Category Archives: Uncategorized

New Year?

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I wish a new year really meant a reset. A putting away of the the past and a new embrace of the future. A hard line drawn in the sand where the old doesn’t start seeping into the new. But that isn’t the way it works. It’s February of a new year, and it doesn’t feel new. I know it’s my fault. Last year had some tough moments. Really tough. And some of those moments have lingered.

There is a budget crisis at work that makes my job feel unstable. Well, in Illinois pretty much all colleges are in a budget crisis. I survived one round of lay-offs already. But I’m close to finishing my Master’s degree, so hopefully I’ll be in a good position to find something different if the need arises.

My daughter totaled my newly paid off car which means I now have a car payment added to the strained household budget. But she wasn’t hurt and we got a new car so we don’t have to worry about something breaking down and adding to the bills.

And the doctor told me I have about a 1% chance of having a baby at my age. Even though I got pregnant last year, the miscarriage wasn’t an anomaly. That was the norm. But… This one is harder. This one challenges a lot of what I believed. Mostly that age doesn’t matter. Because now it does and for more than one reason. It means that because of my age, I must let go of the desire I have for another child, of experiencing parenthood with the man I love. It also means that I’m robbing him of fatherhood and trusting that he can live with that. All of a sudden, my age has become a life changer. I wasn’t ready for that. For the past six months I’ve been hopeful. Every month, hopeful that we could be part of the 1%. But my faith has also been challenged, and I realize that I can’t will it to happen. I can’t just work harder at it either. And I can’t change my age, as much as I may defy it. If it happens, it will be a gift.

There’s a quote that frequently makes the rounds and is usually attributed to the philosopher Socrates, although he didn’t say it. A character named Socrates said it in the book, Way of the Peaceful Warrior by Dan Millman. The secret of change is to focus all of your energy, not on fighting the old, but on building the new. This is a new year. And today is Groundhog day. I love the movie, but I don’t want to live with my life on repeat. I need to let some things remain last year’s issues and work even harder on acceptance this year. Of my age. My limitations. Once again, gratitude will be my comfort. For the best way to accept loss is to balance it with the blessings. I still have a job. My kids are safe. I’m almost done with my degree. I’m able to afford to replace my car. I have a 1% chance which is better than 0% and my guy insists he loves me no matter what. That’s what I’m thankful for today.

 

 

 

Sad times

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The faculty at my school went on strike yesterday. It’s been a long time coming, and not just in the months of contract negotiations. It’s been years in the making. The very nature of education has changed over the years; it certainly has at my school, thanks in part to consumer mentality. Those of us who have been here a while can say with a good level of certainty that the era of a particular college president forever damaged our culture. He was a man who believed students were customers and education was something that could be purchased, not attained. I can still picture him riding around the campus like a used car salesman in a golf cart going from lot to lot with his forced fake laugh and trying to shake everyone’s hand like a desperate politician. He put everyone on edge. It took too long for the Board of Trustees to acknowledge the damage his tenure was causing, but eventually there was a vote of no confidence and he went on to another unsuspecting college. But what he left behind was a fractured internal community and a Board that felt compelled to step further into the daily operations of the school. It was during this time that the faculty unionized in an effort to protect the distinct working conditions and integrity of teaching.

Of course times change. I know that. People like to say that things evolve, but in my opinion, what has happened to the culture at my school is more akin to disintegration. Our once inclusive, uplifting and nurturing environment has turned into everyday business. The argument, of course, is that our community is no longer the same. High unemployment, the recession, the challenges of our country as a whole means our focus needs to be different. People need jobs, quickly. A college degree is a luxury most people can no longer afford. And our state is broke, funding is gone, so we need to do more with less. Maybe there’s some truth in all that, but why is learning excluded? How did we get to a point where competence is a by-product? Where the art of teaching is no longer valued because it gets in the way—or takes too long?

Just the other day I had a student complain to me that he didn’t see the value in learning algebra. I patiently explained to him that it wasn’t whether or not he’d use algebra at his job that was important; it was the difference in thinking that math was teaching him that would be valuable. The way of looking at problems from different angles and solving them. The way math insists that you stick with it and figure stuff out. Those are the lessons that he could take to his job, even if he forgot every formula. And that’s the secret all good instructors know. Learning content is fine, but the ACT of learning is the key. It’s the act that broadens the mind.

I was lucky enough to go to a liberal arts college where every student, regardless of major, had to attend cultural activities in order to graduate. The message was that a worthwhile education was wholistic. It was inclusive of not just coursework, but the people and community around us. It didn’t focus on one topic, but showed how ideas and disciplines connected and how those connections broadened us and made us better people. I think the faculty at my school get that. In fact, I think most of the employees at my school still believe in education as an ideal.

The Board thinks the strike is over wages and health care and money because that’s their fight. Their focus in recent years has been on the budget. And it’s hard to see faces in numbers. It’s easy to vilify people when you don’t see them. The Board says it’s not personal, but it is. For all of us. Even those of us who aren’t on the picket lines because it directly affects what we do at this school. And it affects our culture. And for a lot of us, it’s emotional. Many of those professors outside today taught me when I was a student here. Several were instrumental in guiding not just my career path, but also my personal growth. The English teacher who used my journal writing as examples of good writing gave me the confidence to major in English. The speech teacher who encouraged me to join forensics instilled in me a love of public speaking. And many more, even now as colleagues, have helped me continue to learn and grow as a working professional. The one who guided me while working together on a community Board, the one who helped me find a graduate program and encouraged me to go back to school. Their fight is my fight, like it is for so many, many people who were privileged enough to take classes here over the years. It’s a fight for learning. And the respect that goes with dedicating your life to the belief that learning, as an act, matters. I’m glad they have the courage to stand up for it. I’m thankful to call so many of them my friends. Our school and our culture here may never return to the times of unity we had years ago, but it doesn’t mean we should give up. I hope, regardless of the outcome, that they always continue to fight for what matters. #solidarity #wearervc

That’s It

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Last Wednesday I dragged the last of the unwanted items and garbage out of my house, swept and mopped the floors, left my collection of owner’s manuals and appliance warranties on the kitchen counter and walked out of the front door for the last time. Thursday morning I signed the papers and handed over the keys to the new owner. My house is no longer my house. Patrick asked me if I were sad, and my reply was not exactly–more nostalgic, that mixture of pleasure and sadness that comes from remembering something you can no longer experience. I loved my house not for the floor plan or yard or even the furnishings, although I thought it all worked well for me and my family. I loved it not for the location, even though it was awesome. My neighbors were all friendly and helpful. I really only loved my house for what it represented: the time in my life where I stood on my own and became a better me. I’m not sure how else to describe it except to say that sometime in the two years I lived there, I accepted my life for what it is in the moment. I quit worrying so much about past mistakes or future desires. I stopped caring quite so much what others expected of me and became more conscious about what I wanted for myself. My journey over the last couple of years there propelled me down a path I didn’t anticipate, but one that feels comfortable and right. I loved my house for that.

Which is also why I have no regrets at selling it. I had some people ask me if I were sure I didn’t just want to rent it out. Leave it for a backup plan. After all, some indicated, moving in with Patrick is a risk. I can see their point. It’s not like I don’t have failed relationships in my past. It’s not like those relationships didn’t cost me a lot. But love is always a risk. And for me, it’s always worth taking because the alternative offers nothing. In the end, love is the only thing we get to take with us.

After the house closing, I joked to Patrick that he was now stuck with me. He very sweetly replied, no…not stuck. After a long pause, he said it was more like trapped. Ah, yes…he does share my sarcastic sense of humor. And he has been a good sport about the take over of his once solitary house. For a guy who’s lived alone for the past ten years, he’s adapted well to having the five of us (me, my two girls, my dog and cat) invade his space, quietly carving out a room for himself in the basement yet rarely escaping to it. I love him for the way he’s expanded his world to invite me in. And I’m thankful for this new chapter in my life that includes him.

Finally

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I’ve been lazy. Well, lazy with writing and I can tell. Writing helps clear my mind and since I haven’t been faithful with it, I’ve been having vivid dreams. Weird stuff about my dad and tidal waves and talking to dogs who can speak. My kids left today for a mission’s trip and I always worry when they’re going to be traveling. As any mother, I have fleeting thoughts of car accidents or muggings or some other danger that could befall them while they’re away. I won’t dwell on it, but it will make me uneasy for a while. However, I’m always proud of them for going and thankful for their convictions.

While they are gone, I’m moving some of our stuff over to my boyfriend’s house. My house is up for sale, and my realtor thinks that moving items out will help it look bigger. I don’t mind since I’m tired of trying to keep it clean enough to show at a moment’s notice. It’s a pain selling a house while you’re living in it. And we’ve been over at Patrick’s more often than not; we’ve been painting the exterior which has needed a lot of work including replacing broken siding pieces and rotten trim. Nothing lets you know the truth of a person more than working on a time consuming and difficult house project together. So far, so good. We still like each other, which speaks volumes. If you can spend hours cutting (and re-cutting) and painting (and repainting) wood without wanting to kill each other, that’s some lasting love. He has no idea how much I’m grateful for the little things.

And these days I’ve been feeling a lot better. My new doctor did an ultrasound and discovered that my miscarriage wasn’t complete at all–the fetus was still there. So a few weeks ago I had a D&C and began to feel better almost immediately. It took four months to get to that point. I don’t even have words for how disappointed I am in my old doctor who let things drag on without checking anything more than my hormone levels, despite my repeated warning that something did not feel right. But instead of focusing on the lost time, I’m extremely grateful for being back to normal. We’re going to try again and keep our fingers crossed.

Seriously? Can we just be done now.

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The semester is over. Finally. I submitted my research proposal and took my last final exam yesterday. If all grading goes as well as I hope, I should finish this semester with a 4.0 gpa. Yay, me! If not, then, damnit, me. Or, if I were like a lot of the students here, it would be my instructor’s fault, of course. I’d say she just didn’t like me. But I know that’s not the case, so I’ll take whatever grades I get and keep plugging along, especially since my 4 week summer class starts next week. The instructor sent us the 48 page syllabus ahead of time…Gosh, I’m excited about that class. Gulp.

I like putting a period at the end of things. That means I can take a step and move on. I’m wishing that were the case with more than the semester. I found out that the miscarriage is still lingering. I’ve spent the last several weeks having my hormone levels checked with a blood test. Apparently, when a woman gets pregnant, her body starts producing a special hormone (hcg) that increases twofold every 2 to 3 days or so until the later months of pregnancy when it levels off. Blood tests measure it in number, and any number above a 5 is considered pregnant, although ideally the number should be zero in normal, non-pregnant conditions. My number this week registered at 117. I could go into a diatribe about my disappointment with my doctor at the moment and how things have been handled (or mishandled). Let me just say that his response was that something could still be left behind, but he’d like me to wait another couple of weeks to check my hormone levels again. Instead I made an appointment with a new doctor for next week.

In the meantime, my body hates me. I can feel it. I can feel that something is wrong. My regular female hormones are trying to take over in a raging battle that’s making me wish I were a dude. Yesterday was a particularly bad day. I felt on the verge of tears all day and had to avoid any cute baby animal-related videos on Facebook in case someone walked into my office at the wrong moment. Yet at the same time, I wanted to kick something. Hard. I secretly wished one of the posturing geese we have on campus would finally pick a fight. I would have won and it would have been epic. It’s a horrible feeling when you know you’re an emotional mess but you’re incapable of stopping it. You just have to hold on and try to avoid saying or doing anything that causes lasting damage. At one point in the day, my daughter texted asking for a favor. This was after finding out that I needed to stay an extra hour longer at work. And I was nice in my reply,  I really was. I even ended my message with a warning that I was not having a good day and she thanked me for the heads up. By 5 pm, just as I was heading to a new student orientation where I had to be available to answer questions of parents and their kids, I got a migraine aura. For those of you who’ve never experienced this, it’s like when you look into the flash of a camera and the ring of light stays behind in your eyes. I had those flashing, zigzagging lines in peripheral of my right eye which meant that I couldn’t see anyone coming at me from that side. I’m sure I looked like a weirdo constantly looking back and forth just so I could get a complete view of my surroundings. It lasted for almost an hour and  I braced myself for the migraine to follow. But it didn’t. Instead, all my hormone-filling angst of the day disappeared and I felt somewhat normal again. Damn, cruel body. I just saw the new Avengers movie and I realized that I can relate to the Hulk. At any moment, he turns into a wild beast and once he’s back to normal, he feels guilty and slinks away. I’m just hoping that I don’t also turn green.

I’m counting the minutes until I can meet my new doctor. I hope she takes one look at me and feels sympathy. I need to have this ordeal over. I tried to explain to my boyfriend last night how I’ve been feeling. I have to give him kudos for trying to understand, but I know I sound like a lunatic. Everything is horrible! Things aren’t working out. Maybe this is just a sign that we aren’t supposed to have a baby. When I get emotional like that, I miss having my family around. I need to feel connected to someone whom I know knows me. The people who can just laugh at me or slap me (not literally) and make me feel grounded again because I know they get it. I’m not crazy. But I now think Patrick gets it too. He did what I needed. Rationalized things for me. Teased me for being a mess. But also hugged me for a bit and told me things would be ok. Once again, I’m grateful for him. And for my kids, who also hugged me when I got home because I had given the heads up on my bad day. No questions asked first. Have I mentioned lately that I have great kids? So…I know I’ll get through things, like I usually do. It’s been a long time, but hopefully, I’ll have better answers next week. And I’ll try not to take anyone out in the meantime.

Moving on

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It’s been a long 5 weeks. Processing the miscarriage was emotionally difficult but I’m grateful that the physical aspect of it wasn’t terrible. Well, beyond the waiting for it to happen. And the awkwardness of wondering what to do with the plans we made when we thought we’d need to make room for a baby in our lives. I spent a couple of weeks having strange dreams where I had hair made of tin that I couldn’t dye a natural color and where my boyfriend insisted that if I couldn’t have a baby then he needed to move on. I’m sure it was my fears coming through. In my family sociology class we read about the life course perspective on aging where we all go through phases…one leading to another. We are expected to continue through the phases until we are old and die. We are socialized to act in expected and acceptable ways during those phases. I think I was struggling with the idea that I am supposed to be in a certain place–that one where I’ve raised my kids and I’m done and should now just age gracefully and eventually retire. In fact, some of my friends think I’m crazy for wanting to start over now. But the truth is, I just don’t see myself the same way. I’ve always kind of deviated from the script. Why should I stop now? So we’ve decided to go ahead with plans, move in together, and try again.

My girls’dad doesn’t approve. Neither does his new wife. I got a phone call from him expressing concern with my moving plans (he’s rather religious and thinks I should be married) and a letter from her (outlining what a horrible mother I am). This gave me pause, not because I care what they think, but I worried that my kids were upset about things and didn’t share it with me. I had talked to them several times over the last couple of months, since all of this affects them. But I talked to them again. I didn’t share the contents of the letter or the details of my conversation with their dad, I only asked that they be honest with me, as they usually are. As I told them, their dad no longer knows me. And I’ve never even had a conversation with his wife, so she certainly doesn’t know me. My only worry was what they thought. Thankfully, my kids know me. And they are grown up enough to understand that you can have a difference of opinion or viewpoint without condemning a person. They are good with the changes, which makes me grateful. After all, I told them that this is it for me. It’s taken a while and I’ve had some rather crummy relationships along the way, but I’ve found my guy. And he’s pretty awesome.

Another moment

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I found out on February 6th that I was pregnant. It was a shock to say the least. I had gone in to the doctor for a sinus infection and mentioned that I had some abnormal activity with my “cycle.” They decided to run a test to rule it out and instead, confirmed it. When the nurse led me to an examine room, she casually handed me a piece a paper saying, “here’s your test results” before turning her back to me. I looked down and read the word out loud. “Positive?” She sheepishly looked back and me and replied, “yeah…and the doctor should be in a bit, so you have about ten minutes if you’d like to make a phone call.” Then she left me there. Alone.

I couldn’t call my boyfriend. That’s not something you call about when it’s unplanned and unexpected. Instead I sat down and cried a bit. It took me two more days before I could tell him. Not because I was afraid of him or his response, although I honestly wasn’t sure how he’d take it. More because I needed it to sink in first. I’m 44 years old. Most women my age find it difficult to get pregnant. I had somehow done it by getting off-track with my birth control and then spending almost a complete month TAKING birth control before I got handed that positive result. How was it even possible??

My boyfriend took the news in the best way possible. After he was sure I wasn’t kidding him, he said we’d figure it out. We’ve spent the last four and a half weeks getting used to the idea. Sharing our secret with only our families. Making plans for how we would make a baby fit into our lives. My body started changing even though I was only about 8 weeks along. I got cravings and mood swings. My jeans became impossible to keep buttoned up comfortably. My boyfriend was sweet with his teasing and considerate with his gestures, making me comfort food and coming up with cute nicknames.

Yesterday we were excited because it was the first ultrasound and we’d know how far along I really was. Just about what we thought. And our baby looked just like a peanut, curved and barely there. Only without a heartbeat. Somehow in just a couple of days, something had gone wrong. I still had symptoms, but we didn’t have a baby.

It’s hard to describe the emotions of that moment, when I knew before the lab tech said anything, that something was wrong. And it’s still hard today because it’s a weird sense of grief. We had just gotten used to the idea, not yet really excited, but getting there. We knew there were risks, but somehow I wasn’t ready for the end. It’s a horrible, swift shift in thinking that goes around like a tornado in the mind. Circling, circling. What and why chasing each other. And now I wait until I officially miscarry which is a lingering pain…

I know my boyfriend was also shocked and disappointed. We both spent some time with tears. But he admitted that it wasn’t the same…the guy is outside of it all a little bit. It’s not completely real like it is for the woman whose body changes with hormones and everything is a worry. Every morsel of food and drink and everything put on the skin gets a question mark: will it hurt the baby? And when something goes wrong, it’s impossible not to wonder if it was something that you did or didn’t do. It’s like when my oldest was born early, I felt like I had somehow failed in my duty as the mother. That somehow I didn’t provide what she needed. And yet I know miscarriage is common, regardless of my age bracket. And I will eventually come to terms with it. We both will.

I think for me the hardest part was thinking that I somehow had gotten that do-over I talked about before. Getting to have a baby with the man I love, in a relationship that wasn’t fraught with tension and difficulty. I had been given this unexpected gift and now I realize I was afraid the whole time that it wasn’t real. It’s weird what goes through your mind when you’re trying to make sense of things. Did I just not have enough faith?

I’m still struggling today. But I am thankful for one thing. I had a glimpse of something really fantastic, and my guy couldn’t have been better through it all. I’ve got a partner who truly cares about me. That part of my do-over is real.

Uncertainty

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There’s a lot going on in my life still. There usually is. It’s part of why I’ve let this hiatus from daily blogging go on a little longer than I had originally planned. There’s still unknowns at work, although I’ve now met my new boss and I like her so far. I think she has some good ideas and will be supportive. That’s a relief. I’m still worried about our health insurance changes. And my car insurance, which will double when Emma finally gets her license. And finishing my degree before the teaching position I’m working towards gets filled and I lose my chance. There’s talk of early retirement initiatives and the person who said he’d try to wait to retire until I had my Masters degree may find it too hard to resist a good early retirement package. Those are just a few of the things distracting me lately. A friend noticed that I’ve not been as active on social media and wondered if I was ok. I am; I’m just preoccupied.

So I thought I’d jot down a few more of my thankfuls, just to balance out the worries. Having it on paper is good for focus:

My kids are incredibly accepting–of people, of circumstances, of changes. They’re awesome.

Punxsutawney Phil is wanted. Hopefully his arrest will initiate springtime weather.

The dogs have been pretty well-behaved lately and will start doggie school soon.

My classes are going well, and we are already a third of the way through the semester.

My mom is a nut, in the best possible sense. She’s the definition of optimistic.

Alton Brown is coming to town and we have tickets to his show. Yay!

I’m getting a tax refund that will be enough money to cover a dentist bill.

Finally, and importantly, my guy constantly amazes me. Supportive, understanding, and just snarky enough to keep me wanting to punch him. With a smile.

Family

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One of my grad classes this term is on the sociology of the family. Thus far, we’ve had to define our family (who we include and why), as well as read through and identify with various theories. It’s made me think about family dynamics and definitions in a little bit of a different light, and I’m not surprised that my definition has changed over the years. Many people in the class related to what’s called structural functionalism or consensus theory; it’s basically that we have roles we play for the greater good because doing so keeps harmony. It explains the traditional breadwinner/homemaker view of family that so many of us grew up with. It’s what I started out believing would work for me as well. I like the idea of the balance and tradition. But as I mentioned in class, going through a divorce has changed that for me. It was probably one of the hardest parts of being divorced, being thrust out of that comfort zone. There is no balance in being a single parent. Managing a house and children singly means being self-reliant. Oftentimes frazzled, frustrated, scared, but stronger, and resilient. I now find myself identifying more with an exchange theory of relationships. One where each person brings a strength and weakness to the mix and thus a relationship is formed because it’s beneficial to both parties. While it sounds rather business-like (it is a bit pragmatic and rational), it makes more sense to me. By this definition, there is a constant process of give and take, a bargaining our textbook calls it, whereby people discuss what will work best for them. Maybe it’s not romantic, but I like the idea that whatever kind of relationship works for people is ok. There are no hard and fast rules. By this definition, I can also include whomever I’d like into my family. It’s not just blood that defines it. I have several people I consider family because they add meaning to my life. I benefit greatly by their addition. My local mom. Girlfriends who are like sisters. My boyfriend. And I include the dogs and my cat. (Not my daughter’s fish, though. I draw the line there. Besides, they keep dying, so it’s hard to keep track.) At any rate, thinking about family in an objective way has been interesting. I wonder how my own personal definition may continue to evolve. I’m grateful for my family–the intimate group I consider my immediate family as well as the larger, extended, crazy group related by blood and marriage. I’m lucky to have all of it.