Ghoulish

On the day when it will be possible for woman to love not in her weakness but in strength, not to escape herself but to find herself, not to abase herself but to assert herself -- on that day love will become for her, as for man, a source of life... - Simone de Beauvoir

Yes, Halloween. Ghouls and ghosts and goblins. I had no idea.

My mother is visiting on an extended (interminable?) forced vacation. I was happy that she'd be able to spend Halloween with the children, and even happier for them. I allowed my ex-husband to come over to trick-or-treat with the children. It seemed an innocent enough idea at the time.

You see, I'm very comfortable with our divorce. Sure, I'd prefer to have no contact with him whatsoever, but I'm also resigned to the fact that I will speak to him daily for the next 13 years. It's no matter to me - I stopped loving him long ago. His needs, his desires, his aspirations mean nothing to me. We have discussed our new relationships and it never bothers me even for a moment - there are no pangs of jealousy, no lingering moments of "what if". I mean, the things that always made me crazy continue to, but for fleeting moments I can tolerate them - knowing that it's time-limited and I will be free of his presence soon enough.

We take the children trick-or-treating in my neighborhood. My *new* neighborhood. The one where I'm still the only single mother. The one where I'm attempting to allow my children to spread their wings (to counter his stifling nature), the one where I'm attempting to show responsibility and independence, the one where I'm attempting to make a life for my children.

It's a lovely evening and the neighborhood is wonderful for the event - many people have TV's showing the UT football game pulled out into their driveways, and all say, "Hey, come by and watch the end of the game when you're done!". The family I know best in the area are having a large get-together. They have a fire-pit in the front yard and there are about 20 people huddled around. They invite us to stay and we agree. The boys are playing, the girls are playing, and the parents are drinking. It's a nice evening.

My mother is enjoying herself and having a beer (very rare event). The kids are completely occupied. My ex-h (Baboon) is chatting up a storm with my closest geographical neighbor. I'm not entirely bothered by it, largely because I don't care. I'm getting to know some of the other moms in the area and I'm enjoying the evening.

As the night begins to dwindle down, I see the neighbor becoming bored with the Baboon and I laugh to myself. I know the feeling well. I'm guessing that neighbor-boy hasn't been able to get a word in. There is little more tedious in the world than a one-sided conversation, and I spent the better part of 15 years engaging in such non-dialogue.

The crowd dissipates, and only a few people are left around the fire. Many of the stragglers are quite drunk. Two of the men start asking me how I got out of my marriage. It's funny - their wives are right there, and the alcohol has reduced their inhibitions to the point of not caring, and they confess how unhappy they are in their marriages. I'm surprised - not shocked, I'm well aware of the feeling - but I'm surprised that the conversation is so ribald. The wives are shooting the men eye-daggers, and I can only imagine that the rest of their weekends will be nothing short of abject misery.

One of the stragglers is a football coach at a nearby college. During football season, he travels to the college early in the week and comes home on special weekends only. He's a huge man - and quite attractive - 6'3 or so, built like an athlete, his balding head the only real acknowledgement to his age. His wife pops by briefly, dumps a baby in his arms, I hear them argue a bit. Then she declares to the crowd that she has a terrible headache and is going to bed. She's cute - not beautiful, but attractive enough. As she walks off, he rolls his eyes and sighs, shifting the baby on his hip. I'm giggling at the family costumes, wondering when exactly it was that his ball-sack was severed.

He plops down next to me, listening to the other two men ask me about the challenges of divorce and I suddenly get very quiet. All three of these men are living lives that aren't what they imagined, yet they don't have the energy? integrity? gumption? fortitude? to change their situations. It's makes me a little sick. I've tired of the conversation, I've tired of their lives, I've tired of my own life. Their unhappiness is none 0f my concern, and if they can't find a way out, I can't help them. But I'm giggling a little on the inside, until my world comes crashing down.

Duckie, who had been asleep, wakes up and crawls into my lap. Bear comes back with his buddy and both take chairs around the fire. The talk mellows a lot with the kids around. My mom is a little tipsy. The Baboon stands up and clears his throat. "I know most of you don't know me, but there's something I want to say and I want you all to hear it."

I cringe. I have no idea what's coming, but I know it's wretched. He has always carried an overinflated sense of his own importance, and this dramatic introduction only signals badness. I shift uncomfortably in my seat and my stomach absolutely sinks.

He turns to me. "Amanda, I still think you're the most beautiful woman in the world. I've never stopped loving you." He drops to one knee in front of me, in front of my mother, in front of my children and in front of my neighbors.

"I know we had our differences, but I also know we can work through them. I never resented your success like you think I did. I love you, will you marry me, again?"

The silence is palpable. My son breaks the silence with excited cheers, "Say yes, Mom. Say yes!"

I feel a sharp burning sensation in my throat. I can't breathe. I stare into my son's eyes and I know how much he wants it. I think he senses how much I don't, because he becomes silent and a little somber.

My mothers laughs out loud. "Baboon, you've always had a way with words."

Me? I want to throw up. I want to punch him. I want to spit in his face. I want to laugh - loud and hard and until I pee myself.

In a span of 30 seconds, 1000 thoughts flood my brain. I'm free of him. Finally. After all these years. To jump back into that - never. Not in a million years, not for a million dollars, not even for my children. Because they can't afford to have that mother again. Because I can't be that woman again. Because I now know what kind of love I'm capable of and I can't bear the thought of settling for anything less.

I thank my hosts for a lovely evening. I gather up the children and my mother and I walk back to my house, with the Baboon hot on my heels begging me to talk to him. Once inside, I ask my mother to tuck the children in and I escort the Baboon onto the back porch to have a little talk.

He looks deep into my eyes and reaches out to hold me. A hand catches my waist before I dodge the full embrace. His hand on my body feels skeletal - possessive, gripping and cold. Somehow, I do not scream. I do not smack. I do not react.

I look him dead in the eyes and say, "Never."

"But, babe..." he begins.

"No, Baboon. No. I'm done. It's over. It's been over." The tears filling his eyes soften me for a moment. I don't like to hurt others. But then I remember - I remember how much time I spent hurting and I can't sacrifice myself and my needs for him. Life is too short. One chance.

"You need to leave now." I tell him. He reaches for me again and I can't embrace him. I can't touch him. I can't give him even the slightest hope to cling to. "Goodnight."

"No one will ever love you the way I do." He says, walking out the door. And that did it for me, it was the only thing I needed to hear.

I heard it for 13 years. And you know what? I hope to God he's right and that no one else ever loves me the way he does.

Clocks

The illuminable, silent, never-resting thing called Time, rolling, rushing on, swift, silent, like an all-embracing oceantide, on which we and all the universe swim like exhalations, like apparitions which are, and then are not: this is forever very literally a miracle; a thing to strike us dumb, for we have no word to speak about it. -Thomas Carlyle

I'm shocked that it's been six months, almost to the day, since I've written. I wonder if writing through the last six months would have changed anything - honed the focus, so to speak. It's not likely.

I've been caught in the undertow, swimming along, knowing that to fight would be futile. My life has completely changed in the last half-year. I wonder if I should write about it now literally, or if I should just pick up where I left off and hope that the pieces fall into place as I go. To tell the story in its entirety is out of the question, it would take far too long and leave far too much to recollection - which is at best vague and faulty.

But where then to begin? More importantly, how? Where I left off? Perhaps. We shall see...

I've never made it a secret that my job largely defined me. I love being a nurse, in the heart of surgeries, digging deep. It was also pretty apparent to me that my job was beginning to take a toll, and that became more clear after I purchased my home. The drive to work was tolerable enough - 30 minutes, but the drive home was interminable - at best an hour in stop-and-go traffic, and hour of my life wasted, never to be retrieved. Each day in the car underlined what I already knew - while I adored my coworkers and surgeons, adored my under-served patient population, the drive was an unbelievable time waster and, being prone to road-rage, made me insane. I had to make a change and I had to do that quickly.

I took a job in a new, struggling hospital very close to home. The facility is beautiful, but the reputation was horrible. Yes, I was bored. I felt contempt for my healthy patients, contempt for my coworkers who had no idea what real surgery was, contempt for the surgeons that did pissy little surgeries on these healthy patients and loathed my ignorant boss. None of that mattered - it was a few bucks an hour more, I was close to home and close to my children, and I knew it would be the sort of job I'd be able to leave at home.

I started on a Monday. By Thursday, I was Charge Nurse. Two weeks later, the Director was escorted out of the building and I assumed the role - not because I wanted it, per se, but because someone had to do it and the pinheads I was working with were certainly not up to the task.

I had no idea what I had signed up for. My phone became my lifeline. I had to increase my cell phone minutes to a disgusting number, and it rang non-stop. Employees calling in sick, texting me just to whine, officials calling for information - it just never stopped. Still, part of me whined and a part of me loved the responsibility, the power, the ability to turn this bum-fuck hospital into something worthwhile.

I made huge, sweeping changes immediately. I fired people, I reorganized the structure of the operating rooms and the scheduling, I hired new people my bosses were watching. When I started, we had maybe three surgeries a day. Today, we are averaging twenty. It's awe-inspiring.

My new title became official last Monday, and it's a complete life- and game-changer for me. My salary increased dramatically. I'm going to amazing parties in amazing environments. I'm recruiting new physicians daily, hiring new people to keep up with the volume and generally and genuinely LOVING it. Now, it's taking a toll. I'm exhausted. My personal life is (almost) non-existent. I hung pictures of my children in my office and that is where I see the most of them. But it is all for the greater good.

Some days, I miss the simplicity. I miss actually being in the OR. But for the most part, I see this as an opportunity to create something from nothing - to build a future for the hospital, for me and for my children in a way that was merely a pipe-dream six months ago.

It's awesome really.

I love this house. In six months, I've been to San Diego, South Beach, and Aspen (those were all personal trips). I've gotten two promotions and two significant salary increases. I'll be going to Nashville and San Francisco in the next three months for work. I've made friends, I've made enemies. I've formulated new goals and accomplished some. I've made larger goals and look forward to those. My children love their new houses, their new schools and their new friends. I miss downtown. I miss old friends that are largely lost. I miss old stomping grounds that are hard to get to now.

So while all this change and time has created new challenges, I know that these challenges will be short-lived. I guess that it will take a solid six months to adapt to all the change and to feel less isolated out here, but after that, I've lucked into a situation that will change my life, and my children's lives, forever.

To that end, I finally managed to get internet access at home, which means that the missives can now continue. And to have the time to sit on my lovely back porch, in my lovely home (which is no longer the financial burden I feared it would be), is tremendous.

Settling

"The ideal of happiness has always taken material form in the house, whether cottage or castle; it stands for permanence and separation from the world." - Simone de Beauvoir

I'm saddened by how long it's been since I've written - and I'd love to be more philosophical. The truth of the matter is that I've been insanely busy and time has been at a premium.

In short, I've spent the time since I've last written purchasing a home, moving, hanging with my mother who ostensibly came to "help" and working.

What I can tell you is this: This is not the first home that I've owned, but it is the first home I've owned on my own. No one helped me, no one else made it possible, it's mine.

I can also tell you this: I have loved most of the places that I've lived for one reason or another - I've made them all my own. However, the house I loved most was this kitschy little 1920's Travis Heights bungalow that couldn't have been more than 800 square feet. We sold it when I was pregnant with Bear because it would have been a miserable house to have a baby in.

BUT fuck, I loved that house. I loved the pink stucco. I loved the dark wood walls. I loved the black floors and the built-in cabinetry. I loved the back porch. I loved the front porch. I loved the way the walls beat with my heart in that crappy little casa.

Here's what's funny - I never realized, throughout this long and laborious process, that I was completely recreating that little bungalow that I've always missed. BUT, that's just exactly what I've done. Yes, it's an updated version. Yes, it's an upscale version...but....it's that house that I loved so much, only this time, it's all mine.

I love it here. I'm very happy. It feels so much like me.

Existence

"If a man hasn't discovered something that he will die for, he isn't fit to live. " - Martin Luther King, Jr.

So, last night, through the haze of sleeping pills and total exhaustion, I power out a post about how unfair it is to share your soul with others, as your emotions may impact theirs and perhaps that's not really a fair thing to do to another. I fall asleep thinking of this and make a decision to withhold more information from people, as a favor to them.

And then yesterday, one single event completely changed my perspective.

I'm used to foreshadowing in movies, I'm used to foreshadowing in books, but when it happens in your life, and you actually realize it, it's a very bizarre feeling. As I'm walking in the front door, I see a doctor duck into the hall to make a phone call. I'm quite far away from him, but I hear the conversation vividly: "Honey, it's Dad. There's a bad wreck near our house. I don't think you'll be able to leave the way you normally do, so take an alternate route in, or just wait a while."

Once inside the OR, everyone is talking about this wreck, except me. I've got yet another monster big case with the potential to go really bad. The anesthesiologist and I get the patient in the room to get started. We are wondering where one of the techs is, it's unusual that he's not in the room helping us. Another coworker comes in and asks where he is and we sort of start to make fun of him, joking about how he never misses this sort of thing and how he's usually in our way in a big way, "helping".

My boss begins calling him, leaving horrible messages asking where he is. Then, the pieces begin falling into place. His wife calls looking for him. News reports say that the vehicle in the accident was a rental car, and he was in a rental car. His BMW been broken in to at the hospital a couple days prior, he was in a Cobalt which surely contributed to the accident - you're used to driving a car that handles like a dream, and suddenly find yourself in an unfamiliar rollerskate on wet roads. My other boss decides to drive to the scene to see if it's him. Shortly after, we receive confirmation - our coworker was the only victim in the accident, and it was a brutal and awful accident.

I'm not going to pretend that his death was personally devestating. I barely knew the man. He had only been working with us for a couple of months, and our conversations were still in the realm of the superficial. I had never even asked about his family, his hobbies or his interests. Of course, I feel badly for him and realize that his life was snatched from him very prematurely. I am concerned about the well-being of those that loved him and relied on him - but I don't even know who they are.

What his death does prove to me personally, however, is that I was wrong when I wrote yesterday's post. It is not only acceptable to share your thoughts and feeling with others, it's mandatory.

Yes, your words do have an impact, and yes, your words may alter lives irrevocably. But, as long as it's coming from an honest and true perspective with honest and true intentions, you should share your thoughts with others - because you might not have the opportunity again.

You have to live with intention, you have to define your life for yourself and on your own terms and you have to love with passion - every single day. I don't want to sound all macabre, and I certainly don't feel morose today - I feel renewed and reenergized - but we are only promised the present.

With that, my promise is to be as open and honest with you as I would like you to be with me. Yes, in the past I've felt burdened by the confessions of others and I've worried that my own confessions may cause a similar burden to be felt by others. But that's a mistaken approach and an error in my thinking. We cannot live in fear of our feelings, desires or intentions: it's all we are and all we have.

Blabber

"We assume that we know how someone is going to react to us. We assume that our efforts will or will not be successful. And not only do we believe our assumptions about what other people are thinking, but then we end up taking those assumptions personally and even end up resenting the person. To avoid assumptions, ask questions. It takes courage to trust the present moment, to allow other people to be exactly who they are, and to let life unfold according to its own plan… and it avoids a great deal of suffering." - Don Miguel Ruiz

I'm reserved by nature. I know some of you are laughing about this. No, the things that don't matter I will ramble on and on endlessly about, but the things that do matter - it's fairly safe to assume you have little idea.

I recently asked someone reasonably close to me for some advice and began the story with, "I'm so stressed, I really just need an objective opinion." Before I could even ask the advice, this person, that knows me fairly well said, "What? What do you have to be stressed about?"

I laughed.

"No, really, Amanda. You never appear stressed, what's going on?"

So I rambled the list. When I was done he said, "Shit. I had no idea. Most people would be curled up in the fetal position in the corner of some room in a pysch ward."

Yeah, you think? But I tried to redirect the conversation back to the original question which was far more personal than the things I am comfortable sharing. He had some good opinions, and the conversation forced me to make some uncomfortable declarations along the way.

Later the same day, someone came to my home and made some confessions of their own to me. It left me feeling very burdened and very drained. Some of these things were opinions on me and my life, others were requests of me and still others were his own issues that have no impact on me, but burden me nonetheless.

It got me to thinking: How just is it to make confessions to another? Big or small? How fair is it to reveal your soul to someone having precious little idea how your words will impact them?

One the one hand, I see it as personally liberating; there are plenty of things that I would love to share with others. Perhaps it is my inability to be self-disclosing, perhaps it is just because sometimes people's confessions burden me, but I'm struggling to believe that it is acceptable to share with another in such a way. You might hurt them, even when that was not your intent.

I have always tended to tread lightly with the feelings of others and now I'm struggling with sharing my soul. How do you do that, knowing that mere words may carry the power to alter life - irrevocably?

Speed

"Driving is a spectacular form of amnesia. Everything is to be discovered, everything to be obliterated." - Jean Baudrillard

I have a lot on my mind. Too much. I'm in this holding pattern that isn't all that great for me. Wait for the house. Wait for the job. Wait and see what's going to happen with X, Y and Z. I'm a doer, not a waiter so this makes me restless and a little bit grumpy. Things are good, things will all work out and the pace is about to increase in a big way...but until then...grrrr.

This morning, both children are crazily asking what the plan for the day is. I mentally run through the possibilities and nothing is appealing to me. It's not apathy - I'm up for something, but everything I can think of is just so...mundane. I tell them that I'm going to take a bath and get dressed and then we'll decide. It's only 8AM, so we've got time.

While I'm in the bath, I realize that what I'd really like would be to be in Myrtle Beach with them. To visit the Aquarium, to walk barefoot in the sand, to have She-Crab Soup and fried shrimp at the Sea Captain's House listening to the waves lap the shore. Then later, curl up in bed and open the windows and let the ocean air lull me to sleep. Alas, that's not possible.

BUT...I can get my toes in some sand. Hell, I can even go to an aquarium. Corpus Christi is only three hours away, and driving is always fun. Why not? No really...why the fuck not? So I ask the kids if they are up for an adventure. I tell them my plan. Bear looks a little apprehensive, but goes into his room to get dressed and comes out in palm tree trunks. Duck chooses a skirt with a little palm tree on it. Yeah, they're onboard.

I had never been to Corpus before, so I was excited. The drive down is a blast. Once we're out of San Antonio, Duckie is asleep and Bear and I are having a fun chat about all sorts of randomness. That part of the drive is completely magical - a flat, two lane divided highway and virtually no traffic. I'm not driving, I'm flying.

I love driving fast. Really fast. It's such a great way to clear my head. When you're in a car traveling at high speeds, nothing else matters. It can't matter. You have to focus on the road and what you're doing and everything else just sort of falls by the wayside. We're listening to reggae, Bear is singing and I'm just driving. Duck wakes up and is thrilled by the sight of palm trees and it all just makes me very, very happy.

Bear says, "Mom, I've got this funny feeling in my tummy. This is exciting. We didn't plan this, we're just doing it."

"Yeah, babe. I know. You know I'm a planner, but sometimes I just need to shake things up a little."

"That's pretty cool, Mom."

Glad you think so. It won't be the last time.

We get to Corpus and find the Aquarium easily enough, so that's our first stop. It's pretty cool with some really nice exhibits, but the highlight was the dolphin show. It's so amazing to watch such beautiful animals sailing through the water, then lifting out of it before crashing down in a way that is impossibly graceful. The children loved it - almost as much as I did. After, we tromped around the USS Lexington because I felt like we should, had an ice cream cone, then took our shoes off and ran through the sand and let the cold waves tickle our toes.

I love watching my children like that - totally and utterly blissed out by something so simple and pure. I took lots of pictures and just let them have some time. It's getting to be fairly late in the afternoon, however, and I'm realizing that we need to find a hotel room. As I look around at the options, I'm a little shocked.

Turns out Corpus is actually kind of ghetto. The crowd is changing by the second. The families are disappearing and a whole bunch of really rough looking people are beginning to emerge from somewhere. I pop into the only hotel that looks like I could manage sleeping in it, and it's questionable at best. While I'm standing at the desk waiting for the receptionist to check availability, masses and masses of scary looking people begin pouring out of the elevator.

A little advanced research and I could have likely found something more suitable, but this wasn't that sort of trip and I didn't really feel like driving aimlessly around the coast trying to decide where to sleep with two kids that had already spent the morning in the car and were hungry and thirsty.

I look at the kids and tell them we need to go have something to eat and we'll talk about our hotel options at dinner. We find a cute little beach restaurant and sit outside eating fried shrimp and crab and watching the pelicans and seagulls fly overhead. It's wonderful. But it's getting cool and it's getting late.

Duckie is beginning to get sleepy - I can see it in her eyes. Bear is just bouncing off the walls from the adventure. I wanted to wake up and play in the sand the next morning, but I realized that I really didn't want to spend the night in Corpus, in a hotel with a bunch of rough looking people who would be very drunk very soon. Then I realized that the kids would fall asleep instantly on the way home and I'd be able to drive very fast on the awesome, sparsely traveled road between Corpus and San Antonio. It was a good idea, in theory.

We leave Corpus and talk about the day. The kids are so excited - telling me everything we just did as if I weren't there and I'm enjoying listening to them talk and I'm driving fast. Very fast. Very, very fast. It's dark at this point - and it's just perfect - not another car in my field of vision, not even the cop that clocked me at 92. In a 65. Oops.

He saunters up to the car - all slovenly and all I can hear in my head is Junior Brown's song "Highway Patrol". I hand him my ID and insurance and he asks me to step out. Bear screams, "Don't arrest my mom. She's a nurse, people need her." And I'm laughing.

The cop points out to me that my speed is not a laughing matter. I acknowledge his righteousness and apologize profusely. I tell him that I didn't realize I was driving that fast, but that I never get the opportunity to drive on straight, flat roads. In an effort to lighten him up, I say, "Honestly, Officer, I'm surprised my Corolla even goes that fast. The speedometer stops at 80 so I really didn't realize." He doesn't laugh.

He says, "Did you realize you weren't signaling lane changes, either?"

Sometimes, I'm just on. "Sir, at those speeds, do you really think it matters?"

Well, it was funny. Shit, dude, my kids have Krispy Kreme donuts...may I interest you? No, I didn't say it. But they did, and it crossed my mind.

He wasn't the asshole he could have been. He only gave me a warning for the failure to signal lane changes. He did write me what I'm sure will be a phenomenally expensive ticket, and he did slow me down for the duration of the drive home.

That was even more excitement for the children, however, and Duck didn't fall asleep until we were close to San Antonio. After she fell asleep, Bear and I had a really great, really important conversation about life and love and happiness. He is such an amazing little boy with a great heart. He fell asleep about 20 minutes from the house, as usual.

I accidentally woke Duck as I was getting her out of the car and she said, "Where are we?"

"Home, sweetie. We're home."

And she says, "Oh, good. The perfect end to a perfect day." Her chubby little arms wrapped tightly around my neck, her sleepy breath warm on my cheek felt wonderful, and I'm glad we had our "adventure" today. We all really needed it and while I won't fall asleep with ocean air filling my lungs tonight, I did walk on sand, and breathe the salty air and I did get away from it all for a bit.

Bondage

"Whether we know it or not, whether we want to or not, and whether we care or not, we are all programmed to try to win our generation's game of reproduction - we are all programmed to pursue reproductive success." - Robin Baker

I've got a theory. Yup.

I've alluded to it in my most recent post, Chump and I touched on the biological factors in a post from 2008 called Polarity. But it's funny, because this topic keeps coming up over and over again in conversations that I've had with others, so I'm going to make the effort to put in into words, to share my theory with my blog-reading world.

Please do not bother to point out that the theory contains some sweeping generalizations. Of course it does. We all know exceptions to the rule, but my friends, trust that those are exceptions. I actually attempted to google some statistics to help beef up my argument, but the statistics I found are a bit older than I'm comfortable with and don't take in to consideration some of the nuance I'm speaking of. Therefore, fact is null and void and it's me spewing my highly (il)logical argument into the ethernet.

Theory: First marriages are doomed to failure.

(There are a handful for whom lighting strikes once and life is bliss from the walk down the aisle to the pall bearers walk. But, they are the minority, I assure you. JB comes to mind, and I know he's reading this and rolling his eyes at me, but he has two things going for him - 1. He's great. 2. His wife is exceptional.)

Wait, wait...maybe my theory needs some qualifiers. I'm not talking about the first marriage that occurs at age 38 between two people who hold out for the lightning the first time then finally find each other. I'm talking about the other kind; the kind that occurs in your mid-to-late 20's - the kind that most people I know are in or were in.

OK, now we have our frame of reference, right? Good. So, back to the theory. First marriages are almost always doomed to failure. There are many reasons for this, some biological, some generational, some situational and some circumstantial.

When you are in your 20's and you're looking at your life, you have plans - educational goals, career goals and family goals. Through your 20-something glasses, you envision your future.

When I reflect back to where I was when I was 21 (the year I began dating the man that would ultimately become my ex-husband), I was completing a degree in Marketing, planning to sell to the world. I had spent a great deal of time traveling in my life. I came from a crazy family that did their own thing all the time. I desperately wanted to have children, and to give them the things that I felt I had lacked all along - stability, roots.

So, with my mind functioning both consciously and sub-, I chose my husband, the father of my children. I wanted someone stable, first and foremost. I wanted someone outgoing enough to give my children a chance against my reserve. I wanted someone reliable, that didn't challenge my desires or needs, someone kind and nurturing, that would support my goals and help me build a home.

From a subconscious point of view, I wanted someone virile, healthy (genetically) but with a weak enough gene distribution that it wouldn't dampen my own - I wanted to make sure my children would look exactly like me - and I did very well in that regard. (Incidentally, this is something we all want, even if we can't admit it - that's biology at work).

Each of us has our own reasons, our own criteria. But the end result is the same. We seek someone at that point in time for very specific reasons. We're building our careers, we're defining ourselves, we're just beginning our voyage into who it is we are meant to be and we need someone that can support that chapter in our lives.

So we mentally make our list of what we need in another, and then we meet someone that fits that criteria, and we fit whatever criteria they've developed too. We are blown away. We enter into this relationship with nothing but noble intentions. Til death do us part? You bet! I'm onboard. And it's sincere - it is our sincere hope and our sincere desire.

But we made a critical mistake. We never bothered to appreciate how significantly we'd change. And that they would as well. We might have even had the conversation (as my husband and I did) but at the time, we were certain that we'd grow together, because our ultimate goals were the same - we wanted this. No, I mean it...we REALLY WANTED this.

But, ten years pass and in those ten years, we've achieved some of the goals we set out to achieve and some of the goals have changed. We've sacrificed huge parts of ourselves to make it work against our better judgement (because we were sincere and we REALLY WANTED this) and now our careers have gone one way, our lives have gone one way, our psyches have gone one way and our souls are somewhere else.

But, now we're in our mid-thirties, and we know ourselves. It's a true triumph, really. We are at this place in time where we genuinely know exactly who we are and what we want (at least for the time being, we could change again!). Our careers are where we intended them to be. Even if we're not completely happy in our careers, at this point, we've got a 99.9% knowledge of where we'll be at retirement. (And if we don't, that's a whole other ball of wax).

We know clearly who we are now - as defined by our professional life, the friendships that remain and the new ones formed, the children now present and the amazing deep-breath that comes from having accomplished all of that shit in just 10 short years.

And you lay in bed next to this person that your promised forever to, and as their hands clumsily touch your body you wonder how they couldn't have learned the right way to touch you in ten years, and you say something random that is on your mind and they look at you blankly and you stop and think...is this really what I've done? Is this really what I promised forever for? Is this really what I wanted?

No, of course not. Because the person you chose was chosen for what you thought were the right reasons, and in some ways, they were. That's the person you chose to start a family with and to start a life with. In reality, it wasn't the worst thing you could have done. Sometimes, you need the impetus of wrong to learn right.

If you waited, you probably wouldn't have had the reproductive success your biology mandated you to have. Your career may have taken a different turn. You may have ended up being the most selfish human being on the planet. You likely would have found yourself in a string of short-term relationships that left you feeling...nothing. Worse, you may have found yourself so lonely that you ultimately pledged yourself to someone so utterly wrong for you that life was filled with drama. No, you didn't do any of that. You married a good person and started your family - just the way you thought you were supposed to.

The rub is that it wasn't the person you chose for you. It's a no-fault clause. You couldn't have chosen the person that was right for you, because you didn't even know you. You hadn't even become you.

There is a salvation, however. You admit to yourself that it's OK. You admit to yourself that you are worth more. You prioritize yourself (for a fucking change) and realize that you're still only in your 30's. You acknowledge that you made a mistake, and that while you married a very good person, with a good heart and a good soul, you simply need more.

You acknowledge your selfishness. You set out to find to the person that is just for you. And it's OK, because you're only in your 30's. And you've got your entire lifetime ahead of you and then some. And you acknowledge that you'd rather spend that time with the person that is for you. And yes, it's much harder now - because you're talking about the children, you're talking about complicated finances, you're talking about hurting someone you do love, just not in the way you want to love.

But you look forward to the next 30 - with the person that is just for you.

Tempest

"Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it; and in everything impossibly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic." - Herman Melville

I wondered if you could feel my eyes burning your face as I looked at you. It wasn't so much that I was staring at you, it was a learning moment - a largely scientific attempt to memorize every inch of you - knowing that soon, a sensory overload would force thought out of my mind faster than the speed of sound.

Your sunglasses obscured your eyes, but I knew they were twinkling with that amused gleam that they always carried. Moreover, I knew that when you looked at me, the impish sparkle would transform into something different, the boyishness giving way to a singular sort of intenisty - a pinpoint of pure focus. It was this look that I had come to crave, and longed to learn how to elicit it at my own whim.

I closed my eyes and rested my head against the seat of your car, trying to see what aspects of you I could recall blindly. Instantly, your distinct dimple popped into my mind and made me giggle out loud. You squeezed my knee then, asking what was so funny. I smiled at you as your tongue slid out of your mouth and out at me slightly, a gesture I had already become quite familiar with. That knowledge made me smile more broadly, and I wondered if you realized you were doing it.

I closed my eyes again to continue the mental recollection, but was distracted by the trail of your hand from my knee, further down my thigh. I felt myself sigh deeply, relishing the pressure of your hand, the warmth followed by coolness left behind at each point as your hand continued to explore.

You said something then that made me laugh and my mind drifted back to our meeting. Initially, it was your wit that charmed me. Only those that are keenly observant and healthily skeptical can manage to be sharply acerbic - but never cruel. I remembered too saying goodnight to you on that first date; standing embarassingly close, hoping against hope for a kiss that never came. It mattered not; your kisses were always given freely now.

Your hands slid further still down my thigh and I leaned in to your arm, wrapping as much of my body around you as I could manage. I wanted you to stop the car, to drag me into the fields that peppered the route, to lay with you in the grass and feel you fill me. Instead, I parted my legs slightly to allow your hand better access and felt myself moisten from your touch. I looked again at your face and saw the dimple, content in the knowledge that you were happy.

As we neared our destination, I felt the intensity of your touch increase, matching my own need for you. Yes, we'd be at our destination in no time.

I can't recall who began to undress the other first, but I suspect it was you - your impatience
typically resulting in my clothes being removed long before my conscious mind realized it was time. Quite naturally, my body reacted to you long before my brain caught up - well-prepared to accept you from your first touch, as your tongue brushed against mine. As you carried me to bed, I relaxed onto your body, each time you lifted me onto you aroused me tremendously - a testament to your fortitude - the strength of your very being.

I vividly recall the sensations of our mouths exploring every inch of each other intimately, of pressing my body closer and closer to yours, overwhelmed by sensation and longing to feel you deep inside of me, to feel even closer still. I moved on top of you eager to bring you into my core, my soul. You took control of the situation then, rolling me off of you, onto my back, and plunging deeply inside my desperate need. I came hard and fast around you, feeling your warmth escape into me, reveling in sensation.

As you sat up on the bed and pulled me into you, I pretended to stare at the city below through the window. In reality, I was watching us in the expansive glass, reflected in the late afternoon sun, trying to decide whether our images looked as right as time with you felt. Moments later, you escorted me to the bathroom and leaning my nude body over the bathroom counter, began your own critique of our reflections.

You must have thought it odd that I chose not to join you in the shower, but instead excused myself to dress for dinner. Later, when we returned to bed, I would whisper the reason to you - going out with the reminder of our passion still on, still in my body aroused me - a special little secret that only the two of us shared.

As you waited for me to finish dressing, the sounds of you making your final preparations amused me. You poured drinks for us both, made phone calls, read email and finished dressing. I smiled and thought, "Always so busy, always doing." It was one of the things that I liked best about you. As I emerged, my breath caught in my throat at the sight of you dressed for dinner; I was proud to be in the company of my very handsome man.

I was nervous about climbing into bed with you that night, our first night to actually sleep together. I worried that my contortions would disturb you, or that you'd snore and disturb me. My apprehensions were for naught - I fell asleep instantly, a rare treat. It was easy with you - your hands stroking my body relaxed me into a dreamless sleep.

The sleep would be short-lived, however. I woke only a few hours later to feel your breath on my neck, your arms securely around me. I turned to face you. I wanted to watch you sleep, to learn more about this secret part of your life. My movement disturbed your sleep, and we stole sleepy kisses as you slid effortlessly into me, gently rocking me to another orgasm and gently rocking me back to sleep, your cock still nestled into me.

Waking in the morning, I felt treasured and secured nestled into your chest, your arm still wrapped gently around me. I rested my head on your stomach waking you with gentle kisses, wanting to arouse you gently, to bring you magic, to make you feel as prized.

Afflicted

"The prevailing attunement is at any given time the condition of our openness for perceiving and dealing with what we encounter; the pitch at which our existence is vibrating. What we call moods, feelings, affects, emotions, and states are the concrete modes in which the possibilities for being open are fulfilled. They are at the same time the modes in which this perceptive openness can be narrowed, distorted, or closed off." - Medard Boss



I can't shake the badness. I'm wallowing knee-deep in my own misery and I just can't shake it. Maybe I'm just hormonal. Maybe my biorhythms are off. Maybe it is just that I'm pissed off at being overworked and underpaid (substantially). Maybe it's that I'm super stressed about this house and this move - the financial implications, moving my children to new schools, having to relearn a neighborhood, and the simultaneous blessing and curse of having my parents nearby. Maybe the overwhelming apathy I feel is due to the fact that I'm overwhelmed - with all of it. Maybe I feel guilty for forcing my ex-husband into moving too. Maybe I'm genuinely saddened at the thought of leaving the coworkers and doctors that I genuinely love. Maybe it's a combination of all of those things.

The facts, however, remain the facts. I'm temporarily forced into a state of inertia. I can't change jobs until my son's school year is complete. I can't begin to move utilities, belongings or myself until the house is complete. I cannot plan (devestating for a planner like me) for much of anything because I'm in a holding pattern. I've said it 100 times and it remains true - inactivity is a dangerous place for me. Perhaps that's why I've changed my hair color three times in three weeks.

Once the changes begin, the momentum will propel me forward at lightning speed - until then, there's only ever been one way for me to channel this sort of energy - and so I run, and run, and run. Mile after mile after mile. Until every inch of my body is screaming, until my lungs burn.

At the moment, I'm so sore I can barely walk and I'm headed for a super hot Epsom Salt bath. The truth is that I love the pain - it reminds me that my body was designed to be used and in some instances, even abused. It reminds me that despite the stillness outside and the torrents inside, I'm very much alive.

Spent

This is the true joy in life, the being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one; the being thoroughly worn out before you are thrown on the scrap heap; the being a force of Nature instead of a feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. - George Bernard Shaw

I'm whipped. Completely and utterly beaten-up from my job. The purpose of this post is to vent, to clear my head and also to serve as a gentle reminder that I love what I do. I spend far too much time at work angry now, so I need to reflect and sort it out. But first, a glass of wine to temper the fact that my computer does not serve my needs at all, and to even write on it is beyond frustrating. But it works. So does wine.

Monday and Tuesday were great days. Nothing to complain about. Business as usual. Wednesday, I was on call and my call schedule has been frustrating lately. I've been clustering my monthly call into one week - it makes for a fairly miserable week, but then the rest of the month is quite pleasant. However, I clustered January's week at the end and February's week at the beginning, so I'm wiped out. I'm not blaming anyone but myself for the stroke of genius that organized it, I'm just whining.

Wednesday began with a spine case, so I know going in that I'm going into a room with 6 men who think terrorizing me is the world's greatest sport. Don't get me wrong, I love the banter - for the first hour. Four hours into it and it's pretty exhausting to hold your own when the barrage is constant and coming at you from six different directions. No worries, I got through it just fine - a couple of them may have suffered irreversible damage to their psyches, but hey - a girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do. Survival.

I had a couple of cases after that one that I don't even remember, then I got called in to a lung case. I hate lung cases for two reasons. First, I'm pretty sure it's going to be me laying all funky on my side like that one day, and two - they stress out my anesthesia person a lot. I mean, when you can only ventilate one lung for a good part of the surgery, things can get really ugly really fast. At any rate, this one went pretty well, all things considered (how well can removing an entire lobe of a lung for cancer really go?). After the case, I'm transporting the patient to the ICU, helping getting him all tucked in and the same surgeon is checking in on a patient that he had operated on a couple days prior.

He decides that he needs to intervene immediately, so I get stuck in the ICU basically doing bedside surgery. The ICU nurse couldn't handle the surgical aspects - I'm not knocking her, she was doing a great job managing the 10 or so vasoactive drips this guy was on, and I couldn't manage that. So, we're all working together and it's going well, except this guy is breaking my heart. His significant other has maintained a constant bedside vigil since the assault began (which to date has included 3 open heart surgeries, two full codes and no real hope barring a heart transplant that he can't get at our hospital) and looking at this scene breaks my heart. But, we do good work for good people and I can say with 100% certainty that everyone is rallying for this man and doing absolutely everything they can. I'm curious as to why the surgeon has so much invested in this guy - I can also tell you that many others would have walked away a long time ago. He is very young, and I think that must be the reason. Either that, or the surgeon is just a really good guy. Maybe both are true.

So, I'm in the ICU dealing with this mess (and it's a horrendously bloody and murderous scene) and my cell starts ringing. Guess who? The front desk of surgery, a nurse is tired, wants to go home, wants to know if I can come finish her case. By some miracle, I do not kill her. Probably because I was three floors away. I didn't really want to kill her, but I would have maimed her. Happily. Anyway, I get home super late, with no food in the house and just sort of feeling sorry for myself because I'm so tired - but I can't sleep, I can't write and I can't take a sleeping pill because I'm on call.

Thursday morning, my first case is another lung. Are you kidding me? We rarely do lungs at all, to have two back-to-back is unusual. Good news with this one though - it's thoracoscopic (through cameras) so it won't be nearly as messy, and it's a younger patient who does not have cancer, just an intractable infection. Phew.

Nope. First of all, she's a whiner. I go to get her into the room and she's bitching at me about everything. Now, I'm pretty tolerant. I know that anxiety makes people behave differently and I always do everything I can to make my patients feel as good as possible going into a scary situation, but this chick is making it really hard. So is her very inquisitive husband who asked ina his little squeaky voice why he couldn't come in to watch the surgery. It was almost painful to inform him that couldn't because I said so, but in retrospect, perhaps he should have.

Nonetheless, I smile at her and heave her 300 pounds of flesh onto the OR table since she won't move herself, then hold her grubby little paw as she's drifting off to sleep promising her that she'll be fine and that we'll all take very good care of her. Oops. I sort of lied. You see, the floor nurse "sort of forgot" to hold the blood thinners that she's been on. Then "sort of forgot" to mention it. So, the surgeon makes this tiny little incision...and the bleeding starts.

Our nice little lung scope quickly became a very major lung surgery. With lots of blood loss. And lots of blood replacement. And another trip to the ICU. Damn, she's going to hate me when she wakes up. She's also going to hurt. But, ultimately, the diabesity will kill her long before her lung problems do.

After that, I get another cardiothoracic case. I take a minute between cases to get my game face back. I go to get my next patient...and instantly fall in love. My little 70 year old dude is going to have major surgery on his carotid artery (one of the big ones going to your brain) and he's so stinking adorable I can't stand it. This is good. So, I take Mr. Cutie to the OR, and he's laughing and joking with me (just the way I like my patients preoperatively) and we get him all set and ready to go when he looks at me and says, "Sweetie, will you hold my hand, I'm a little scared."

There's something about this level of vulnerability that really appeals to me. Perhaps, it's just because it's so fucking honest. I mean, of course you're scared. It's natural and normal to be scared in that situation - but no one admits it and they just stoic-it-up. Perhaps it's because it's so hard for me personally to be that vulnerable, and I'm one of the ones that would just lay there stoically. It matters not - the bottom line is that by one simple sentence, I've now taken ownership of this man - he is my responsibility, his very being is now something that I take very personally. It happens, but not as much as you'd like to think.

So, I squeeze his hand tightly and lean in really close to him and tell him that he is going to be OK. I tell him how great the surgeon is. I tell him how great the anesthesiologist is. I tell him that I'll be watching over him the entire time and that he has my word that nothing bad will happen. Then, I ask him what he wants to dream about. He looks at me blankly. I tell him to pretend he's just laying on a beach and that the warm blankets I'm piling on him are the sun and the hard surface under him is soft white sand. He's looking straight into my eyes as the sleepy drugs begin to transport him to my beach and I tell him that it's OK to take a nap in the warm sun, that he won't have a sunburn when he wakes up. He mouths a sleepy "thanks sweetie" as he drifts off.

Things are going along swimmingly until...the electricity goes out. Now, I don't want to sound all melodramatic or anything, it's not like the power was out for very long. But, when you've got someone's carotid artery dissected seconds feel like minutes, minutes feel like hours and time sort of stops. You're in a pitch black room chock full of alpha personalities and for that brief moment, everyone is utterly helpless and there is quite literally a life on the line. Like I said, it's just a moment, but it's a powerful moment.

We finish that case and my dear man is just fine. I leave a little early, exhausted again. Today was challenging as well - another patient that I know well and care about who is quite sick and has lived a lifetime avoiding that situation, a miserable case with one seriously whiny surgeon who I'd love to see get hit by a city bus (yes, literally) and another big back case. Everything went well, I'm just tired.

I'm tired of the politics in the hospital. I'm tired of my crazy boss who just keeps getting crazier. I'm tired of being pushed and pushed and pushed without even an ounce of respect for the rest of my life. I'm tired of having to sweet talk orderlies into doing their jobs, I'm tired of stupid nurses that make my life much harder than it needs to be, I'm tired of primadonna surgeons that think I should kiss their ass.

On the flip side, I'm thankful for the lives I do get to touch. I'm thankful for the coworkers I have that care and that are truly exceptional men and women that I respect tremendously. I'm thankful for the good surgeons that go far above and beyond just to try and give someone a chance. I'm thankful for the laughter that I share robustly every single day with some genuinely brilliant people.

But at the moment, I just want to cry. And I've still got tomorrow to conquer.

Revolution

"Our defects, our dangerous depths, our surpressed hatreds, our moments of weakness and desperation - all are unimportant. If what we want to do is heal ourselves first, so that we can go in search of our dreams, we will never reach paradise. If, on the other hand, we accept all that is wrong about us - and despite it, believe that we are deserving of a happy life - then we will have thrown open an immense window that will allow Love to enter. Little by little, our defects will disappear, because one who is happy can look at the world only with love - the force that regenerates everything that exists in the Universe." - Paulo Coehlo

For several days now, I've been trying to express what has been swirling around in my brain to no avail. It is difficult to express what truly represents a colossal shift in my own thinking - which in itself is an admission of my own shortcomings.

It's time: I acknowledge long-held fallacies and fantasies. More importantly, I forgive myself for my misguided thinking.

It shames me to admit that secretly and not-so, I've long expected what most women expect, consciously or not - the strong yet nurturing man to come riding up on his noble steed, sweep me off my feet and live happily ever after. Shhh...don't tell anyone. My reputation as ultimate alpha-chick will be ruined.

Of course, this isn't a logical thought process, and it's highly oversimplified, but at the core, it's true. That's what I want. Or rather, that's what I thought I wanted. But over the last week, a lightbulb that lay dormant in my psyche sort of crackled back on: I began to realize that it's completely ridiculous.

I wanted it because I was so very alone, so left to my own devices for so long that it was a sort of natural desire. Natural in the way that you still want your mother to pat your head and spoon feed you chicken noodle soup when you're unwell. Alas, Mommy no longer comes running at the first sniffle - it's completely unrealistic. Idealistic. Pathetic.

One person can't possibly be expected to fulfill all the needs of another. It's shameful to expect, or even hope, for that to be true. No, we are a social species and as such, we need multiple avenues for support, fulfillment, pleasure and delight in our lives. I'm sure you're laughing at this. I understand why. My logical brain would have been able to spout this out to you a month ago. My emotional (functional?) brain is finally onboard.

The good news is that we can have it all - we just have to broaden the net and let those willing to support us into our lives enough to do so. My New Year's resolution was to let people in. To be vulnerable, to take more chances emotionally. Much to my surprise and delight, it's been working - and well at that!

I no longer look at every man for his "forever" potential, I'm content to see them in the here and now. I no longer expect every woman I encounter to "get me" - I see them as people that I might actually enjoy getting to know a bit.

The result - I've met some really wonderful people (and a couple of douchebags, but they are easy enough to eradicate). I've made friends with some women that I thought I'd not like at all - and it turns out that they are intelligent and charming - and great fun to be around. No, I'll never relate to them on the level of my closest friends, but that isn't their role. Their role is to enjoy, and in the process, maybe learn a bit about myself.

A lover can't fulfill the needs that a best friend can. A best friend can't fulfill the needs that a parent can. A parent can't fulfill the needs that a child can. A child can't fulfill the needs that a lover can. They all have immeasurable worth and necessity in life.

When I left my husband, one of the things I complained about was how isolated we had become, how we had created a life where it was, largely, just the two of us. How stupid was I to sort of seek that same sort of (unhealthy) unity. Again, it certainly wasn't a conscious seeking, it was just a subconscious clinging to familiarity. Wow.

Someone recently said to me, "You know, Amanda, you've got such simple desires but they are burdened by a complex mind." Of course, I laughed. I was laughing because this person has spent a great deal of time psychoanalyzing me (unbeknowst to me) but also because he was correct.

The desires, well, they are simple, even banal. But they are complicated by my mind - which is at times overly critical, at times too logical, at times too emotional and at other times - too adrift.  But it doesn't matter, because it is what it is.

I wanted to tell him that I was simply happy to be in the presence of a man that wasn't afraid to speak his mind, but I failed to take the opportunity.

Today, I had breakfast with one of our docs. He and I share a close mutual friend and we also share a similar personal history. He asked if I was dating and I told him that I was, but only casually. I told him that it was difficult for me. Without being asked, he offered me the following:

Amanda, it's going to be hard for you, just like it's hard for me. You come across as unapproachable, but that's not who you are, it's who you have been forced into being. Nonetheless, many men won't be able to handle that. Every day, you have to make split second decisions that alter the course of a life forever. And you have to be right. People expect it and it comes across as arrogance. It's not arrogance, it's the burden of what we do. You have to be right. One day, you'll find the man that can accept you and when you do, he's going to realize instantly just how special you are.  He'll fight for you and he won't dare let you go.  Just don't settle for some dumb fuck before you meet him.  I promise you don't have a thing in the world to worry about.

The awesome thing about both of the conversations that I've just shared is that they wouldn't have happened were it not for my "open" resolution, and through both of them, I learned much about myself, and about both people. It's wonderful, this openness, having conversations like this with people that are, essentially, strangers.  Now, it's still a challenge for me and it's not going to be an overnight process.

Was it a resolution, or a revolution? Yes, I know the answer.

And it delights me.

Crapper

"If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite."
-Alduous Huxley

If I were having any more fun, it would be illegal. God, I've been laughing almost non-stop for two days now. The details are largely irrelevant, but I am seriously having big fun, I'm happy, life is easy.

Saturday, I went over to Shiraz's house for one of our little photo shoots. For months, we've been talking about doing something in my old wedding dress. When I pulled it out of the box, it was stained down the front from a little incident with red-wine.

Putting on the dress did not bring back the wonderous memories of a joyous day that you might expect, nor did it bring a deep sadness. It brought nothing. There was no emotion tied to the gown at all. We ripped it apart for the art of it, and after the photo shoot, I threw it in the trash unceremoniously. The fact that I was able to do that without any strong feelings either way was pretty refreshing.

Today, I sent my ex-husband an email telling him how much I appreciate him as an ex-husband, and a father. He has had to take the high-road here quite a bit, especially with me basically strong-arming him into moving across town, and he's done it largely without complaint. I do appreciate that, and I do appreciate the father that he is.

After the photo shoot, Shiraz and I sat around talking, as we usually do. Expectedly, our conversation turned to the philosophical (after "Topic: Boy"). It was fun, but the day exhausted me. I came home to nap - a nap that never happened. I was a little wired.

I am currently reading "The Valkyries" by Paulo Coehlo, so I curled up in bed and read. There's a portion where one of the characters talks about listening to the voice. I'm paraphrasing (and not well) but he says that when he forgets something and goes back to get it, he stops and counts to 30 before continuing on the journey, the theory being that the delay is his guardian angel forcing him to stop - perhaps the brief interruption will cause the avoidance of an accident, or catching an important call, or whatever. There's a reason for it.

I thought then of how many times I ignore the voice, neglect the cues and clues. I told myself that I'd try to become more attentive.

I meet Shiraz and Po later at a bar for drinks. We're having a nice time - the night is warmer than it's been, so we're sitting outside just chatting. It's casual. I'm on call. I never carry a pager. My phone is my only contact.

I get up to go to the restroom and my phone is on the table. I actually think to myself, "I should just leave that here." But I don't. I grab the phone. I put in in my purse. Then, I think to myself, "I should zip my purse." But, I don't. I get into the bathroom and I think to myself, "Don't put your purse on the back of the toilet." But I do it anyway, only to watch my phone slip out of my purse right into the toilet.

I grab the phone and turn it off, dry it off and I'm sort of speechless. Instantly I realized that I neglected that little voice THREE times with potentially disastrous results. We dry off the phone, and it ends up working. So, that was my little wake-up call - listen to the voice.

I realize that dropping a phone in a toilet is one hell of a funny way to learn that lesson, but the lesson was clear - and you'd have to figure that my guardian angel would have one hell of a sense of humor, right?

Mysticism

"Quotes are nothing but inspiration for the uninspired." - Richard Kemph

Now, obviously I take a fair measure of exception to the quote above. Everything I write begins with a quote from someone else. It is often for inspiration. It's also because I love the words of others. Throughout history, there have been some phenomenal thinkers and writers and I am always willing to allow their words to summarize the emotion I am attempting to convey.

Am I uninspired? Often.

Inspired? Occasionally. Now is one of those times. I'm on fire.

Here's what's funny about that:

I have been trying to tell a very specific story for a very long time. I've toyed with it for months, if not years, trying to find the voice. Then recently, I discovered another story that I would like to tell. Again, I couldn't find and angle.

Shiraz called me and said, "Everything you've been writing lately is crap." And yeah, she was just that blunt. I've actually edited out some of the mean shit she said. (And yes, honey, I know you're reading this and you were seriously a bitch - for shizzle.) But, I needed to hear what she had to say. So, I write a ton the night she says it, but it's all still crap.

The next morning I wake up so inspired that I can barely speak. I don't want to speak to anyone because I'm scared to drown out the words that are pouring out of me - but I'm hopeless and helpless - I can't write longhand anymore - I just can't keep up, and I need privacy and music and my system yo (I'm so street) - but I'm at work, so I'm scratching random thoughts on a piece of paper but it's a challenge to keep up with the thoughts, then try to transcribe them in my wretched handwriting. (I double-dog dare you to come up with a bigger run-on sentence).

Later in the day, Shiraz says to me, "I want more Huda. Go back to that story, I want to know how she got there." And I'm PISSED at her. I hate her at that moment. "I can't tell you what to paint, Shiraz, so don't tell me what to write."

A day passes and I write more shit that means exactly nothing - but at least I'm saving it all -and then...the light comes on - and it is Huda's story. All of it. Shiraz was right. Bitch.

It's coming and I already love the story. I wrote obsessively for four hours tonight. I'm spent, but I want to keep writing more. I can't. I think this is it. It's the epitome of it all.

It will be called "Legacy", and I hope that you'll love it as much as I do. When we wake in the morning, we are who we choose to be on that given day, impacted tremendously by genetics, desires and reality. Our legacies are largely given to us.

Roots

"But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." - Lewis Carroll, from Alice in Wonderland

I chose the above quote with more intent than usual. I've jumped through the Looking Glass, and I'm not sure exactly when it happened, but I saw the results countless times this weekend.

Saturday morning, my children and I went out for breakfast, and had a pleasant time. Afterwards, we drove to the home site to see the progress (there is none). Finally, we headed to my parents house to spend the night. As soon as we walked into the door, I realized that I was exhausted and asked my parents if they'd watch the children while I took a nap. They were happy to do so.

My father and son took my car and got it inspected, oiled, gassed and cleaned. My stepmother and my daughter read books. I fell asleep instantly (which I never do) and had amazing dreams (which I never recall).

I dreamed of a rapidly flowing river, and a lovely home on the other side. There was a person with his arms outstretched telling me that it was safe to cross, that he'd help me. I took his hand and waded across the rushing water. I slipped and fell in and the water was warm and I began laughing. I could feel the sun on my face and looked up at the sky and said, "Thank you." I splashed and played in the water for a bit and realized that it only looked rough but that in reality it was quite calm. I watched a fish swim around my ankles. I took my time crossing to the other side, and the grass was soft and cool under my feet. I looked up at the house and smiled again.

My child woke me for dinner, so we had a nice time - my aunt and uncle joined us and it was fun and friendly and easy. After the children were in bed, I had a wonderful conversation with my parents. I'll keep the specifics private, but speaking to them openly and honestly proved something to me - the more open I am, the more honest I am, the more people respond to me. I can trust them, I can rely on them - and I'm so ready to allow myself to lean on the people around me. It's not weakness, it's security.

Today, I came home and began to clean my filthy apartment. It was a task undertaken grudgingly, but I know why. I'm not comfortable here anymore, I've grown, and I've outgrown the tiny space that was once so comforting. I'm ready to spread out, to root - I'm ready to be home.

Celebrate

"Our brightest blazes of gladness are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks."
- Samuel Johnson

My birthday was so wonderful. I woke with my children in my bed, to great big birthday hugs and kisses. It was adorable. My son asked how old I was, and when I answered, "36." he said, "Wow, Mom. You're young." So my day certainly started off on the right foot.

As I was heading out the door to work, text messages started coming in - many from wonderful friends and it was such a cheery way to start the day. At work (I had a crazy busy day - 7 cases before noon for a grand total of 9) everyone was warm and gracious and it just made me feel so special. One of the docs took me to breakfast, and there were loads of hugs and an equal measure of offers to administer the birthday spankings. One of the new docs came up and gave me a huge hug and said, "You're so special, I hope your day matches up to your grace." That's one of the loveliest things anyone has every said to me.

As the day wore on, I heard from so many wonderful friends - many of whom I haven't seen in literally decades. I felt the love, and I loved it. I've always sort of used my birthday as the true barometer for the year ahead (as opposed to New Year's Eve). I figure that the people that are important to me, that recognize my birthday at the beginning of the year, are typically the ones that I'll still hold close to my heart at the end of the year - it just tends to work that way. I'm so fucking obnoxious about my birthday, it's certainly not like anyone has the opportunity to forget - so those that fail to acknowledge the day truly don't care about me.

After work, I gathered the children and we met my parents for a really nice birthday dinner. My kids and I all crawled into my bed, a nice, snuggly end to a day full of warm fuzzies.

The actual party will be the weekend of the 17th! I'm so looking forward to that little fiesta! Until then, thank you all - I definitely felt the love, and I am so lucky to have so many genuinely wonderful people in my life.

Identity

"And the day came where the risk to remain tight in the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom." - Anais Nin

I find myself increasingly disillusioned by people. Ironically, I am so reserved with people that only a few are allowed the oppportunity to disillusion me, so when they do, it hurts that much more. I find it somewhat baffling and somewhat amusing that someone can say one thing, to vehemently believe that they are who they presume they are, but when push comes to shove, they waiver - without ever realizing it.

It comes down to a question of integrity - and a matter of identity. What or whom do you identify with? How will you define yourself today? Tomorrow? On your death bed?

If I sound angry, I am. Because it's fear that stops us. A fear of the unknown, a fear of failure, a fear of change and a fear of taking chances and making choices. It's ridiculous and futile and such a crying shame. Imagine how paralyzing it is - to have a world of opportunity, to say you want one thing, to find that thing (or at least the potential for that thing) and to allow all the big scary unknowns to prevent you from even exploring the potential. Can you even imagine something more absurd? Well, here's the reality - we all do it - every single day. Of course, they aren't all life-changing choices, they aren't all necessarily permanent and they aren't all irrevokable - and yet - we refuse to explore the options and settle into the safety of the known while still seeking that unknown greatness that must just be right around the corner. Fuck. It's so stupid.

I suppose it frustrates me so much because I really do know myself quite well. For all the soul-searching and ranting here, the truth is that I do know myself quite well, warts and all. Simply, I identify myself as a mother, a daughter, a friend, a nurse. Those are all parts of me, but there's more.

I'm a perfectionist that drives myself silently so hard that I end up in the ER of my own hospital in SVT. I'm a romantic that is petrified to wear her heart on her sleeve. I'm opinionated and can be very judgmental. I'm a people-pleaser that will almost always sacrifice my own happiness for someone elses, without even realizing that I have a choice. I'm logical and approach problems systematically. I'm a fast thinker and work really well in situations where I have to think on my feet. I'm a passionate, nurturing woman missing a man to nurture and love, but completely unwilling to compromise my expectations and desires to have *someone* in my life. I believe that integrity is king and truth is beauty. I like making other people feel good about themselves and boosting their self-esteem. I love laughing so hard that your stomach hurts the next day more than almost anything. I have great big major trust issues due to the way in which my husband betrayed me, and I struggle with committment issues for the same reason. I can be a serious bitch. I hate stupid people and like to make fun of some of them, especially to their face. I'm tenacious to a fault. I'm a very good mother, although an unconventional one. I genuinely believe that two of the best gifts I can give my children are good manners and an independent spirit.

There you have it - there's me - warts and all. It's time. I'm days away from my 36th birthday and I've arrived at this conclusion at long last: the risk of attempting to protect myself, to project an image of self - is too great. Love me, accept all of me - the good and the bad - because you're going to see it all now. Moreover, I'm letting go of the fear - taking chances, wearing my heart on my sleeve and living my life with royal integrity.

Fear change, fear exploration, fear taking a chance and you risk missing that diamond you seek. It isn't effortless - it may require a bit of time and faith initially, and later a bit of polishing and chipping away. Treasures are never found without taking chances, but the risks are what make it that much more precious and valuable.

Cardioversion

"At the bottom no one in life can help anyone else in life; this one experiences over and over in every conflict and every perplexity: that one is alone. That isn't as bad as it may first appear; and again it is the best thing in life that each should have everything in himself; his fate, his future, his whole expanse and world." - Rainer Maria Rilke

I'm so tired. I'm so tired of struggling, I'm so tired of fighting, I'm so tired of doing it all alone. I'm so very tired.

The new year is not off to the stellar start that I imagine, not off to the triumphant beginning I felt on New Year's Eve.

I spent NYE sick - but went out anyway because I couldn't bear the thought of being home alone on that holiday, as I was last year due to being on call. I had just started some hardcore antibiotics to beat the infection and took a bunch of cold medicine just to make it tolerable. I ended up having a really good time, and a couple of drinks.

The next morning, I felt awful, but my head was swimming more from the cold than from a hangover. I was on call that evening and got called in about 6PM for an emergency open heart. The case went well and I left the hospital at 12:30. I got home, took a shower and curled into bed - shivering. I thought that was strange, but not much else, it was a cool-ish evening. About 30 minutes later, the arrythmia started. I concluded that it was minor and the result of not eating well, not sleeping, not exercising, being sick, taking cold medicine and being stressed.

I layed in bed and tried desperately to sleep but every time I moved, the arrythmia would recur. Finally, I checked my pulse and realized that I was dropping beats at a pretty steady clip. Again, I tried to logic my way through it, but it continued to worsen. Unable to sleep, and still on call, I showered again and got dressed. I figured I'd just go sit up at the hospital - better to be there rather than home alone. After I was dressed, it was about 3AM, I got out my stethoscope and listened to my heart. The rate was very rapid, too rapid to count, and I was dropping every third beat. That scared me. Once at the hospital, the arrythmia was so bad that I couldn't catch my breath and I was definitely compounding the situation with my own anxiety.

I walked over to the ER and said to the triage nurse that I was having a "pretty decent arrythmia" she took my vitals and said that the rate was a nice, normal 80. I told her that it was not, but that the machine couldn't count it due to the dropped beats. She listened for all of 3 seconds with her stethocope, pushed me onto a stretcher and did an EKG. Sinus Tachycardia - rate of 164. That's actually good news. They draw blood, give me a couple liters of fluid and 'lytes. Doc says that my myocardium is "very volatile" - probably due to decongestants and stress and wants to sedate me to see if that alone will allow a normal rhythm to take over. Luckily for me, it works. Embarassing as shit, but it works. After I'm sedated, he asks me what the source of my stress is. I just laugh at him. But, I dream about it.

In 2008 - I ended a relationship with a man that I cared deeply about, but he still won't go away, had the first incidence of cardiac arrythmias that required extensive testing to be determine that stress was the source, suffered through my daughter's very serious accident that was terrifying and largely my fault, dealt with the ex, finalized a divorce that caused a signifcant amount of grief and more financial stress than I've ever cared to admit, trained for and completed three triathlons, became very ill with my bleeding disorder that required a fairly emergent procedure, was forced to face some truths about life that I would rather have ignored, dealt with chicken pox, head lice, dance classes, drum lessons, crazy parents (not my own), crazy parents (my own), and subsequently bought a house that I'm happy about and petrified of. Through it all, there were significant work-related stressors, significant child-related stressors, and my desperate attempts to maintain a life worth living for my children and for myself. Moreover, my mother was in France, my father in Thailand. Stress? Nah, not much.

I had to call and wake up my parents to come get me at the hospital because I couldn't drive home so sedated. They were great about it, but it was so embarassing. They asked me why I was so stressed and I just laughed. I had to fight with them to let me stay at my own apartment, I just wanted solitude. I got home around 8AM and slept until 3PM. I took a sleeping pill when I woke and slept until 10PM. I took another sleeping pill and slept until 10AM. I woke today in pain - my entire body aches. I'm not sure that it's not from laying down for so long, but I'm also not sure that all of this wasn't caused from the Levaquin - arrythmias and all. I quit taking it, it wasn't helping with the other symptoms anyway. I've only had a few minor palpitations today.

Walker called while I was in the hospital and I told him what was going on. After I got home, he came by to visit which I found incredibly touching.  I scarcely remember him being here, I was so out of it, but I do recall him saying, "God, you're so tired. I'm going to get out of here so you can rest." I wish I would have had the courage to ask him to hold me, to protect me from the invisible stress monster.

I thought I had made so many changes and so many strides. Now, I realize that so much more has to change in my life.

I don't want to whine and I know that my stressors aren't nearly as bad as some people have it. I don't have to worry about feeding my children. I don't have to deal with a chronic health issue. It's not THAT bad. But you know, I'd be lying if I said I weren't ready for the happy surprise on my doorstep, but one without a cherry bomb tied to it, OK?