A Bad Oprah Article

Sometimes, to gain distance, and/or entertain myself- OK, it not about entertaining myself, but more about clinging to sanity - I narrate my day. You know, like a voiceover in a film or the first chapter of a novel.  

"I quit" And with that the babysitter gave her notice - referencing the challenges presented by my younger daughter's behavior.   Ever since the kids dad disappeared six months ago- the five year old had run through babysitters with increasingly hostile behaviors.  A problem- given I was the only means of support for our family of three and needed to work six days a week.  And I was aware of, and worried about, her behavior.  The therapy I was paying for to help them deal with the loss of their Dad was not covered by insurance, nor was it cheap, and there were no quick fixes to having your Dad leave your life without any notice. Costs were high - actual and emotional-  as my kids were both under the age of seven with serious medical issues.  And that was before their dad went AWOL.

Despite having bronchitis, triggered by an immune system suppressed by steroids to reduce swelling for a severe spine injury- I felt optimistic.  The stomach flu that hijacked my morning and day assured me that I would be on track for my weight loss goals despite the high doses of prednisone in the preceding weeks and I was taking silver linings where I found them. Working out was my solace and despite the days at Children's Hospital and sleepless nights of billing client hours - I found a sense of balance in training for competition.

OK - so here is the part of the bad Oprah story where I either invent "white-out", some new kind of "mommy-must-have"like cunning diaper cover, or do something heroic. Instead, I want to drink red wine and watch Sean Penn movies.

Saying It Out Loud

One Year Count Down

So, it may seem insane to make this declaration as I lay supine, weak, wasted and swollen from a long course of brutal steroids and narcotics for a nerve injury. But here it goes- I am very clear and very focused - I am in training for a powerlifting competition. I plan to take a significant title in just over one year!  OK, said 'it' out loud.

There - I have said it. I am going to throw my weight belt into the ring and go after some seriously heavy lifts.  It appears that I am freakishly strong for a very old chick!  The beauty is - I am going to be fifty when I compete and my numbers look great.  And before this injury- even my untrained lifts were very competitive - raw, natural, old ladies.  

And I will continue to Crossfit and I will improve. The 'Open' only wetted my appetite for change.

So even when I writhed in pain from compressed nerve roots, I committed to a new training program and allowing for a full recovery from this injury. I dragged myself up and out of bed yesterday to add to the baseline 'injured cardio program' I have been doing- to do some maintenance lifting.  I usually eschew all machines, but it was a joy to leg press 450, lunge and work my core.   I see my future clearly and I will do what it takes to get there.

For now,  my focus in on recovery and dropping 24lbs (OK that was before my three week fling with prednisone) -  so I can compete at a lighter weight class.

God knows, I love a good diet! There are a few things I am really good at- and one of them is cutting weight when I actually decide to do so.  

And no, its not too much to seriously train while running a business; as well as being the single and sole support to two medically fragile kids.  In fact, training for the seemingly impossible (running Death Valley, or that time I lost 80 lbs...) is what reminds me that no matter how hard things are - anything is possible.  Cliche as it sounds, running half marathons and crossfit have gotten me through some very tough times.   

So today I embrace the impossible- each lift is an affirmation that ultimately its mind that changes matter.

13.3 - Because I Chose To

As cliche as this might sound - 13.3 (to the uninitiated that was the 3rd in a series of crossfit workouts for the 'open') reminded me of why crossfit is more than just a workout program.  I am the proverbially former fat kid from your gym class.  You know, the smart funny one who could help you pass your classes but you never ever wanted on your team? ... but not anymore.  About six years ago I said goodbye to all of that- lost a bunch of weight and started running half marathons and kicking some ass. As much as you can do that without any real coordination.

Then about two or three years ago - I found my way to Crossfit East Bay.  These were the very same few years during which my marriage resoundingly crashed and burned; I unexpectedly became a single mom (to two special needs kids); I bumped into some health issues; got knocked off my feet by IRS 'surprises' leftover from my former marriage; and otherwise became the poster child for "if it weren't for bad luck, there would be no luck at all".  And.... I did all of this while running a business and being the sole fiscal support for my band of wayward mermaids.

So, after spending this December and January having pneumonia- I decided to compete in the Crossfit Open- my first ever Crossfit competition.

With 13.3 (the third workout in a series of five) I was again reminded how helpful Crossfit has become as reminder that the seemingly impossible is, in fact, surmountable. I have a choice. I can show up and do my best- even without any real skill, experience or success in what I am about to encounter.  And I will get my ass kicked- and I will survive regardless. In other words - an approach to fitness that mimics life.

Was I frustrated today when my plans to engage in a "do-over" of 13.3 were thwarted by the competing priorities of being a single mom with two sick kids whose deadline for work went rogue??- absolutely.  Read; I didn't even finish all 150 wallballs on Friday- and had about fifty missed reps and really wanted to try again because I am not sure I really did my best. And that is my new mantra for the impossible- to do "my" best.

And I will continue to try to do my best - in crossfit and in whatever life tosses my way- just hopefully it won't be a 14 pound wall ball with a nine foot target.

Memories Lost, Memories Found.

It was in the ER, talking to the doctor, that I realized I had forgotten about the ten to fifteen months it took to help my youngest daughter withdraw from the opiates her birth mother was addicted to during her pregnancy and my child’s birth. 

I had somehow ‘forgotten’ about the tremors, the stiffening body and arching back, the grinding gums, the night terrors, the difficulties suckling, and the days of working with contrast cards and physical therapists to stimulate her vision and mobility on the right side of her body.  Somehow the memory that she was unable to sleep for more than an hour or two, and needed constant physical contact, had evaporated like the marine layer meeting late morning sun. I had forgotten the fears of those doctor visits, the legacies of in utero addiction, and the physical tolls of emerging from the womb far too many weeks early.

Somehow all of that had gotten lost in the passage of time and dailiness of the silly made up songs she sings, her requests for me snuggle her in my bed, and the fantastic ensembles she appears wearing at breakfast - created from my accessories and her sister’s clothes.

I have a rather photographic memory – and ever since I can remember people have commented on ‘how much’ I remember.  And yet recently I am learning how much I have forgotten.

In that moment, when the ER doctor said “I am prescribing a narcotic painkiller for her,” a tsunami of remembrances unleashed the past into the current day and a realization of memories lost. 

I replied, “No, we cannot do that. She was born an addict”

The New Year - A time to be quiet and a time to speak

I feel relief in having made it.

 A time to cry and a time to laugh.

There were parts of 2012 that were so difficult- I thought they might actually end me. I had my first ever encounter with the question of "what if I cannot do this?" "What happens if it just gets too hard?"  I wasn't self destructive just concerned that I might fall off an emotional cliff that had an infinite fall...

  A time to be born and a time to die

Its been a year that has had challenges- in addition to my ex-husband suddenly disappearing and losing my kids' co-parent; the IRS seized my limited assets; I stared down a serious illness in one of my kids; I struggled along with everyone else running a business in these tough economic times; dealt with the aftermath of trauma linked to being assaulted and mugged; dealt with the maternal pain of having one of my kids suffer harm while in the care of others; and so it went. On and on and on. Almost as an after thought- there was also the heartbreak of being lied to by someone I wanted to, and had, trust in.

A time to keep and a time to throw away

And with each challenge- I found new resolve, rallied resources, relied upon peers and professionals. But my faith wavered and flickered - and some days was so anemic I could not feel its pulse.

 A time to search and a time to quit searching.

It was with hope I woke up today to sunlight dappling my walls.  I almost furtively emerged from my cocoon of quilts, checking my iPad, to make sure it was actually 2013.  I had no inclination to celebrate last night - lately wine sours on my tongue and my only real solace seems found in reading Swedish noir.

 A time to tear and a time to mend.

But I awoke this morning with hope and a bit of longing to snuggle my two girls upon their awakening and knowledge that a visit to the sea would remind me that under heaven the there is a time and a season for all things.

Failure in Foresight

No, no I didn’t see this coming. But I sit with your judgment- that I should have had more foresight.  I was stuck in the present - running from the shadows of our past, pulling my children into the sun.

Perhaps that premonition was lost in the transitions of disassembling what was once family, running a business, setting up a new home, healing wounds of a failed 'happily ever after' and holding 'it' all together. 

The daily care provided for five years as a co-parent seemed to indicate a commitment to being a dad that was real. Solid – even if I was the sole fiscal support for our wayward band of mermaids and gypsies.  

So, no, no, I didn’t make plans for the eventuality of my ex-husband and co-parent disappearing without notice.  The calls to the morgue and jails, the sobs of children missing their dad, and the days when it feels impossible to do this version of us were unplanned for.  Its like walking in a blizzard at night- hoping that the internal compass is still intact and I am steering us into the right future.

So no, I didn’t plan for this;  your suggestion that I should have seen this coming - another litany to add to my insomniac’s rope of prayer beads and self-recriminations.

I imagine the statements of “its not that bad” “kids are resilient” “there are lot of single working moms” are offerings of comfort?  But they make me feel unseen.  Unheard.  

We retreat to find the new normal- to look for beams of light that will carry us aloft out of darkness. Combining best laid plans with wings and prayers.

Choice

As a single mother, I am often rushing.  Rushing as I hold the hands of my four- and six year olds, hurrying to beat the school's morning bell in our own daily version of the impossible race. I love the feeling of my daughters’ hands in mine; small, soft and strong. I feel the roadmaps of their joie de vivre in the calluses and band-aids.

Time stood still when I heard about the shooting in Newton, Connecticut; Sandy Hook Elementary.  I could only imagine the infinitesimal moment of watching my child's joy turn to horror to be extinguished forever. 

Yesterday morning I savored each moment of the morning with girls. Imagining a macabre spin on the Buddhist deathbed meditation taught to me when I worked in hospice: what if today is our last morning. What would I cherish, what would I regret?  

Tutus, vegan bacon strips and eggos with grape jam, runny noses, sticky storybooks, rain boots, the dog dancing in attendance...

This was what the Newton parents, unknowingly, experienced last Friday. 

Yesterday, I realized again that I had the choice- and embraced the smaller moments of grace.