Purge.

My Dad finally got his liver 3 weeks ago. It was a joyous day, full of laughter as we waited, tears as he was wheeled away. It was scary at first, seeing him broken, bruised, endless tubes snaking out of him like fat, external veins. He was mindless from the medication--Mom had to fight with him for days so he wouldn't remove the respirator.

The first night he almost died due to a complication from one medication. The nurses scrambled for a doctor, pushing my mother out into the waiting room, where she has to sit all alone, because we had all gone home for the night. After being asleep for less than an hour, I get the call from my Mom and drive in the pouring rain through Atlanta, the numbing panic gripping my entire being as I wondered what news at the hospital was waiting to be told.

But then he got better! And we were all glowing with new life! Things were looking up! He was released from the hospital a week to the day of his surgery. He was laughing, his color was no longer the color of a weathered page, but red and rosey!!

And then the steroids wore off...

There were many days my Mom described as 'hell'. He felt bad, worse. No one was listening to them--the transplant team was wonderful in all aspects except emotional. Then he was back in the hospital--and I got the horrifying call Friday that he was going to have another surgery to fix a tiny hole in his bile duct---and oh, yeah, there is now a spot on his lung...

Defeated, bleak, uncertain, scared and disappointed. These are the emotions I feel every minute. I miss those first few days after the transplant--when we were so foolishly sure the worst was behind us. Mom even booked a house on Tybee for our annual summer trip.

Now we have a 1.7 centimeter black shadow casted over our minds and no one can tell us when we will know anything or what they plan to do about it. Worst case scenario is that his Liver cancer spread. Best case (which is weird) would be that it's lung cancer. I've heard tale that they might be able to just 'cut it out' but of course, no one can tell us anything until they look at it, and they also won't tell us when they plan to look at it.

Add to that the dissolution of my brother's marriage. I love my sister-in-law and I love her son, Caden. I'm not really going to get into it other than my heart is broken over her decisions and my heart is broken for my brother.

Between being the eternal optimist for my Mom (who is amazing, BTW.) and the counselor to my brother, I find my phone hardly stops ringing.

And then today I looked up classes for Summer semester. Due to financial aid issues, I had to put off school one semester (which worked out great, because RC got his liver and I couldn't imagine having to deal with all this plus school). I'm scared and excited, second guessing myself. I keep thinking about that moment at the end of my driveway in 2007 when I decided to quit grad school, silently vowing to write. Its taken some time for me to own this decision, to myself and publicly and to own the dream of working in publishing.

Then, there is the added stress of when I am going to have my next kid. I'm hoping to be pregnant while I finish up my degree. It struck my today that I will be 27 (!!!) when I have my next child, IF I have him/her earlier rather than later. 27!!!! How did I get so old???

I wanted to be done having children by the time I'm 30. And how can I start a career with a new baby? Granted, I'll probably go to grad school first, but I have this over-whelming fear that I'm not going to be able to fit it all in. There is the ever-present conflict of having children and a career. It's times like these I wish I were a man.

Here's the thing: it's not the end of the world if I have children in my 30's. Most people I know won't start having kids until they are in their 30's. I just feel like I've wasted so much time A) Pursuing a different career path than what I should have B) Taking so damn long--(i.e. Being complacent) finding the courage to taking the next step.

And what if I SUCK? What if I get into publishing/writing/ whatever and I hate it? And I'm stuck at square one?

I'm not really looking for answers or pity or advice. I guess I just feel better putting all this self- doubt, fear, confusion, love, grief, sadness, joy, excitement and angst into the universe. Purging.

It's just a whole lot of feelings for one girl to digest in one single, solitary day. I'm so good at putting a wall up to my emotions, to feeling them in their appropriate time, when I feel they are ready to be felt. It seems as of late, the levy of my mind is revealing it's limitations. It's bending under the pressure.

Writing Prompt #2: A Cup of Restraint

I would like just a cup of restraint, please.
Instead I have gallons.
So much restraint,
I'm hindered.
I'm swimming in restraint.
I'm breathing in restraint.
My words, my actions
are cloaked in over-thinking.
Analyzing has become
the chains that bind me,
the drugs that sedate me.
I wish I could break free,
be irrational, unpredictable,
impulsive and sure.
Be true to myself,
even if it's
hurtful, unhealthy.
Feral, strong, unthinking.
Courageous, petty, unfeeling.
I'd rather be all these things
that are ugly,
than to not be.
Because living in restraint,
is almost like
not living
at all.

Writing Prompt #1: "I Used to Think..."

I used to think I was a coward by nature--but have since learned that bravery is a conscious decision made every day, every moment and needs to be sharped, a weapon for battle.
I used to think the world was black and white, but life experiences have taught me that the world is a rainbow of varying shades of grey.
I used to think that there wasn't a person in this world I'd give my life for--then I met Oliver.
I used to think that I was sinful by nature, that there was always something to apologize for. I replaced those "I'm sorry's" with "Thank You's".
I used to think I'd lose myself when I became a Mother; when actually, becoming a Mother opened a thousand universes into my being.
I used to think I'd be famous one day. There are some moments when I still think that.

Don't Stop Believin'

I glanced at the calendar sitting on my desk, marveling at how empty it seemed. Up until recently, it was marked and highlighted with bills due and credit cards to pay. We've been able to breath the past couple months. As I was working on some inane project in my office, I started trying to calculate how much we used to have to pay for this and for that.
And then I thought, "How on earth did we ever survive????"
We are resilient because we never really know how bad something is until we are looking back upon it. That goes for the good as well--but mostly, not knowing the big picture of how bad things are is the only possible way we make it through
We, as a family, are going through a bad time right now. What stings the most is our awareness of it; how could we not be aware, watching a disease progress as we helplessly stare at the phone, waiting for the news, for someone else's death to be our saving grace for life.
I have learned the limits of love these past few months, finding myself contemplating the death of one to save another, my father. How I might consider killing someone else to save his life. It's all morbid conjecture, I know, and if faced with the possibility I couldn't ever really take someone from their family. But the fact that, in my mind, I might...it's chilling to say the least.
Up until yesterday, I hadn't considered anything other than the phone ringing, the surgery a success, my father returning to us a new man. But yesterday, I began to question my optimism, my hope, wondering if I was just being naive, or unfeeling or in denial--but then I was reminded by my very smart friend that I am often the only bright light in the darkness of our situation, the other side of the coin to the pessimists (or realists, as they say) that make up my family and my guilt evaporated, just like that.
Because if I can't get him a liver myself, the least I can do is to believe one will come.

Where Are You Going?

"We're almost there and no where near it; all that matters is we're going."

I have terrible recall, but for some reason I can always recite this quote from Gilmore Girls, my favorite show in the whole world. It's been kind of a mantra to me, a person who can't ever really sit still in her own head.
I woke up one day a few months back and decided that I was going to return to school. I didn't want to waste another moment feeling like a fraud as a self-proclaimed writer; or feeling directionless with a few unfinished novels under my belt. I need direction, motivation, criticism, a challenge in my life.
I love school. No, I LOVE school. Not so much the homework (but, as you can probably guess, I love writing papers!) or the mandatory attendance or the two intermediate french classes I have to take--no, I love the meeting of the minds that takes place in a very liberal college. I love the smell of the City as you walk out of General Classroom Building; the feeling of anticipation on the first day of school; syllabi's, I LOVE syllabi's'!!!
Okay, so a lot of this love is directed towards Georgia State specifically. Regardless, I'm excited to go back.
This decision has come with mixed reviews.
Anthony is always supportive, no matter what I decide to do. My parents on the other hand have been.......quiet.
Which translates into what I perceive to be as, "You're moving backwards, getting another bachelors degree. Have another baby!!"
There once was a time when their silence would have kept me up at night, caused me to rethink my decision. But honestly, there is nothing on this earth that would make me rethink my decision.
I am a decisive person. Once my mind is made, I can't bring myself to turn back. And I know a lot of people can't understand this, but I honestly feel that my decisiveness stems from a connection with the universe. When I am absolutely sure about a decision in my life, a sense of peace befalls me, the earth stops moving and when I close my eyes, my future lays before me, a perfectly lit path. I just know. And that is enough for me. I don't have to know where I'm going, I just know that I have to go.
I am on the cusp of a great adventure; the great unknown of my life. I am at the turning point of before and after. And I'm chomping at the bit to find out what changes lay in wait for me. A world of new possibility will blossom; and unlike before, when I was obtaining not one, but two degrees, I'm hungry to grab every opportunity presented to me.
So, I don't know if I'm going to end up with waaay more student loans than I intended just to teach at a university. I'm not going into this degree hoping to become a famous novelist. What I feel with certainty in my soul is that where ever this little endeavor takes me, I will find myself fulfilled.
So, as I held that acceptance letter in my hand, my mantra came to the forefront of my mind:
We're almost there and nowhere near it; all that matters is we're going.
I feel, for the first time in a long time, that everything in my life is starting to make sense.
I'm excited and I'm serene.

Life and Death and Pets.

2010 hasn’t been easy on me in terms of my pets. In April, I lost my beloved Boo Radley (beloved is an understatement, believe me) to a failing heart. And Friday night, we lost our cat, Tsunami Man. What makes his death heartbreakingly tragic is that he was killed by our dog, Bailey.
It all started with a tree that fell in our back yard, that broke open our fence and cluttered our back porch. We can’t leave the dogs out like we normally do, we have to ‘walk’ them. And when Anthony was out ‘walking’ the dogs, Tsunami Man bumbled onto the back porch.
Because of the tree, Tsunami Man was trapped, but at least Bailey was mercifully lethal. Anthony said it was over quick, within seconds.
I’ve found myself uncharacteristically darkened by this. Even more so because my dog took the life of our own in a violent, freak occurrence. I can’t really blame Bailey, who came to me with a natural aversion to the feline members of our pack. There is no one to blame.
It got me thinking yesterday about the purpose of animals in our lives. We love animals like they are our own, but, really, in a different way. Sure, I always loved Boo like my child, but really, I didn’t. I mourned him, I miss him, but it’s not the same as if I lost Oliver. Obviously not.
So maybe animals are here to prepare us for love and loss. Maybe not prepare us (because, really, can anything prepare us for the death of a loved one?), but acquaint us. We learn to love and we learn to lose our pets, who win our love and trust mush easier than humans, die much sooner than we do and who we as a people love with an intensity some cultures can’t comprehend.
I’ve never lost a loved one and I often think what I would do, or who I would become if I were to lose my husband, my parents, my best friend, my Mema. I’m uncomfortable with being unhappy, so much so that I tend to ‘forget’ the bad things so I can move on with my life.
When I lost Boo Radley, I was so uncomfortable in my own skin, the memory of his glazed, open eyes staring back at me, gone but not forgotten. Losing Boo Radley was my first taste of death. I’m 25 years old and fortunate because of it. I am unmarred from loss, my life yet divided between the before and the after. I am the person I will never be again once death has touched my life.
I miss you, Boo. And Tsunami, I’m sorry. You were the best of friends in life, and I take comfort in knowing you are together. If animals are here to teach us about life, I can only assume you’ll be waiting for us, to lead us on to the next part of our journey.

Goodnight, Elizabeth

One.

John.

It wasn’t the silence of the room, the absence of her breathing, but the coolness of the sheets as his hand found his way to her side of the bed, that alerted him, woke him from a troubled sleep. Thunder clapped outside, drowning out the pounding of his heart, lightning flashed, illuminating the fear in his eyes as his reflection appeared in the mirror adjacent to his bed.
The dread was omnipresent, lying dormant in his gut until a moment such as this. She was gone. It was never a surprise, but a realization, like a tumor you could see, but never acknowledged.
It had been coming for a long time. The upswing had lasted too long. Her gaze had become increasingly distant, her laugh a little too false. Three months of recovering from the last time, three months to re-establish their relationship before she shattered it again with the jack-hammer of her condition.
Bi-polar. Alcoholic. These words had been used in the past to describe her, but they meant nothing to John. It was just Elizabeth. She’d always been that way, before rock bottom, before small padded rooms and long nights of worrying and diagnosis and medications. They’d called it a disease, but John wasn’t convinced. A disease was something you could recover from, but Elizabeth would never change.
Still, he loved her all the same.
The phone interrupted the heavy silence, sounding louder than a tornado in the dark, scaring John as if it were. The dread cemented him to the bed. Was this the night, the moment? He wondered. Was this the night she died? Who would be on the other line? The police? Was she in jail again or in the morgue?
He moved slowly with lead feet. He found the phone beside her un-rumpled pillow. She left it there for him, right next to his keys.
“Hello?” John swallowed hard, bracing himself for the worse.
“It’s been a bad night, John, but she’s alright.”
“Why didn’t you call me sooner?” John asked, the anger taking him by surprise. “You know how she gets, Bear, you know the signs as well as I do.”
“I wasn’t working tonight, Maggie was.”
“Maggie knows better than you.”
“Maggie said she was fine when she came in. She only wanted to talk,” Bear said defensively. His tone softened. “You know how Elizabeth is. She blindsides us. One minute she’s sipping coffee, watching the news at the bar and the next she’s ramming a barstool through my jukebox.”
John grimaced. “How much do I owe you this time?”
Bear laughed once. “Maggie stopped her before she could do any major damage.” Glass broke in the background and Bear suddenly became muffled as his hand covered the receiver. John heard a feral scream in the background. He threw on his coat, his laces untied as he shuffled quickly through the house.
“You better come quick,” Bear said suddenly, “She’s worse than I ever seen her.”