? You give it right back again.

And so I carry the image of my father ahead of us on the trail, a walking stick in one hand and a map in the other, patiently beckoning us forward, encouraging us in his own quiet way to put one foot in front of the other, until we get to where we’re all going.

And the view from up there? It is really something, I’m sure.

Father's Day

2011-06-19T22:59:00.002-04:00

Today was hard, probably the hardest day yet.

Without the numbing effects of shock and disbelief to cradle me, I felt the loss of my Dad profoundly today.

Father's Day.

It helps me to write in this space. Someday soon I won't only write about losing my Dad, but for now writing about how I'm feeling gives me some peace of mind.

I get a daily email from Hazeldon, a recovery organization. I haven't opened one in a while, but today's reflection hit home:

"Grief may be a pathway to our deepest connections.

People often say, "I don't want to burden you with my troubles, you have enough to worry about." Yet sharing our troubles with our partner or close friends lightens our burden and restores our balance. Telling someone our experiences and how we feel about them helps us find and create the meaning that lurks behind them, even though they at first seem only crazy and random. Sharing with others pulls us out of isolation and brings our friends and mate into the circle of our lives.

We may be surprised to feel the knots in our stomachs loosen when we tell our stories and recount our worries or grief. Grief may make us feel more alone than anything. But it may also be a pathway for our deepest connection with each other. When we reach out and talk with our friends or mate, we break down the wall of isolation and build bridges that connect us."

This has certainly been true for me. I am surrounded by loving friends and family, and as I talk to them I do feel the coil in my gut loosen, the knot in my shoulders unclench. A burden shared is indeed a burden cut in half.

And, of course, life trudges on. Today was a beautiful day; the sun was shining in a clear blue sky, and we made our way into the city to honor the other amazing Dad in our lives: Steve.

I met my mother and brother for a beautiful service at the church where we will hold my Dad's memorial service on Thursday. It is a big, beautiful old church, one my parents attended together, and praying there brought some measure of comfort and peace. When they read my Dad's name during the prayers for the departed, I felt a kind of lightness, felt his spirit living on in all of us.

But, oh, how I missed his strong presence at my side.

We prowled around Boston, strolled through Boston Common and took in the sights.

The kids enjoyed a carousel ride, a huge gelato sundae, and a ride on Boston's famous swan boats.

Their chocolately grins and gleeful ability to live in the moment, as they skipped through the gardens, posed for pictures on statues - all while playfully asking questions - pulled me from my reverie and deep sense of loss for a while. Kids are amazing that way.

We smile a lot, laugh with abandon, hug each other tighter. We muddle through the maelstrom of emotions that buffet us about at random. We mourn, we honor, we love.

How lucky am I to have know two such incredible Dads in my life? One that raised me, and one that is helping me raise my kids.

When we got home, there was the Sunday paper waiting on our front stoop. My Dad's obituary, even though I knew it would be there, was a jarring reminder of the finality of his death.

I finally allowed myself to fall apart a little. I went upstairs to our bedroom, crawled under the sheets, and wept. And then I fell into a deep, dreamless and much-needed sleep.

A couple of hours later, Greta and Finn poked me awake with huge grins on their faces.

"Momma! You needa come see the show! It starts in three minutes!"

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, took a deep breath, and put a smile on my face. They led me by the hand outside, where Steve was already waiting, and put on an elaborate circus act for us on their swing set. Finn demonstrated his patented moves: the "Tangle", the "Bellyflop" and the "Twist". Greta acted as ringleader, a triumphant smile on her face.

"TA-DA!" they shouted, as they took a final bow and Steve and I clapped like mad.

And so we trudge forth, our little family, with sadness and gratitude. And each other.

Here

2011-06-17T15:24:00.001-04:00

When someone is taken from you suddenly it changes everything, of course.

Here and then gone. Just like that. My mind reels, struggles to wrap itself around the word: gone.

There is an endless ticker tape running through my mind - gone, gone, gone - and it pulls my energy, my thoughts away from the present moment and back through time, as though I can rewind the clock by sheer force of will, zoom back six days to when a day was just a day and he existed somewhere in the world.

Sad is way too small a word to describe how it feels.

Future plans evaporate in the blink of an eye; time grinds to a standstill as each moment creeps by like an eternity.

We're busy; there are lots of arrangements to make, people to call, decisions to muddle through. I'm grateful to be in motion.   It is the worst when I pause, pull into myself and remember: gone.

There are small periods of numbness, almost like forgetting.  I think the body and mind can only handle so much, and the brain shifts into neutral, goes on auto-pilot.

There are also moments of intense gratitude, grace and even peace. Even as I fully absorb the loss, I know how blessed I am. I am one of the lucky ones, to have had a father like him. I wanted more time - OH how I wanted more time - but that longing cannot eclipse how grateful I am that he was my Dad. Is my Dad. He will always be my Dad.

Life trudges on. We get up in the morning, brush teeth, eat breakfast. The kids chatter about the day. Finn pulls a funny face and we all laugh. The ticker-tape whirs on in the back of my brain - Dad, Dad, Dad - but there are school lunches to pack and homework to do and play dates to arrange.   I tiptoe from one end of the day to the other, and when the house falls silent and dark, when everyone is sleeping, I sit on the couch and I think.

I think about the last time I saw him. It was a beautiful, sparkling day. Memorial Day. He stood proudly by and watched Greta march in the parade. We walked thoughtfully together in the cemetery, honoring fallen soldiers. We ate sandwiches, lounged on the couch, chatting. It was a good day. A great day.

I know now how the simple act of the phone ringing, a few uttered words on the line, can bring your world crashing down. I feel the bewildered suddenness of it all; how someone so vibrant, so healthy and alive, can be snatched from your life without warning.

It makes me want to hug my family tighter, make every word count. My stomach tightens into a little ball every time we part. Bye! Have a good day! I chirp from the front porch as Greta trots onto the bus, Steve pulls out of the driveway or I drop Finn off at school, but grief tugs at these moments, whispering in my ear: it could be the last time you see them.

I sit on my couch and I think about the fragility of it all. And then I think about fear.

I don't want to live my life in fear.

I don't want to scramble to appreciate every moment out of fear that it could be a last moment. I don't want to be grateful for all that I have simply because one day it will be gone. But how - HOW - in the face of tragedy do you shake off the fear?

I want to soak in every moment simply because it is beautiful - or horrible, or joyful, or sad - just the way it is. I want the knowledge that it is all so fragile to bring acceptance and love into every interaction, however small. I want to live not in the fear of dying, but in the light of being.

This is the gift grief is giving me: a profound appreciation of all that is. I tuck my kids into bed at night and I fight back the whispering voice of fear. I bring faith into my heart and I think: this is good. Just the way it is.

I know now, too, that the things you remember most are the simple things. I remember birthdays, Christmases, graduations, of course I do, but mostly? Mostly I remember the flash of his smile, his strong hands doing dishes, the sparkle in his eyes, the funny sound he made with his mouth that made the kids laugh, and gave him his nickname: PopPop.

Those simple things are the everyday gifts, and they are everywhere, all the time. I will remember to look - to see - to appreciate all of it. Not with a heart full of fear, but full of gratitude.

I will put faith before fear. I will put faith before fear. I will.

Shining Through

2011-06-13T20:53:00.001-04:00

The past two days have been sad, oh so sad, surreal and heartbreaking.

My insides feel like a bag of broken glass. I float from moment to moment; my emotions pinwheeling from knee-buckling grief to heartfelt gratitude in the blink of an eye.

My family and I spent the day making all the difficult decisions that surround the death of a loved one. My Dad's absence shouts at us from every corner of every room; memories flash to the surface, bringing tears and sometimes laughter. There are moments of depthless anger at the unfairness of it all. I find myself shaking my head in disbelief, uttering no, no, no under my breath. Something as simple as packing my daughter's lunch today brought a body slam of grief: when I packed her lunch on Friday my Dad was still alive.

I treasure the first moments after I open my eyes in the morning; in those precious seconds I don't remember that he's gone. Life feels normal again until WHAM - I'm fully awake and the cloak of sorrow settles on me once again.

But just under the surface of all this pain is profound gratitude, and it sustains me through these dark days. I dip into its waters and drink thirstily, and it fills my soul with light and peace.

I am grateful for all of your words of support. I cannot express enough how much all of your comments and emails have meant to me over the past two days. I can't respond to everyone individually, but I am reading each and every one and they are sustaining me Truly.

I am grateful to have had him in my life as long as I did. I am grateful for the love and support that has enveloped me and my family. People are surfacing from everywhere, bringing hugs, food and comforting words. I always understood my Dad was beloved by everyone who knew him, but seeing the depth to which he impacted peoples' lives, seeing it flow forth from the hearts and mouths of everyone who knew him, is stunning. And beautiful.

My Dad taught me so much in his lifetime, but the most valuable thing I learned from him is compassion. He gave back - tirelessly - to every community he served. He believed from the bottom of his heart in helping others, and he did this by giving his time, himself, to his community, his friends, to the less fortunate. To us.

He taught me that you get back from the world exactly what you put into it; if you bring light, love and compassion, then you will receive it in return. And when you do? You give it right back again.

My Dad made me want to be the best person I can be, and it had nothing to do with material success, social stature, pedigree or prominence, and everything to do with serving, helping and giving of yourself.

Thank you, so much, for the outpouring of support you have given me and my family. We feel your love and your prayers; they are needed, and received with very grateful hearts.

I see my Dad's spirit shining through, everywhere I look.

Upside Down

2011-06-12T04:39:00.001-04:00

We're in the car, my little family and I, zooming down the highway.  Steve is driving, and I press my forehead to the passenger window glass, glad for the jarring cold of its smooth surface. My heart is knocking in my chest, my hands are shaking, and Greta is quietly crying in the back seat.

My sister called just twenty minutes before, and said to come. Now. That Dad was in the hospital with some type of infection and it doesn't look good.

Doesn't look good? Last night he was out with friends having dinner.   What do you mean, doesn't look good?

She could say no more through her tears. In the background I hear chaos; people rushing about, shrill beeping from some type of hospital machinery.

"Just come," she sobs. "I'll call you if anything happens, but you need to be here".

And so I find myself with my face against the glass, my phone perched on my lap and praying like mad that it won't ring, because I know what that would mean.

Is PopPop going to die? comes Finn's small, scared voice from the backseat.

I reach back and clutch his little hand. I can't find any words.

We don't know, Buddy, Steve replies.

Please don't ring, please don't ring, I think.

Outside the window the world rushes by; people drive in their cars from one place to another like it is any other day. Rain pours from the heavens, streaking down my window like tears. I watch the drops shimmy across the glass.

Time slows to a crawl, and I feel each second tick by like an eternity.   I want to reach my arms out and clutch the air, grind time to a halt, bask in this small moment of not-knowing.

My phone rings, and just like that the world turns upside down.

~~~~~~~

My Dad died yesterday from an infection that came on suddenly, and spread quickly due to complications from having his spleen removed years ago when he fought - and beat - lymphoma.

I'm sitting here at 4:20am, unable to sleep and needing to write something, however small, in this space. There aren't adequate words, not yet, to describe the gaping hole we're all feeling at his loss. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that it is hard to wrap our minds around it all.

Yesterday I could have picked up the phone and called him, because he was in the world, and today I can't. I feel him everywhere, though, and through all the pain there is an odd sense of peace, of knowing that the spirit of my Dad lives on in all of us.

But right now? It hurts a lot.

Someday soon I may be able to talk about who he was and what he meant to all of us, but at the moment we're simply stepping gingerly from one moment to the next.

Thank you for your thoughts and prayers.  We can feel them, and they matter.

I love you, Dad.

In Which I Answer The Question I Get The Most

2011-06-09T10:32:00.002-04:00

How did you do it? people who are struggling want to know.   How did you stop?

This question makes me itchy, but it is the question I'm asked the most.

It makes me itchy because there is no one way to get sober, and nobody is an authority on how it is done. But just like I share my stories of drinking and addiction, hoping someone can see themselves in my words and find some measure of comfort, I realize it's okay to talk about my recovery the same way.

I don't like giving advice. I like sharing stories. But on some level, I guess, they are one and the same.

Looking back on it now, I can see two main things that kept me sober even when I really didn't want to stop drinking: talking and breaking patterns.

I found sober women. I found them in recovery meetings - I didn't know where else to look, and I knew they would be there, so that is where I went.   A lot about meetings was completely overwhelming at first, and much of it was downright off-putting, to be honest.  But the people, OH - the people. It was such a relief to talk to people who understood, who weren't pointing their fingers at me and asking: why did you? or how could you? or what's wrong with you?

I came to understand that these people were safe, that I could pour out my feelings and my truths, share the burden of my shame with them and lighten my load. They didn't have magical answers, but they would nod their heads in empathy and understanding, and just the act of unloading made me feel light, free and hopeful.

Some people were full of advice - lots of you should do this and you shouldn't do that. I listened to all of it, discarded the advice that didn't work for me and embraced the advice that did. At first the advice felt crippling; I was caught up in the 'right' way to get sober, and felt like I was doing it all wrong. Finally, one of my new good recovery friends gently pointed out that the idea was to find the way that worked for me.

"Are you drinking?" she asked.

When I replied that I wasn't, she smiled and said, "Well, then whatever you're doing is working."

Even when I wasn't sure at all why I was there, I kept going to meetings, because for all of my confusion I felt safe there, my mind quieted and I felt peaceful. So I kept going. I found the people that helped me the most and I clung to the them for dear life. I am not a clinger, and falling back into their arms is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do, but it worked.

I talked. A lot. I talked wide-eyed in wonder about the all the feelings I had, the ones that I had stuffed down for so long. I was so angry - at myself, at the fact that I was an alcoholic and couldn't drink. I was so scared. How was I going to navigate life without the soothing effects of wine? These people understood why I felt that way, because they had lived it, too. When I would ask people not in recovery how I would live without alcohol, they would blink and say, "well, just don't drink!"

In response to the same question someone in recovery would say, "it seems impossible, doesn't it? But it is possible, although it's going to get harder before it gets easier, so hang on tight and keep on talking."

The other important part of my early recovery was breaking patterns. I looked at my triggers and could see there were times of day, situations and feelings that always made me want to drink. It was hard to look at my triggers, because the number one item on the list was my kids. Admitting my kids were my biggest trigger, and having safe people to talk to about it, was the turning point in my early recovery.

The toughest time of day was late afternoon and early evening, and I spent the first couple of months white-knuckling it, muddling through, until I followed the advice to change my patterns. During the tough hours I would talk to another recovering alcoholic on the phone, go for a walk or lose myself in video games or mindless movies. I had two small kids at home, so I couldn't just escape any time I wanted to, but I would pile them into the car and head to the playground at 5:30pm if I had to. I walked in a different door of my house for a while. I rearranged furniture and I cleaned like a maniac. It didn't matter what I did, really, as long as it helped me get out of my head for a little while.

I slept a lot. Life was so bright, loud and chaotic, and the feelings were so pointy without the numbing effects of alcohol, that sometimes my brain would simply shut down. It took me some time to understand that sleep was a safe way to escape, to drop away for a while, so I didn't beat myself up about it, although it freaked my family out. Seeing me sleep at odd times of the day was a trigger for them, and with the help of other recovering people I found the words to explain to my family how I was feeling, why I needed to shut down sometimes.

But the single most important thing I did in early recovery, was get honest, both with myself and with other people. Those things I didn't want to think about, let alone talk about? I started thinking about them and talking about them. I wrote in a journal, before I started this blog. Honesty is the antidote for denial, and denial keep you stuck.

And lastly, I stopped drinking. Such a simple thing, but it is the hardest step.

If you are trying to stop and you physically can't, get help. Talk to a doctor, or go to rehab. Rehab is such a nasty word, isn't it? To me it smelled of failure, of bottom-of-the-barrel drinkers. I wasn't expecting to find other Moms, other smart, funny, creative and interesting people who were just like me, but that's what I found. Rehab isn't a dirty word; it is a place of healing, and it is full of people who will understand you, and get you safely sober and on the path towards recovery.

If you can physically stop but your mind goes nuts, start talking. If you are triggered because you're irritated - be irritated. Get to the other side of an unpleasant emotion without the numbing effect of alcohol. Be in it, ride it out.   And then do it again and again.   Get through anger, hurt, resentment and boredom. You can do this on your own, but it is miserable, so find safe people - ideally sober people - and start talking.

You can find sober people at meetings, or in chat rooms, or on blogs. I get emails every week from people who say: "I've never said this to anyone before, but I think I'm an alcoholic", or "I can't stop drinking, even though I want to."   I know exactly how brave it is to admit that to yourself and to someone else, and it makes my heart soar because I know this person just broke through denial and gave themselves a fighting chance at sobriety.

Sober people are the bravest people I've ever met. They are authentic and compassionate, and they exist in the truth.  It is a beautiful, beautiful place to live.

Come join us. It's amazing here.

The Rules According to Greta

2011-06-07T09:59:00.001-04:00

Ah, the world of an 8 year old girl. Here are the rules if you want entry into her room. Can you tell she lives with a 5 year old boy?

1) NO eating.
2) NO picking your nose.
3) NO farting.
4) Don't be mean to anyone.
5) You have to like penguins and pie.
6) No parents and boys.
7) No burping.
8) Don't put Finn's BeBe (his saliva-covered blanket) on my bed.
9) No peeing and pooing.
10) No sitting in the little chair.
11) Don't say bad words.
12) If you break three rules you can never come in my room again.
13) Have Fun!

Best Kept Secret - An Interview with Amy Hatvany

2011-06-06T09:50:00.001-04:00

I love the internet.

It brings people into my life who I would never had had the chance to get to know otherwise, and my life is so much richer because of it.

Amy Hatvany is one of those people.

In March I wrote a review of her latest novel, Best Kept Secret. I am not exaggerating when I say this is one of the most important novels about mothers, alcoholism and recovery ever published. Amy writes eloquently, and with heart-wrenching honesty, about the unique struggles mothers face when they are slipping into addiction, and then trying to get sober. If you are wondering about your drinking, or love someone who is struggling, or you are a mother who grapples with the myth of perfectionism, you must read this book.

Amy is creative, smart, funny and down-to-earth. I am so blessed that our paths have crossed.

Her book is released tomorrow, June 7th, but you can order the book anytime by clicking HERE. It's less than $10, and I promise you it will move you to your core. And the ending will leave you gripping your chair in suspense.

Full disclosure: I have not been compensated in any way to promote Amy's book, write a review or post this interview. I'm doing it because I loved the book and I know you'll love it, too.

And now, my interview with Amy Hatvany:

1. Have you always loved to write? What inspired you to become a published writer?

I’ve been writing since I was in second grade, and my teacher helped me put together my first book, Amy’s Animal Stories. She typed up what I had written, then bound the stories together – the cover was made out of some crazy 1970’s, bright blue wallpaper. It’s on my bookshelf at home, as a reminder of where I began, and how much I love what I do.

In terms of what inspired me to attempt to get published, I think the only word that describes what motivated me was desperation! I never really considered writing as a career – I even had a college professor tell me I’d never be published because my writing was “too emotionally informed.” But after getting my degree and not finding any happiness in the work I was doing, I decided that I would never forgive myself if I didn’t at least try to write the novel that was simmering inside me. So, I quit my job, sold my car, and sat down at the computer.

2. You're a busy Mom - how do you find the time to write? Do you have any writing rituals?

I still work a full-time day job, too, so I have to fit writing into the corners of my life. I wish I could say I’m disciplined enough to get up at 5 AM every morning, but the truth is I more tend to write in fits and starts until the story begins to take on a life of its own. Suddenly, I become obsessed with getting to the end, and putting words on the page is almost a compulsive experience. The only ritual I have is to get my butt in the chair as often as possible. I find that I’m actually more productive when I only have small stretches of time to work, like “oh, dinner is in the oven for forty-five minutes…let’s see what I can get done!”

3. Best Kept Secret draws from your personal experience as a woman in recovery; how much does Cadence's personality mirror yours?

The biggest thing Cadence and I have in common is not feeling good enough, especially as a mother. Like Cadence, I spent too many years acting “as-if” – as if I were confident, happy, secure, and peaceful with my life, when in reality, I was insecure, scared, sad, and incredibly lonely. On the surface, I was cheery and social, but I had a hard time being truly vulnerable with the people around me. I also struggled with coming to grips with the idea that I’m an alcoholic – most of my life before I spiraled into drinking was all about my success. I didn’t know how to reconcile those two sides of my identity. I tried to capture some of that emotional struggle in what Cadence goes through in the story.

4. You chose to write a fictional novel rather than a memoir; can you talk about the creative challenges of developing fictional characters and situations that are so close to home for you?

You know, I didn’t give much thought to those challenges when I started writing. I focused on the story, attempting to portray as honestly as I could the wrenching emotions behind being a mother and an alcoholic. I only thought about telling the emotional truth of the experience – and honestly, fiction provides a much broader canvas for me to do that. This is how I think of it: my personal experience is only a singular grain of sand, and I wanted to write about the beach.

5. Best Kept Secret touches a lot on the perfection pressure experienced by mothers - how we are held to societal standards that are different than men's, and how we can be tough on ourselves (and to each other), too. How much do you feel this perfectionism plays a role in mothers and drinking? Do you feel that mothers face different challenges when it comes to trying to get sober, or participate in recovery?

These are huge questions, Ellie! I could talk about my thoughts around them for hours, but I’ll make an attempt at brevity. (I’m generally mouthy, so wish me luck!) I think as women in our culture – whether or not we are mothers – we are certainly driven by perfectionism. We are told we can do it all, be it all, have it all. Of course, we can’t – at least, not “perfectly” - so I wanted to portray how as a result, many women experience profound levels of shame and self-loathing, even as we smile brightly and tell ourselves that we can’t expect to always be perfect at everything in our lives. But deep down, perhaps subconsciously, I think we still believe that we “should” be. So we reach for behaviors that drown our shame out, at least temporarily. And then we become ashamed of the behavior, and a vicious cycle emerges. I’m not just talking about alcohol, here. Eating disorders, shopping, gambling, sex - even our careers can serve as an “escape” from the pressure.

In terms of getting sober and participating in recovery, mothers definitely face a different stigma and a different set of challenges. I’m not saying it’s harder, necessarily - just different. The lens society uses to view women and mothers who suffer from alcoholism is a much different prescription than the one used for men.

When I first got into recovery, I couldn’t even speak aloud about the fact that I had been drunk in front of my kids. And I didn’t hear other women talking about it, either. The shame we struggle with is so unwieldy, and learning to forgive ourselves – learning that we are worthy of that forgiveness in the face of society’s moral judgments against us – can be a rocky road to travel. The good news is that we don’t have to do it alone.

6. You are open about your own recovery from alcoholism. What made you decide to do this? Have there been any surprising positive or negative effects on your life because of it?

I wasn’t always so open about it! In the beginning, I was too filled with shame and self-disgust to talk about it, even with people who understood. It took time for me to work up the courage to speak the truth about my experiences, and now, I have chosen to be forthright because I believe that the only way to erase the painful stigma assigned to women who are mothers and are in recovery is to hold my head high and be honest about what I went through to become the woman I am today. Did I screw up? Yep. Did I learn from the experience and use it to practice becoming a wiser person every day? You bet.

I’ve had far more positive response than negative for sharing about my experiences. The subject of mothers and alcoholism is so taboo – and it makes me so happy when I get an email from someone who thanks me for broaching a subject they’ve lived alone with for so long. It also means the world to me when a family member of an addict/alcoholic writes me and says that after reading my book, they finally understand how their loved one felt in the midst of their addiction. Such a humbling experience to hear those words, and I’m incredibly grateful for it.

Of course, I’ve been criticized for my openness, too, but the fact is that there are no rules or “governing” agency for recovery. It’s a personal choice to share with others, and I absolutely respect those who chose to remain anonymous. I don’t speak for any one “brand” of recovery – I’m not a spokesperson or a preacher. I’m simply a woman who has made the personal decision to share my story in the hopes that another woman might feel less alone and perhaps find a way out of the dark place she’s living within.

7. What advice would you give a mother struggling with drinking?

I’m not a big one for giving advice, especially to someone who is struggling with drinking, but I can say that once I opened my mind to the idea that I didn’t have to figure out the issue on my own, my life began to get infinitely better. In my experience, there are no rules to follow in recovery, just gentle suggestions made by people who have stood in the same place as me. There is no judgment. There is acceptance and understanding and so much love and laughter. If you know someone in recovery, take the chance. Talk with them. There is no pressure to conform. There is only hope that you might find your way out of the dark.

8. What advice would you give a busy mother who dreams of publishing a book someday?

Stop dreaming and start writing!

9. What do you hope readers will take away from this novel?

Overall, I hope that women, especially, are able to see the similarities they share with Cadence, rather than the differences. I hope that the story widens the readers’ understanding and compassion, and perhaps makes them re-evaluate any preconceptions they might hold about women who suffer from alcoholism and mothers who don’t have primary custody of their children.

I also hope that any woman in the throes of active addiction sees herself in Cadence’s story and finds the courage it takes to reach out for help.

For me, that’s the inherent beauty of books – each person will walk away with something different from a story. My hope as an author is that readers will find a need met, perhaps one they weren’t aware they had to fill.

For more about Amy, you can follow her on twitter here, or like her facebook page here.

Purgatory

2011-06-02T10:01:00.001-04:00

Recently I've gotten several emails from women who are wondering about their drinking, and they all say the same thing: I don't know where I fit.

These are women who haven't lost anything; they still have their jobs, their families, their health. They haven't been arrested; indeed many of them are surrounded by family and friends who don't think they have a drinking problem at all.

But they know something isn't right, and they are beginning to suspect their drinking is at the root of it all.

Many of them say they have tried a recovery meeting or two, and they feel like they don't belong as they listen to others' tales of woe. I'm not that bad, they think. And they are right. They aren't that bad. Yet.

One woman put it beautifully when she said she feels caught in purgatory; she knows she doesn't drink socially, like most of her friends, but she doesn't feel 'bad enough' to attend recovery meetings. She said she felt like she doesn't fit in anywhere.

My opinion - and bear in mind this is my opinion only - is that they are caught up in what I call emotional addiction. They aren't addicted to alcohol; in fact they can go for a few days at a time and not drink. Physical addiction to alcohol takes emotional addiction to a scary new level; you get to the point where you have to drink. If you don't drink you start to sweat, tremble or shake, or you are hit with crippling anxiety. Sometimes all four. When you are physically addicted to alcohol you start drinking without your own permission, desperate for relief from these uncomfortable symptoms.

Emotional addiction comes with its own discomfort, but these symptoms can be easy to miss, because they feel like all the reasons most people drink - to relax, to unwind, as a reward for a hard day, to be more social.

When I was emotionally addicted - before I had to drink - my days started to revolve around thoughts of a drink. I would wake up in the morning feeling achy and hungover, most days, and a few cups of coffee or a brisk morning walk would clear my head and set my resolve: not tonight. I'm not going to drink tonight.

By three or four o'clock, though, the tape in my head had changed: just one. Only one drink tonight.

I hated the witching hour - the hours between 5pm and 8pm - when dinner, dishes, bathtimes and bedtimes collided with cranky kids and a tired husband. For working Moms just coming home from their job these hours are a whirlwind of activity laced with guilt that these crazy hours are the only times they see their husband, or their children, during the week.

All I wanted to was to unwind, relax, make these hours more palatable. A drink - or two, or three - provided instant relief from existential itchiness and guilt.

By six o'clock a drink felt like my God-given right, dammit, for making it through another long day. I was careful while the kids were awake, but as soon as they were tucked into their beds I would head downstairs for just one more that inevitably turned into more than one.

I would wake up the next morning, achy and contrite, and the cycle would begin again.

Sometimes something would happen - an alcohol fueled fight with my husband, or an embarrassing call to a friend, and I would resolve not to drink for a while. I would usually succeed for a few days, but when the witching hours arrived my subconscious was still preoccupied with the not-drinking. Here's me not drinking, I'd think with a mixture of pride and longing. I was irritable, edgy and short with the kids. Eventually a drink seemed like a good idea, if only to get my fun-loving, relaxed self back.

I started keeping a mental list in my head of all the reasons I couldn't be heading for a drinking problem (I never, ever said the "A word" - alcoholic - even to myself).  I had thriving children, a good job, many friends. I didn't blackout (back then I didn't know the definition of a "grey-out", when memories get fuzzy or full of gaps), and I didn't drive drunk (driving after having a few didn't count, in my book, because everyone does that, right?).   I stopped with no problem at all during my pregnancies. I was athletic, social and active.

I missed a big signpost: people who aren't developing a drinking problem don't walk around with lists in their heads about why they can't possibly have a drinking problem.

I lived in this purgatory for years.   When I'm honest with myself I can see signs of a problem as far back as my twenties, when I would rally co-workers for a drink after work as often as possible. I never, ever attended events that didn't involve alcohol. I was usually the first person to arrive and the last to leave.

I can look back now and see where I crossed the line between emotional addiction and physical addiction. It was subtle, quiet, sneaky.  There were no arrests or embarrassing moments at a party.   Somewhere along the line I stopped questioning myself about my drinking. I became too afraid to try to stop - even for short bits of time - because I didn't want to learn that I couldn't.   I surrendered to denial.

I'm talking about all this because I know, now, that emotional addiction will - always - lead to phsycial addiction eventually. It may take years, like it did for me, but the elevator only goes one way: down.

There is good news, though. Because of the internet, more and more women are exploring their drinking from the safe distance of the other side of their computer monitor. They are joining chat rooms, reading blogs, forming communities where they don't have to fear running into someone at the grocery store the next day.

Women are starting to get honest with themselves before the physical addiction kicks in, when they are in that purgatory where they know in their gut that their drinking is a problem, but they aren't about to go to a recovery meeting. Not yet.

Getting sober when you're emotionally addicted to alcohol is hard.   It is a lot like dieting; how many of us wait until we're visibly overweight to lose those extra pounds? How many of us wait until our health is at risk before we buckle down and do something about it?   How many of us lose those extra ten pounds, over and over, without really committing to a lifetime of healthy eating and exercise?

It's like that for people who are emotionally addicted to alcohol.   We stop for brief periods of time, convince ourselves we don't have a problem, and scratch our heads in bewilderment when months - or weeks - later we're right back where we started, or worse.

There is hope, though.   If you're reading this blog, or Crying Out Now, or joining chat rooms for people trying to stop drinking - GOOD FOR YOU. If you are listening to that niggling voice that tells you drinking is a problem, one that is getting worse, and reaching out to talk to others who understand - you have all my admiration and respect.

It is nearly impossible to make any meaningful changes in your drinking, in your life, alone. So don't be alone; go find the people who understand. We're everywhere, if you're looking in the right place.

Some people believe getting sober online isn't 'real' sobriety, and that recovery meetings are the only way to maintain meaningful sobriety. I believe, too, that to succeed long term you will need a network of support and understanding in your 'real' life, because virtual friends can only take you so far. But if getting honest through the relative anonymity of the computer screen helps you take those first few brave - and terrifying - steps towards recovery, I'm all for it.

At Crying Out Now there is a blogroll of sober bloggers, or bloggers trying to get sober. Go check them out. Look for your story in their stories.   Join the Booze Free Brigade - now over 840 members strong - and reach out to people; don't sit silently reading. Go tell your story - type out your thoughts and fears and be surrounded by empathy and understanding.

I try not to live in regret, but I will always, always wish that I had the courage to explore my drinking when I was in purgatory.  I knew the resources were out there, but I was too scared to look.

Don't wait until physical addiction kicks in, because you won't see it coming, and although purgatory is bad, physical addiction is hell.

So please, go look.

Second Annual Blogoversary Giveaway Extravaganza!!! $50 Gift Certificate!

2011-05-31T21:30:00.001-04:00

Congrats to Alex at Late Enough, who won last month's giveaway! Thank you to all who entered!!

To celebrate my two year blogoversary, this month I'm giving away a $50 gift certificate good toward any item(s) in my shop!!

Here is a sampling of some of the pieces currently listed:

Choose from over 160 bracelets, necklaces, earrings and rings - or customize a special piece all your own!

Like last year, there are ways to secure additional entries:

1) "Like" my facebook page (see right hand sidebar) - TWO additional entries

2) Follow me on Twitter (see right hand sidebar) - TWO additional entries

3) Follow my blog (see right hand sidebar) - TWO additional entries

4) Tweet about the giveaway with a link to this post (please copy @onecraftyellie in the tweet so I can track it) - FIVE additional entries

5) Itemize your favorite item(s) in a comment below - ONE additional entry for each piece you list.

6) Last but not least - become a subscriber to my newsletter! It is quick and easy - see the upper right hand corner of my sidebar - just pop your email in box provided! I only send newsletters once a month, I never spam and I don't share your email with any third parties. And I always give GREAT discounts to newsletters subscribers only! - FIVE additional entries!

If you are already a Facebook, Blog or Twitter follower, please say so and you will be granted the extra entries.

Please leave your email in the comments so I know where to reach you if you win (or email me directly at onecraftyellie@gmail.com). If you win, I will send you instructions on how to redeem your gift certificate.

The winner will be chosen at random (my daughter draws a name from a hat) on July 1st!

This giveaway is open internationally.

Thank you so much!

THANK YOU. Really. A LOT.

2011-05-29T00:31:00.005-04:00

Today is my two year blogoversary.

Lately I've been feeling sort of distant from my blog. It's nothing dramatic; I simply don't get the urge to write as much as I used to. It's okay. I know these things ebb and flow.

But as I near the two year mark, I'm reflecting on the gifts this blog has given me, and the gifts are plentiful.

Two years ago I didn't have unbelieveable friendships with these talented, warm, generous women. They have changed my life forever:

Heather and Maggie

Corinne

Ann

Yeah. She's that awesome.

Can I take a minute to talk about Heather? She loves it when I gush about her ... (not). Heather was the first bloggy friend I made, and I still wonder how on earth I got so lucky. She is smart, funny, loving and authentic. She sparkles. Because of Heather, over the past year I have jogged through Central Park in a TuTu, sat in a Yurt on a mountainside in California and flash mobbed in Nashville. Not to mention countless (and sometimes ass-saving) giggling phone calls. She is a touchstone, a lifeline and a creative kindred spirit. I love her to pieces.

Two years ago I was almost two years sober, and only beginning to find some peace of mind, some clarity, a slice of sunshine through the fog. One day I spontaneously sat down at my keyboard, googled "blogging" and jumped in without the slightest clue about anything. I see that moment now as some kind of divine intervention, a God nudge of sorts, because being able to write in this space has been so healing for me. Writing here helped me find my footing, my authenticity, my voice.

Two years ago I was feeling the doldrums of sobriety, 65 lbs overweight, and embarking on a journey inward, although I didn't know it then. Bit by bit I started getting honest, getting real, and pouring my feelings out onto the keyboard.

I want to thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being here to listen. Your comments, your emails, tweets and facebook posts mean a lot to me. Thank you for trusting me with your truths, too. Your voices matter. So much.

Thank you for supporting my little jewelry business, for sending notes of encouragement, tweeting and facebooking about my shop and helping to spread the word. I'm hoping it's what I can do for work, full time, when Finn is in Kindergarten next year, and all of you are a big part of helping me realize that dream.

Thank you for helping me build Crying Out Now. Even more than this blog, Crying Out Now is near and dear to my heart, and it is reaching thousands of women across the globe. I wish I could share some of the emails I get from women thanking the team at Crying Out Now for giving them a safe place to explore, ask themselves some hard questions, find a sense of community and hope. It is growing by leaps and bounds, and I couldn't do it without your support.

Lately, as I said, I've been flailing a bit about what to write here. Each time I sit down at the keyboard I think: but I already talked about that. A lot of the things I've been working on over the past couple of years are stable, at least at the moment, like my sobriety and my weight loss. It is an astonishing amount of work to achieve stable, I'm learning, but I'm fearful of sounding like a broken record, so lately I've been giving those topics a bit of a breather.

It occurred to me today, as I was pondering what to say in my blogoversary post, that what I've been doing lately instead of writing a lot, is living. I am in a peaceful place, an ordinary place, and for the first time in a long time I'm wallowing in the regularness (that's totally a word) of it all. Or at least I'm trying to.

And, it turns out, regularness is hard work, too. I'm trying to lean into gratitude, away from negativity and focus on the gifts.

Like today. Just a regular Saturday, but oh - it was so full of gifts: Greta scoring two goals in her soccer game, and saving several more playing goalie for the first time ever. Her proud chocolate-covered smile as she devoured a celebratory ice cream. The kids splashing in the water at the beach - the BEACH - when one week ago we were shivering in the drizzling rain. Watching them laugh with friends, build a hermit crab hotel and then squealing as the tide came in and swept it away.

The blogger in me was writing a post - like a ticker-tape in the back of my mind - for each of these moments. I used to beat myself up about it, wonder if the blogging was robbing me of being in the moment. I realize now, though, that blogging helps me metabolize these moments, capture their simplicity and their beauty in a way that I never could, before.

I am trying to live - and write - with a grateful heart.

Thank you for being on this journey with me. I'm so glad you're here.

Out From Behind the Curtain

2011-05-25T09:46:00.003-04:00

I was awake unusually late last night, after indulging in the frivolity of the finales of Dancing With The Stars and The Biggest Loser, so I happened to see the 11pm news.

I had heard about the tragedy in Joplin, MO, where tornadoes devastated the community, and my heart ached for them. Something happens to me, though, when I'm faced with incomprehensible tragedy; a mental curtain comes down and I simply can't process it all. The photos are staggering - house upon house flattened, over one hundred people dead, hundreds more homeless in the blink of an eye.

Oh, those poor people, I think, and then BAM. The curtain comes down and my brain shuts down. It's the luxury of the observer: it's not my community. My family is safe and warm in their beds. I don't want to think about that anymore.

Last night the newscasters said, with wide eyes, that more tornadoes were crashing through the Midwest, and once again heading for Joplin and much of the surrounding area.

This time the curtain didn't come down, as I listened to a mother describe how she threw herself over her baby, in the middle of the night, to protect him from flying debris as a tornado raged near her house. I felt her pain, the unimaginable fear.

I wanted to do something to help, but as usual I thought: what can I do? It's all so BIG. And I'm so far away.

So I was very grateful to be asked by the amazing women of Bigger Picture Blogs to donate an item for their auction to raise money to help those in Joplin rebuild their lives. It seems like such a small gesture, but it's something, and it brings me out from behind my curtain of denial to remember that this tragedy could happen to anyone, and it's important to help. You don't need to break your bank account; each and every little bit counts.

Bigger Picture Blogs is hosting an auction chock full of beautiful items you can bid on to raise money that will go directly to the Salvation Army and the people on the front lines helping Joplin. Every hour, today and tomorrow (5/25 and 5/26) a new item will come up for bidding. My Strength and Hope necklace will go up for bidding tomorrow (5/26) morning, but it is only one of dozens of amazing items to bid on, starting today. You can help a devastated community and get something for yourself, too.

Please, step out from behind the curtain with me and come help. Bids start at $10 - only $10!

Edited to include the list of items to bid on:

Wednesday May 25:

8am Assorted Watercolor Note Cards from Cards Direct ($40 value)

9am Art of Doing Nothing Poster from Tammy Lee Bradley ($28)

10am Gussy Sews Shop Credit ($25)

11am Thai Silk Pillow Covers from Jaime Shaw ($40)

12noon Hand Knit Market Tote from A Soft Landing ($35)

1pm Secret Hope Necklace from Create Beauty Daily ($38)

2pm Busy Body Book Bundle from Busy Body Books ($40)

3pm Handmade Ring Sling from Prairie Mama ($75)

4pm {So} Sack from {So} Sartina ($29)

5pm $100 Sweet Deal Credit from Mamapedia ($100)

6pm Pair of Spring/Summer Shoes from Hotter Comfort Concept Shoes ($100-140)

Thursday May 26:

8am Strength and Hope Necklace from Shining Stones ($20)

9am $25 Stonyfield Organic Product & Cookbook ($43)

10am Fractured Glass Print from Tammy Lee Bradley ($25)

11am DaySpring Collection ($40)

12noon Monster Softie from Samster Mommy ($35)

1pm Vintage Fabric Fat Quarters from Sew Lovely Designs ($20)

2pm Love Print from Beth Fletcher Photography and June Afternoons ($25)

3pm Flutter Sleeve Ruffle Peasant Dress from Smashed Peas and Carrots ($36)

4pm Camera Strap Cover from Eclectic Whatnot ($38.50)

5pm $50 Gift Certificate from The Vintage Pearl ($50)

6pm Logo Design from NW Designs ($100)

7pm Ultimate Fan Pack from Discovery Channel ($200)

Don't see anything you want to bid on? There are other ways to help:

•Donate directly to the Salvation Army
•Spread the word about the auction
•Post our button on your blog, Facebook or Twitter
•Tweet using the hashtag #Help4Joplin

Click on over to Bigger Picture Blogs and help out. Your generosity is really, really appreciated.

Thank you.

Roller Coaster

2011-05-23T13:32:00.001-04:00

Finn is sitting happily in the tub, splashing bubbles around, and I'm fuming.

"Finn, get out of the tub. NOW," I say with a dangerous edge to my voice.   I've been standing here for about three minutes, holding out a towel like an idiot, waiting for him to do one more thing, Momma. He loves my irritation; it puts him firmly in control.

I can feel it welling up inside me, a tidal wave of disproportionate rage, and I tremble with the effort to keep it down.

"It's okay, Momma," he says in a singsong voice. "It's not like I'm going to stay in the tub forevah."

All day has been a series of fits and starts. This isn't different from any other day, but for whatever reason today I have been on edge, tired and cranky, my emotions slithering dangerously close to the surface.

"GET. OUT. NOW."

Finn giggles and plops a handful of bubbles onto his head.

My vision goes white with rage; I'm so tired - so damn tired - of having every simple moment be a struggle: where are your shoes, why did you take your socks off, sit still, no you can't have another snack, why did you hit your sister, put that down, pick that up, come here, go away.

"AAAGGHHHH!" I scream, throw the towel on the floor and storm out. I slump down in the hallway, put my face in my hands, and count to ten.   It's such a small thing, but it's the proverbial last straw, and although I know I'm completely out of control I can't help it.

I can hear Finn laughing to himself in the tub. He's won again, I think.  He invited me to a fight and I came .. hook, line and sinker.

It's no big deal if he doesn't get out of the tub right now, of course. It's just that it's so close to bedtime, so close to silence in the house, my book and a cup of tea. I can't get there fast enough.

I take deep breaths, and try to calm down.   Through the bathroom door, I hear muffled singing.

"Momma's fwustawated because I won't get out of the ba -aa- aath.  I just want to play wif the bubbles, they are so fuu-uu-un. Maybe if Momma played wif more bubbles she wouldn't be so maaa- aa- aad."

Despite myself, I smile.   The rage evaporates in an instant, and I poke my head in the door to see his slippery little naked body covered from head to toe in bubbles.   He grins up at me.

"You still mad, Momma?"

"Kinda," I reply, with a sigh. "I'm tired of you not listening to me. It's very frustrating."

"Yes," he says solemnly. "That IS fwusterwating. I'll get out now."

I rub his body down with the towel and fluff his hair into a faux-hawk like I've been doing since he was two. He peeks at his reflection in the steamy mirror and laughs like he has never seen it before. After he wriggles into his jammies he leans over and gives me a damp, warm hug.

"I want to tell you a secret, Momma," he says. He presses his lips right onto my ear and whispers, "I'm sorry."

This is what he does to me, my youngest. He takes me on a roller coaster ride of emotions, propelling me into the depths of rage and then mere seconds later melting my heart.  He's a little obstinate ball of love, impish and thoughtful, testing limits and then running back into my arms.   On the good days I can maintain balance and some semblance of authority, or at least consistency. Other days - like today - I'm putty in his hands, exhausted and too worn down to keep an even keel.

My daughter is so much more like me. We avoid confrontation, nurture and over-identify.   Parenting a child who is exactly like you comes with its own challenges, of course, but I get her. I can read her next move, understand her reactions, empathize to a fault.  I can count on one hand the number of times I have had to raise my voice to Greta, but Finn won't stop until he hears that magical decibel level; the one that tells him he's got me right where he wants me.

It's amazing, isn't it, how two children from the same genetic pool can be so different?   I have to split my personality to parent them; what works for one inevitably doesn't work at all for the other. Greta, who hates confrontation of any kind, gets nervous and stressed out when Finn is in trouble, thinking somehow she's in trouble, too.

Finn needs constant discpline, needs to know where the boundaries are, and more often than not some level of irritation or anger is needed from me to get him to understand where the line is. He loves the line. He'd live there permanently if he could.

It's exhausting. And exhilerating.

And tomorrow we'll get up and do it all again.