18 days

November 25, 2015

From the moment we got the first phone call to our last goodbyes at the cemetery.

It seems strange to say we were “lucky” for this time. Her death was so sudden. Out to dinner laughing with friends one minute…and then, in an instant, the universe shifted. A 911 call, a series of emergency heart surgeries, a courageous if not unfathomable recovery, a fragile moment of light and hope…before it was taken from us.

Those 18 days were an emotional roller coaster. Ups and downs. Long road trips back and forth from Chicago to Cleveland. Time spent in our heads, praying, hoping, processing, questioning. Running through the carousel of favorite moments and memories.

It’s been a month since she passed. Yet despite that time, there is a still a rawness, a sadness, surely exacerbated by the holidays. The process of accepting that she’s gone, of healing, and adjusting without her in our lives, has only just begun.

Family and friends who heard the news echoed the feeling we all felt, privately in our own hearts, and every time we greeted each other in the waiting room of the ICU, squeezing each other with weary, teary, yet hopeful eyes. Until the end.

“No words.”

After going through it myself, and shortly thereafter hearing of other friends who have lost loved ones—it occurred to me that there really are no words adequate to sum up the loss.

Those 18 days were a mixed bag of doubt, hope, despair, numbness, strength, sorrow and ultimately surrender.

Looking back on the photos I took during that time, I realized that, consciously or not, the images below captured how I was feeling in those moments, in a way that words couldn’t. In shadows, in nature, in art on the walls at the hospital, in moments, in the sky… I was looking for an answer.

Not sure I ever found it in those 18 days. But I did find comfort. In the beauty. In the order of things. In the belief that somehow, some way, there must be a reason why.

forgive yourself

February 22, 2015

i’m only 53 days late for my new years resolution. and the xmas cards, which for the last few years have become the new years card, this year, officially became the facebook post.

i have a perfectly legitimate excuse. i left the company i’ve worked at for seven years—a job and people i know inside and out—and took a new post at another agency. better title, bigger challenge, a world of new opportunity…and a heaping helping of additional stress… all while juggling parenting, two kids, household chores, and the myriad of annoying little tasks that make up daily life.

yet somehow, the voice inside my head refuses to cut me some slack. i have this nagging sense of guilt. my conscience wags its critical finger, chiding me for all the failures i’ve racked up during this time of transition. cousin xmas gifts—finally in the mail, just shy of march. photo canvases and family albums—a mere figment of my time-zapped imagination. best friend phone call five months overdue thanks to the barrage of homework and nightly bedtime rituals. closet purging—suspended in my room, halfway done in once-organized piles that get a little more messy with each morning’s mad dash to get dressed and out the door. spring cleaning—yeah right. talk to the tornado whose name starts with “L” and ends with “ogan.”

i feel like a wimp for even whining about it. like the “dog ate my homework" excuse, it seems like a cop-out. “sorry, all of you fabulous friends who managed to go see santa (another mandatory ritual i also missed this year), crank out ten batches of cookies AND send out cards on time (hell, at all!)… i just got too busy so i opted out this year. and to make matters more egregious, i refused to confess my failure on facebook to make a point, if only to myself.

a couple friends who are also fighting the good fight, spinning, twirling and treading to get through each day, actually apologized to everyone for not getting cards out in time. this really broke my heart. i completely understood the sentiment… but it just wasn’t right. i know i certainly wasn’t holding a grudge. and i’m sure none of their 500 other frenzied friends weren’t either.

i saw this photo on instagram many months ago and saved it because it just struck a chord. in this day and age, we’re all over-worked, over-stretched, sometimes just plain “over it.”

maybe, just maybe, it’s time we give ourselves a break. maybe it’s not all of your friends on facebook, posting perfect posts and curating catchy captions, that are judging you. maybe it’s actually YOU. trying to live up to an ideal of perfection that is just that: an ideal. a cosmo or stepford or cinderella myth—meant to make you feel bad for failing to live up to the unrealistic standard of perfection you hold yourself to.

i came to the realization recently on report card day. that one time nine years ago when i only had one kid and time to actually read parenting advice, i read an article in new york magazine about “the power (and peril) of praise.” it was both interesting and counterintuitive. my parents focused on grades. “all A’s…or else.” the outcomes were of supreme importance. but no, in this article, the preeminent authorities on the subject gave a very important directive: to set your kids up for success, you have to praise the effort, not the end result.” by focusing only on the outcomes, they fixate on failure, start buying into the narrative that they don’t measure up, find themselves lost, and lack the resilience to push through adversity.

sound familiar?

my resolution for 2015: follow the advice i constantly tell my kids. “as long as you try your best, that’s what counts.” as long as you’re in the moment during the times that matter, that’s true success. not the final grade. or your goal weight. or whatever it is that motivates you—and drives you mad.

all of us overachievers are gunning for the A+: holding ourselves to too high standards, trying to execute flawlessly, berating ourselves for all the things that didn’t go exactly as planned. instead we should be celebrating the little wins, daily victories. a kind gesture. a gorgeous sunrise. a good laugh with an old friend. a perfect hair day. a pat on the back for a job well done. or even, on some days, simply getting up and out of bed when all you want to do is hide under the covers until it’s safe to come out.

and even when you do hit the mark, no matter how high, at the pinnacle of so-called “success,” you may feel like an imposter, a fraud. but guess what? we all do. the truth is: we’re all winging it. “nobody knows what the hell they are doing.”

two cases in point:

the late maya angelou, one of the greatest writers of our time, once said: “i have written 11 books, but each time, i think ‘uh-oh. they’re going to find out now. i’ve run a game on everybody and they’re going to find me out.’”

similarly, david carr, a highly acclaimed reporter who covered the intersection of media and pop culture for the new york times, recently passed away. one of his most famous quotes echoes the sentiment. “i now inhabit a life i don’t deserve, but we all walk this earth feeling we are frauds. the trick is to be grateful and hope the caper doesn’t end soon.”

so just keep pressing on. stop comparing. start living. trust your instincts. be true to you. remember that everyone’s shiny facebook highlight reel isn’t the full picture of what’s real. and gratitude, rather than self-loathing, goes a long way.

most importantly, believe that your best is actually good enough. because it is.

...and then there was one.

August 14, 2013

“twins!”

we stared intently, squinting to make sense out of the black and white blobs assembled on the screen.

“can you see them?”

“umm… i think?”— half-hoping that if i couldn’t, then they wouldn’t…be a thing. we were there for #2. but nowhere in my plans was there ever any inkling, an iota of thought, about a third.

my eyes were glued to the monitor as she clicked away, the cursor plotting points from end to end across two tiny, bean-shaped eggs.

for 26 weeks, i watched them grow—slowly transforming from tiny blobs into…life. hearts beating, arms waving, legs kicking. what was at first terrifying became both weird and wonderful. a crazy twist of fate that we came to not only accept, but embrace.

i looked forward to my weekly ultrasound visits as a chance to peek into this big, round belly and see the twins spinning, twirling, playing, a surreal glimpse into what was soon to be a very real part of our lives.

week 27. i got to the doctor’s office for a routine check-up, a day like any other day.

“let’s see how we’re doing!”

she slid the smooth ultrasound device across my belly, clicking away to capture the images.

not much small talk. strange…

baby A. click. click. click.

baby B. click. click. click.

back to baby A.

still no words.

in the room, usually filled with banter about how the rascals were moving so much that she couldn’t get a good view, the silence was deafening. i started to feel a sense of panic wash over me. my heart began to race. i tried to divert the attention, focusing on the muzac piping in through the office stereo. breathe in. breathe out. eyes welling up though nothing was confirmed.

after 10 minutes of staring at the ceiling, at the sink, at the floor—anything but the screen—the doctor entered the room.

“i’m sorry. one of the babies just stopped growing.”

and just like that, there was one.

“inexplicable.” “horribly sad, yet somehow meant to be.” all the things that people say (and you say to yourself) to deal with such a tragic loss.

when he stopped growing, there was a void, a hole, an emptiness, that with each day grew smaller and smaller thanks to the radiant bundle of energy and love and light that is my logan.

he was there. he was ours. he was part of our family. and then he was gone.

his name was luke.

flash forward to now. four years later, time has healed. i count my blessings every single day for the amazing family that fills me up, holds me up, and gives me meaning in this mad world.

but every time i hear that name, there is still a tinge, that feeling, the memory of someone that was a part of me, yet i never got to meet.

one day, my brother came over. he lives for horses. works so he can ride. it’s his sanity, clarity, grounding for his sometime frenetic tendencies. he lost his first horse suddenly to a freakish equine virus.

he too had a void to fill.

he spent every free minute scouring websites, viewing hundreds of videos of horses spread out across the tri-state area. after months of searching, he finally zeroed in on two. sirage was a regal fresian with an athletic build and an elegant gait. he was convinced that this was the one.

he put money down for the pre-purchase, arranged for the vet check, and planned the terms of the negotiation. in his mind, it was a done deal. dot the I’s, cross the T’s, and he would have his horse.

but in the days leading up to the purchase, things began to sour. the horse was slightly smaller than the standard. the seller became defensive, aloof, and refused to negotiate. what seemed so right felt now, in his gut, just wrong.

there were two choices…and just like that, there was one.

big brown eyes, the gentlest soul, a stunning yet serene presence.

“you can train a horse to ride, but you can’t teach him how to love. this one…he’s a lover,” said his previous owner, welling up as she stroked his soft, velvety nose.

this was it. the one. a new member of our family. and his name was luke.

was it a sign? a karmic signal from above? maybe. or was it merely a crazy, uncanny coincidence that brought him to us? probably.

all i know is that now, when i hear the name: “luke.” the tinge is replaced by comfort—a sense that maybe, after all this time, maybe it was “meant to be.”