I sit here, listening to President Obama talk about the tragedy that struck Boston on this past Monday, the tears begin to flow down my face. Although common enough, my response, it is not one to be analyzed or evaluated, it is simply a response to both the lack of humanity and the over abundance of humanity that is shown in moments like these. 9/11, Sandy Hook, Boston...
All of these events and others, have hit us hard; they have hit me hard. "It's personal" President Obama repeated and, as I wipe my eyes and continue to listen, I am struck by how those two words explain it all: my response, my sadness these past few days and the wonder at the people who have stepped forward to help. There have been so many moments, so many stories that have emerged the past few days; the instances of grace, of kindness, of love. It moves me beyond words. I have not been able to articulate how "personal" the bombing at the Boston marathon was this past Monday. I still don't feel as though I can wholly express the sentiment and the pain correctly, but I think, as I scroll through the numerous text messages asking if I was in Boston, that the pain is beginning to dissipate amidst the realization and the recognition that the beauty of humanity that was shown on Monday supercedes the pain and the tragedy and the spirit of the marathon in all of us overpowers any sadness that we most certainly still feel in our hearts.
Beauty is everywhere, that is true. But for me, beauty is found most in purity. Selfless acts of random kindness, smiles and that indomitable strength that picks us up and shows the best of who we are after these horrific events. We pick ourselves up and we move forward, despite the pain, despite the hatred, despite the loss; we are resilient, we are one. What makes humanity and Americans truly great is this strength. In the moment when we want to turn away so as not to see the horror, instead we turn toward, to see if we can help. We move toward what hurts us most. And that, to me, is beauty. That is what a marathon and those who run, those who volunteer, those who cheer... is all about.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Why Not?
I've had millions, no thousands, no, well, maybe a few people ask me or say to me, "Hey Yvette, why don't you write a book?" or, sometimes, it has been, "Why don't you blog every day?" To which I simply reply, "I don't know," but really, I do know. I don't do either for the same reason that I don't lose the last of the perpetual baby weight or why I don't run every day or, why I don't take the laundry out of the washing machine before it dries in there and sticks and then I have to wash it all over again. I don't because I don't fucking feel like it. I know, can you hear the quarter drop? Swear jar...
Get ready for a shocker, well, for those of you who know me, you are already nodding as your eyes move left to right, I am an unmotivated person. Shocking, I told you, not so much. When I want to do something or if I am inspired to do so, I often kick ass at it. I mean, I'm not the best, but I get that mother fucker done (Quarter #2, hang on). Most people could and do say the same, but the thing is, for me, it really doesn't make sense because to do something that you LOVE to do and then to get better at it, as in, maybe to do it professionally, requires discipline and, of all of the things that I am NOT, disciplined ranks right up there with tactful.
I don't like boundaries, I don't like parameters and I definitely don't like being told what to do. I have an extremely difficult time with people for whom I lack respect or admiration and if one of those happens to be an authority figure to whom I have to report, I really have a problem. I liken my approach to life, work, family, hobbies and all of the other minutiae of daily life in much the same way; if I feel like doing it, it gets done and if I don't, then the machine grinds to a halt. You can clearly see how this philosophy interferes with the possibility of success or, basically, for having a clean car, a walked dog and graded papers returned on time. For these, I refuse to blame ADD or some other "diagnosis" of which I have yet to be made aware. But, I do acknowledge that as much inspiration that is needed to write, there is even more discipline required. Therefore, sometimes the blog takes a vacation...
I have, over the last two years, written several "pieces" of which I would never allow another human being to peruse. I have written these for me, for my own peace of mind and, I think I would violate every tenet of every philosophical ideology that has ever meant anything to me by putting them out into the universe for other people to judge. And for those of you who say, "I'm not judgemental, I won't judge you," excuse me for a second and let me just call Royal Bullshit (#3) to that. In my experience, however brief and unimportant, I have learned that when people tell you they "aren't" something, you can probably look on the tag and find that they not only came from that department but that they were the "top of the line" model. If that makes not sense, think of the axiom about the worst chefs always screaming the loudest that their food isn't cooked properly when they go out. AND if that doesn't make sense then... well, I got nothing else.
I would like to write a book and I have some ideas but I'm not so good with the follow through. I like to drown myself in an idea until only the tips of my bleached blonde hair sticks up through the quicksand and THEN, I move on to the next thing. It may be a bag of opened Cheetohs or watering the already browning lawn or it may be wrestling with the 6 year old and then, the idea gets tossed aside and I wait for another one to strike and then another and then another and so on. It's pretty non-productive but it generally suits the blog format so there you go. Writing, as I tell my students frequently and, as I've stated before, is so very personal, so intimate. Even when I read fiction, I find myself asking so many questions about the writer and during the reading of a novel process, I almost always start doing research on the author. It fascinates me to think that a writer like Shel Silverstein could simultaneously write killer children's books and write for Playboy at the same time. I love that the muse comes in all shapes and forms and that it strikes when it will, well, when she will. It makes writing new and fresh, creative, provocative and worth waiting for.
I always told myself that if I ever did write a book and publish it, if possible, that it would be for some reason other than just to do it. Not so much as a bucket list thing, or a money thing, or a success thing. Those "things" don't interest me; instead, I like to think that writing a book and publishing it could make another ripple in the pond, you know, add something to the universe that is worth saying. I wouldn't want to be just another "spine" on the multiple virtual shelves that line bookstores everywhere. I'd want to write something that made my children proud to have me as their mother, something that wouldn't embarrass them or make them misunderstand my intent. Until I can do that, until I come up with a story that best represents the way of thinking that spins around inside my head, I'll pass... I love the idea, I just don't always know how to make it become a reality, other than to slave away at the keyboard and that, I'm not willing to do, yet...
I had an amazing 5th grade teacher; actually, I was very lucky to have had many excellent teachers, especially in Elementary school, but this particular teacher, Carol Holdsworth served as an inspiration to me throughout my college years and even now. She was just starting to teach when she came in as a long term "sub" for the teacher who had gone out that year and she would continue to teach for many years. Actually, I believe that she was still teaching up until a few years ago. Regardless, the thing that struck me about Carol then was that she always seemed to come up with interesting and fun activities for us to do, both in and out of the classroom. We made tee pees and had international pen pals, we had an awards ceremony where we were recognized for the quirky and silly characteristics about each of us that most people wouldn't consider "unique," maybe more of an annoyance really. I received one for being the "most talkative girl with the funniest laugh." 33 years later and that little piece of paper is still taped into my scrapbook. We played games of Nation that lasted as long as we could and she NEVER, not once that I could remember, ever told us that we had to stop when we were in the middle of something. We worked at each activity with fervor and she gave us the time and space to grow in that intensity, in that joy of the moment. I dug our class picture out last week; it was buried in a plastic bin with a ton of other mementos from elementary school and as I was glancing at the photos and the names, another fascinating fact came to mind. Out of all of the kids in that class, I STILL actually speak to 14 of them, either through every day contact, email, facebook, Christmas Cards, phone calls... and, one of them has remained a very close friend to this day. That says a great deal about the bonding process that year, about the inspiration and the motivation that came from the joy and love of learning that Carol fostered in each of us. I use that example because it reminds me of what happens when I get on the computer to add another post to this blog. I never plan it out. Sometimes something struck me that day and when I begin to strike the keys, the idea just takes over. Other times, there are multiple ideas that overlap and sometimes, it is a struggle to say what I really mean, think, feel without sounding like a bumbling idiot.
I guess what it really comes down to is akin to the notion that sometimes you just don't feel like talking. Sometimes I just don't want to have that conversation, even if it is with a close friend or a family member and although it is perceived as rude or insensitive, I can't help it and I just won't do it. I love to write because there are things in life that are hard for me to say out loud. I have no problem saying them if need be, but it can be excruciating for me. Again, for those who know me, this may not SEEM to be the case, but it is. There is so much that I would like to say, both positive and negative, about so many things and people, about events and even, about myself, but, like certain parts of our lives, some ideas have to be kept private, stored in the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind and of my heart. When the muse strikes, I will share and sometimes it may be incoherent and sometimes, there may be a glimpse of what could eventually become more. Whichever way the writing continues to take me, one thing that I know for sure, it has given me wings. Thanks Carol and wherever you are today and for the rest of your life, I hope that you know that those wings were first cut from the mold that you helped design... Goodnight.
Get ready for a shocker, well, for those of you who know me, you are already nodding as your eyes move left to right, I am an unmotivated person. Shocking, I told you, not so much. When I want to do something or if I am inspired to do so, I often kick ass at it. I mean, I'm not the best, but I get that mother fucker done (Quarter #2, hang on). Most people could and do say the same, but the thing is, for me, it really doesn't make sense because to do something that you LOVE to do and then to get better at it, as in, maybe to do it professionally, requires discipline and, of all of the things that I am NOT, disciplined ranks right up there with tactful.
I don't like boundaries, I don't like parameters and I definitely don't like being told what to do. I have an extremely difficult time with people for whom I lack respect or admiration and if one of those happens to be an authority figure to whom I have to report, I really have a problem. I liken my approach to life, work, family, hobbies and all of the other minutiae of daily life in much the same way; if I feel like doing it, it gets done and if I don't, then the machine grinds to a halt. You can clearly see how this philosophy interferes with the possibility of success or, basically, for having a clean car, a walked dog and graded papers returned on time. For these, I refuse to blame ADD or some other "diagnosis" of which I have yet to be made aware. But, I do acknowledge that as much inspiration that is needed to write, there is even more discipline required. Therefore, sometimes the blog takes a vacation...
I have, over the last two years, written several "pieces" of which I would never allow another human being to peruse. I have written these for me, for my own peace of mind and, I think I would violate every tenet of every philosophical ideology that has ever meant anything to me by putting them out into the universe for other people to judge. And for those of you who say, "I'm not judgemental, I won't judge you," excuse me for a second and let me just call Royal Bullshit (#3) to that. In my experience, however brief and unimportant, I have learned that when people tell you they "aren't" something, you can probably look on the tag and find that they not only came from that department but that they were the "top of the line" model. If that makes not sense, think of the axiom about the worst chefs always screaming the loudest that their food isn't cooked properly when they go out. AND if that doesn't make sense then... well, I got nothing else.
I would like to write a book and I have some ideas but I'm not so good with the follow through. I like to drown myself in an idea until only the tips of my bleached blonde hair sticks up through the quicksand and THEN, I move on to the next thing. It may be a bag of opened Cheetohs or watering the already browning lawn or it may be wrestling with the 6 year old and then, the idea gets tossed aside and I wait for another one to strike and then another and then another and so on. It's pretty non-productive but it generally suits the blog format so there you go. Writing, as I tell my students frequently and, as I've stated before, is so very personal, so intimate. Even when I read fiction, I find myself asking so many questions about the writer and during the reading of a novel process, I almost always start doing research on the author. It fascinates me to think that a writer like Shel Silverstein could simultaneously write killer children's books and write for Playboy at the same time. I love that the muse comes in all shapes and forms and that it strikes when it will, well, when she will. It makes writing new and fresh, creative, provocative and worth waiting for.
I always told myself that if I ever did write a book and publish it, if possible, that it would be for some reason other than just to do it. Not so much as a bucket list thing, or a money thing, or a success thing. Those "things" don't interest me; instead, I like to think that writing a book and publishing it could make another ripple in the pond, you know, add something to the universe that is worth saying. I wouldn't want to be just another "spine" on the multiple virtual shelves that line bookstores everywhere. I'd want to write something that made my children proud to have me as their mother, something that wouldn't embarrass them or make them misunderstand my intent. Until I can do that, until I come up with a story that best represents the way of thinking that spins around inside my head, I'll pass... I love the idea, I just don't always know how to make it become a reality, other than to slave away at the keyboard and that, I'm not willing to do, yet...
I had an amazing 5th grade teacher; actually, I was very lucky to have had many excellent teachers, especially in Elementary school, but this particular teacher, Carol Holdsworth served as an inspiration to me throughout my college years and even now. She was just starting to teach when she came in as a long term "sub" for the teacher who had gone out that year and she would continue to teach for many years. Actually, I believe that she was still teaching up until a few years ago. Regardless, the thing that struck me about Carol then was that she always seemed to come up with interesting and fun activities for us to do, both in and out of the classroom. We made tee pees and had international pen pals, we had an awards ceremony where we were recognized for the quirky and silly characteristics about each of us that most people wouldn't consider "unique," maybe more of an annoyance really. I received one for being the "most talkative girl with the funniest laugh." 33 years later and that little piece of paper is still taped into my scrapbook. We played games of Nation that lasted as long as we could and she NEVER, not once that I could remember, ever told us that we had to stop when we were in the middle of something. We worked at each activity with fervor and she gave us the time and space to grow in that intensity, in that joy of the moment. I dug our class picture out last week; it was buried in a plastic bin with a ton of other mementos from elementary school and as I was glancing at the photos and the names, another fascinating fact came to mind. Out of all of the kids in that class, I STILL actually speak to 14 of them, either through every day contact, email, facebook, Christmas Cards, phone calls... and, one of them has remained a very close friend to this day. That says a great deal about the bonding process that year, about the inspiration and the motivation that came from the joy and love of learning that Carol fostered in each of us. I use that example because it reminds me of what happens when I get on the computer to add another post to this blog. I never plan it out. Sometimes something struck me that day and when I begin to strike the keys, the idea just takes over. Other times, there are multiple ideas that overlap and sometimes, it is a struggle to say what I really mean, think, feel without sounding like a bumbling idiot.
I guess what it really comes down to is akin to the notion that sometimes you just don't feel like talking. Sometimes I just don't want to have that conversation, even if it is with a close friend or a family member and although it is perceived as rude or insensitive, I can't help it and I just won't do it. I love to write because there are things in life that are hard for me to say out loud. I have no problem saying them if need be, but it can be excruciating for me. Again, for those who know me, this may not SEEM to be the case, but it is. There is so much that I would like to say, both positive and negative, about so many things and people, about events and even, about myself, but, like certain parts of our lives, some ideas have to be kept private, stored in the deepest, darkest recesses of my mind and of my heart. When the muse strikes, I will share and sometimes it may be incoherent and sometimes, there may be a glimpse of what could eventually become more. Whichever way the writing continues to take me, one thing that I know for sure, it has given me wings. Thanks Carol and wherever you are today and for the rest of your life, I hope that you know that those wings were first cut from the mold that you helped design... Goodnight.
Tuesday, March 12, 2013
ADDepression...
My children are hilarious, at least that's what they tell me. Although we often tell children to speak nicely to one another, I often tell mine to "Shut the hell up." To which they laugh and smile and tell me, "Mom, put a quarter in the swear jar." To which I then reply, "Where's the fucking swear jar?" and then, they continue to laugh...
This marks the eighth week of Marriage counseling for Tim and I and, based on my aggression towards my children, it is apparently not helping. As I write this, my two teenagers are offering up suggestions as to what might be appropriate blogging material and this is what they've come up with. Needless to say, I will not be asking for their advice again. So "Shut the hell up and do your fucking homework." They are laughing again... another needless to say.
The therapist told me, getting back to my initial "report," that I need to hold myself accountable for my own actions. This is why he makes 150 dollars an hour I guess, to tell me things that I already knew. Hence, the swear jar. I guess if I don't want my children to swear, then I have to stop swearing also. Jake just walked by, out the blue and yelled "Shit," just to make Nick and I laugh. I could write a whole research paper on the joys of profanity and why it's important to swear in front of your children and at them on a regular basis. However, social services may show up immediately following the publication of said material. I don't know, when I drop something heavy on my toe, "Dang it" just doesn't cut it. So, back to my accountability... clearly this concept applies to more than just profanity. In the midst of this thought explosion, my teenagers are doing impressions of different characters from various movies interspersed with bouts of the Harlem Shake. Life is never, ever dull... Again, one more time, accountability, in my language, in my life, in my parenting and in my marriage. So, week 8.
I like the therapist. He is an interesting person although I don't really know anything about him other than he isn't married which, I don't know is relevant or, maybe it is. Tim told me that I shouldn't have asked him, but I had my own reasons for asking. I still like him and I value his insights. He is well educated, articulate, a teacher, hey, maybe I should date HIM, then again, he's divorced, not a good track record and he's even older than Tim so I guess that's out. I was sitting on campus the other day, drinking my coffee outside, it was such a beautiful morning and I was listening to the conversation of the girl sitting across from me, well the conversation between her and her cell phone which clearly had a guy on the other line with whom she was engaged in a tumultuous relationship. She was attempting to explain "abcout the other night," but she wasn't being successful because her explanation was punctuated by words like "Nuh uh" and "Wait, I never said that." I sat, and I immediately thought to myself, "Thank God I'm no longer dating..." The energy that it would take to re-invent myself and then to throw myself back into the dating pool, hell, it's easier to go to marriage counseling. It's probably just the fact that I haven't "dated" in so long; I wouldn't even know where to begin.
Having said that, well, having written that, not to split hairs, I must confess that I look forward to going to the sessions every week; I have begun to learn some interesting and useful things about Tim and about myself, although the three of us have spent the last two sessions laughing about our idiosyncratic behaviors "She uses my towel even when I tell her not to" or "There should be a DEFCON sign outside the door of the house so I know what kind of mood she's in." Mainly, he leaves it up to us to determine what we will say and how we will say it and then we leave it open ended for the next session. There is still MUCH to discuss in the weeks to come, but I think it's working; so far, I am despising Tim much less. The kids are laughing again as I say this out loud.
During our sixth session, the therapist was listening to something that I was saying and when I was finished, he turned to me and said, "Yvette, have you ever thought that you might have ADD?" Now, I joke about this regularly with everyone who is close to me and especially with my students. Yes, I have thought about it, but in a frantic, papers flying everywhere, hands flailing, "schizophrenic" kind of way. I had not really given it "serious" thought. So, the therapist and I discussed it, I took the DSM IV and Bam! Who knew? I have it or, more accurately, it has me. I'm usually the person who skips the self help aisle at the bookstore and, unless someone recommends a title that is specifically related to me, to my children or to our existence as a family, I skip it. I am not moved by other people telling me what to do and how to live and who to be, instead I am interested in looking at the situation from multiple perspectives and then deciding on what is applicable for me. I guess that sums up the purpose of marriage counseling. Tim and I don't fight, we don't generally yell at one another, we tend to use laughter and sarcasm to hide the deeper issues that, now, after 20 years together are seeping through the fabric that should "bind" us together. I don't like that word bind, but it seemed appropriate, so, there you go. As we move into the next month of weekly meetings, we have agreed that it is time to pull out the big guns and to examine some of the reasons why we don't communicate in a "better" way, I mean, if you still LIKE someone after 20 years together and you know that you love them, then, self help crap aside, communication is key and can make things better. I am in the process of remembering what I liked the most about Tim early on and simultaneously I am reminded of what irritates me the most as well.
So, back to my ADD. The official diagnosis has explained a great deal and it has left me in a tailspin. While I understand Jake a LOT more now, I am also at a loss as to what this means for my children, collectively speaking. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder if my children would be more successful in all of their endeavors with a mother that was more organized, kinder, not as impulsive, one who grocery shops. Jake just went to the refrigerator, looked inside, and yelled, "Why are there no dranks?" "There is only Ketchup and Maple Syrup." Then Tim said, "There's Margarita Mix" so Jake grabbed and swallowed a huge gulp, then spit it out while Tim laughed. Maybe that's poor parenting on Tim's part, but it was as funny as hell. Maybe that's not ADD related, but social services might come knocking anyway.
So many people have a diagnosis that I can't really throw myself a pity party; that's not my purpose here anyway, but lately, I haven't been feeling like myself. The past six months or so, I've felt different, less motivated, less willing to "try" and I don't know what to attribute it to. I've also felt extraordinarily overwhelmed by everything, so much so, that instead of starting, I just don't do it at all. The therapist suggested making a daily list, but every time I look at the list, my heart starts to race and I feel overwhelmed again. So, I continue to deal with missed appointments, stacks of paper lying around the house, laundry that gets washed three times before it goes in the dryer because I can't remember if I washed it for the first time, no groceries in the house, split tires on my car and a deep seeded lack of drive to complete the things that are most, or have been, most important in my life up until now. I feel exhausted and sad, deeply at risk so to speak. I know it's not "ADD," that, truly, it is a process of looking at the big picture and taking in the things that make me happy and that make me sad, of accepting "the things that I cannot change," but ultimately, it's about recognizing that for which I am most grateful and maybe all that can be said is that I am as fucked up as the next person.
My students asked me the other day if they could make a video with me doing the Harlem Shake and, after they explained what it is, I said, "Sure." I'm positive that it will show up on Youtube any day now. If it does, remember that I disclosed my diagnosis and I plead "Couldn't remember" when I actually took it on and agreed.
The therapist has a sign above his bookshelf that reads, "The best thing that a father can do for his children is to love their mother." Maybe it should be simpler, "The best thing that a mother can do for her children is to love herself." And, to put a quarter in the swear jar...
This marks the eighth week of Marriage counseling for Tim and I and, based on my aggression towards my children, it is apparently not helping. As I write this, my two teenagers are offering up suggestions as to what might be appropriate blogging material and this is what they've come up with. Needless to say, I will not be asking for their advice again. So "Shut the hell up and do your fucking homework." They are laughing again... another needless to say.
The therapist told me, getting back to my initial "report," that I need to hold myself accountable for my own actions. This is why he makes 150 dollars an hour I guess, to tell me things that I already knew. Hence, the swear jar. I guess if I don't want my children to swear, then I have to stop swearing also. Jake just walked by, out the blue and yelled "Shit," just to make Nick and I laugh. I could write a whole research paper on the joys of profanity and why it's important to swear in front of your children and at them on a regular basis. However, social services may show up immediately following the publication of said material. I don't know, when I drop something heavy on my toe, "Dang it" just doesn't cut it. So, back to my accountability... clearly this concept applies to more than just profanity. In the midst of this thought explosion, my teenagers are doing impressions of different characters from various movies interspersed with bouts of the Harlem Shake. Life is never, ever dull... Again, one more time, accountability, in my language, in my life, in my parenting and in my marriage. So, week 8.
I like the therapist. He is an interesting person although I don't really know anything about him other than he isn't married which, I don't know is relevant or, maybe it is. Tim told me that I shouldn't have asked him, but I had my own reasons for asking. I still like him and I value his insights. He is well educated, articulate, a teacher, hey, maybe I should date HIM, then again, he's divorced, not a good track record and he's even older than Tim so I guess that's out. I was sitting on campus the other day, drinking my coffee outside, it was such a beautiful morning and I was listening to the conversation of the girl sitting across from me, well the conversation between her and her cell phone which clearly had a guy on the other line with whom she was engaged in a tumultuous relationship. She was attempting to explain "abcout the other night," but she wasn't being successful because her explanation was punctuated by words like "Nuh uh" and "Wait, I never said that." I sat, and I immediately thought to myself, "Thank God I'm no longer dating..." The energy that it would take to re-invent myself and then to throw myself back into the dating pool, hell, it's easier to go to marriage counseling. It's probably just the fact that I haven't "dated" in so long; I wouldn't even know where to begin.
Having said that, well, having written that, not to split hairs, I must confess that I look forward to going to the sessions every week; I have begun to learn some interesting and useful things about Tim and about myself, although the three of us have spent the last two sessions laughing about our idiosyncratic behaviors "She uses my towel even when I tell her not to" or "There should be a DEFCON sign outside the door of the house so I know what kind of mood she's in." Mainly, he leaves it up to us to determine what we will say and how we will say it and then we leave it open ended for the next session. There is still MUCH to discuss in the weeks to come, but I think it's working; so far, I am despising Tim much less. The kids are laughing again as I say this out loud.
During our sixth session, the therapist was listening to something that I was saying and when I was finished, he turned to me and said, "Yvette, have you ever thought that you might have ADD?" Now, I joke about this regularly with everyone who is close to me and especially with my students. Yes, I have thought about it, but in a frantic, papers flying everywhere, hands flailing, "schizophrenic" kind of way. I had not really given it "serious" thought. So, the therapist and I discussed it, I took the DSM IV and Bam! Who knew? I have it or, more accurately, it has me. I'm usually the person who skips the self help aisle at the bookstore and, unless someone recommends a title that is specifically related to me, to my children or to our existence as a family, I skip it. I am not moved by other people telling me what to do and how to live and who to be, instead I am interested in looking at the situation from multiple perspectives and then deciding on what is applicable for me. I guess that sums up the purpose of marriage counseling. Tim and I don't fight, we don't generally yell at one another, we tend to use laughter and sarcasm to hide the deeper issues that, now, after 20 years together are seeping through the fabric that should "bind" us together. I don't like that word bind, but it seemed appropriate, so, there you go. As we move into the next month of weekly meetings, we have agreed that it is time to pull out the big guns and to examine some of the reasons why we don't communicate in a "better" way, I mean, if you still LIKE someone after 20 years together and you know that you love them, then, self help crap aside, communication is key and can make things better. I am in the process of remembering what I liked the most about Tim early on and simultaneously I am reminded of what irritates me the most as well.
So, back to my ADD. The official diagnosis has explained a great deal and it has left me in a tailspin. While I understand Jake a LOT more now, I am also at a loss as to what this means for my children, collectively speaking. Not a day goes by when I don't wonder if my children would be more successful in all of their endeavors with a mother that was more organized, kinder, not as impulsive, one who grocery shops. Jake just went to the refrigerator, looked inside, and yelled, "Why are there no dranks?" "There is only Ketchup and Maple Syrup." Then Tim said, "There's Margarita Mix" so Jake grabbed and swallowed a huge gulp, then spit it out while Tim laughed. Maybe that's poor parenting on Tim's part, but it was as funny as hell. Maybe that's not ADD related, but social services might come knocking anyway.
So many people have a diagnosis that I can't really throw myself a pity party; that's not my purpose here anyway, but lately, I haven't been feeling like myself. The past six months or so, I've felt different, less motivated, less willing to "try" and I don't know what to attribute it to. I've also felt extraordinarily overwhelmed by everything, so much so, that instead of starting, I just don't do it at all. The therapist suggested making a daily list, but every time I look at the list, my heart starts to race and I feel overwhelmed again. So, I continue to deal with missed appointments, stacks of paper lying around the house, laundry that gets washed three times before it goes in the dryer because I can't remember if I washed it for the first time, no groceries in the house, split tires on my car and a deep seeded lack of drive to complete the things that are most, or have been, most important in my life up until now. I feel exhausted and sad, deeply at risk so to speak. I know it's not "ADD," that, truly, it is a process of looking at the big picture and taking in the things that make me happy and that make me sad, of accepting "the things that I cannot change," but ultimately, it's about recognizing that for which I am most grateful and maybe all that can be said is that I am as fucked up as the next person.
My students asked me the other day if they could make a video with me doing the Harlem Shake and, after they explained what it is, I said, "Sure." I'm positive that it will show up on Youtube any day now. If it does, remember that I disclosed my diagnosis and I plead "Couldn't remember" when I actually took it on and agreed.
The therapist has a sign above his bookshelf that reads, "The best thing that a father can do for his children is to love their mother." Maybe it should be simpler, "The best thing that a mother can do for her children is to love herself." And, to put a quarter in the swear jar...
Monday, February 18, 2013
By the way...
I love to listen to Heidi & Frank on KLOS in the mornings. I like KLOS anyway, but they are a fun and lively duo who say things that pretty much make me smile, even if I only get to listen for a few minutes on my drive somewhere. At the end of each show, they "apologize" to all of the listeners and organizations that they may have offended during that day's broadcast. I think the apology list is one of the best parts of the show. Having said that, I probably should make out a daily apology list, but instead, I thought it might be more interesting to make a "week" list of all of the events that occurred in my life for one week: Yvette Hawley, 43, mother of 3, teacher, wife, potential candidate for some kind of medication down the road...
I think Valentine's day is stupid. For kids and for people who love it, I have no problem with that, but when I was at CVS the night before the "BIG" day and I watched as people scrambled to buy cards and pointless knick knacks for their significant others, I thought, I honestly thought, what a fucking waste of time and resources. Consumerism at its worst or best I suppose, depending on how you look at it. Conversely, I enjoyed watching Ty make his Valentine's box and Nick and Jake participate in this sadistic ritual that encourages the forced spending of money on shit you don't need. A note may be enough in the future, a flower, chocolate (ok, this is always a good bet, but a bag of M&M's will do). For my foodserver friends, Valentine's Day could be a bankable night or it could suck depending on what kind of clientele came in for the night. I will never forget this couple who came in, they had reservations and when I approached the table they both smiled at me, greeted me and I remember thinking, ok, this is going to be a good one. And then, I swear, the guy pulls out a hundred dollar bill, hands it to me and says, "We want to spend the whole thing. Order us whatever up to 100 bucks." I smiled because that was part of the job and I walked away thinking, "I'm fucked." They left me 62 cents. Ah, the good old days. Aside from that, as always, I don't care what other people do, but now, Valentine's Day is a good friend's birthday and that's it for me. Wave a heart in my face at your peril...
I went back to work this week and I was overjoyed to see several former students, two of whom I haven't seen in over a year, who came back to enroll in my class when they saw my name. Now how good does THAT make me feel. I hope I do the class justice since I haven't taught this one before, but whatever happens, it was so genuinely wonderful to see them again. Another semester; I really do love to teach. It has been a real gift in my life.
I met "Roxy" last night at Drag Queen Bingo. Hambuger Mary's, West Hollywood, a friend's fundraiser for APLA... I got to fill in and hand out Bingo cards last night for a little while and I had a great time, seeing familiar faces, meeting new people and listening to the hilarious antics that ensue when a 6 foot tall "Queen" in 4 inch heels that I couldn't pull off is telling a customer to grab the table, stick out his ass and who then proceeds to smack him, HARD before the crowd shouts out "NO FALSE BINGOS!" At least that is what I heard, I was laughing pretty hard. Bingo is full anyway, but with this crowd and that MC, I am definitely going back for the next one.
I scaled a rock wall with Nick... and I rang the bell at the top. Legoland in Carlsbad is as much fun as I remember and I haven't been there in awhile so it was like reliving those moments with Jake, but this time, it was with Ty and of course, with Nick. We ate, laughed, ran around with friends, went on rides and just enjoyed the absolutely beautiful SoCal weather that encourages all people to come to California. It was a lovely day, even the drive home at sunset was spectacular. Needless to say, we all slept well that night.
Finished my Science Fair essay draft, I mean Nick's Science Fair essay draft... Here's the thing, well, here's the "many" things. The Science Fair is a great idea... in theory. Hypothesis, experiment, results... fantastic. Visualizing, reporting, concluding... fabulous. Writing up the whole damn thing... nightmare. Nick is a strong auditory learner so to have him sit down at the computer to type up an entire report, with references. Can you feel me cringing as I type this? I exaggerate not, it took HOURS to finish that report and although he did 90% of the writing/typing, it was so difficult not to just step in and take over. By the end, we were both crying and the 10% that I contributed, mostly editing, felt like a painful exercise in retraction. I winced when I looked at some of the material so I changed very little although, especially as an English teacher, I know what this is going to mean for his grade. But, this is how they learn, I guess. He had a great experiment, testing liquids to see how quickly each evaporates ( I lost 3 teflon pans in the process) and he came up with creative and interesting questions and ideas about how scientists who use experiments with evaporation can add to our understanding of the environment. I mean, the discussion portion alone was college level. But then, the actual processing and written portion... the report, in the end, read like a third grader wrote it. This is a conundrum for parents... some answer this puzzle by doing the work themselves, some have their children do it all and some, like me, help them, but to what end? How much help is too much? Thank goodness there are no longer Mission Projects. Clearly there are many parents who are architects or engineers. Regardless, all that is left is the dreaded Science Board... there goes next weekend...
I discovered that my quips and jokes about having ADD were actually founded as I took a legitimate psychological test and was then evaluated by the therapist that Tim and I are currently seeing to help us to improve our communication strategies and to strengthen our marriage. Blah, blah, blah. We haven't been getting along too well. We don't fight, which, if you know me, is probably difficult to believe, but we also don't "argue" very well. And so, the 5th session of therapy occurred this week. I have to admit, having gone to individual therapy a while back, it can be enlightening and very helpful. This is the case with Tim and I, at least thus far. This session was particularly interesting because the focus shifted to elements in our daily lives that are contributing to our collective "stress." And one of the huge components was my inability to follow through on "things." In light of that revelation, came even more issues with Yvette and forgetfulness, distractibility and how she is not doing these things deliberately, yet these things are having serious negative effects on our home life. And for the kids, it is especially difficult as they do not have enough consistency and balanced parenting, I accept that; as previously mentioned, I joke about it. But the issue of my job came up and my teaching and the therapist, who also formerly taught, mentioned, asked me questions about and then "hit the nail on the head" by explaining my daily teaching routine. It is the one area of my life where I have it all together. I am organized, consistent and although I do forget things or leave something at home unintentionally, I am a good teacher. Our therapist continued to examine reasons behind why certain triggers, behaviors, results come about when it comes to Adult ADD and it was like a lightbulb went off in my head and, for that matter, one in Tim's too. A diagnosis isn't a cure all. It doesn't even necessarily mean that I have it, but by accepting that there are "dimensions" to my forgetfulness and my inability to finish things, I can begin to address the issue and to hopefully, lessen the "stress" that I am apparently wreaking in our lives. More to follow...
So many events occur daily in the Hawley household, weekly, it is hard to sum up. This rant could go on for a dozen pages, but I will conclude here because I want to go and get pancakes with my kids and since they are off school, it's time to turn my attention there...
In conclusion, the sweetest little Pug named Chato came to live with us this week. I thought that it would be a good idea, per a therapist's suggestion and some research, to get a dog for Nick; one that would be his responsibility and one who would come to love him unconditionally. In short, he wanted a pug and so off to an adoption fair at Pug Rescue LA we went a few weeks ago. There, we found a little guy, about 6 or so they said, they weren't sure, who was walking around and who came right up to us when we knelt down by the pen. He looked at us like "Get me the hell out of here" which is what they all look like, but this guy wasn't jumping around all crazy; he was mellow. Nick started petting him and then we took him for a walk. He was just great. Someone surrendered him because he needed surgery on his leg and either they couldn't afford it or they didn't want to do it, so they turned him over to give him a chance. Nick chose him, we filled out the paperwork, one home inspection later and we went to pick him up...
He has been here for 5 days now and if I can accurately describe Chato in one word, I would say, well, two words, "snoring meatloaf." He is not 6 years old, he is more like 9 or 10, he has arthritis and limps a little AND he is hard of hearing. As I sit here and type, he is smashed into the couch cushions, snoring away, having just eaten his breakfast and after having gone outside to pee on Ty's playhouse, he has expended all his energy. He loves the car and he came with me to Girl's night in on Friday night where the girls attempted to rename him hence the meatloaf reference, "Pugston" "Winston Churchill" "Cheetoh" were among the few. Since I had a couple of glasses of wine, I don't remember the other ones, but, since he can't hear so well, I just kind of yell something at him and he wags his tail and turns over so that I can pet his belly and sometimes he hobbles over. I am in love with him. He is darling and my only concern is that his helath issues will keep us from having him long. I hope that is not the case, but on the upside, he can live out the rest of his life in comfort and some peace; our house isn't so peaceful these days, but he looks perfectly content. Fingers crossed he is with us for a long time...
I've signed up to do a triathlon, my first real one and I will start training, eventually... I am excited for the new challenge and I am heading out tonight to run so I can check that off the list. Maybe, if you are reading this, your life resembles mine. I bet it does. If it does, take a deep breath, have a glass of wine or two or three, but don't drive, go to yoga, kiss your kids and take another deep breath... did I mention that it is Monday. Here we go again...
I think Valentine's day is stupid. For kids and for people who love it, I have no problem with that, but when I was at CVS the night before the "BIG" day and I watched as people scrambled to buy cards and pointless knick knacks for their significant others, I thought, I honestly thought, what a fucking waste of time and resources. Consumerism at its worst or best I suppose, depending on how you look at it. Conversely, I enjoyed watching Ty make his Valentine's box and Nick and Jake participate in this sadistic ritual that encourages the forced spending of money on shit you don't need. A note may be enough in the future, a flower, chocolate (ok, this is always a good bet, but a bag of M&M's will do). For my foodserver friends, Valentine's Day could be a bankable night or it could suck depending on what kind of clientele came in for the night. I will never forget this couple who came in, they had reservations and when I approached the table they both smiled at me, greeted me and I remember thinking, ok, this is going to be a good one. And then, I swear, the guy pulls out a hundred dollar bill, hands it to me and says, "We want to spend the whole thing. Order us whatever up to 100 bucks." I smiled because that was part of the job and I walked away thinking, "I'm fucked." They left me 62 cents. Ah, the good old days. Aside from that, as always, I don't care what other people do, but now, Valentine's Day is a good friend's birthday and that's it for me. Wave a heart in my face at your peril...
I went back to work this week and I was overjoyed to see several former students, two of whom I haven't seen in over a year, who came back to enroll in my class when they saw my name. Now how good does THAT make me feel. I hope I do the class justice since I haven't taught this one before, but whatever happens, it was so genuinely wonderful to see them again. Another semester; I really do love to teach. It has been a real gift in my life.
I met "Roxy" last night at Drag Queen Bingo. Hambuger Mary's, West Hollywood, a friend's fundraiser for APLA... I got to fill in and hand out Bingo cards last night for a little while and I had a great time, seeing familiar faces, meeting new people and listening to the hilarious antics that ensue when a 6 foot tall "Queen" in 4 inch heels that I couldn't pull off is telling a customer to grab the table, stick out his ass and who then proceeds to smack him, HARD before the crowd shouts out "NO FALSE BINGOS!" At least that is what I heard, I was laughing pretty hard. Bingo is full anyway, but with this crowd and that MC, I am definitely going back for the next one.
I scaled a rock wall with Nick... and I rang the bell at the top. Legoland in Carlsbad is as much fun as I remember and I haven't been there in awhile so it was like reliving those moments with Jake, but this time, it was with Ty and of course, with Nick. We ate, laughed, ran around with friends, went on rides and just enjoyed the absolutely beautiful SoCal weather that encourages all people to come to California. It was a lovely day, even the drive home at sunset was spectacular. Needless to say, we all slept well that night.
Finished my Science Fair essay draft, I mean Nick's Science Fair essay draft... Here's the thing, well, here's the "many" things. The Science Fair is a great idea... in theory. Hypothesis, experiment, results... fantastic. Visualizing, reporting, concluding... fabulous. Writing up the whole damn thing... nightmare. Nick is a strong auditory learner so to have him sit down at the computer to type up an entire report, with references. Can you feel me cringing as I type this? I exaggerate not, it took HOURS to finish that report and although he did 90% of the writing/typing, it was so difficult not to just step in and take over. By the end, we were both crying and the 10% that I contributed, mostly editing, felt like a painful exercise in retraction. I winced when I looked at some of the material so I changed very little although, especially as an English teacher, I know what this is going to mean for his grade. But, this is how they learn, I guess. He had a great experiment, testing liquids to see how quickly each evaporates ( I lost 3 teflon pans in the process) and he came up with creative and interesting questions and ideas about how scientists who use experiments with evaporation can add to our understanding of the environment. I mean, the discussion portion alone was college level. But then, the actual processing and written portion... the report, in the end, read like a third grader wrote it. This is a conundrum for parents... some answer this puzzle by doing the work themselves, some have their children do it all and some, like me, help them, but to what end? How much help is too much? Thank goodness there are no longer Mission Projects. Clearly there are many parents who are architects or engineers. Regardless, all that is left is the dreaded Science Board... there goes next weekend...
I discovered that my quips and jokes about having ADD were actually founded as I took a legitimate psychological test and was then evaluated by the therapist that Tim and I are currently seeing to help us to improve our communication strategies and to strengthen our marriage. Blah, blah, blah. We haven't been getting along too well. We don't fight, which, if you know me, is probably difficult to believe, but we also don't "argue" very well. And so, the 5th session of therapy occurred this week. I have to admit, having gone to individual therapy a while back, it can be enlightening and very helpful. This is the case with Tim and I, at least thus far. This session was particularly interesting because the focus shifted to elements in our daily lives that are contributing to our collective "stress." And one of the huge components was my inability to follow through on "things." In light of that revelation, came even more issues with Yvette and forgetfulness, distractibility and how she is not doing these things deliberately, yet these things are having serious negative effects on our home life. And for the kids, it is especially difficult as they do not have enough consistency and balanced parenting, I accept that; as previously mentioned, I joke about it. But the issue of my job came up and my teaching and the therapist, who also formerly taught, mentioned, asked me questions about and then "hit the nail on the head" by explaining my daily teaching routine. It is the one area of my life where I have it all together. I am organized, consistent and although I do forget things or leave something at home unintentionally, I am a good teacher. Our therapist continued to examine reasons behind why certain triggers, behaviors, results come about when it comes to Adult ADD and it was like a lightbulb went off in my head and, for that matter, one in Tim's too. A diagnosis isn't a cure all. It doesn't even necessarily mean that I have it, but by accepting that there are "dimensions" to my forgetfulness and my inability to finish things, I can begin to address the issue and to hopefully, lessen the "stress" that I am apparently wreaking in our lives. More to follow...
So many events occur daily in the Hawley household, weekly, it is hard to sum up. This rant could go on for a dozen pages, but I will conclude here because I want to go and get pancakes with my kids and since they are off school, it's time to turn my attention there...
In conclusion, the sweetest little Pug named Chato came to live with us this week. I thought that it would be a good idea, per a therapist's suggestion and some research, to get a dog for Nick; one that would be his responsibility and one who would come to love him unconditionally. In short, he wanted a pug and so off to an adoption fair at Pug Rescue LA we went a few weeks ago. There, we found a little guy, about 6 or so they said, they weren't sure, who was walking around and who came right up to us when we knelt down by the pen. He looked at us like "Get me the hell out of here" which is what they all look like, but this guy wasn't jumping around all crazy; he was mellow. Nick started petting him and then we took him for a walk. He was just great. Someone surrendered him because he needed surgery on his leg and either they couldn't afford it or they didn't want to do it, so they turned him over to give him a chance. Nick chose him, we filled out the paperwork, one home inspection later and we went to pick him up...
He has been here for 5 days now and if I can accurately describe Chato in one word, I would say, well, two words, "snoring meatloaf." He is not 6 years old, he is more like 9 or 10, he has arthritis and limps a little AND he is hard of hearing. As I sit here and type, he is smashed into the couch cushions, snoring away, having just eaten his breakfast and after having gone outside to pee on Ty's playhouse, he has expended all his energy. He loves the car and he came with me to Girl's night in on Friday night where the girls attempted to rename him hence the meatloaf reference, "Pugston" "Winston Churchill" "Cheetoh" were among the few. Since I had a couple of glasses of wine, I don't remember the other ones, but, since he can't hear so well, I just kind of yell something at him and he wags his tail and turns over so that I can pet his belly and sometimes he hobbles over. I am in love with him. He is darling and my only concern is that his helath issues will keep us from having him long. I hope that is not the case, but on the upside, he can live out the rest of his life in comfort and some peace; our house isn't so peaceful these days, but he looks perfectly content. Fingers crossed he is with us for a long time...
I've signed up to do a triathlon, my first real one and I will start training, eventually... I am excited for the new challenge and I am heading out tonight to run so I can check that off the list. Maybe, if you are reading this, your life resembles mine. I bet it does. If it does, take a deep breath, have a glass of wine or two or three, but don't drive, go to yoga, kiss your kids and take another deep breath... did I mention that it is Monday. Here we go again...
Sunday, January 27, 2013
"What if?"
I try not to think about "What if's" because it makes me crazy to second guess myself. I often get a feeling, a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, like I should have or I could have, but then, I realize that I can't change it and although it will still bother me, I try to let it go. I try; I am not always successful in that effort, but I am now making the effort more.
At night, I usually lay in bed after reading and after everyone else is asleep and I analyze things; I often wish I didn't, but I can't help it. Maybe, like some people tell me and, like so many self-help books reiterate, thinking about what you've done or haven't done can lead to a better understanding of how to "do it" better the next time. It's not regret anymore, rather, it is a desire to "do" better, to be better. I have come to realize that immediate gratification just doesn't work for me. I used to think it did, but maybe that was the problem; I thought it did. Too much thinking can get me into just as much trouble as not enough thinking. That's probably true for most people. This morning prompted me to think about (I know, think...) this whole concept of starting small, or, starting over.
There are many days when I wonder how Nick would do with a mother who is, well, who is, let's just say, more patient, more understanding and, it's hard for me to type this, kinder. I cannot "blame" his Asperger's for my lack of the aforementioned things nor can I really attribute the shortness of them to this "condition." I think of it more as a personality impasse. Would he do better with someone who loved him as much as I do, but who was better equipped, personality wise to deal with the daily struggles and the continuous tug of war? Then, I realize that it is pointless to think that way because we cannot change the situation. I am his mother and no one will love him as much as I do, ever and we have much to teach each other.
I have many friends who are Atheists, I also have many friends who are Agnostics. I have friends who are, well, I have friends who cover every aspect of the religion and non-religion spectrum that there is. And, while I am not a preachy person and I do not try to convince others what they should believe, I do believe in God. I believe in Jesus Christ and in his mother Mary, as a holy entity and I believe in the Holy Spirit. While I was raised in the Catholic faith, I find that I do not soley identify with any "religion" per se. I go to church on a semi regular basis and we are raising our children in the Catholic tradition, but not with the exclusionary standards that any religion often exercises. After all, "Catholic" simply means "universal." When you grow up in a faith, with its traditions, a huge part of who you are is grounded by those beliefs. I do not let them define me, rather I let my belief and my faith guide me toward a better understanding of others. I believe that we do not "end" and it is my faith that gives me comfort and hope in times of darkness and pain. It is this faith that tells me that God blessed me with Nick for a reason. Nick is mine because he is here to teach me to be more patient, more kind, more generous. I recognize that; he is a gift, as all children are, but Nick has special needs and it is my intent to help him carve out a meaningful and good life. I thought about this today when I was running; I thought about this and I thought about starting over.
I ran 4 miles today with my brother Steve. I am starting my running journey over and it felt good to just begin again, to recognize that I could not just jump back in and run as many miles as I wanted to. I suppose I could; I've done it before, but this time, I want to go through the process again and when I get to 26, then I will run my next marathon. I will feel as though I put in the time and the effort and I made it happen through diligence and patience. Another opportunity to learn patience. That goes without saying, marathon training teaches us a great deal about ourselves and most of us understand that on marathon day, we've already run the race, we've already won. The race simply symbolizes the prize, the "ride" to the finish. The journey starts on mornings like this one where you throw on your shoes, you set a goal and you go out and do it. You don't think, you don't analyze, you just "do." So as we trotted along, I felt renewed, similar to how I feel when I am in church, surrounded by a common thread and a spiritual boundary. I felt, as I often do when I run, that anything is possible and that continuing to look forward, even in the middle of my life, instead of looking back, is what will keep me growing and changing. I only want to look back to think about the experiences, the memories; I don't want to look back and think "What if?"
I guess the real dilemma, if that is even the right word, is knowing how to treat conditions like Nick's. I don't liken his situation to a "disease." Instead, I think of it as a lifelong condition, one which will provide challenging obstacles, but one which will also provide him with opportunities to learn about himself and to understand that life just is not the same for everyone and, that is perfectly okay. If I could change it, if I could take the Asperger's away, would I? I've actually been asked that question and while I may have thought about that in different ways when asked before, I would now reply, instantaneously, no. Because to take an integral part of Nick away would be to change him and this is a battle that he will have all his life but it will not define him. It will exist and it will be an ongoing conversation that he will have to have with himself every day for the rest of his life, but it will not define who he is. Love defines us, hope, empathy, grief, sadness... but conditions do not define us.
I wish, I don't second guess, I wish that everyone would get the chance to feel special in some way, to understand that starting over sometimes means just getting out of bed in the morning. It really is that simple. If asked, at the age that you are right now, what would you say are the three most important factors in your life or, how do you spend the majority of your time? To whom do you give yourself completely? To what do you give your effort? Your talents? Your money? How will you have spent your life...
These are some of the things that envelop my nighttime thoughts now. How can I do better, be better. What do I need to do tomorrow that I didn't get to today? I have much to work on, for Nick's sake, for my family, for my world. Maybe the next time I throw on my running shoes I will simply consider the possibility that by being there, by running, I am working toward improving, in more ways than one.
And, just for the record, I HATE self help books...
At night, I usually lay in bed after reading and after everyone else is asleep and I analyze things; I often wish I didn't, but I can't help it. Maybe, like some people tell me and, like so many self-help books reiterate, thinking about what you've done or haven't done can lead to a better understanding of how to "do it" better the next time. It's not regret anymore, rather, it is a desire to "do" better, to be better. I have come to realize that immediate gratification just doesn't work for me. I used to think it did, but maybe that was the problem; I thought it did. Too much thinking can get me into just as much trouble as not enough thinking. That's probably true for most people. This morning prompted me to think about (I know, think...) this whole concept of starting small, or, starting over.
There are many days when I wonder how Nick would do with a mother who is, well, who is, let's just say, more patient, more understanding and, it's hard for me to type this, kinder. I cannot "blame" his Asperger's for my lack of the aforementioned things nor can I really attribute the shortness of them to this "condition." I think of it more as a personality impasse. Would he do better with someone who loved him as much as I do, but who was better equipped, personality wise to deal with the daily struggles and the continuous tug of war? Then, I realize that it is pointless to think that way because we cannot change the situation. I am his mother and no one will love him as much as I do, ever and we have much to teach each other.
I have many friends who are Atheists, I also have many friends who are Agnostics. I have friends who are, well, I have friends who cover every aspect of the religion and non-religion spectrum that there is. And, while I am not a preachy person and I do not try to convince others what they should believe, I do believe in God. I believe in Jesus Christ and in his mother Mary, as a holy entity and I believe in the Holy Spirit. While I was raised in the Catholic faith, I find that I do not soley identify with any "religion" per se. I go to church on a semi regular basis and we are raising our children in the Catholic tradition, but not with the exclusionary standards that any religion often exercises. After all, "Catholic" simply means "universal." When you grow up in a faith, with its traditions, a huge part of who you are is grounded by those beliefs. I do not let them define me, rather I let my belief and my faith guide me toward a better understanding of others. I believe that we do not "end" and it is my faith that gives me comfort and hope in times of darkness and pain. It is this faith that tells me that God blessed me with Nick for a reason. Nick is mine because he is here to teach me to be more patient, more kind, more generous. I recognize that; he is a gift, as all children are, but Nick has special needs and it is my intent to help him carve out a meaningful and good life. I thought about this today when I was running; I thought about this and I thought about starting over.
I ran 4 miles today with my brother Steve. I am starting my running journey over and it felt good to just begin again, to recognize that I could not just jump back in and run as many miles as I wanted to. I suppose I could; I've done it before, but this time, I want to go through the process again and when I get to 26, then I will run my next marathon. I will feel as though I put in the time and the effort and I made it happen through diligence and patience. Another opportunity to learn patience. That goes without saying, marathon training teaches us a great deal about ourselves and most of us understand that on marathon day, we've already run the race, we've already won. The race simply symbolizes the prize, the "ride" to the finish. The journey starts on mornings like this one where you throw on your shoes, you set a goal and you go out and do it. You don't think, you don't analyze, you just "do." So as we trotted along, I felt renewed, similar to how I feel when I am in church, surrounded by a common thread and a spiritual boundary. I felt, as I often do when I run, that anything is possible and that continuing to look forward, even in the middle of my life, instead of looking back, is what will keep me growing and changing. I only want to look back to think about the experiences, the memories; I don't want to look back and think "What if?"
I guess the real dilemma, if that is even the right word, is knowing how to treat conditions like Nick's. I don't liken his situation to a "disease." Instead, I think of it as a lifelong condition, one which will provide challenging obstacles, but one which will also provide him with opportunities to learn about himself and to understand that life just is not the same for everyone and, that is perfectly okay. If I could change it, if I could take the Asperger's away, would I? I've actually been asked that question and while I may have thought about that in different ways when asked before, I would now reply, instantaneously, no. Because to take an integral part of Nick away would be to change him and this is a battle that he will have all his life but it will not define him. It will exist and it will be an ongoing conversation that he will have to have with himself every day for the rest of his life, but it will not define who he is. Love defines us, hope, empathy, grief, sadness... but conditions do not define us.
I wish, I don't second guess, I wish that everyone would get the chance to feel special in some way, to understand that starting over sometimes means just getting out of bed in the morning. It really is that simple. If asked, at the age that you are right now, what would you say are the three most important factors in your life or, how do you spend the majority of your time? To whom do you give yourself completely? To what do you give your effort? Your talents? Your money? How will you have spent your life...
These are some of the things that envelop my nighttime thoughts now. How can I do better, be better. What do I need to do tomorrow that I didn't get to today? I have much to work on, for Nick's sake, for my family, for my world. Maybe the next time I throw on my running shoes I will simply consider the possibility that by being there, by running, I am working toward improving, in more ways than one.
And, just for the record, I HATE self help books...
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Something REALLY about nothing...
I have to admit, I don't know Jack Shit or anything about him, but sometimes I can fool myself into thinking that I do. It's like I'm starring in, watching and producing a reality show about my own life, with no "real" perspective to offer. Even going to therapy, as useful as it was while I was going, provided insights that came from someone else. Because my therapist was, well, is, a fine physician, she allowed me ample opportunity to "reflect" on choices I'd made, things I'd said, actions I'd taken. This in turn was to help me be better prepared for the "next" time one of these situations arose. However, because one of my major flaws is my inability to follow through on many tasks, the "reflection" became more of an improv scene where she asked questions and I tap danced my way around them. Real reflection takes time, effort, space and an ability to only produce your own show and not star in it simultaneously.
I got hit by the Mack truck flu on Sunday and I am not exaggerating this one in the least. For four days, I left the bed only to go to the bathroom and sit in the shower until the water went cold, oh, and to pee, but I figured that was implied by the bathroom statement. Anyway, the nausea and bodyaches were so bad on Monday that my fluids were ingested in the form of liquid Nyquil for the day. At one point Tim drove me to the Emergency Room because I just felt, well, SICK and I figured they might take pity on me and give me some drugs or some fluids or some drugs and fluids. When he dropped me off, I walked through the doors and it was like Contagion 2 the sequel... foolishly, I signed in and the nurse took my vitals telling me that it would be, Oh, Um, about 3 hours or so. I stood up, thanked her, walked out, called Tim and went back on the Nyquil. Now, 6 days later, I am up and about, but the cough that is erupting from my chest makes me think I may as well take up smoking, at least the nicotine would feel good while I cough up a lung... I haven't been this sick in a long time. Maybe I haven't had the time, as the long running joke goes for most moms or working women. We just don't have the time to be sick. Sometimes that is true. On Day 3, Ty told me that he wanted to stay home from school so that he could "take care of me." Damn that's sweet. Or was it... The kids have all had some form of this monster, Tim too. It's brutal and I hear that it is getting worse for some. Oh, and I HAD a flu shot.
So today, feeling a bit better and because the weather was like summer weather, Ty and I went up to the Botanical Gardens in Rancho Palos Verdes. We walked, took short cuts, talked about the flowers, he peed in the bushes, twice, when no one was around and then we set down a blanket, took out his legos and he built a little car. It was quiet and warm and so peaceful. Our only interruption was a little squirrel who ran right up ON our blanket and sat there staring at us. Ty was cracking up, but we literally didn't have a crumb to give him, so he just stared at us for another 30 seconds or so and off he went. I've never seen a squirrel just sit there, that close before. It was great. On our way out, Ty was the leader and I watched him as he stopped in every corner, looked under every bench, picked up every stick, until his arms were full and proceeded to try to hack his own way through the "wilderness" even though the path was just off to the left. When we passed the gift shop, I asked him if there was something small he wanted, like a little cactus or a flower. He ran inside and came up to the front with a KitKat bar. Ah youth. We ended up with no KitKat and a 3-D model TRex. It was a really great ending to an otherwise crappy week. The next time I spend 4 days in bed, it better be with Jason Statham and my body better be aching for reasons other than the flu...
I was thinking today about the immediate future, the next couple of years really. We are going to have to move again. Rent is too high for where we are now financially and we have taken a beating these past few years. It's time to do a serious overhaul and as most of well know, now is the time of year to be thinking about changing a few things: weight, lovers, friends, jobs, homes. I suppose it's easy to look back and reminisce, we all do, but I think in a way, it's easier to look forward. Not really knowing what's going to happen is easier because you can make the choices to create new choices and new outcomes, what's past is past, and as hard as things are, as much as they hurt, we cannot change them. We can only focus on what we now want to change for the future. So, that's what I was considering, the future. Where we will physically be a year from now, but also where we will be emotionally, spiritually, psychologically. Will this year be one of struggle? Of course it will, but I think that it's also going to be a year of really great moments, very special ones that mark milestones in people's lives. I have no reason to think that, other than every night when I kiss Ty's cheek and he puts his little arms around me, I am reminded that life is so precious and time is truly fleeting. And I keep thinking about all of the amazing people that I've met and how they've changed my life due to a phone call almost 5 years ago. If fear keeps us from succeeding or moving forward then it also, ironically, frees us from failure. When we are afraid, it makes the victory all the more powerful because we accomplished a task through our fear.
When I was little, my mom used to sing me Peter, Paul and Mary's "Puff the Magic Dragon" and tonight, Ty asked me to sing it to him, as he often does. "Sing the Puff song Mom." Yes indeed. I have to wonder if one day Jackie Paper woke up, middle aged and thought, I wonder what ever happened to Puff? I wonder if he's still alive? While Puff was heartbroken. I used to think it was such a sad song, even though I loved it, but a couple of years ago I looked at it differently. I don't know why, I just thought, that's childhood. Love, grow, leave. I don't mean abandon your friends and relationships, but instead, that is a huge part of loving people, of opening yourself up. The experience will inevitably break you; they will die, leave, disappear, break your heart or, you may be the one to end the relationship. Either way, whichever way, love opens us up to fear and worry because we don't want to lose it. We want to keep it with us, the way most parents do when they check on their sleeping children before securing the front door lock one more time. I accept the reality of what is to come and I am thankful to not know how much time I have left because I'd probably just piss it all away worrying about spending too much time worrying. Or worse, analyzing everything. There are many things that I miss about my childhood, about my school days. Too many to count really. I really miss lying under the coffee table watching t.v. sideways and I miss how my mom used to use a little scooper to make watermelon balls out of half of the watermelon (I never do that, not sure why exactly) and I miss the freedom of not having to take care of anyone but myself. Selfish as that may sound, sometimes the worry and fret keep me up at night. Their well being is my main priority and if I fuck that up, well, Puff may as well move over in that cave because no one is coming to see me either.
I've always been pretty good with people; I like people, except when they piss me off. Lately, the past few years though, I've gotten better with words and people. Writing has become more than a means of "expression." That is trite. No, words are the intermediaries, the boundaries between who I am and who you are. They connect us, virtually and literally. I just say what I am thinking in that moment, mostly for myself but sometimes for you. I hope that makes sense. It probably doesn't.
Ty is asleep already. He has found his way back into our bed and although I KNOW that every parenting book on the planet says that I should put him back in his own bed, I'm not going to, no, tonight, I'm going to curl up next to him and smell his hair and be thankful that I got another day. And for those who are battling, who are trying to get through another day, I hope you find some peace tonight. Sleep well and I told ya... whole lotta something about nothing. Hey, there's always tomorrow...
I got hit by the Mack truck flu on Sunday and I am not exaggerating this one in the least. For four days, I left the bed only to go to the bathroom and sit in the shower until the water went cold, oh, and to pee, but I figured that was implied by the bathroom statement. Anyway, the nausea and bodyaches were so bad on Monday that my fluids were ingested in the form of liquid Nyquil for the day. At one point Tim drove me to the Emergency Room because I just felt, well, SICK and I figured they might take pity on me and give me some drugs or some fluids or some drugs and fluids. When he dropped me off, I walked through the doors and it was like Contagion 2 the sequel... foolishly, I signed in and the nurse took my vitals telling me that it would be, Oh, Um, about 3 hours or so. I stood up, thanked her, walked out, called Tim and went back on the Nyquil. Now, 6 days later, I am up and about, but the cough that is erupting from my chest makes me think I may as well take up smoking, at least the nicotine would feel good while I cough up a lung... I haven't been this sick in a long time. Maybe I haven't had the time, as the long running joke goes for most moms or working women. We just don't have the time to be sick. Sometimes that is true. On Day 3, Ty told me that he wanted to stay home from school so that he could "take care of me." Damn that's sweet. Or was it... The kids have all had some form of this monster, Tim too. It's brutal and I hear that it is getting worse for some. Oh, and I HAD a flu shot.
So today, feeling a bit better and because the weather was like summer weather, Ty and I went up to the Botanical Gardens in Rancho Palos Verdes. We walked, took short cuts, talked about the flowers, he peed in the bushes, twice, when no one was around and then we set down a blanket, took out his legos and he built a little car. It was quiet and warm and so peaceful. Our only interruption was a little squirrel who ran right up ON our blanket and sat there staring at us. Ty was cracking up, but we literally didn't have a crumb to give him, so he just stared at us for another 30 seconds or so and off he went. I've never seen a squirrel just sit there, that close before. It was great. On our way out, Ty was the leader and I watched him as he stopped in every corner, looked under every bench, picked up every stick, until his arms were full and proceeded to try to hack his own way through the "wilderness" even though the path was just off to the left. When we passed the gift shop, I asked him if there was something small he wanted, like a little cactus or a flower. He ran inside and came up to the front with a KitKat bar. Ah youth. We ended up with no KitKat and a 3-D model TRex. It was a really great ending to an otherwise crappy week. The next time I spend 4 days in bed, it better be with Jason Statham and my body better be aching for reasons other than the flu...
I was thinking today about the immediate future, the next couple of years really. We are going to have to move again. Rent is too high for where we are now financially and we have taken a beating these past few years. It's time to do a serious overhaul and as most of well know, now is the time of year to be thinking about changing a few things: weight, lovers, friends, jobs, homes. I suppose it's easy to look back and reminisce, we all do, but I think in a way, it's easier to look forward. Not really knowing what's going to happen is easier because you can make the choices to create new choices and new outcomes, what's past is past, and as hard as things are, as much as they hurt, we cannot change them. We can only focus on what we now want to change for the future. So, that's what I was considering, the future. Where we will physically be a year from now, but also where we will be emotionally, spiritually, psychologically. Will this year be one of struggle? Of course it will, but I think that it's also going to be a year of really great moments, very special ones that mark milestones in people's lives. I have no reason to think that, other than every night when I kiss Ty's cheek and he puts his little arms around me, I am reminded that life is so precious and time is truly fleeting. And I keep thinking about all of the amazing people that I've met and how they've changed my life due to a phone call almost 5 years ago. If fear keeps us from succeeding or moving forward then it also, ironically, frees us from failure. When we are afraid, it makes the victory all the more powerful because we accomplished a task through our fear.
When I was little, my mom used to sing me Peter, Paul and Mary's "Puff the Magic Dragon" and tonight, Ty asked me to sing it to him, as he often does. "Sing the Puff song Mom." Yes indeed. I have to wonder if one day Jackie Paper woke up, middle aged and thought, I wonder what ever happened to Puff? I wonder if he's still alive? While Puff was heartbroken. I used to think it was such a sad song, even though I loved it, but a couple of years ago I looked at it differently. I don't know why, I just thought, that's childhood. Love, grow, leave. I don't mean abandon your friends and relationships, but instead, that is a huge part of loving people, of opening yourself up. The experience will inevitably break you; they will die, leave, disappear, break your heart or, you may be the one to end the relationship. Either way, whichever way, love opens us up to fear and worry because we don't want to lose it. We want to keep it with us, the way most parents do when they check on their sleeping children before securing the front door lock one more time. I accept the reality of what is to come and I am thankful to not know how much time I have left because I'd probably just piss it all away worrying about spending too much time worrying. Or worse, analyzing everything. There are many things that I miss about my childhood, about my school days. Too many to count really. I really miss lying under the coffee table watching t.v. sideways and I miss how my mom used to use a little scooper to make watermelon balls out of half of the watermelon (I never do that, not sure why exactly) and I miss the freedom of not having to take care of anyone but myself. Selfish as that may sound, sometimes the worry and fret keep me up at night. Their well being is my main priority and if I fuck that up, well, Puff may as well move over in that cave because no one is coming to see me either.
I've always been pretty good with people; I like people, except when they piss me off. Lately, the past few years though, I've gotten better with words and people. Writing has become more than a means of "expression." That is trite. No, words are the intermediaries, the boundaries between who I am and who you are. They connect us, virtually and literally. I just say what I am thinking in that moment, mostly for myself but sometimes for you. I hope that makes sense. It probably doesn't.
Ty is asleep already. He has found his way back into our bed and although I KNOW that every parenting book on the planet says that I should put him back in his own bed, I'm not going to, no, tonight, I'm going to curl up next to him and smell his hair and be thankful that I got another day. And for those who are battling, who are trying to get through another day, I hope you find some peace tonight. Sleep well and I told ya... whole lotta something about nothing. Hey, there's always tomorrow...
Monday, January 7, 2013
Coach Scott Boliver
It won't matter what I write here, no matter how eloquent, how thoughtful, how articulate... it won't matter because he isn't here to read it. And that matters to me. He isn't here to...
When the announcement came through that the 2012 New York marathon had been cancelled, I was already in New York; I had already picked up my bib and walked the EXPO. But when the message came through, I have to admit that I wasn't disappointed. Amidst the aftermath of "Sandy," a celebratory run through the broken boroughs of New York, beginning with the devastation on Staten Island seemed, well, distasteful to say the very least. And so it was, thousands of runners had come to the Big Apple to run a race that, wasn't going to be run.
In 2009 I ran my first marathon for AIDS Project Los Angeles and I did my training runs in Griffith Park with the Sunday group; Biff Campos, Matt Richmond, Kevin McDonald, Arianna Metchik and other volunteers helped to make up the coaching crew dream team. I owe these people much more than I will ever raise in fundraising dollars for this wonderful organization. That first marathon changed my life and anyone who knows me has seen clear evidence to support that fact. There was another training group that year and in other years, Saturday mornings, led by Coach Scott Boliver and while I wouldn't meet him until the following training season, I kept hearing his name and stories were repeated about how amazing he was, as a coach and as a person. I say this because when I met him for the first time, the skeptic that I am, I was, well, amazed. He not only knew my name, but he actually asked me questions about my family, my running, my history with fundraising. He made me feel as the other coaches had, but in a different way; he made me realize that I was now part of a family - a family of which I was now considered an integral part. I believe that those Sunday runs and that team made me understand the real significance of what it meant to "give" and it would be two years after that, that Scott would reinforce that meaning for me.
What do you do when you are in a city, in an area that has been devastated by a natural disaster. If you've been taught properly, you move, you step in and you help. And that is what we did. Hunting down a Volunteer group the Saturday morning after the marathon was cancelled, Scott, his sister Cyndi and I made our way to Brooklyn where we found Occupy Sandy and in the basement of a church that day, we blended into the landscape of souls who came to do what they could. We spent the day sorting clothes, cutting food, taking out trash, moving through the piles of donations, wishing that there were more time in the day because soon enough it was dark and it was time to clean up. As we made our way back to Manhattan and to dinner that night with other runners from APLA Chicago and D.C., we jumped on a bus, a subway, we walked, we laughed, we chatted and they reassured me when the subway stopped, under the water, when the lights began to flicker, that everything was going to be okay (unfounded claustrophobic that I am). When the train started again, I assured them that if the train stopped again that they would be carrying me out. Scott walked with a cane that day. His leg hurt; it was obvious. He never stopped, he never complained, he never said a word. He simply just moved where he was needed.
In November 2011, we came to New York to run; my second time, Rosh, Sal and Emma for the first time and Coco, to celebrate her 50th birthday. While there, at the expo, I got a text from Scott, who I had only met twice then. He told me that he was there to support his brother in law who was running and to help cheer on the other T2 runners. He also said that he couldn't postpone his entry any longer as this was the last year he could get his entry into the marathon, either that or forfeit it. Scott wasn't about to forfeit anything. But he couldn't run. He was ill then. And I will not remember him as ill so it seems pointless to dissect his battle. Those who know him and who know of him know what a difficult journey he took and the tremendous strength and courage that he showed while taking it. He texted me and asked me if he knew anyone who could use his number... we met him at the Expo where we also met his lovely wife Dolly, and his wonderful sister Cyndi. The meeting could have been awkward, it could have been bitter, particularly for Scott, it could have been so many things had it been anyone but Scott. Instead, he embraced each of us, literally, as did Dolly and Cyndi. He was in pain, tired, but I will always remember his eyes. Scott had kind, happy eyes. What is it that is said, we see people's souls in their eyes? If that is the case, then there is not a shred of doubt that Scott has the soul of an angel... that we already knew. He gave Coco his number and told her to have a good run and run she did. I only thought about this today, while he will not physically run the race, he was with her the year that she did it, he was with me, with all of us and in 2013 when we go back to run it again, he will be there. The next day we headed to Staten Island to run the marathon where it was going to take me almost 6 hours; I wasn't sure, but I was feeling pretty good that day, up until mile 21 and then it started to fall apart as it sometimes does. I went slowly, plodded ahead, tried to find a groove, began to cry and watched as the numbers got bigger, 22, 23, 24... when I crossed 25 I was hurting, I was done. I wasn't going to stop, but I was emotionally, physically, psychologically finished. And then, I hear "YVETTE, YVETTE, OVER HERE, GO YVETTE" and I swear, it was like one of those moments where everything moves in slow motion and each second is crystallized in your memory. There, standing on the sidelines, in the freezing cold late afternoon, 5 and a half hours after I started was Coach Scott and Dolly and Cyndi, but all I could hear was Scott yelling and I saw them all waving their arms, clapping and cheering, motioning for me to come over. It was a life raft. I ran over and Scott threw his arms around me and kissed my cheek and said, "You are doing so great. Hang in there. Keep at it." Then Dolly bear hugged me and then Cyndi. Dear Cyndi. Before I went back out, Scott hugged me again and told me to "Just Go." That's it and then I was off and they were clapping again, smiling and I went on my way.
I told him later about that moment and how they got me through that marathon. How it must have been so difficult for him to stand there in the cold for hours, cheering on runners when all he wanted to do was run. I hope he knew then and I hope he knows now that moments like that have meant more to me than crossing any finish line ever will in any race that I will ever run. When I did cross the finish line, the tears came fast and furious. I didn't see them again that trip but I will remember that moment for the rest of my life as the greatest moment of that race. The Bolivers.
When I ran LA in 2012, there they were again, Scott and Dolly and Scott's lovely and kind parents, right there at Mile 25, with hugs and encouragement and warmth that sent us all off to reach our goals. Ever the fire that needs to be lit under each of us, Scott pushed you until you got there and I never doubted for a second that if I couldn't physically get there, that he might just carry me if need be or, at the very least, walk along side of me or any one of the runners to get them to where they needed to be...
Our second day of volunteering in New York came in the form of a day of distributing supplies with the National Guard in a barren and broken place, Far Rockaway Beach. As the day progressed and as we spoke with people and gave out what supplies there were, I noticed something that I had filed away in my mind for later. When we first arrived, Scott didn't wait for someone to direct him; he just stepped up and started to help. He saw a need and filled it. There was no hesitation and as the day went on, I noticed that he continued to do that. He didn't wait for someone to ask, instead, he volunteered. He just did... he just simply did. Later that night at dinner, we shared our appreciation for one another and for the day and for our lives. Simple, beautiful, a fitting ending to a trip with an auspicious beginning.
On my last night there, I texted Scott and Cyndi and asked them if they would wait for me so that we could go to dinner and I remember Scott saying that they would wait as long as it took for me to get there. That night, after a delicious Italian meal, the three of us headed to an Irish pub where we sat and just talked, sharing stories about our families, our friends, our lives. It was a conversation that will always define who Scott was for me. We hadn't known one another for long and I really didn't know anything about him before that night, but after just a few hours, after hearing about his battle and his family, his amazing family, his children and the deep love that he had for Dolly, I felt like I had known him my whole life. One of the last statements that he made that night was that we should all get our families together, that we all would get along great and that was simply true, there was no pretense with Scott and Cyndi. It was easy, comfortable. Another of his gifts, an ability to make you feel as though you always belonged right across from the table with him, having a beer, shooting the breeze.
That was the last time that I saw Scott Boliver. That was the last time that I heard his voice. That was the last time that I had a chance to tell him how inspiring and meaningful his speeches were the year before in training. That was the last time.
I never made it out to the training site this year, at least I hadn't until last week. Coach Scott had sent me a message on FB asking where I was and how we should all do New York this year so that we could do it together. I replied that I was going to make it out soon.
I would very much like to articulate in the most gracious way how devastated I was to hear that he had passed away. How the tears came instantly and wouldn't stop throughout the days that followed, intermittently, fiercely, every time I thought of him and his children, of Dolly, of his parents and selfishly, of myself and how I would never get that bear hug of encouragement or hear that voice telling me to keep going again. I did think that. I did. And then I sat down and really thought about what it means to lose a friend, someone who makes you a better person for having known them and I realized that the time that I knew him, although too brief, was enough to change something in me. The time that we spent, training, volunteering, sharing meals, meeting his family; those moments are some of the most precious and will remain with me in every victory, in every failure, in every attempt at something new. I will carry Scott's ferocious desire to live his life, with me in my heart every time I put on my running shoes, every time I fundraise, every time I kiss my children or my husband. His passion for others, guiding them to be more, to be better, will guide me the rest of my life. And while I know that I will shed more tears for Scott and for his family, in those tears will also be shreds of joy and compassion, of hope and of the knowledge that his legacy will live in everything good that we do, all of us who knew him, for the rest of our lives.
There is no good-bye. When we love, when people affect us deeply, they are always with us. I will miss you Scott and I will look for you in every run, in every finish line, in every place where there are people who put others' needs before their own. Thank you for being my friend.
Run home softly...
When the announcement came through that the 2012 New York marathon had been cancelled, I was already in New York; I had already picked up my bib and walked the EXPO. But when the message came through, I have to admit that I wasn't disappointed. Amidst the aftermath of "Sandy," a celebratory run through the broken boroughs of New York, beginning with the devastation on Staten Island seemed, well, distasteful to say the very least. And so it was, thousands of runners had come to the Big Apple to run a race that, wasn't going to be run.
In 2009 I ran my first marathon for AIDS Project Los Angeles and I did my training runs in Griffith Park with the Sunday group; Biff Campos, Matt Richmond, Kevin McDonald, Arianna Metchik and other volunteers helped to make up the coaching crew dream team. I owe these people much more than I will ever raise in fundraising dollars for this wonderful organization. That first marathon changed my life and anyone who knows me has seen clear evidence to support that fact. There was another training group that year and in other years, Saturday mornings, led by Coach Scott Boliver and while I wouldn't meet him until the following training season, I kept hearing his name and stories were repeated about how amazing he was, as a coach and as a person. I say this because when I met him for the first time, the skeptic that I am, I was, well, amazed. He not only knew my name, but he actually asked me questions about my family, my running, my history with fundraising. He made me feel as the other coaches had, but in a different way; he made me realize that I was now part of a family - a family of which I was now considered an integral part. I believe that those Sunday runs and that team made me understand the real significance of what it meant to "give" and it would be two years after that, that Scott would reinforce that meaning for me.
What do you do when you are in a city, in an area that has been devastated by a natural disaster. If you've been taught properly, you move, you step in and you help. And that is what we did. Hunting down a Volunteer group the Saturday morning after the marathon was cancelled, Scott, his sister Cyndi and I made our way to Brooklyn where we found Occupy Sandy and in the basement of a church that day, we blended into the landscape of souls who came to do what they could. We spent the day sorting clothes, cutting food, taking out trash, moving through the piles of donations, wishing that there were more time in the day because soon enough it was dark and it was time to clean up. As we made our way back to Manhattan and to dinner that night with other runners from APLA Chicago and D.C., we jumped on a bus, a subway, we walked, we laughed, we chatted and they reassured me when the subway stopped, under the water, when the lights began to flicker, that everything was going to be okay (unfounded claustrophobic that I am). When the train started again, I assured them that if the train stopped again that they would be carrying me out. Scott walked with a cane that day. His leg hurt; it was obvious. He never stopped, he never complained, he never said a word. He simply just moved where he was needed.
In November 2011, we came to New York to run; my second time, Rosh, Sal and Emma for the first time and Coco, to celebrate her 50th birthday. While there, at the expo, I got a text from Scott, who I had only met twice then. He told me that he was there to support his brother in law who was running and to help cheer on the other T2 runners. He also said that he couldn't postpone his entry any longer as this was the last year he could get his entry into the marathon, either that or forfeit it. Scott wasn't about to forfeit anything. But he couldn't run. He was ill then. And I will not remember him as ill so it seems pointless to dissect his battle. Those who know him and who know of him know what a difficult journey he took and the tremendous strength and courage that he showed while taking it. He texted me and asked me if he knew anyone who could use his number... we met him at the Expo where we also met his lovely wife Dolly, and his wonderful sister Cyndi. The meeting could have been awkward, it could have been bitter, particularly for Scott, it could have been so many things had it been anyone but Scott. Instead, he embraced each of us, literally, as did Dolly and Cyndi. He was in pain, tired, but I will always remember his eyes. Scott had kind, happy eyes. What is it that is said, we see people's souls in their eyes? If that is the case, then there is not a shred of doubt that Scott has the soul of an angel... that we already knew. He gave Coco his number and told her to have a good run and run she did. I only thought about this today, while he will not physically run the race, he was with her the year that she did it, he was with me, with all of us and in 2013 when we go back to run it again, he will be there. The next day we headed to Staten Island to run the marathon where it was going to take me almost 6 hours; I wasn't sure, but I was feeling pretty good that day, up until mile 21 and then it started to fall apart as it sometimes does. I went slowly, plodded ahead, tried to find a groove, began to cry and watched as the numbers got bigger, 22, 23, 24... when I crossed 25 I was hurting, I was done. I wasn't going to stop, but I was emotionally, physically, psychologically finished. And then, I hear "YVETTE, YVETTE, OVER HERE, GO YVETTE" and I swear, it was like one of those moments where everything moves in slow motion and each second is crystallized in your memory. There, standing on the sidelines, in the freezing cold late afternoon, 5 and a half hours after I started was Coach Scott and Dolly and Cyndi, but all I could hear was Scott yelling and I saw them all waving their arms, clapping and cheering, motioning for me to come over. It was a life raft. I ran over and Scott threw his arms around me and kissed my cheek and said, "You are doing so great. Hang in there. Keep at it." Then Dolly bear hugged me and then Cyndi. Dear Cyndi. Before I went back out, Scott hugged me again and told me to "Just Go." That's it and then I was off and they were clapping again, smiling and I went on my way.
I told him later about that moment and how they got me through that marathon. How it must have been so difficult for him to stand there in the cold for hours, cheering on runners when all he wanted to do was run. I hope he knew then and I hope he knows now that moments like that have meant more to me than crossing any finish line ever will in any race that I will ever run. When I did cross the finish line, the tears came fast and furious. I didn't see them again that trip but I will remember that moment for the rest of my life as the greatest moment of that race. The Bolivers.
When I ran LA in 2012, there they were again, Scott and Dolly and Scott's lovely and kind parents, right there at Mile 25, with hugs and encouragement and warmth that sent us all off to reach our goals. Ever the fire that needs to be lit under each of us, Scott pushed you until you got there and I never doubted for a second that if I couldn't physically get there, that he might just carry me if need be or, at the very least, walk along side of me or any one of the runners to get them to where they needed to be...
Our second day of volunteering in New York came in the form of a day of distributing supplies with the National Guard in a barren and broken place, Far Rockaway Beach. As the day progressed and as we spoke with people and gave out what supplies there were, I noticed something that I had filed away in my mind for later. When we first arrived, Scott didn't wait for someone to direct him; he just stepped up and started to help. He saw a need and filled it. There was no hesitation and as the day went on, I noticed that he continued to do that. He didn't wait for someone to ask, instead, he volunteered. He just did... he just simply did. Later that night at dinner, we shared our appreciation for one another and for the day and for our lives. Simple, beautiful, a fitting ending to a trip with an auspicious beginning.
On my last night there, I texted Scott and Cyndi and asked them if they would wait for me so that we could go to dinner and I remember Scott saying that they would wait as long as it took for me to get there. That night, after a delicious Italian meal, the three of us headed to an Irish pub where we sat and just talked, sharing stories about our families, our friends, our lives. It was a conversation that will always define who Scott was for me. We hadn't known one another for long and I really didn't know anything about him before that night, but after just a few hours, after hearing about his battle and his family, his amazing family, his children and the deep love that he had for Dolly, I felt like I had known him my whole life. One of the last statements that he made that night was that we should all get our families together, that we all would get along great and that was simply true, there was no pretense with Scott and Cyndi. It was easy, comfortable. Another of his gifts, an ability to make you feel as though you always belonged right across from the table with him, having a beer, shooting the breeze.
That was the last time that I saw Scott Boliver. That was the last time that I heard his voice. That was the last time that I had a chance to tell him how inspiring and meaningful his speeches were the year before in training. That was the last time.
I never made it out to the training site this year, at least I hadn't until last week. Coach Scott had sent me a message on FB asking where I was and how we should all do New York this year so that we could do it together. I replied that I was going to make it out soon.
I would very much like to articulate in the most gracious way how devastated I was to hear that he had passed away. How the tears came instantly and wouldn't stop throughout the days that followed, intermittently, fiercely, every time I thought of him and his children, of Dolly, of his parents and selfishly, of myself and how I would never get that bear hug of encouragement or hear that voice telling me to keep going again. I did think that. I did. And then I sat down and really thought about what it means to lose a friend, someone who makes you a better person for having known them and I realized that the time that I knew him, although too brief, was enough to change something in me. The time that we spent, training, volunteering, sharing meals, meeting his family; those moments are some of the most precious and will remain with me in every victory, in every failure, in every attempt at something new. I will carry Scott's ferocious desire to live his life, with me in my heart every time I put on my running shoes, every time I fundraise, every time I kiss my children or my husband. His passion for others, guiding them to be more, to be better, will guide me the rest of my life. And while I know that I will shed more tears for Scott and for his family, in those tears will also be shreds of joy and compassion, of hope and of the knowledge that his legacy will live in everything good that we do, all of us who knew him, for the rest of our lives.
There is no good-bye. When we love, when people affect us deeply, they are always with us. I will miss you Scott and I will look for you in every run, in every finish line, in every place where there are people who put others' needs before their own. Thank you for being my friend.
Run home softly...
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