It was 7:30 p.m. on a Friday and my journal wanted to chat.
Driving down 12th Street, I scanned both sides of the road looking for a place to stop and spill out all of the emotion that had built up throughout the day. I was supposed to go to a friend's house, but the urge to journal would stall that plan. I woke up with the notion that I would make the time to write, but at this point, it was a necessity in order to enjoy the rest of the evening.
My plan was to stop at a coffee shop that was along the route between his place and mine, but it was closed. Maybe I'll just write later, I thought as I drove past the dark establishment, but something told me to look for something else. A Vietnamese restaurant, The Frying Pan and a slew of financial business didn't fit the bill and I thought maybe 10 minutes in a parking lot with my music blaring could put my soul at ease.
I pulled off into a K-Mart and notice a bar sign in a near strip mall. "You don't know this part of town, Heather. You should probably just go with the car idea," my reasonable side suggested. Still, it's February in South Dakota and I decided to at least check it out.
In a semi-creepy fashion, I walked up to the door and gage the crowd from the colder side of the glass door. A nice sized group for the hour. It's just one beer and my friends were close by and my journal would not quit begging for attention. It would be OK, I assured myself as I went in and found a place at the bar without looking at anyone but the bartender.
A man in his late 20s with gapped teeth and a receding hairline was taking drink orders from three guys at the end of the bar. They seemed the closest to my age in the bar as I took a quick glance around the room, also realizing I was the only female in the establishment. I opened my journal but waited to start the furious pen scratching until my drink order was fulfilled. I order one before the bartender told me they didn't have the capability to take credit cards (I rarely carry cash with me) because the phone lines were down. There is an ATM next door, one of the three guys at the end of the bar offered. I hopped down from my chair when another of the three offered to buy my drink.
Not sure how to respond - I am not the girl who receives drinks from random men in bars - I said thank you a few times and gave him a sincere smile. Once the drink was in my possession, I started writing. Feelings of loneliness and unfairness filled the first pages and my heart immediately felt better. I didn't look up until another guy, who was ordering a drink, interjected.
"So, are you writing a review about this place?"
Awkwardly laughing, I said "Oh, did it just open?" It must be a few months old, I thought.
"Yeah, like three weeks ago."
The reporter in me had to know more so I waited until the bartender was free to quiz him about it. He said the pool hall next door opened a few weeks earlier, but the bar - the one I randomly stumbled upon - was celebrating its first night of business. The owner was from Iowa and most of the people in the bar had traveled to Sioux Falls for the occasion. I am pretty sure nobody in the bar, except the bartender and maybe on of the three guys at the bar, actually lived in Sioux Falls. The odds made me giggle and Twitter about the experience. And then journal.
A few minutes later, another man started asking me questions.
"What are you writing about over there?" said the obviously drunk 20-something.
"Oh, just my life and being in this bar."
"I bet you are going to turn that into a song. You look like a songwriter."
He wouldn't accept the idea that I wasn't a songwriter so I let him believe it. He then asked me about Sioux Falls and the hot places to be (earlier, I heard him ask the bartender about the best places to "find tail." "They don't need to be good looking.") and I threw out a few places that I thought a guy like him would enjoy, or places that I despise. He then offered to show off his handwriting so I gave him a page in my journal to write a note and he neatly printed "It was lovely to meet you." Before returning to his friends, he said "Don't take this the wrong way but you must be pretty independent."
"Well, I am sitting at bar by myself and journaling." He wasn't sure how to respond and forced out a chuckled as he turned around.
I wrote about the exchange in my journal and a whole new flood of emotions came out. Something big could happen in my life in the next few months and its possibility has brought dreams filled with anxiety and nerves. But at that moment, a stranger calling me independent, I felt confident that I could do it. I could handle my world being flipped upside down and all that is comfortable vanishing. This excursion to an unknown bar reminded me I had it in me.
My journal often works like that. I assume the urge to write comes from an issue on the surface, but it's always more than that. It wants to show me a part of myself that I am usually too busy to look at it. And sometimes it screams at me until I sit down by myself in a random bar.
I went into the bar needing to be reassured that I am a wonderful person and I left reassured.
Saturday, February 06, 2010
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
White oblivion
For the past few days, a deep fog has settled in on the east side of the state. Although it leaves trees and light poles with a sparkling white frost, it's a nightmare to drive though, especially when my commuting hours are very early and very late.
Most times, I try to stay in a pack so that a string of red taillights can lead me along I-29. This morning, traffic was light was I was my own guiding light. Visibility was low, only about a quarter of a mile most of the way. All I could count on was that my wheels were straight and the lines of the road would always tell me the direction to go.
The white fog that blocked everything in front of me frightened me. I don't like not knowing where I am going, especially when all that is up head is a cloudy haze. What if something just appeared in the road? Would I be able to avoid it? What if I missed my exit? What if I never see the road ahead again?
As I was trying my best to stay calm, I noticed the metaphor—the road my car was on and the one my life is on were similar. I am not always going to know what's ahead or have someone to follow, and I shouldn't. Sometimes, I got to just bowl right through the fog and pretend to not be afraid. If something appears, I've got to have faith that it won't kill me, even if it might it. I just need to keep driving.
I made it to my destination with no problems. On the actual road or the road of my life, I have to have faith that that will always happen, even if it doesn't. Because having faith is a better way to drive than worrying constantly.
Most times, I try to stay in a pack so that a string of red taillights can lead me along I-29. This morning, traffic was light was I was my own guiding light. Visibility was low, only about a quarter of a mile most of the way. All I could count on was that my wheels were straight and the lines of the road would always tell me the direction to go.
The white fog that blocked everything in front of me frightened me. I don't like not knowing where I am going, especially when all that is up head is a cloudy haze. What if something just appeared in the road? Would I be able to avoid it? What if I missed my exit? What if I never see the road ahead again?
As I was trying my best to stay calm, I noticed the metaphor—the road my car was on and the one my life is on were similar. I am not always going to know what's ahead or have someone to follow, and I shouldn't. Sometimes, I got to just bowl right through the fog and pretend to not be afraid. If something appears, I've got to have faith that it won't kill me, even if it might it. I just need to keep driving.
I made it to my destination with no problems. On the actual road or the road of my life, I have to have faith that that will always happen, even if it doesn't. Because having faith is a better way to drive than worrying constantly.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
A new life
I was sunglasses shopping when I got the phone call.
There was a pair of brown-tint, gold-rimmed sunglasses that I passed by a couple days prior and I couldn't stop thinking about them. I ran to the store to get something else and decided that particular night was the one in which I would fork over the $10 for the eye wear.
My heart was set on that particular pair, but I teased myself a bit and tried on a few others, just to make sure I was fully committed to the brown ones. As I was making the poses you make when trying on sunglasses in front of the thin sunglasses mirror, my phone rang. It was a dear friend of mine that lived in a different state. I knew exactly what she was going to tell me before I answered.
She set off on a story about her car dying. She had gone to the store late at night for one specific item and her car broke down on her way home. After the tow truck picked up her car and she got home, she took out the item to answer a question that had been stalled with her car problems but on her mind the weekend before when we attended a concert together. She was pregnant and the late night run to the store was for pregnancy test. My unmarried, boyfriendless friend was pregnant.
The night of of pregnancy test and car failures changed her life. Being pregnant affected every aspect of her life and meant big decisions and questions in the next eight months.
When she told me she was pregnant this past May, my life was on the verge of changing, but in a completely different way. Over the past few months, she has adapted to the idea of being a mom, still very unaware of what that title meant. Me, I grew into my new life, chasing dreams faster and harder than I anticipated. Like me, this isn't how she expected her life to play out. This isn't how she imagined her story going.
But she went with it, jumping hurdle after hurdle. Putting up with judging stares and condemning remarks, as she planned for the arrival of a dependent. In my world, I faced obstacles and doubts from strangers and friends alike who only casually understood this dream. Never once did we believe our journeys were easy, but we gave into the idea it would all pay off.
I had lunch with her a couple of weeks ago, very close to her due date. I asked her if she was ready, later realizing that was a ridiculous question to ask. You can't be entirely ready for that change. She handled each moment with stride, knowing this phase was about to end and another, longer one was about to start. We both seemed tired from our lives, but had no choice to keep pressing on, so we do.
Today, my friend's life changed again. She gave birth to a little boy, a gorgeous little boy. Everything she thought about the world changed today.
My life changes aren't nearly as great or poetic as becoming a mother, but they are what I can handle right now. I admire my friend so much and have no doubt that she is going to be an amazing mother. She was destined to be a mother. I am still in my pregnancy stage, harboring a life that is yet to emerge into this world. It'll come when the time is right. For my friend, even though it's not how or when she planned, Jan. 10, 2010 was the day she was meant to become a mother. Her new life begins with this new life.
There was a pair of brown-tint, gold-rimmed sunglasses that I passed by a couple days prior and I couldn't stop thinking about them. I ran to the store to get something else and decided that particular night was the one in which I would fork over the $10 for the eye wear.
My heart was set on that particular pair, but I teased myself a bit and tried on a few others, just to make sure I was fully committed to the brown ones. As I was making the poses you make when trying on sunglasses in front of the thin sunglasses mirror, my phone rang. It was a dear friend of mine that lived in a different state. I knew exactly what she was going to tell me before I answered.
She set off on a story about her car dying. She had gone to the store late at night for one specific item and her car broke down on her way home. After the tow truck picked up her car and she got home, she took out the item to answer a question that had been stalled with her car problems but on her mind the weekend before when we attended a concert together. She was pregnant and the late night run to the store was for pregnancy test. My unmarried, boyfriendless friend was pregnant.
The night of of pregnancy test and car failures changed her life. Being pregnant affected every aspect of her life and meant big decisions and questions in the next eight months.
When she told me she was pregnant this past May, my life was on the verge of changing, but in a completely different way. Over the past few months, she has adapted to the idea of being a mom, still very unaware of what that title meant. Me, I grew into my new life, chasing dreams faster and harder than I anticipated. Like me, this isn't how she expected her life to play out. This isn't how she imagined her story going.
But she went with it, jumping hurdle after hurdle. Putting up with judging stares and condemning remarks, as she planned for the arrival of a dependent. In my world, I faced obstacles and doubts from strangers and friends alike who only casually understood this dream. Never once did we believe our journeys were easy, but we gave into the idea it would all pay off.
I had lunch with her a couple of weeks ago, very close to her due date. I asked her if she was ready, later realizing that was a ridiculous question to ask. You can't be entirely ready for that change. She handled each moment with stride, knowing this phase was about to end and another, longer one was about to start. We both seemed tired from our lives, but had no choice to keep pressing on, so we do.
Today, my friend's life changed again. She gave birth to a little boy, a gorgeous little boy. Everything she thought about the world changed today.
My life changes aren't nearly as great or poetic as becoming a mother, but they are what I can handle right now. I admire my friend so much and have no doubt that she is going to be an amazing mother. She was destined to be a mother. I am still in my pregnancy stage, harboring a life that is yet to emerge into this world. It'll come when the time is right. For my friend, even though it's not how or when she planned, Jan. 10, 2010 was the day she was meant to become a mother. Her new life begins with this new life.
Sunday, January 03, 2010
My demon
Pppattthhh
My mind was racing, reviewing the conversation and unsystematic group—a mix of strangers, dear friends and people specifically brought into my life for a reason—which I stepped away from for a moment to use the restroom. Initially, I was nervous about this gathering, but all the players seem to mesh well and the flow of interaction was pleasant, even exciting. As I resided in the failed expectation of awkwardness, my thoughts halted at the noise.
Pppattthhh
It’s impolite to acknowledge the sounds others make in a bathroom, but this is a familiar noise, one that only those who’ve made it understand what it means as if it’s badge of secret club. Whatever was happening back at my table seemed distant and irrelevant to what was happening in the stall next to mine. The next sound was exactly what I expected—silence.
I flushed the toilet, exited the stall and washed my hands. Still, no noise from the only other person in the bathroom. I’d been her before and I was silent in those moments too. I could saying something, offer a piece of support, such as “It’s OK, I understand” or “You don’t have to.” I didn’t. Instead, I left, knowing that is what she wanted from me because I would’ve wanted the same thing from her if our roles were reversed. All she wanted at this point was to hear the sound of the door close as I left her nightmare.
Before I returned to my table, I looked. I always wondered if other peopled looked at me, trying to confirm their suspicions before returning to their neat life. Not wanting her to know that I was seeking her devil out, I quickly glanced under the door to check her feet. Sure enough, I saw her heals, meaning that her toes, her stomach, her face were directed toward the toilet.
Leaving, I shut the door harder than I needed to. I wanted her to know I was gone, for she was now alone to continue her battle. Stopping her or saying something would’ve added to the pain she was already enduring. She was the only who could stop herself.
As I returned to the table, images of bathroom stalls reminded me of what I’d overcome. My addiction could control me at any moment anywhere: home, school, work, restaurants, bars, little league fields, rest stops along the highway. It tortured me with the idea that an empty stomach meant I was more significant to the world.
Many, many times I fell into this twisted logic while eroding my teeth, killing my metabolism and endangering my esophagus and heart. Hours and hours of counseling, threats of hospitalization and several prescriptions could do nothing to beat this monster. Sometimes, it would subdue for weeks or months, but stress, frustration or a difficult relationship would invite it to roar again.
The last time this demon visited was in the summer of 2008. It tugged and teased my insecurities and exposed faults until I gave into its demands. The entire summer, I watched every morsel that I consumed, and if it more than the restrictions I set, it would go back up. I knew it was wrong and I knew that I should quit, but I didn’t want to. Only if I could lose just a few more pounds, then I would quit. I was in control and I could quit when I wanted to.
But I couldn’t.
The breaking came after a party with friends. We dined on wine and pizza, but the enjoyment of the occasion couldn’t suppress the voice in my head. “You need to get rid of it.” With too many people in my apartment, I said that I needed some fresh air. I went to the alley to reveal myself of this pain, of this food. Someone, who knew my history with this disease, caught me. I stopped, pretended nothing happened and rejoined the festivities.
The next day, she confronted me. She told me that I needed to go back to counseling and to realize that this will always be a part of who I am. I refused to believe that. I was more than a person with an eating disorder.
That was the last time I purged, and actually had craving to do so. I’m not sure what snapped inside of me, but something did. I said goodbye to the demon and haven’t looked back.
It’s been over a year and half since my last purge, and I feel victorious. Not because of the time that has lapsed, but because of the change in my attitude. I no longer use food and purging as a coping mechanism, although I’m the most stressed I’ve ever been. Snug jeans or tight shirts don’t send me into a fit of crying and despair anymore. A few gained pounds aren’t the end of the world and I don’t lecture myself after a bit too much to eat. When I finally wanted to quit, I did.
It was at the end of my uncle’s life, as his demon was empowering, that I realized what it meant for me to finally let go of my disease. It meant having back a piece of my life and living with a ray of hope, a ray of strength.
I felt sorry for the woman in the stall, but I said a silent prayer for her, hoping one day she would wake up with the honest will to change. I sat down at my table and scarffed another piece of pizza without regret. Maybe I’m too optimistic, but I have faith in her. I have hope that someday she’ll rid herself of this demon. For my demon is buried and it will forever stay that way.
My mind was racing, reviewing the conversation and unsystematic group—a mix of strangers, dear friends and people specifically brought into my life for a reason—which I stepped away from for a moment to use the restroom. Initially, I was nervous about this gathering, but all the players seem to mesh well and the flow of interaction was pleasant, even exciting. As I resided in the failed expectation of awkwardness, my thoughts halted at the noise.
Pppattthhh
It’s impolite to acknowledge the sounds others make in a bathroom, but this is a familiar noise, one that only those who’ve made it understand what it means as if it’s badge of secret club. Whatever was happening back at my table seemed distant and irrelevant to what was happening in the stall next to mine. The next sound was exactly what I expected—silence.
I flushed the toilet, exited the stall and washed my hands. Still, no noise from the only other person in the bathroom. I’d been her before and I was silent in those moments too. I could saying something, offer a piece of support, such as “It’s OK, I understand” or “You don’t have to.” I didn’t. Instead, I left, knowing that is what she wanted from me because I would’ve wanted the same thing from her if our roles were reversed. All she wanted at this point was to hear the sound of the door close as I left her nightmare.
Before I returned to my table, I looked. I always wondered if other peopled looked at me, trying to confirm their suspicions before returning to their neat life. Not wanting her to know that I was seeking her devil out, I quickly glanced under the door to check her feet. Sure enough, I saw her heals, meaning that her toes, her stomach, her face were directed toward the toilet.
Leaving, I shut the door harder than I needed to. I wanted her to know I was gone, for she was now alone to continue her battle. Stopping her or saying something would’ve added to the pain she was already enduring. She was the only who could stop herself.
As I returned to the table, images of bathroom stalls reminded me of what I’d overcome. My addiction could control me at any moment anywhere: home, school, work, restaurants, bars, little league fields, rest stops along the highway. It tortured me with the idea that an empty stomach meant I was more significant to the world.
Many, many times I fell into this twisted logic while eroding my teeth, killing my metabolism and endangering my esophagus and heart. Hours and hours of counseling, threats of hospitalization and several prescriptions could do nothing to beat this monster. Sometimes, it would subdue for weeks or months, but stress, frustration or a difficult relationship would invite it to roar again.
The last time this demon visited was in the summer of 2008. It tugged and teased my insecurities and exposed faults until I gave into its demands. The entire summer, I watched every morsel that I consumed, and if it more than the restrictions I set, it would go back up. I knew it was wrong and I knew that I should quit, but I didn’t want to. Only if I could lose just a few more pounds, then I would quit. I was in control and I could quit when I wanted to.
But I couldn’t.
The breaking came after a party with friends. We dined on wine and pizza, but the enjoyment of the occasion couldn’t suppress the voice in my head. “You need to get rid of it.” With too many people in my apartment, I said that I needed some fresh air. I went to the alley to reveal myself of this pain, of this food. Someone, who knew my history with this disease, caught me. I stopped, pretended nothing happened and rejoined the festivities.
The next day, she confronted me. She told me that I needed to go back to counseling and to realize that this will always be a part of who I am. I refused to believe that. I was more than a person with an eating disorder.
That was the last time I purged, and actually had craving to do so. I’m not sure what snapped inside of me, but something did. I said goodbye to the demon and haven’t looked back.
It’s been over a year and half since my last purge, and I feel victorious. Not because of the time that has lapsed, but because of the change in my attitude. I no longer use food and purging as a coping mechanism, although I’m the most stressed I’ve ever been. Snug jeans or tight shirts don’t send me into a fit of crying and despair anymore. A few gained pounds aren’t the end of the world and I don’t lecture myself after a bit too much to eat. When I finally wanted to quit, I did.
It was at the end of my uncle’s life, as his demon was empowering, that I realized what it meant for me to finally let go of my disease. It meant having back a piece of my life and living with a ray of hope, a ray of strength.
I felt sorry for the woman in the stall, but I said a silent prayer for her, hoping one day she would wake up with the honest will to change. I sat down at my table and scarffed another piece of pizza without regret. Maybe I’m too optimistic, but I have faith in her. I have hope that someday she’ll rid herself of this demon. For my demon is buried and it will forever stay that way.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
So long, 2009
“Sometimes you need to go back to where you started to be where you need to be.”
That was an inscription on a gift that my boss gave me for Christmas. She had passed by this particular item several times – it always reminding her of me – but never purchased it because she wasn’t sure how I would react to it. She understood and knew well of my internal struggle with moving back, but decided that maybe I was at place in my life where I could agree with that statement.
I am.
Nearly two years have passed since I made the decision to come back, and I constantly realize why. It hit me many times in 2009, and I have no doubt that I am where I am supposed to be. I’m not always happy about it, but this is right. I’m in the right place.
Looking back over the past year, I can’t exactly say 2009 was a good year. Going into this year, I was so confident in myself and who I was becoming, yet the last 12 months have felt like back peddling – going, but never really getting anywhere. All the progress I made in personal growth seemed to be tested and unraveled and I feel that I have no strong understanding of who I truly am now. I’m sure that isn’t an entirely bad thing, but I have yet to see the good from it.
This year has been a struggle and I’ve fallen into overwhelming pits of frustration and confusion. From deaths to betrayal to “you won’t make it” to restlessness so deep my legs shake, times of clarity rarely appeared. And on certain days, grasping for air is all that I could do to completely losing.
Still, on the day before Jan. 1, resolution is in my heart. Maybe it’s the optimism that a new year brings or the ability to finally be OK with certain situations, but I feel calm right now. Like a rainbow after a heavy thunderstorm, all I can do is smile at what passed and the sunshine to come. There is no anxiety, remorse or regret flooding my veins, only reassurance that all of the events played out the way they needed to.
And not all of the year was bad. My big resolution of the year was to take risks and I think did that. I’m following a dream, one that many said couldn’t survive. It’s too early to say “I told you so,” but I took a leap that many only talk about. It’s a battle each day, but one I love. I could never regret the decision to pursue this endeavor, even if it would flop tomorrow.
I also moved to another city, a hope for 2009. Again, it’s not the settling-down point, but I much happier here. The air just feels fresher 50 miles south.
Each time I met despair this year my army of overwhelming supportive friends was there to hold up my back. They held me as I cried, offered encouraging statements and put time and energy into my dream without hesitation. In a way, I’m really thankful for the people who hurt me, because it only made those that love me shine brighter. More than at anytime in my life, I learned the difference between a good friend and a bad one.
Tomorrow, 2010 begins. I’m still restless, but good things are going to come. And no matter where I am Dec. 31, 2010, I will appreciate how the year began.
That was an inscription on a gift that my boss gave me for Christmas. She had passed by this particular item several times – it always reminding her of me – but never purchased it because she wasn’t sure how I would react to it. She understood and knew well of my internal struggle with moving back, but decided that maybe I was at place in my life where I could agree with that statement.
I am.
Nearly two years have passed since I made the decision to come back, and I constantly realize why. It hit me many times in 2009, and I have no doubt that I am where I am supposed to be. I’m not always happy about it, but this is right. I’m in the right place.
Looking back over the past year, I can’t exactly say 2009 was a good year. Going into this year, I was so confident in myself and who I was becoming, yet the last 12 months have felt like back peddling – going, but never really getting anywhere. All the progress I made in personal growth seemed to be tested and unraveled and I feel that I have no strong understanding of who I truly am now. I’m sure that isn’t an entirely bad thing, but I have yet to see the good from it.
This year has been a struggle and I’ve fallen into overwhelming pits of frustration and confusion. From deaths to betrayal to “you won’t make it” to restlessness so deep my legs shake, times of clarity rarely appeared. And on certain days, grasping for air is all that I could do to completely losing.
Still, on the day before Jan. 1, resolution is in my heart. Maybe it’s the optimism that a new year brings or the ability to finally be OK with certain situations, but I feel calm right now. Like a rainbow after a heavy thunderstorm, all I can do is smile at what passed and the sunshine to come. There is no anxiety, remorse or regret flooding my veins, only reassurance that all of the events played out the way they needed to.
And not all of the year was bad. My big resolution of the year was to take risks and I think did that. I’m following a dream, one that many said couldn’t survive. It’s too early to say “I told you so,” but I took a leap that many only talk about. It’s a battle each day, but one I love. I could never regret the decision to pursue this endeavor, even if it would flop tomorrow.
I also moved to another city, a hope for 2009. Again, it’s not the settling-down point, but I much happier here. The air just feels fresher 50 miles south.
Each time I met despair this year my army of overwhelming supportive friends was there to hold up my back. They held me as I cried, offered encouraging statements and put time and energy into my dream without hesitation. In a way, I’m really thankful for the people who hurt me, because it only made those that love me shine brighter. More than at anytime in my life, I learned the difference between a good friend and a bad one.
Tomorrow, 2010 begins. I’m still restless, but good things are going to come. And no matter where I am Dec. 31, 2010, I will appreciate how the year began.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
A merry day
One of my beloved, but not very original, Christmas traditions is to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" on Christmas eve. After mass and before some gift opening, my mother and I—dad joins in for the last half hour—watch the tale of George Bailey. Each time I watch it, I'm moved with hope and spirit as if it was my first introduction to the people of Bedford Falls. And each year, I find a new way to identify to the film that I've loved for years.
In the last two years, I discovered similarities between George Bailey and myself. We were both bright-eyed kids, with dreams as big as our imaginations. We want to kick the dust of this crummy town and leave footsteps in exotic places. Yet, life happens and dreams morphed into other things. Adventures are swapped with what seems right and we only know work with one adverb: hard.
My brothers hate this movie so it's an argument every year when I demand to watch the film. There is usually a screaming match and I often get my way. This year, I decided to compromise. I watched all but the last half hour of the movie before mass, saving George Bailey's realization of his wonderful life for the evening when the snow was falling and the fire cracking.
As I watch the first half, I saw those similarities again and fell into a slump of frustration and discontent. My life wasn't nearly as glamorous as I had anticipated it would be at the age of 25 and I can't say that any grand adventures await me in the near future. I felt stuck and like a disappointment to all those “I am going to”s.
At Christmas Eve mass, my mind mulled over where I am and where I could be. There are many parts of 2009 that I’m proud of, but I tend to focus on what I don’t have during the holiday season. I’m not somewhere special, doing something magnificent, or so I lecture myself instead of listening to the first and second readings.
The pastor moves into the homily as he talks about hope and the potential for great possibilities that are often represented in the holiday season. At that point, I saw Christmas as a transition point, one where we forget about what happened in the year past and focus on the journey ahead. And then I start to rethink my mood. Maybe I can dwell into possibilities instead of missed opportunities. Maybe my life is pretty darn grand and there is so much to live that it’s a wasteful to start discounting dreams.
After mass and movies with my family, it was time for the last few minutes of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” As Clarence shows George how important he is to others, I remember that I might not be saving the world, but I play a significant role in this universe and nobody can replace me. And when all of his friends come to his side, I’m reminded of the great people in my life who’ve stood by me this past year, rooting me on in this challenge.
At the end of the movie, I’ve transitioned. No longer am I scolding myself, but I rejoicing in the good parts. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for and, blessedly so, a lot to look forward to. Similar to George Bailey, I too have a wonderful life.
Merry Christmas each and everyone.
In the last two years, I discovered similarities between George Bailey and myself. We were both bright-eyed kids, with dreams as big as our imaginations. We want to kick the dust of this crummy town and leave footsteps in exotic places. Yet, life happens and dreams morphed into other things. Adventures are swapped with what seems right and we only know work with one adverb: hard.
My brothers hate this movie so it's an argument every year when I demand to watch the film. There is usually a screaming match and I often get my way. This year, I decided to compromise. I watched all but the last half hour of the movie before mass, saving George Bailey's realization of his wonderful life for the evening when the snow was falling and the fire cracking.
As I watch the first half, I saw those similarities again and fell into a slump of frustration and discontent. My life wasn't nearly as glamorous as I had anticipated it would be at the age of 25 and I can't say that any grand adventures await me in the near future. I felt stuck and like a disappointment to all those “I am going to”s.
At Christmas Eve mass, my mind mulled over where I am and where I could be. There are many parts of 2009 that I’m proud of, but I tend to focus on what I don’t have during the holiday season. I’m not somewhere special, doing something magnificent, or so I lecture myself instead of listening to the first and second readings.
The pastor moves into the homily as he talks about hope and the potential for great possibilities that are often represented in the holiday season. At that point, I saw Christmas as a transition point, one where we forget about what happened in the year past and focus on the journey ahead. And then I start to rethink my mood. Maybe I can dwell into possibilities instead of missed opportunities. Maybe my life is pretty darn grand and there is so much to live that it’s a wasteful to start discounting dreams.
After mass and movies with my family, it was time for the last few minutes of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” As Clarence shows George how important he is to others, I remember that I might not be saving the world, but I play a significant role in this universe and nobody can replace me. And when all of his friends come to his side, I’m reminded of the great people in my life who’ve stood by me this past year, rooting me on in this challenge.
At the end of the movie, I’ve transitioned. No longer am I scolding myself, but I rejoicing in the good parts. I’ve got a lot to be thankful for and, blessedly so, a lot to look forward to. Similar to George Bailey, I too have a wonderful life.
Merry Christmas each and everyone.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
A traveling heart
“The road is my artery, travel is my friend.”
A friend sent that text message to me as he was driving across five states to be home for the holidays. The emotion that reeked from his words was familiar. It was one I knew and one I craved.
I have issues with traveling. It bugs me when people say, “Oh, I love to travel.” Yeah, well many people do; it’s not a unique concept, although the voice box would often like you to believe it is. And the “traveler” identification comes off pretentious and can make others feel so small if they don’t have the means to visit far and away places. It irritates me when people judge each other based on the number of countries they’ve visited.
Yet, behind the smug and commercial appearance of travel is something gorgeous. There is an addiction to not staying in one place and immersing oneself in something foreign. The idea that one can find a new location, just for a day, is so captivating that we spend great amounts of money for a day, a week, a month to go somewhere that isn’t home.
I’m by no means a world traveler or an experienced travel. I go when the opportunity rises and try to indulge where I can, whether it be Paris or Omaha, Neb. Yet, I felt traveling’s ambiance and often dream of vagabonding.
Sure, I dream about the cobblestone streets of Europe, the sparkling blue ocean of the Caribbean, the invigorating colors of Africa and the pretty languages of Asia, but most often, I dream about a stretch of warm, isolated highway.
Last summer, I drove 3,000 miles by myself to visit friends in mountainous states. I long to do that trip again. The hot July sun soaked through my open car window, reddening exposed skin, while my radio hummed with a book on tape or a song from my entire library. Scenery varied from desolate patches of dirt to winding roads along the mountainside to small towns, which I imagined were jammed pack with good stories. I cried. I laughed. I talked to myself. I worried. I angered. I hung out with myself for 12 hours west, 6 hours north and 15 hours east.
Seeing old friends and meeting new ones was the objective of that trip, but the unexpected highlight was the road time itself.
On that trip, I learned to appreciate me time and traveling solo. Somewhere along side a road in Montana, my devils came out and I lost a tough battle to an addiction. I decided who I was going to vote for in the next election and developed a fear of driving at night thanks to “In Cold Blood” on audio book. I made a decision about my future and forgave myself for a grudge that wouldn’t be quiet. I saw myself in way that I never had or never could.
Most of all, I felt free and hopeful. I felt like I could drive anywhere in the world, no matter the distance or ocean in between. That trip confirmed my idea of simplicity. Happiness, I decided, could be as easy as me, my car and full tank of gas.
To be with my friend, traveling, I don’t have to hope on plane, a train or a boat. I just need my car and my heart will be happy.
A friend sent that text message to me as he was driving across five states to be home for the holidays. The emotion that reeked from his words was familiar. It was one I knew and one I craved.
I have issues with traveling. It bugs me when people say, “Oh, I love to travel.” Yeah, well many people do; it’s not a unique concept, although the voice box would often like you to believe it is. And the “traveler” identification comes off pretentious and can make others feel so small if they don’t have the means to visit far and away places. It irritates me when people judge each other based on the number of countries they’ve visited.
Yet, behind the smug and commercial appearance of travel is something gorgeous. There is an addiction to not staying in one place and immersing oneself in something foreign. The idea that one can find a new location, just for a day, is so captivating that we spend great amounts of money for a day, a week, a month to go somewhere that isn’t home.
I’m by no means a world traveler or an experienced travel. I go when the opportunity rises and try to indulge where I can, whether it be Paris or Omaha, Neb. Yet, I felt traveling’s ambiance and often dream of vagabonding.
Sure, I dream about the cobblestone streets of Europe, the sparkling blue ocean of the Caribbean, the invigorating colors of Africa and the pretty languages of Asia, but most often, I dream about a stretch of warm, isolated highway.
Last summer, I drove 3,000 miles by myself to visit friends in mountainous states. I long to do that trip again. The hot July sun soaked through my open car window, reddening exposed skin, while my radio hummed with a book on tape or a song from my entire library. Scenery varied from desolate patches of dirt to winding roads along the mountainside to small towns, which I imagined were jammed pack with good stories. I cried. I laughed. I talked to myself. I worried. I angered. I hung out with myself for 12 hours west, 6 hours north and 15 hours east.
Seeing old friends and meeting new ones was the objective of that trip, but the unexpected highlight was the road time itself.
On that trip, I learned to appreciate me time and traveling solo. Somewhere along side a road in Montana, my devils came out and I lost a tough battle to an addiction. I decided who I was going to vote for in the next election and developed a fear of driving at night thanks to “In Cold Blood” on audio book. I made a decision about my future and forgave myself for a grudge that wouldn’t be quiet. I saw myself in way that I never had or never could.
Most of all, I felt free and hopeful. I felt like I could drive anywhere in the world, no matter the distance or ocean in between. That trip confirmed my idea of simplicity. Happiness, I decided, could be as easy as me, my car and full tank of gas.
To be with my friend, traveling, I don’t have to hope on plane, a train or a boat. I just need my car and my heart will be happy.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Being lost
It’s what you’re not looking for that you find.
Today, I was searching my car looking for a receipt in order to return something. As I was rummaging through my life, since that mostly takes place in my car these days, my temper rose. “You always lose things you need,” I scolded myself and kept digging into every cranny possible to find that small, white piece of paper. I decided to give up, when I saw something sticking out beneath the passenger seat.
“Holy crap,” I said out loud in my cold car. It wasn’t the receipt, but something else I misplaced. It was the key card to my office building, which I’ve been lacking for months. Without the key, I could only use the main entrance door that was open regular business hours. It became a nuisance, especially with my unusual hours, to plan any errands, food runs or trips to my car after 8 a.m. and before 5 p.m. I even went to the trouble of organizing my apartment and desk, hoping it was lost in the fray. Eventually, I gave up. I thought it was long gone, a driftee of my pocket or lost soul to the washing machine. But here it was, and the joy of finding it completely replaced my rush to find the receipt.
When I gave up looking for it, I found it. All I needed to do was stop looking for it.
Life is like that. It’s good to set goals and aspire to them, but what you are looking for can’t always be found. Sometimes, it has to be stumbled upon.
As one year ends and a new one begins, I think about things I’ve lost in the last 12 months. I let people take advantage of me and lost a piece of myself in the process. Some of the hard work I put into defining myself was cracked. And I am no closer to finding my life path than I was nine months ago.
Last week, I took an oath to pull back, to just let things be. I’ve given up searching, or frivolous searching, for that big thing that is supposed to settle my restlessness and hope to just live. I have an idea of what I want from life, but, for right now, I can’t find it. That’s OK, and I need to be OK with that being OK.
So, I’m done. I’m gonna stop looking, and hopefully, what I’ve been searching for will present itself to me in an usual way in an usual place. And if doesn’t? Then I was never meant to find it.
Today, I was searching my car looking for a receipt in order to return something. As I was rummaging through my life, since that mostly takes place in my car these days, my temper rose. “You always lose things you need,” I scolded myself and kept digging into every cranny possible to find that small, white piece of paper. I decided to give up, when I saw something sticking out beneath the passenger seat.
“Holy crap,” I said out loud in my cold car. It wasn’t the receipt, but something else I misplaced. It was the key card to my office building, which I’ve been lacking for months. Without the key, I could only use the main entrance door that was open regular business hours. It became a nuisance, especially with my unusual hours, to plan any errands, food runs or trips to my car after 8 a.m. and before 5 p.m. I even went to the trouble of organizing my apartment and desk, hoping it was lost in the fray. Eventually, I gave up. I thought it was long gone, a driftee of my pocket or lost soul to the washing machine. But here it was, and the joy of finding it completely replaced my rush to find the receipt.
When I gave up looking for it, I found it. All I needed to do was stop looking for it.
Life is like that. It’s good to set goals and aspire to them, but what you are looking for can’t always be found. Sometimes, it has to be stumbled upon.
As one year ends and a new one begins, I think about things I’ve lost in the last 12 months. I let people take advantage of me and lost a piece of myself in the process. Some of the hard work I put into defining myself was cracked. And I am no closer to finding my life path than I was nine months ago.
Last week, I took an oath to pull back, to just let things be. I’ve given up searching, or frivolous searching, for that big thing that is supposed to settle my restlessness and hope to just live. I have an idea of what I want from life, but, for right now, I can’t find it. That’s OK, and I need to be OK with that being OK.
So, I’m done. I’m gonna stop looking, and hopefully, what I’ve been searching for will present itself to me in an usual way in an usual place. And if doesn’t? Then I was never meant to find it.
Monday, December 07, 2009
Why I did it
Why I did it
I didn’t do it for The Post.
I didn’t do it for Palin fans.
I didn’t do it for Palin haters.
I didn’t do it to show off.
I didn’t do it to outdo other media.
I didn’t do it for money.
I didn’t do it because someone told me I had to.
I didn’t do it because it was easy.
I didn’t do it because I’d been craving a story like this.
I didn’t do it to draw attention to myself.
I didn’t do it to earn praise.
I didn’t do it because it was difficult.
I didn’t do it for anyone.
I did it because I needed to be reminded of why I am a journalist.
I did it to feel that euphoria pumping through my veins again.
I did it because I believe in what it meant.
I did it because dreams only take you so far.
I did it for journalism.
I did it to reacquaint myself with my skills.
I did it because I needed to be rewarded.
I did it because I needed to win one.
I did it as encouragement to keep fighting.
I did it for me.
13 hours. 12 degrees. 2,511 words. 1 night. All for me.
It.
I didn’t do it for The Post.
I didn’t do it for Palin fans.
I didn’t do it for Palin haters.
I didn’t do it to show off.
I didn’t do it to outdo other media.
I didn’t do it for money.
I didn’t do it because someone told me I had to.
I didn’t do it because it was easy.
I didn’t do it because I’d been craving a story like this.
I didn’t do it to draw attention to myself.
I didn’t do it to earn praise.
I didn’t do it because it was difficult.
I didn’t do it for anyone.
I did it because I needed to be reminded of why I am a journalist.
I did it to feel that euphoria pumping through my veins again.
I did it because I believe in what it meant.
I did it because dreams only take you so far.
I did it for journalism.
I did it to reacquaint myself with my skills.
I did it because I needed to be rewarded.
I did it because I needed to win one.
I did it as encouragement to keep fighting.
I did it for me.
13 hours. 12 degrees. 2,511 words. 1 night. All for me.
It.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Be thankful.
Thanksgiving has become a measuring station for me.
Surrounded by people from my past, I have this strong urge to prove myself and my position in life. Even if I don’t come home for the holiday, I envision classmates huddle up in a booth at Bob’s Lounge discussing their lives and depicting different people from our class as if we were baseball players and you can find all of our stats on 2 inches by 4 inches baseball card.
“Hmm, Heather Mangan. What is she up to these days?” they would say as gulping light beer and grazing over the bar’s distinctively delicious popcorn.
“Oh, she moved across the ocean and has this incredible job and gorgeous boyfriend,” one would inform the others, proud of their Facebook stalking capabilities.
“Gosh, her life sounds fantastic compared to our dull, married lives that are littered with children.”
Since none those facts are true about my life (at least not now) that conversation probably hasn’t happened. Nor do I believe that my classmates have any desire to actually know where my life has gone.
Still, the idea looms that somebody, maybe a former teacher or a friend of my parents, will ask me about my life. What can I tell them? And can I be proud of it?
Some years, my story is bright and I’m proud to tell it. Other years, I just prefer no one notices me. This year, it’s the former.
I’ve got a lot to be thankful in the year 2009. Each year, as I continue to evolve as a person so do my list of gratitude. New things appear and old things sudden become blessings while the important things last year prove to have never been important at all. To look at those lists is a great reflection and affirmation that maybe I can make it in this world.
These lists are also a good reminder in February 7 and July 23 and any other day of the year. Always be thankful. Always.
This year, here are things that I’m most thankful for:
Sunny days
The first time I hear a song and instantly know it will be a favorite
Writing words that give me goose bumps as they pour out of my fingers
Cheese and crackers conversation
Chaotic lifestyle that comes with dream chasing
Hearing someone’s life story
Four magical words uttered from a loved one’s mouth: “I believe in you.”
The soothing reassurance of tea
A well-written lede that comes with a corresponding ending
Creativity’s power and addiction
God-given optimism
The stupidity to chase a dream and not give up when the world says you should.
Passionate people, from farmers to engineers to artists
Not one, but two wonderful jobs
Anyone who is willing to read what I write
Two arms, two legs, eye sight, hearing, smell and functioning organs
The closest and most inspirational friends I may have ever had
Two, wonderful parents who still love each other after so many years
Two brothers who would break the world for me
A life. A very, very good life.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Two lives
There are two lives. For me, there is the one I dream about and the one I actually live.
In college, I fantasized about an adult life. Early mornings with a run, “TODAY” and a hearty organic breakfast. Nights would allow for sitcoms, the nightly news and books. Not textbooks, but real books. I would volunteer, paint and learn to play the guitar. I would become good at cooking and host excellent parties. Those dreams of this “normal life” got me through a life dominated by three jobs and schoolwork. All of it would pay off in this steady, but happy routine life, I continually told myself.
As a young reporter fresh out of college in a community hundreds of miles away from everything I knew, I tried to adapt these fantasies of what I thought life should be like. It didn’t work. Working 2 p.m. to midnight didn’t provide much of a stable or social life. Being a full-time reporter was also much harder than I anticipated. So, I abandoned the attempts at an ideal life to focus on my job. I still made some time to run, but all of my thoughts were focused on that next story. Or how maybe I couldn’t hack it as reporter and if I even wanted to.
When my expectations of life out of college weren’t met, I was eager to change that, even if it meant leaving journalism. I convinced myself that a life beyond the newsroom was more stable and healthier. Looking around at many of then-single coworkers, I decided that in order to have a family and life like my friends in regular jobs, I would need to leave the business. That’s not a sound judgment, but at the time, it made perfect sense to me.
So I left my job, journalism and my new city for a more comfortable career and town. Now in a regular 8-5 job, I could have this stable life that put me to sleep at night when thoughts of my actual life kept my mind turning. I ran in the morning, cooked myself eggs that I ate with Matt and Meredith. After work – at a job I thoroughly enjoy – I cooked dinner and jetted off to volunteer at my church or the local domestic abuse shelter. On some nights, I would enjoy drinks and conversation with friends or lock myself in my room with a movie or hours of writing. It was a simple, but enjoyable life.
Eventually, I became restless. I should’ve anticipated my boredom with steadiness, but I refused to believe that I had become unhappy in the life I desired for so long.
Maybe it was the town or being in a place for more than a year, but something had to change. I took up a new venture, one that soaked up every ounce of my free time. To make it work, I’d have to keep that steady job, but my activities outside of it would solely be dedicated to this one goal.
Early morning runs were replaced with precious moments of sleep to cover up late nights. Healthy, home-cooked dinners gave away to gas station conveniences and fast food. My beloved writing time diminished as to-do lists grew. And time to watch television or movies and read books evaporated and did the funds to do so.
I miss running every day. I miss volunteering. I miss watching TV and knowing what’s going on beyond my little world. But I love what I do.
I love it so much that I don’t mind the lifestyle that accommodates it. It’s not fun and I slightly envy my friends with regulated schedules, but I wouldn’t trade them.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m addicted to the chaos of this busy life. It’s who I am because it belongs to this passion.
At just 25 years old, I have time to run that marathon, to maneuver a five-course meal and write that novel. But at no other time in my life will I be able to pursue this goal.
Maybe, I’ll never have the life of a Real Simple article, but I can accept that now. My current life forces me to sacrifice normal activities. But a stable life, for me, would be without passion. And that, I cannot live with.
In college, I fantasized about an adult life. Early mornings with a run, “TODAY” and a hearty organic breakfast. Nights would allow for sitcoms, the nightly news and books. Not textbooks, but real books. I would volunteer, paint and learn to play the guitar. I would become good at cooking and host excellent parties. Those dreams of this “normal life” got me through a life dominated by three jobs and schoolwork. All of it would pay off in this steady, but happy routine life, I continually told myself.
As a young reporter fresh out of college in a community hundreds of miles away from everything I knew, I tried to adapt these fantasies of what I thought life should be like. It didn’t work. Working 2 p.m. to midnight didn’t provide much of a stable or social life. Being a full-time reporter was also much harder than I anticipated. So, I abandoned the attempts at an ideal life to focus on my job. I still made some time to run, but all of my thoughts were focused on that next story. Or how maybe I couldn’t hack it as reporter and if I even wanted to.
When my expectations of life out of college weren’t met, I was eager to change that, even if it meant leaving journalism. I convinced myself that a life beyond the newsroom was more stable and healthier. Looking around at many of then-single coworkers, I decided that in order to have a family and life like my friends in regular jobs, I would need to leave the business. That’s not a sound judgment, but at the time, it made perfect sense to me.
So I left my job, journalism and my new city for a more comfortable career and town. Now in a regular 8-5 job, I could have this stable life that put me to sleep at night when thoughts of my actual life kept my mind turning. I ran in the morning, cooked myself eggs that I ate with Matt and Meredith. After work – at a job I thoroughly enjoy – I cooked dinner and jetted off to volunteer at my church or the local domestic abuse shelter. On some nights, I would enjoy drinks and conversation with friends or lock myself in my room with a movie or hours of writing. It was a simple, but enjoyable life.
Eventually, I became restless. I should’ve anticipated my boredom with steadiness, but I refused to believe that I had become unhappy in the life I desired for so long.
Maybe it was the town or being in a place for more than a year, but something had to change. I took up a new venture, one that soaked up every ounce of my free time. To make it work, I’d have to keep that steady job, but my activities outside of it would solely be dedicated to this one goal.
Early morning runs were replaced with precious moments of sleep to cover up late nights. Healthy, home-cooked dinners gave away to gas station conveniences and fast food. My beloved writing time diminished as to-do lists grew. And time to watch television or movies and read books evaporated and did the funds to do so.
I miss running every day. I miss volunteering. I miss watching TV and knowing what’s going on beyond my little world. But I love what I do.
I love it so much that I don’t mind the lifestyle that accommodates it. It’s not fun and I slightly envy my friends with regulated schedules, but I wouldn’t trade them.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m addicted to the chaos of this busy life. It’s who I am because it belongs to this passion.
At just 25 years old, I have time to run that marathon, to maneuver a five-course meal and write that novel. But at no other time in my life will I be able to pursue this goal.
Maybe, I’ll never have the life of a Real Simple article, but I can accept that now. My current life forces me to sacrifice normal activities. But a stable life, for me, would be without passion. And that, I cannot live with.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
I might just have found it
It hit me as I was driving home tonight.
As I drove across the bridge above the Big Sioux River and saw the glimmer of downtown sparkle against the rain, the realization swelled over me like it'd been there all along just waiting for me to recognize it. It been a long day, but a pretty productive and uplifting one. Not all my days are like this, but this was one for the "good" category. As I thought about the day and took in the sight before me, it occurred to me that I found what I was looking for — happiness.
I'm not happy because of where I am geographically. I realized a short time ago that location doesn't make you happy. It helps, but if you depend on it you'll only end up disappointed.
I'm not happy because I've got money. Truthfully, I am barely getting by but money never impressed me.
I'm not happy because I'm in love. Also a short time ago, I figured out that another person can't determine your happiness. Only you can.
I'm not happy because of my wonderful friends and family. I'm not happy because I'm chasing a dream. I'm not happy because I feel more beautiful than any other moment in my life. I'm happy because of all these things.
I am happy because I have accepted the person I am and the one I'm evolving into. I'm happy in this moment, but know it's not exactly where I want to be. For the first time, I can enjoy what's in front of me and not look at what's behind or what's in front. I'm living for now.
Tomorrow might bring tears or anger, but today I'm happy. And today is all I got. Finally, I understand that. Finally.
As I drove across the bridge above the Big Sioux River and saw the glimmer of downtown sparkle against the rain, the realization swelled over me like it'd been there all along just waiting for me to recognize it. It been a long day, but a pretty productive and uplifting one. Not all my days are like this, but this was one for the "good" category. As I thought about the day and took in the sight before me, it occurred to me that I found what I was looking for — happiness.
I'm not happy because of where I am geographically. I realized a short time ago that location doesn't make you happy. It helps, but if you depend on it you'll only end up disappointed.
I'm not happy because I've got money. Truthfully, I am barely getting by but money never impressed me.
I'm not happy because I'm in love. Also a short time ago, I figured out that another person can't determine your happiness. Only you can.
I'm not happy because of my wonderful friends and family. I'm not happy because I'm chasing a dream. I'm not happy because I feel more beautiful than any other moment in my life. I'm happy because of all these things.
I am happy because I have accepted the person I am and the one I'm evolving into. I'm happy in this moment, but know it's not exactly where I want to be. For the first time, I can enjoy what's in front of me and not look at what's behind or what's in front. I'm living for now.
Tomorrow might bring tears or anger, but today I'm happy. And today is all I got. Finally, I understand that. Finally.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
All you need is love
My life in commercial form. Sometimes you want to give up, but the feeling never lasts too long because you are cursed with passion. I'm cursed with passion and, deep down, I love every minute of it.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Grounded
Yesterday, a friend sent me a text message that said “Do you ever feel like you need to be grounded? Like everything is off?”
I did, especially that day. All my worries, frustrations, doubts, questions of fairness banded together to hit me hard. There is no one specific trigger, but several that caused me to put on my isolation cape and zone in on my sorrows.
Leaving work just before the panic attack hit, I fell apart in my car, which was parked outside my office. I cried, slammed on the steering wheel as if I was trying to get the air bag to come out and pleaded with my demons to take a day off. I told my colleague that I was but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be my in drafty, dark apartment alone.
Lately, I’ve been fantasizing about spending an evening in this small coffee shop near my house. I’ve lounged there in the morning and the afternoon, but never the evening. One night, I took a break from editing to grab some coffee from that place, and there was something magical about the environment. It was low lit with a few people, but charming and cozy. Since that night, I wanted to curl up on one of the leather couches with tea and my journal. In effort to find something that would calm me, I went there.
Following that same logic, I was delightfully surprised to realize the shop also sold beer and ordered one that I haven’t tasted since Idaho. I found my idyllic spot next to a lamp with a warm, hazy glow and furiously stroked my pen against the coarse paper. The tears soon started to fall and my attempts to muster them, and the sobbing noises, failed. The poor woman working must have been frightened by my actions because she pretended not to look in my direction and stayed busy stocking the cooler with apple juice boxes.
All my favorite people were present: loneliness, regret, doubt, hatred and self-pity. They laughed and howled as I tried to coax optimism to show up, but she just couldn’t find her way. The tears poured until the beer was gone. But when it was, so were the tears. And as a real friend show up to keep my company, the others left. The gnarled black pit in my stomach was unraveling and fading. Not completely gone, but it’s strength was severely weakend.
We chatted for a bit and laughed at a nearby conversation ripping on one of my favorite things to rip on. My stomach growled again, but this time for hunger. My friend had already eaten, but agreed to company me to feed it. Along with my coffee shop escapes, I’d been craving a meal at a sushi restaurant, also near my house. We walked across the street to the small local and were seated in a quaint booth. I filled my stomach to satisfaction with tea and veggie rolls. It was comforting, a good friend and good food. The mess of emotions from earlier still lingered, but not enough for me to not enjoy that moment.
When we left, it was raining. The downtown streets sparkled from the lights reflection. This city moment was another idea that retraced back to when my real life called for a timeout.
We hit up a movie and I went home and to bed with calmness. Again, those feelings were not obsolete and they could return another day, but they had surrendered for the night.
This morning I went for a run along the Sioux River. Besides one biker and a mother and child out walking, I was alone on the trail. I reacquainted myself with a few running songs and enjoyed the fast beating of my heart. My to-do list and left over feelings from last night soaked up my thoughts, but it was all pleasant.
Then I stopped. I stopped my music. I stopped running. I stopped thinking. There it was. It was wrapped in the fall trees that had lost a bit of luster from an early snowfall. It was presented with the thick brown river, looking still and fast at the same time, and the sound of water thrashing over chunks of rock. It was tied together with the coffee shop, the sushi restaurant and the downtown streets.
It was resolution; it was peace.
All that ailed me in the last few days, weeks, months all disappeared. The river and trees swiped them away and finally allowed me to let it go. I let go of the little day-to-day things that kept me up at night. I let go of the hurt caused by failed possibilities. And I let go of loneliness, regret, doubt, hatred and self-pity.
When I did that, I found me. I found the woman I know that I am and the one I know that I can be. A few tears fell, but they were peaceful. I was peaceful. I was grounded.
I did, especially that day. All my worries, frustrations, doubts, questions of fairness banded together to hit me hard. There is no one specific trigger, but several that caused me to put on my isolation cape and zone in on my sorrows.
Leaving work just before the panic attack hit, I fell apart in my car, which was parked outside my office. I cried, slammed on the steering wheel as if I was trying to get the air bag to come out and pleaded with my demons to take a day off. I told my colleague that I was but I couldn’t. I didn’t want to be my in drafty, dark apartment alone.
Lately, I’ve been fantasizing about spending an evening in this small coffee shop near my house. I’ve lounged there in the morning and the afternoon, but never the evening. One night, I took a break from editing to grab some coffee from that place, and there was something magical about the environment. It was low lit with a few people, but charming and cozy. Since that night, I wanted to curl up on one of the leather couches with tea and my journal. In effort to find something that would calm me, I went there.
Following that same logic, I was delightfully surprised to realize the shop also sold beer and ordered one that I haven’t tasted since Idaho. I found my idyllic spot next to a lamp with a warm, hazy glow and furiously stroked my pen against the coarse paper. The tears soon started to fall and my attempts to muster them, and the sobbing noises, failed. The poor woman working must have been frightened by my actions because she pretended not to look in my direction and stayed busy stocking the cooler with apple juice boxes.
All my favorite people were present: loneliness, regret, doubt, hatred and self-pity. They laughed and howled as I tried to coax optimism to show up, but she just couldn’t find her way. The tears poured until the beer was gone. But when it was, so were the tears. And as a real friend show up to keep my company, the others left. The gnarled black pit in my stomach was unraveling and fading. Not completely gone, but it’s strength was severely weakend.
We chatted for a bit and laughed at a nearby conversation ripping on one of my favorite things to rip on. My stomach growled again, but this time for hunger. My friend had already eaten, but agreed to company me to feed it. Along with my coffee shop escapes, I’d been craving a meal at a sushi restaurant, also near my house. We walked across the street to the small local and were seated in a quaint booth. I filled my stomach to satisfaction with tea and veggie rolls. It was comforting, a good friend and good food. The mess of emotions from earlier still lingered, but not enough for me to not enjoy that moment.
When we left, it was raining. The downtown streets sparkled from the lights reflection. This city moment was another idea that retraced back to when my real life called for a timeout.
We hit up a movie and I went home and to bed with calmness. Again, those feelings were not obsolete and they could return another day, but they had surrendered for the night.
This morning I went for a run along the Sioux River. Besides one biker and a mother and child out walking, I was alone on the trail. I reacquainted myself with a few running songs and enjoyed the fast beating of my heart. My to-do list and left over feelings from last night soaked up my thoughts, but it was all pleasant.
Then I stopped. I stopped my music. I stopped running. I stopped thinking. There it was. It was wrapped in the fall trees that had lost a bit of luster from an early snowfall. It was presented with the thick brown river, looking still and fast at the same time, and the sound of water thrashing over chunks of rock. It was tied together with the coffee shop, the sushi restaurant and the downtown streets.
It was resolution; it was peace.
All that ailed me in the last few days, weeks, months all disappeared. The river and trees swiped them away and finally allowed me to let it go. I let go of the little day-to-day things that kept me up at night. I let go of the hurt caused by failed possibilities. And I let go of loneliness, regret, doubt, hatred and self-pity.
When I did that, I found me. I found the woman I know that I am and the one I know that I can be. A few tears fell, but they were peaceful. I was peaceful. I was grounded.
Saturday, October 03, 2009
The 25th revolution
Here I stand, at the onset of 25. Never once did I expect my life to be where it is when I reached this milestone age. Am I content where I am? Not really, but I appreciate it. All those ideas of where I thought I would be at this point are small towns along the highway leading to my eventual destination.
At 18, I was in caught up in my first love, who was serving our country on foreign land. Naïve and shallow, I believed my happiness was found in a sold gold band. When my beliefs and opinions began to deviate from the traditional, conservative lifestyle, I quietly hushed those thoughts, saying “Heather, those are not appropriate feelings.”
At 21, I found a new love of my life, or so I keep saying with each hopeful relationship. On the night of my birthday, I assumed that there would be a small diamond on my left finger before 22 came. We were that couple – the one everyone envied and agreed would last. We didn’t. My idea of the future was marked with skyscrapers and airplanes. His didn’t go beyond state limits and he knew, long before I could accept it, that our futures would never align.
At 23, I sat in a chain Italian restaurant, scarfing down fettuccini alfredo, hoping the other customers didn’t notice my tears. I was in a new place, on my own, but it wasn’t nearly as glamorous as I imagined a new life would be. I wanted to be with my family, my friends, my latest boyfriend (who I broke up with a week later) and the life I left. I imagined a dinner party with genuine smiles and jokes, all in honor of my birth. Instead, a dinner that wasn’t a $1.00 frozen pizza before covering a high school volleyball game was my gift to myself. After the game and my story was filed, I met some coworkers at our favorite local bar. It was another month until I finally realized it, but that night, I made a small acceptance to this new life. And although I thought it was an insult to the people and life back home, I kinda liked this life, the one of a poor, young reporter. Maybe in a few years, I’d be at a bigger paper, in a bigger city. Yeah, I thought to myself as I took another shot, I’ll plan on that.
At 24, my Brookings apartment was filled with faces that defined yet another chapter. Many of these people were extras in my life before Idaho, now there were leads. The backdrop was not what I had hoped for this birthday, and the people not expected, but I didn’t care. For one day, I let go of the grudge I held against myself and soaked up the joy. I realized that this is where I was meant to be and maybe I was OK with that. I knew the next day I might not feel the same way, but tonight I would allow myself to be OK with my decision.
My 25th birthday is a week a way and I am having a hard time deciding what that means. For goodness sake’s, it’s 25. I am still so young, yet I feel like my life is chipping away with each October. I think about all those things I thought I would have by now: a husband, children, a thriving career, a big-city life. I possess none of those things.
Last April, I decided to run the Twin Cities Marathon, held six days before my 25th birthday. At the time, I was trying to find another way out of South Dakota, applying for jobs all over the world. Nothing worked out, but none of those jobs felt right, just temporary satisfaction that could lead to a huge mistake. Grasping for some type of definition, I made it my goal to run a marathon before I turn 25.
But, like with so many of my goals, life intervened. A new endeavor absorbed much of my free time. I still made some time to run, but not much. To screw up my training schedule even more, I moved. I settled on the idea that once I was in my new city and apartment, I would devote my life to this marathon. Three days after I moved, I went on my first run in Sioux Falls. The pain started about a one mile, but it was tolerable. Then stings shot through my inner knee, each surge gaining pain. By the third mile, I couldn’t walk. I hobbled back to my apartment, believing it was just this run. A few days later, I was almost finished a three-miler when the pain forced me to topple over. Each run was like that – surrendering to pain at mile three.
Still, I thought I could do the race. I even led myself to believe that I would run as much as I could and then drop out. On Wednesday, I ran three miles, without much pain. Until, I climbed my stairs. I could barely bend my knee or stand for long periods of time. Oblivious to reality, I still planned to go as far as I could go. My body strongly disagreed and I fell sick to the exhaustion of two jobs. In a fit of tears and the idea of potentially hurting myself even more if I did run, I finally gave in. It’s always been my goal to run a marathon and my first would not be a half-assed attempt. I would not run the race.
At 25, I’m single, watching each dime, drowning in the demands of two jobs and trying to figure how I am going to fix a bum knee. This marathon was supposed to help me accept this birthday and things I haven’t accomplished. But I couldn’t even do it. And failure is laughing at me, like it has done every single birthday.
Yet, failure doesn’t win this one. At 25, I am the editor-in-chief of my own newspaper, pay the bills with a job I still rather enjoy, live by myself and have the best friends I’ve ever had.
I am a very different person going into 25 than I was going into 24. A friend recently commented how much I’ve changed in the small time she has known me. That makes me smile.
In my 24th year, I finally started to adopt those beliefs and opinions that I silenced for so long and now they are reflective in my lifestyle. I let go of unworthy friendships and am more selfish to my own needs. I am finally stronger than my eating disorder and can smile in the mirror, thinking, “Man, I am beautiful.” And a relationship or the number of friends at my side no longer define my happiness.
My life is far from ideal and sometimes it’s too much. Most days are a battle, but it’s one I am fine with fighting. I accept where I am in life and that this is just another town I pass through. Unlike other birthdays, though, I honestly have no ideas or plans for where I’ll be at 26. I like it that way.
To 25 …
At 18, I was in caught up in my first love, who was serving our country on foreign land. Naïve and shallow, I believed my happiness was found in a sold gold band. When my beliefs and opinions began to deviate from the traditional, conservative lifestyle, I quietly hushed those thoughts, saying “Heather, those are not appropriate feelings.”
At 21, I found a new love of my life, or so I keep saying with each hopeful relationship. On the night of my birthday, I assumed that there would be a small diamond on my left finger before 22 came. We were that couple – the one everyone envied and agreed would last. We didn’t. My idea of the future was marked with skyscrapers and airplanes. His didn’t go beyond state limits and he knew, long before I could accept it, that our futures would never align.
At 23, I sat in a chain Italian restaurant, scarfing down fettuccini alfredo, hoping the other customers didn’t notice my tears. I was in a new place, on my own, but it wasn’t nearly as glamorous as I imagined a new life would be. I wanted to be with my family, my friends, my latest boyfriend (who I broke up with a week later) and the life I left. I imagined a dinner party with genuine smiles and jokes, all in honor of my birth. Instead, a dinner that wasn’t a $1.00 frozen pizza before covering a high school volleyball game was my gift to myself. After the game and my story was filed, I met some coworkers at our favorite local bar. It was another month until I finally realized it, but that night, I made a small acceptance to this new life. And although I thought it was an insult to the people and life back home, I kinda liked this life, the one of a poor, young reporter. Maybe in a few years, I’d be at a bigger paper, in a bigger city. Yeah, I thought to myself as I took another shot, I’ll plan on that.
At 24, my Brookings apartment was filled with faces that defined yet another chapter. Many of these people were extras in my life before Idaho, now there were leads. The backdrop was not what I had hoped for this birthday, and the people not expected, but I didn’t care. For one day, I let go of the grudge I held against myself and soaked up the joy. I realized that this is where I was meant to be and maybe I was OK with that. I knew the next day I might not feel the same way, but tonight I would allow myself to be OK with my decision.
My 25th birthday is a week a way and I am having a hard time deciding what that means. For goodness sake’s, it’s 25. I am still so young, yet I feel like my life is chipping away with each October. I think about all those things I thought I would have by now: a husband, children, a thriving career, a big-city life. I possess none of those things.
Last April, I decided to run the Twin Cities Marathon, held six days before my 25th birthday. At the time, I was trying to find another way out of South Dakota, applying for jobs all over the world. Nothing worked out, but none of those jobs felt right, just temporary satisfaction that could lead to a huge mistake. Grasping for some type of definition, I made it my goal to run a marathon before I turn 25.
But, like with so many of my goals, life intervened. A new endeavor absorbed much of my free time. I still made some time to run, but not much. To screw up my training schedule even more, I moved. I settled on the idea that once I was in my new city and apartment, I would devote my life to this marathon. Three days after I moved, I went on my first run in Sioux Falls. The pain started about a one mile, but it was tolerable. Then stings shot through my inner knee, each surge gaining pain. By the third mile, I couldn’t walk. I hobbled back to my apartment, believing it was just this run. A few days later, I was almost finished a three-miler when the pain forced me to topple over. Each run was like that – surrendering to pain at mile three.
Still, I thought I could do the race. I even led myself to believe that I would run as much as I could and then drop out. On Wednesday, I ran three miles, without much pain. Until, I climbed my stairs. I could barely bend my knee or stand for long periods of time. Oblivious to reality, I still planned to go as far as I could go. My body strongly disagreed and I fell sick to the exhaustion of two jobs. In a fit of tears and the idea of potentially hurting myself even more if I did run, I finally gave in. It’s always been my goal to run a marathon and my first would not be a half-assed attempt. I would not run the race.
At 25, I’m single, watching each dime, drowning in the demands of two jobs and trying to figure how I am going to fix a bum knee. This marathon was supposed to help me accept this birthday and things I haven’t accomplished. But I couldn’t even do it. And failure is laughing at me, like it has done every single birthday.
Yet, failure doesn’t win this one. At 25, I am the editor-in-chief of my own newspaper, pay the bills with a job I still rather enjoy, live by myself and have the best friends I’ve ever had.
I am a very different person going into 25 than I was going into 24. A friend recently commented how much I’ve changed in the small time she has known me. That makes me smile.
In my 24th year, I finally started to adopt those beliefs and opinions that I silenced for so long and now they are reflective in my lifestyle. I let go of unworthy friendships and am more selfish to my own needs. I am finally stronger than my eating disorder and can smile in the mirror, thinking, “Man, I am beautiful.” And a relationship or the number of friends at my side no longer define my happiness.
My life is far from ideal and sometimes it’s too much. Most days are a battle, but it’s one I am fine with fighting. I accept where I am in life and that this is just another town I pass through. Unlike other birthdays, though, I honestly have no ideas or plans for where I’ll be at 26. I like it that way.
To 25 …
Thursday, October 01, 2009
Shameless self-promoting
Hello all,
First, my deepest apologies for the lack of activity on this blog. My life has been nothing but insane since the beginning of the summer and almost uncontrollable since Sept. 1. Nevertheless, life is good.
I promise to have a real update about my life and all the great things going on, but until then, I want to ask three little favors from my blog readers. These are simple things and they are actually directly related to my absence on this blog. Here they are:
1) Please visit www.ahamoment.com/vote/heather and vote for my video. The Aha Moment crew, a program sponsored by Mutual of Omaha, traveled the country to record peoples' aha moment. My video is one of 75 selected as semi-finalist in the Aha Moment contest. You have until Oct. 15 to vote for my video. The top 25 will move on to the final round and the top 10 will be featured on national television. So, please go vote for me!
2) Watch this great video KDLT did about the online newspaper I started.
3) When you are through with all of that, go check out the inspiration behind 1 and 2, The Post. We are celebrating our one-month birthday and it have been nothing short of awesome the past few week. So, please, go check it out.
I promise more later.
Love,
Heather
First, my deepest apologies for the lack of activity on this blog. My life has been nothing but insane since the beginning of the summer and almost uncontrollable since Sept. 1. Nevertheless, life is good.
I promise to have a real update about my life and all the great things going on, but until then, I want to ask three little favors from my blog readers. These are simple things and they are actually directly related to my absence on this blog. Here they are:
1) Please visit www.ahamoment.com/vote/heather and vote for my video. The Aha Moment crew, a program sponsored by Mutual of Omaha, traveled the country to record peoples' aha moment. My video is one of 75 selected as semi-finalist in the Aha Moment contest. You have until Oct. 15 to vote for my video. The top 25 will move on to the final round and the top 10 will be featured on national television. So, please go vote for me!
2) Watch this great video KDLT did about the online newspaper I started.
3) When you are through with all of that, go check out the inspiration behind 1 and 2, The Post. We are celebrating our one-month birthday and it have been nothing short of awesome the past few week. So, please, go check it out.
I promise more later.
Love,
Heather
Monday, September 14, 2009
Another post, another death
I didn't want to go most weeks. My mind was always on something else, something self-centered. I usually watched the clock click down to the last minute, ready to resume my life or join some evening plans. It never occurred to me what my time meant to them or how my presence impacted their presence.
Last school year, I volunteered to teach religious education at my church. To this day, I'm not sure what encouraged me to put my name on the list, but I did. With shaken and skeptical beliefs, I probably wasn't the best for the job, but I was there. I taught seventh grade to 12 kids transitioning into teens. Those kids taught me to look at life in simple terms instead of strings of hypothesis and assumptions.
Although it seemed like a struggle to conjure excitement about teaching, it was always pleasant when I got there. Their smiles, unending hope and youthful curiosity calmed me from whatever troubles I encountered. One day, I went in seething from the treatment of another individual. Five minutes with those kids and life didn't seem so bad.
There was one in particular that always put on a smile on my face. He was big for his age; in fact, it was easy to mistake him for a high schooler. He loved music and was smart with all As in his classes. He didn't always like class discussion, but when he added an interjection, it was usually a snarky remark far above the humor of the other students. He was a good kid.
Yesterday, he took his own life. At age 14, he decided his journey should end here. My stomach tightens and throat swells as I type those words.
Death seems to follow me this month. First my uncle, then childhood pet and now him. All different relationships to me and different kinds of pain, but I cry for them all. Each time the news was delivered, I wasn't able to show emotion. I had to wait until I was home to let the tears pour. I wait till its convenient for me to mourn and then I mourn.
Maybe I'm mad at life right now. Maybe I'm just tired from all that's around me. Or maybe my hope in life is being tested so much that I can't lean on it anymore. Right now, I'm just angry. I'm angry that another life had to be taken in an unjust way.
Yet, my optimism is a bitch that won't go away. She calms me, cries with me and, like always, reminds me the grace that still exists.
On my home commute, I encountered a gorgeous yellow and pink sunset wrapping its arms around the rolling prairie. Single trees were the featured guest of the performance and I only removed my eyes for a second or two to check my status on the road. In that light, I saw that 14-year-old blonde boy. I saw my uncle. I saw hope.
The sun has set and hope is a bit harder to find in the dark, but tomorrow it will arise again. He is removed from the Earth, but his memory will always make me smile. He could always make me smile.
Last school year, I volunteered to teach religious education at my church. To this day, I'm not sure what encouraged me to put my name on the list, but I did. With shaken and skeptical beliefs, I probably wasn't the best for the job, but I was there. I taught seventh grade to 12 kids transitioning into teens. Those kids taught me to look at life in simple terms instead of strings of hypothesis and assumptions.
Although it seemed like a struggle to conjure excitement about teaching, it was always pleasant when I got there. Their smiles, unending hope and youthful curiosity calmed me from whatever troubles I encountered. One day, I went in seething from the treatment of another individual. Five minutes with those kids and life didn't seem so bad.
There was one in particular that always put on a smile on my face. He was big for his age; in fact, it was easy to mistake him for a high schooler. He loved music and was smart with all As in his classes. He didn't always like class discussion, but when he added an interjection, it was usually a snarky remark far above the humor of the other students. He was a good kid.
Yesterday, he took his own life. At age 14, he decided his journey should end here. My stomach tightens and throat swells as I type those words.
Death seems to follow me this month. First my uncle, then childhood pet and now him. All different relationships to me and different kinds of pain, but I cry for them all. Each time the news was delivered, I wasn't able to show emotion. I had to wait until I was home to let the tears pour. I wait till its convenient for me to mourn and then I mourn.
Maybe I'm mad at life right now. Maybe I'm just tired from all that's around me. Or maybe my hope in life is being tested so much that I can't lean on it anymore. Right now, I'm just angry. I'm angry that another life had to be taken in an unjust way.
Yet, my optimism is a bitch that won't go away. She calms me, cries with me and, like always, reminds me the grace that still exists.
On my home commute, I encountered a gorgeous yellow and pink sunset wrapping its arms around the rolling prairie. Single trees were the featured guest of the performance and I only removed my eyes for a second or two to check my status on the road. In that light, I saw that 14-year-old blonde boy. I saw my uncle. I saw hope.
The sun has set and hope is a bit harder to find in the dark, but tomorrow it will arise again. He is removed from the Earth, but his memory will always make me smile. He could always make me smile.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Saturday, August 08, 2009
The Baseball Game
I’m not sure I’ve seen blood that red before. Of all that should’ve shocked me about his appearance, my eyes were fixated on the crimson tube. It connected the sloppy bag of blood hanging near his bed to some deep vein in his arm. I couldn’t look at where the end of tube and were it was inserted, I just stared at the excess plastic filled with that deep red, scary blood.
It brought the whole situation to color - an ugly, overbearing red.
They warned me that his state of existence was not good, still, I insisted on seeing him. Just a month earlier, he had been admitted for a failing liver. He was moved to a larger hospital then a larger one. They moved him back to the second hospital a week before my visit and hope to move him back to his home hospital soon. When he left the largest hospital, he was embarking on a journey to the end. He was dying.
When I arrived at the hospital, he was taking a bath so we waited outside. Our casual conversation seemed grossly inappropriate to the fight for life going on in the next room. The nurse finished and allowed us to come in. She left the door open and the first site of him stopped me. He looked familiar, but was it really him? I couldn’t move my feet, I just wanted to stare from afar. I regretted coming without even walking in the door. I wanted to walk past his door, find the exit and go back to my nice comfortable life. I didn’t want to realize what I needed to realize. I wanted to forget I saw him like this and just remember him as jolly with plenty of high-fives to spare.
I was introduced as I was still outside the room and before I could run.
“And you remember Heather?”
“Nooooooooooo” he said jokingly.
Humor is comforting like that. I could do this if he still had his humor, I thought as I took those steps into his room. I believe he used it at that moment to reassure me of my presence.
Most of what he said was incoherent. We asked him about the lunch menu and he talk about a dinner for 20 people. The doctor asked him where he was and he said the loading docks of the university. Much, none of us could understand. We just nodded our heads, saying “yeah” and hoping he wouldn’t see through our fake comprehension.
It’s not easy thing to do, watch you someone you love die. It’s hard to find the right words to say or to say anything at all. I mostly listened as the others spoke to him, searching for one ounce of the real him. I wanted to find him beyond the hospital bed and the scary bag of blood. So we resorted to the one topic that is perfectly acceptable to discuss on one’s deathbed: baseball.
We told him that his team – the Yankees – was in first place. That made him smile. We then asked him if he was going to a baseball game.
“I am going to go to a baseball game and I don’t care what I look like.”
Even if the whole experience shook me, I needed to hear him say that. It reminded me of who he was and it destroyed the image of what he’s become. His story is not a happy one. It shattered my optimism that life ends well and wonder if evil won this one. But at the end of his life, if his love for something so simple is still pure, then I can accept the situation. And honestly believe that good will, and will always, prevail.
That was the last time I saw him. For now, he’s at the grandest of baseball games.
It brought the whole situation to color - an ugly, overbearing red.
They warned me that his state of existence was not good, still, I insisted on seeing him. Just a month earlier, he had been admitted for a failing liver. He was moved to a larger hospital then a larger one. They moved him back to the second hospital a week before my visit and hope to move him back to his home hospital soon. When he left the largest hospital, he was embarking on a journey to the end. He was dying.
When I arrived at the hospital, he was taking a bath so we waited outside. Our casual conversation seemed grossly inappropriate to the fight for life going on in the next room. The nurse finished and allowed us to come in. She left the door open and the first site of him stopped me. He looked familiar, but was it really him? I couldn’t move my feet, I just wanted to stare from afar. I regretted coming without even walking in the door. I wanted to walk past his door, find the exit and go back to my nice comfortable life. I didn’t want to realize what I needed to realize. I wanted to forget I saw him like this and just remember him as jolly with plenty of high-fives to spare.
I was introduced as I was still outside the room and before I could run.
“And you remember Heather?”
“Nooooooooooo” he said jokingly.
Humor is comforting like that. I could do this if he still had his humor, I thought as I took those steps into his room. I believe he used it at that moment to reassure me of my presence.
Most of what he said was incoherent. We asked him about the lunch menu and he talk about a dinner for 20 people. The doctor asked him where he was and he said the loading docks of the university. Much, none of us could understand. We just nodded our heads, saying “yeah” and hoping he wouldn’t see through our fake comprehension.
It’s not easy thing to do, watch you someone you love die. It’s hard to find the right words to say or to say anything at all. I mostly listened as the others spoke to him, searching for one ounce of the real him. I wanted to find him beyond the hospital bed and the scary bag of blood. So we resorted to the one topic that is perfectly acceptable to discuss on one’s deathbed: baseball.
We told him that his team – the Yankees – was in first place. That made him smile. We then asked him if he was going to a baseball game.
“I am going to go to a baseball game and I don’t care what I look like.”
Even if the whole experience shook me, I needed to hear him say that. It reminded me of who he was and it destroyed the image of what he’s become. His story is not a happy one. It shattered my optimism that life ends well and wonder if evil won this one. But at the end of his life, if his love for something so simple is still pure, then I can accept the situation. And honestly believe that good will, and will always, prevail.
That was the last time I saw him. For now, he’s at the grandest of baseball games.
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