Yesterday at work, I found myself walking behind an elderly couple. They were both short, bent over slightly with age, and walking very, very slowly. I was in a hurry, and looked for a path around them, but as many older people do, they swayed a bit from side to side as they shuffled along, making it difficult to cut around. Stuck behind them for a hundred feet or so, I looked down and saw that they were holding hands.
Old people holding hands. That has to be just about the sweetest, most romantic thing I can think of. I smiled and thought how adorable it was, and then my heart sank, like it often does when I see something that should be a happy thing. I so wanted for Ryan and myself to one day be like that old couple. And we never will. We'll never grow old together like these two, never have the chance to stay in love for decades.
They must have much for which to be thankful.
Or, maybe they don't. Maybe they've lived a very sad life, or maybe they only found each other two years ago (which would explain why they still want to hold hands). But, in my imagination, they met when they were young, fell in love, got married, had kids, lived a normal married life with its ups and downs, and in their old age are still completely in love with one another. That's the dream I had for Ryan and myself. And when I think about not having these things, in the face of people who do, I find myself growing jealous and bitter. And I must, quite often, remind myself: as many people as I see who have things that I wish I had, who have it better than me, there are countless more who have it worse. Far worse. Tonight, there are people out there who live on street corners. Who can't feed their children. People who have seen unspeakable tragedy - people who have lost their entire families in wars, or in a senseless car accidents. A single viewing of the local news proves what I have often said: no matter what your damage, it can absolutely ALWAYS be worse.
And so, it pays the soul to recognize that there is, indeed, much for which to be thankful. So, despite the cliche, I thought it an apt time of year to remind myself.
I am thankful first and foremost for my gorgeous daughter. Her often cherubic face, her bright eyes, the sound of her laugh and the way she smiles when I come home from work. I'm thankful that she is healthy, and that she is growing. I'm thankful for her fist steps, her first words, her sweet voice. I am thankful when something potentially bad happens to her, and then it turns out to be okay and she is fine. I am thankful for the parts of her that resemble Ryan, and for the fact that not every part of her does. I am thankful that she is punctual, that she showed up in my life when she did, just in time.
I am thankful for family, who took care of me when I needed them to most. Above all, for my parents, without whom I might be a great big ball of crazy by now. I'm thankful that they took me into their home, and have helped me to get through a pregnancy and start to raise my daughter. I'm thankful that they're here, and when I get stuck late at work, or otherwise need a hand, that I am not subject to finding a babysitter or day care late fines, or anything like that. I have many other family members to be thankful for - my sister and her husband, my in-laws, my brother and his wife, my nephews, friends who feel like family, and others who I am forgetting to mention, but without my parents I can't imagine having made it through.
I am thankful for a warm house to live in, particularly on these cold nights. I'm thankful that I can feed my daughter, and myself, and that I don't have to worry about where I'm going stay at night. I'm thankful that I have a job, a decent paying job with benefits and a certain measure of job security. Even if it's not the perfect job, even if it makes me crazy sometimes, I am so thankful to not have to worry about where my next paycheck is coming from. I'm thankful for good bosses, who would give me a good reference if I needed it, and who have shown an immense amount of understanding when I was a less than stellar employee. I'm thankful for my morning coffee. And my afternoon coffee. Pretty much anything with caffeine or chocolate in it - I am thankful. I'm thankful for pajamas. Thankful for quiet moments in bed on a Saturday morning. Thankful when Sophie sleeps all night in her own bed.
I'm thankful for pain, because it is one of the things that makes us human. If I had gone through everything I have in the past year and felt nothing, that would be a sin. While I want so badly not to hurt anymore, and I often shut my emotions down because I just don't have the time for them every day, I'm thankful that I still have the ability to feel the way I do, fully and without filter. I'm thankful for this outlet to express myself and the way I'm feeling, and I'm thankful that sometimes people listen and hold me up, even from many miles away.
And finally, I'm thankful for the time I had with Ryan, even if it was way too short. This one sticks in my throat. I truly am grateful to have known him, loved him, and started to make a life with him, but I still am just so angry that it had to end too soon. It's hard for me to have the grace to just be thankful. But, I try to remind myself to be happy that at least I had him for a time. I'm thankful for the things we did together, even if the thought of much of it nauseates me now, knowing that it's gone. I'm thankful for the memory of his face, his voice, they way his hand felt when I held it. I'm thankful for the voicemail he left me the last morning of his life, even if I can't bear to listen to it. And, perhaps most of all, I'm thankful that I know in my heart that he loved me, even if sometimes it's hard to remember.
That's my short list. Counting blessings doesn't make the sadness I feel go away, but it does lend some perspective. It could always be worse. And there is, almost always, much for which to be thankful.
Tuesday, November 25, 2014
Friday, November 14, 2014
The Collection
Last weekend, I did something I've been dreading for some time; I stopped by my storage unit. I moved into the unit when I first started moving out of my house, over a year ago, when I was heavily pregnant. My family and I moved boxes upon boxes, quite literally, into the small space - boxes filled with many of Ryan and my favorite things. I figured the items would be in the storage unit for a few months, that I'd sell my home in the winter and get a plan for what to do next. In the meantime, while on maternity leave and through the winter months, I'd slowly go through Ryan's things and decide what to do with them.
As you might expect, none of that happened. I went into labor the night I moved the bulk of the boxes into the storage unit. Maternity leave doesn't have nearly the quantity of down time you'd expect, so I didn't spend any of it sorting through the things in the storage unit - only adding to it. When my house flooded in January, it diverted any "free time" I had to taking care of repairs- not taking care of my things. Time dragged on, more obstacles were added, and with them, my dread grew. The longer and longer I ignored our things in the unit, the more I became afraid of what I would find.
But, we must face these things eventually. And last weekend, I had some time. When I pulled open the door, I was faced with leaning stacks of boxes. The ones on the bottom had lost some of their structural integrity and sagged under the weight of what was above. On the top of each stack were loose items, things that didn't fit well into boxes and perhaps needed some sort of special care. Despite the sadness of seeing large portions of my and Ryan's possessions in this state, I was actually a little relieved. It wasn't as bad as I thought it might be. No stacks had fallen over, and nothing looked destroyed. It also suddenly seemed manageable - I think in my head the boxes had multiplied. In real life, there are far more than I want to deal with, but not as many as I had imagined. This, I can do.
I lifted six boxes into my car. Four of them contain kitchen stuff from our house, and two contain Ryan's things. Now the work begins- sorting through what to keep, what to get rid of, and what to keep because I can't bear to get rid of it. Admittedly, that last category will hold too many items. I fear that I'll become a hoarder. Which is ironic, because Ryan was really a bit of a hoarder himself.
No, that's not fair. Our house looked nothing like a hoarder house - Ryan was way to organized and cared to much about his stuff to be a true hoarder. He was, in truth, a collector. Oh, and he had a lot of stuff. And much of it is, quite frankly, completely useless- but, carries immense sentimental value. Ryan collected books, historical artifacts and paraphernalia, comic books, baseball cards, CDs, DVDs, and most notably, vintage toys.
I'm not sure when he started doing it. It was when he was a kid, certainly, but I'm not sure when in our relationship the boxes from eBay started arriving on our doorstep. Soon, several a week were showing up - Transformers in the beginning. He wanted to complete his collection of the original old toys. Then, he finished it, and told me that he was done, because he had them all. Then, the G.I. Joes started arriving. He said that he wanted to get them too, but was only going to buy the good guys, not the bad guys. Then, the vehicles started showing up. Slowly, Ryan had moved all of my stuff out of the storage closet in the basement, and replaced it with his plastic tubs full of toys. I was evicted. He bought new shelves for the basement so that he could put many of the toys on display. I was eventually assured that he had everything he could buy, that there wasn't anything left, and he was done.
One night, about a month after that declaration, I got home from a dinner we were at together, and there was an enormous box on the doorstep. Nearly as tall as me. Ryan had driven separately, and wasn't home yet. Grumbling, I dragged the box into our living room, and began tapping my foot in irritation. What the hell was this? When Ryan got home and opened the door, his face lit up like a little child on Christmas morning. You'll pardon the cliche - there is just no other way to describe it. And when I asked, grumbling, what was in the box, he simply exclaimed, "My spaceship!!!"
I wondered if he'd be flying away in it.
The collecting went on and on from there - it never stopped. But, in all honesty, it actually didn't bother me that much. I know I'm moaning about it now, in the way a wife does, but after a while, I just got used to it. This was one of Ryan's many, many hobbies, and I just wanted him to be happy. To his credit, he really loved the toys. He talked all of the time about how much fun it must be to be a toy designer. He'd explain to me the characters, show me how to transform the Transformers, and show me why a particular toy was unique or special. He cleaned them with Q-Tips and took care of them. He cleaned a couple the night he died. His goal was always that he wanted to get as complete a collection as possible, and then sell them for our retirement. They made him happy, so I didn't mind them. And, eventually the toys became to me such a part of Ryan's personality that I couldn't imagine him without them.
Now, I'm not loving it so much. Far too many of the boxes in the storage unit, in my parents' garage, and in Ryan's parents' basement are these toys. And I haven't been able to do a thing with them because they hold too much sentimental value. They were one of the last things I could stand to pack up in the house, and when I did it, it was through many tears. I can deal with Ryan's other collections to an extent- the books, comic books, DVDs, CDs, I have ideas for those. But all of these toys - it could take an age. And they take up a TON of space. I've struggled for some time because I want to do with them what Ryan would want. He put so much money and time into them, and at least part of the reason was because he thought that some day he'd use them to help take care of us and our family. Like everything else, it's hard to think that won't happen. I think he'd be sad if I didn't get anything out of them. And quite selfishly, I hope that he's up there kicking himself for saddling me with such a lot of work.
Because cleaning out a life is exhausting- emotionally and physically. How do I part with things that were near and dear to Ryan? It feels impossible, and yet, I can't keep them all. While I've been through all of the selling of the house and packing up the boxes, I'm still really just at the beginning of the sifting and sorting. And it is a BIG pile of boxes. How do I do this?
I'll probably just start with the kitchen stuff.
No, that's not fair. Our house looked nothing like a hoarder house - Ryan was way to organized and cared to much about his stuff to be a true hoarder. He was, in truth, a collector. Oh, and he had a lot of stuff. And much of it is, quite frankly, completely useless- but, carries immense sentimental value. Ryan collected books, historical artifacts and paraphernalia, comic books, baseball cards, CDs, DVDs, and most notably, vintage toys.
I'm not sure when he started doing it. It was when he was a kid, certainly, but I'm not sure when in our relationship the boxes from eBay started arriving on our doorstep. Soon, several a week were showing up - Transformers in the beginning. He wanted to complete his collection of the original old toys. Then, he finished it, and told me that he was done, because he had them all. Then, the G.I. Joes started arriving. He said that he wanted to get them too, but was only going to buy the good guys, not the bad guys. Then, the vehicles started showing up. Slowly, Ryan had moved all of my stuff out of the storage closet in the basement, and replaced it with his plastic tubs full of toys. I was evicted. He bought new shelves for the basement so that he could put many of the toys on display. I was eventually assured that he had everything he could buy, that there wasn't anything left, and he was done.
One night, about a month after that declaration, I got home from a dinner we were at together, and there was an enormous box on the doorstep. Nearly as tall as me. Ryan had driven separately, and wasn't home yet. Grumbling, I dragged the box into our living room, and began tapping my foot in irritation. What the hell was this? When Ryan got home and opened the door, his face lit up like a little child on Christmas morning. You'll pardon the cliche - there is just no other way to describe it. And when I asked, grumbling, what was in the box, he simply exclaimed, "My spaceship!!!"
I wondered if he'd be flying away in it.
The collecting went on and on from there - it never stopped. But, in all honesty, it actually didn't bother me that much. I know I'm moaning about it now, in the way a wife does, but after a while, I just got used to it. This was one of Ryan's many, many hobbies, and I just wanted him to be happy. To his credit, he really loved the toys. He talked all of the time about how much fun it must be to be a toy designer. He'd explain to me the characters, show me how to transform the Transformers, and show me why a particular toy was unique or special. He cleaned them with Q-Tips and took care of them. He cleaned a couple the night he died. His goal was always that he wanted to get as complete a collection as possible, and then sell them for our retirement. They made him happy, so I didn't mind them. And, eventually the toys became to me such a part of Ryan's personality that I couldn't imagine him without them.
Now, I'm not loving it so much. Far too many of the boxes in the storage unit, in my parents' garage, and in Ryan's parents' basement are these toys. And I haven't been able to do a thing with them because they hold too much sentimental value. They were one of the last things I could stand to pack up in the house, and when I did it, it was through many tears. I can deal with Ryan's other collections to an extent- the books, comic books, DVDs, CDs, I have ideas for those. But all of these toys - it could take an age. And they take up a TON of space. I've struggled for some time because I want to do with them what Ryan would want. He put so much money and time into them, and at least part of the reason was because he thought that some day he'd use them to help take care of us and our family. Like everything else, it's hard to think that won't happen. I think he'd be sad if I didn't get anything out of them. And quite selfishly, I hope that he's up there kicking himself for saddling me with such a lot of work.
Because cleaning out a life is exhausting- emotionally and physically. How do I part with things that were near and dear to Ryan? It feels impossible, and yet, I can't keep them all. While I've been through all of the selling of the house and packing up the boxes, I'm still really just at the beginning of the sifting and sorting. And it is a BIG pile of boxes. How do I do this?
I'll probably just start with the kitchen stuff.
Tuesday, November 4, 2014
I Did Not Vote
The title of this blog post is a confession. It's the first Tuesday of November - Election Day, with a hotly contested Governor's race in my state. And I did not vote.
*Shame*
I've been feeling wrong about it all day. As people posted on Facebook about their own visits to their polling places, I felt more and more wrong. Kate from the year 2000 would be horrified. The young, idealistic Kate who thought she could change the world would look at me and say, "Who are you?"
It's a question I ask myself often.
So, why didn't I make it to the polls? Admittedly, they're in walking distance from my house. It wasn't that I didn't care, I didn't forget what day it was, and I probably could have squeezed it into my morning. The truth is that I didn't vote today because in the past year, I moved. I moved to a new voting district, and I simply can't remember if I ever registered in my new district, or if I am still registered in my old one. I can't find my registration card (either a new one or an old one) in any of the stacks of paperwork in my disorganized life, and in the past two weeks since I realized this, I simply didn't have the time or forethought to try to figure out where I needed to go to vote. It doesn't help that I'm disillusioned by the ineffectiveness of our government, or that I'm annoyed by all of the political ads that have been littering our life since the summer. Over the past couple of weeks since I realized that I don't know where to vote, I more than once thought to myself that it didn't really matter anyway. And despite the fact that I'm pretty firm in my politics, I can't truly call myself an informed, educated voter this year.
Who are you?
This time, I imagine that it's Ryan asking. I've just called myself uninformed, uneducated, and disengaged. It would be impossible to be those things living in a house with Ryan, and there's no way I would have gotten away with not voting if he were here. It's not just that he would have pushed me to be informed and pushed me to go vote (we always voted together, if we could) - it's also the fact that I never was the type of person to be uninformed and disengaged. That's not who I was, and I don't think it's a person that Ryan would have chosen to marry. We used to watch the news together often, or discuss it over dinner. We had lively debates (I think our first big fight was political in nature). He taught me things I didn't know, and gave me insight on things I didn't understand. I think I gave him a different perspective, and every once in a while I could change his rigid opinions. I sometimes think he wouldn't recognize me anymore - I often don't. Sometimes I worry that if he met me today, he wouldn't be interested in me, and we wouldn't fall in love. It's a devastating thought. In those times, I try desperately to find a part of the woman I used to be.
This whole story about my failure to vote is a good representation of how I feel like I've lost myself in a lot of ways. My life has changed so much in the past two years that I often feel like I don't have the time or ability to be myself anymore. For one reason or another, there are so many things I used to enjoy that I can't do much anymore. Things that used to make me happy, and feel a sense of accomplishment have gone by the wayside. I try to cram them in, but the pockets of time I have just aren't enough. I can't say that I've had time to cultivate any of my hobbies in the past month. I've tried to get back to running a few times a week, or reading every night, or simply fitting in a movie night once every few weeks. At the end of most days, when my days end at 10 PM and start again at 6 AM, I'm just too tired to start something else. Most of my news comes from CNN or The Daily Show at this point (neither comprehensive nor unbiased sources) because they fit into my schedule. I certainly haven't done much travelling with the baby, and I haven't had much cause to cook or bake lately either. These all used to be things I would use to identify myself - interests, hobbies, things that made me happy. Things I'd talk about in social situations. They feel very far away. Now I identify myself as "Widow". "Single Mom". "Full time worker". This is more demographic information than personality traits. They're not very interesting talking points.
I know that everyone's lives change when they become parents. It's just the way of it. Our busy lives are invaded by little creatures that need our attention every waking moment. It's exhausting, and there's no going back from it. But, it's important to find a balance, I think, to find something to make up your "adult life", something that you get to keep from your life before baby. It's got to be hard for most people. For me, I think the big problem is that I lost most of these things actually before I became a mom, and then I just never got them back. When Ryan died, my life was really put on hold, and then with a house to sell, a pregnancy to get through, and now a child to raise, I never really took my life back off of hold. And now that old me seems so far away that I'm not sure how much of her is there anymore. Are all of these things that still matter to me, or do I need to start fresh? When your life is turned upside down, you're not handed an instruction manual or a new identity. I am trying to keep the parts of me that I like, find a way to fit them into my new existence, and then find some new interests and hobbies too. It's hard. And it's so frustrating when I think I'm making something work, and then it falls apart. Months ago, I had a system where I used the treadmill a couple of nights a week after Sophie's bedtime. Then, she started staying up later, and I stopped having the stamina. Then, I started taking long walks with her outside before dinner time - now that's over because the seasons changed. Things like this happen all of the time, and I can't tell you the number of times I've had to tell myself to start over. Try again tomorrow.
I'm in here somewhere. There are pieces that are left, shattered puzzle pieces, and I just have to find the ways that they fit. I'm missing the big, very important, Ryan shaped piece. I'll have to fill it with something else- it won't fit as well, but I don't have much of a choice. And there are other pieces that won't fit anymore either. But I know I'm in here somewhere- someone I can be proud of, and someone that Ryan would be proud of too.
And Ryan- I'll vote next time. I promise.
*Shame*
I've been feeling wrong about it all day. As people posted on Facebook about their own visits to their polling places, I felt more and more wrong. Kate from the year 2000 would be horrified. The young, idealistic Kate who thought she could change the world would look at me and say, "Who are you?"
It's a question I ask myself often.
So, why didn't I make it to the polls? Admittedly, they're in walking distance from my house. It wasn't that I didn't care, I didn't forget what day it was, and I probably could have squeezed it into my morning. The truth is that I didn't vote today because in the past year, I moved. I moved to a new voting district, and I simply can't remember if I ever registered in my new district, or if I am still registered in my old one. I can't find my registration card (either a new one or an old one) in any of the stacks of paperwork in my disorganized life, and in the past two weeks since I realized this, I simply didn't have the time or forethought to try to figure out where I needed to go to vote. It doesn't help that I'm disillusioned by the ineffectiveness of our government, or that I'm annoyed by all of the political ads that have been littering our life since the summer. Over the past couple of weeks since I realized that I don't know where to vote, I more than once thought to myself that it didn't really matter anyway. And despite the fact that I'm pretty firm in my politics, I can't truly call myself an informed, educated voter this year.
Who are you?
This time, I imagine that it's Ryan asking. I've just called myself uninformed, uneducated, and disengaged. It would be impossible to be those things living in a house with Ryan, and there's no way I would have gotten away with not voting if he were here. It's not just that he would have pushed me to be informed and pushed me to go vote (we always voted together, if we could) - it's also the fact that I never was the type of person to be uninformed and disengaged. That's not who I was, and I don't think it's a person that Ryan would have chosen to marry. We used to watch the news together often, or discuss it over dinner. We had lively debates (I think our first big fight was political in nature). He taught me things I didn't know, and gave me insight on things I didn't understand. I think I gave him a different perspective, and every once in a while I could change his rigid opinions. I sometimes think he wouldn't recognize me anymore - I often don't. Sometimes I worry that if he met me today, he wouldn't be interested in me, and we wouldn't fall in love. It's a devastating thought. In those times, I try desperately to find a part of the woman I used to be.
This whole story about my failure to vote is a good representation of how I feel like I've lost myself in a lot of ways. My life has changed so much in the past two years that I often feel like I don't have the time or ability to be myself anymore. For one reason or another, there are so many things I used to enjoy that I can't do much anymore. Things that used to make me happy, and feel a sense of accomplishment have gone by the wayside. I try to cram them in, but the pockets of time I have just aren't enough. I can't say that I've had time to cultivate any of my hobbies in the past month. I've tried to get back to running a few times a week, or reading every night, or simply fitting in a movie night once every few weeks. At the end of most days, when my days end at 10 PM and start again at 6 AM, I'm just too tired to start something else. Most of my news comes from CNN or The Daily Show at this point (neither comprehensive nor unbiased sources) because they fit into my schedule. I certainly haven't done much travelling with the baby, and I haven't had much cause to cook or bake lately either. These all used to be things I would use to identify myself - interests, hobbies, things that made me happy. Things I'd talk about in social situations. They feel very far away. Now I identify myself as "Widow". "Single Mom". "Full time worker". This is more demographic information than personality traits. They're not very interesting talking points.
I know that everyone's lives change when they become parents. It's just the way of it. Our busy lives are invaded by little creatures that need our attention every waking moment. It's exhausting, and there's no going back from it. But, it's important to find a balance, I think, to find something to make up your "adult life", something that you get to keep from your life before baby. It's got to be hard for most people. For me, I think the big problem is that I lost most of these things actually before I became a mom, and then I just never got them back. When Ryan died, my life was really put on hold, and then with a house to sell, a pregnancy to get through, and now a child to raise, I never really took my life back off of hold. And now that old me seems so far away that I'm not sure how much of her is there anymore. Are all of these things that still matter to me, or do I need to start fresh? When your life is turned upside down, you're not handed an instruction manual or a new identity. I am trying to keep the parts of me that I like, find a way to fit them into my new existence, and then find some new interests and hobbies too. It's hard. And it's so frustrating when I think I'm making something work, and then it falls apart. Months ago, I had a system where I used the treadmill a couple of nights a week after Sophie's bedtime. Then, she started staying up later, and I stopped having the stamina. Then, I started taking long walks with her outside before dinner time - now that's over because the seasons changed. Things like this happen all of the time, and I can't tell you the number of times I've had to tell myself to start over. Try again tomorrow.
I'm in here somewhere. There are pieces that are left, shattered puzzle pieces, and I just have to find the ways that they fit. I'm missing the big, very important, Ryan shaped piece. I'll have to fill it with something else- it won't fit as well, but I don't have much of a choice. And there are other pieces that won't fit anymore either. But I know I'm in here somewhere- someone I can be proud of, and someone that Ryan would be proud of too.
And Ryan- I'll vote next time. I promise.
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