Christmas bliss is coming to an end

My husband has been home for two long, glorious weeks and sadly the departure date will be upon us. We all have the look in our eyes whenever his time with us is whittling away. The far-off gaze thinking about the memories we’ve made and the time we spent together with a bit of sadness mixed in.

We have been married for eleven years now and while the pain of our separation never really goes away I think I have gotten used to it.

The kids, however, are torn. The middle child A is excited that she will see cousins tomorrow but knows Daddy will leave soon after. The oldest one has always held it in, to the point where I ask friends and family to talk to him just to see how he’s feeling. I am afraid he might be getting used to it too.

The youngest one, who has probably had the most time with him, is hard to read. I know she thinks about him when he is gone. She gets that look in her eyes and if her big brown eyes were any clearer I am sure I would be able to see the memory of watching the latest Chipmunk movie with him.

When we were in the car today, R said he doesn’t want to go. Of course he doesn’t. I cannot imagine having to live without your kids, your spouse for months at a time.

I replied, “I don’t want you to go either but you need that foot of yours fixed.”

He still has excruciating pain in his left foot, pain that he has been hiding from me for many months. I have massaged the bottom of his foot to find each time what feels like a taut thick rope running from his heel to his toes. I show know mercy when I rub it out, trying to alleviate this muscle spasm as soon as I can. He’s cringed in pain when he is on his feet too much which is always since he insists on cooking almost all of our meals. (Not that I mind in the very least!) He gasps when sudden nerve pain strikes various parts of his lower body without warning.

I ask him what his pain is on a scale of 1 to 10, just like they do in the hospitals, and he says that it can get up to a 7 or 8. An 8 must be pretty bad. He will never say a 10, even though to me the pain would be a 15 or so, simply because he’s experienced a true 10. A 10 to him would be having his pelvis crushed in a car door. Again.

As soon as he gets back to Virginia, he will fly out to Texas to a rehab center where he will get a new foot/leg brace, one that will correct his foot drop and constant foot pain and one that he will actually use.

I did not know this but his pain is so bad that if this brace does not help, he would like to consider amputation and he wondered how I felt about that. Now I have no idea what his pain is like, what he endures on a daily basis, and surely I am in no position to have an opinion, but I kept my answer simple.

“You should do what you need to do.” Meaning that it is his body, not mine. Meaning while amputation is a huge decision, it is not mine to make. It is not my pain but I feel his.

He should do what he needs to do.

And so I am enjoying my last bit of time alone at our neighborhood coffee shop while he feeds the kids leftover Mexican food, gives them baths, and puts them to bed. Tomorrow we expect a full house with family and friends. Tomorow we expect to stay busy so the reality of going back to normal does not set in until the very last possible moment.

Tomorrow we expect to have stomach pains not caused by too much food or imbibing too many spirits but because we will be making that sad drive to the airport again on Sunday.

Our saving grace is that these trips of taking Daddy to the airport are almost completely at an end. And that makes for a happy new year in the works.

May you have a wonderful and safe new year from our family to yours,
Alma

Weightless

For twenty minutes this morning I closed my eyes and felt nothing. I floated in the pool of my gym without three kids to watch over like a hawk, without worrying that some random toddler might pee in my hair, without feeling the weight of the world.

My absolute favorite Zumba instructor in the entire world has been on vacation in Mexico for the last two weeks and won’t return until the end of July. Vanessa is amazing and will push you until you need to be pushed. She plays her music too loud but I prefer it that way. Her class never feels like a class, just fifty dancers listening to good music who happen to be facing the same way. To be honest, if another Zumba instructor even comes close to resembling an aerobics class, I will walk out. Not rudely but Vanessa has raised my expectations of Zumba. I want a workout, I want good music, and I don’t want to mess around with your version of merengue, thank you very much.

When I was let go of my teaching position two years ago (something I have blogged about earlier but I don’t know how to magically make that blue link appear so have fun looking for it; heck, have a glass of wine and relax while you browse), I needed a life change and a hobby. I wasn’t getting any younger and the two pound gain a year is no big deal the first year but holy crap, for the past two decades?! No need for the swear words here. Pretty sure you know them all.

My kids love the gym. Locations all around the area. Huge playland structures, playgrounds that rival their school’s playground, clean and new toys, great staff that the kids have grown up with for the last two years. Also…

They constantly ask, “When are we going to the gym?”

Which means no more excuses for me. Though a six foot tall excuse flies in every few months for a visit and I have to make myself go back again after he leaves. He does not like our gym though. You can’t expect someone who climbed high obstacle courses, carried boats above his head at BUDS training (whatever that acronym means), sat with other guys in the crashing waves as punishment during said training, and even went through a simulated helicopter crash into the ocean complete with a zero-vision helmet (!) to like this shiny, new gym. You just can’t.

Not only that, I have to reevaluate my diet, namely my damn sugar consumption, and make adjustments.

The disgustingly hot weather here in Sacramento fortunately lessens my cravings for heartier fare. We naturally buy more fresh fruit since who can resist all of the tasty mangos from Sam’s Club? Not us because it rarely makes it to the third day in our house.

The pool sounded like a good idea this morning.

If you’ve ever been to a crowded pool and abhored it, you can appreciate my experience this morning: NO KIDS. Maybe two swimmers doing laps way too fast. They must have been related to King Triton.

I didn’t even know what to do with myself when I walked out to the pool area.

Silence.

What do I do with SILENCE?

I looked at the calm water and then closed my eyes. The early morning sun was warm but comfortable. I kicked off my sandals, not caring what I looked like in my Target two piece (longer top, not that bold yet, ask me in twenty pounds) and slowly stepped into the pool.

Looking back it’s kind of funny how in our moments of need, in moments of stress, how life slows down when you become mindful of your surroundings. Not hey-let’s-do-this or get-it-over-with but really reflecting, really meditating so much so that you’re lost in the moment when really, you’re not lost at all.

I didn’t go nuts by cannonballing into the pool. Maybe I’ll do it next time and have someone film it with my cell. I just did whatever I felt like doing at the moment. Backstroke across the pool. Swimming underwater. Dog paddling. I think I may have even made up some strokes too.

Mostly I just floated on my back and closed my eyes.

It’s funny how this weightless feeling is not something I have to strive for but rather something I just have to allow to happen. And really it isn’t just about being weightless in a pool. This week it was sitting in the middle of the movie theater thinking, “Wow! The final movie in the Rowling series and then I’m having sushi with my husband afterward!”. It was also giving our kids a big hug before their first day of school and watching them walk away. Yesterday it was at 2 pm when I knew what lay ahead when the kids realized that Daddy was gone. Again.

That moment was commemorated with three squares of Cadbury milk chocolate. The kids were downstairs getting restless. I was reading the newest Entertainment Weekly upstairs in our bed with the fan pointed in my direction.

Here’s to more weightless moments and sugar-free ones at that.

MY FAVORITE WEIGHTLESS MOMENTS
1. Zumba and aqua aerobics
2. Blogging (if you don’t have one, I highly recommend starting one; FREE THERAPY!)
3. Cadbury (that one has got to stop to be monthly)
4. Watching the kids get lost in swimming or gymnastics or just getting along
5. Waiting all week to get Starbucks and finally having that first sip of a soy tuxedo, no whipped
6. Playing with my pets (OMG! I’ve completely morphed into PET OWNER!)
7. Reading
8. Deciding to finally clean and AFTER a big clean-up (notice I did not say “actual cleaning”)
9. Renting a DVD with my husband, putting the kids to bed, and one of us sneaking out to get ice cream to really enjoy the movie
10. Napping when you need one
11. Deciding not to get nails done for a bit and getting a new bottle of nail polish

Have you found how to get your “weightless” moments? Please share so that I might add them to my queue.

Stomach cramps, stress, and guidance

The kids didn’t go to school today. Normally I would send them because duh, I used to be a teacher and of course you go to school everyday, and also they missed so much in the past year and a half.

At the last minute, our older daughter changed her mind about bringing Daddy to the airport. She decided, YES, SHE WANTS TO DROP DADDY OFF but only because she realized that she wouldn’t be walking part of the way home with brother. She would have been picked up by car.

Yesterday I could barely stay awake. I think I turn narcoleptic to deal with stress which makes sense. Don’t want to deal with husband leaving again? Go to sleep! I am also narcoleptic between the hours of 2pm and 4 pm and also when the kids play with the WII. I’m tired now just thinking about it.

We were going to have a nice breakfast at IHOP this morning but both my husband and I had bad stomach cramps. I even told my husband that even though I’m trying not to stress about his departure, somehow my body is not letting me forget. “Think you can do away with anxiety so easily? Not on your life! How about some stomach acid with your Starbucks? Mwahahahahahahaha!”

The last time I had stomach cramps was five years ago. My father lived with us for a few months in Virginia, helping to watch the kids while I worked as a first grade teacher in Norfolk. There were only two kids at that time, M was four years old and Adia was barely one. I continued to bring M to Montessori preschool because he loved it so much but also because I didn’t want to overwhelm my dad with two kids. Well-behaved for the most part but still too much for anyone who’s first diaper he changed was his grandson’s!

I knew my father was becoming ill. I even begged and tried to force him to the ER but he didn’t want to go. He had a few days until his flight back to California. Every day I threatened to take him but every day he refused.

On his flight back he said he felt nauseous but pushed through. Less than a day later, my cousin, a nurse with Kaiser Hospital, forced him to go to the ER. He was having a heart attack.

Now do I feel guilty that I didn’t make him go to the hospital? Of course. No doubt about it. Do I feel like all of this could have been avoided?

No.

He smoked all of his life, suffered from a heart attack when I was in high school (secretly of course; no one told me until I was much older), a second when I was in college along with a triple bypass surgery, and even Bell’s Palsy when my son was a year old. He took countless medications and endured dozens of medical tests. He was warned to quit eating sardines because it was giving him gout. He ate them anyway. He was told to quit eating red meat so eat made sure everything was cooked well-done.

And I wonder why I am so stubborn.

“Come quick!” warned my relatives in California so I left my job with permission from administration to see to my father.

My stomach ached and ached from that day forward in times of stress. My cramps got so bad I had to go to the ER. “Relax,” they said. “Here’s some medicine to relax your stomach.”

Ew. No, thank you.

I saw my dad a few days later to which he said, “Why are you here? Did you get fired?” Ahhh, so that’s where I get my sarcasm.

His condition worsened. He even suffered two heart attacks in the next week. There was a DNR (“Do Not Resucitate”) after the first because his body was too weak to handle more stress.

He was laid to rest less than a week later and I still have issues about death and dying. Issues about how my family and maybe others who share our culture treat their deceased. I’m not saying they are right or wrong. I’m saying that I would have liked to mourn in my own way.

Don’t make me look at my dead father if I don’t want to. My last images of him are full of life. My last images of him include him pushing my daughter around in her stroller across the street in the park and watching my son play on the slide. My last images of him include eating pho soup at a hole-in-the-wall Vietnamese restaurant over on Virginia Beach Boulevard, telling my husband not to order the tripe because it wasn’t good for him. Meanwhile, guess who ordered the tripe.

These are the images that my children have. Boss me around if you will but over my dead body will you make my son or daughter kiss a corpse good-bye.

That is NOT my father.

These are the images that my children have. Hopefully they will never be forced to feel or act a certain way in spite of tradition. Maybe they’ll get the same stomach cramps as me. I don’t know.

Don’t get me wrong. Tradition, culture, superstition, religion… all of those things are vitally important to my family but I am my own person and should be treated as such.

I know, I will probably get hate mail and dirty looks. Probably enough lectures and yellings to last a lifetime.

But seriously, in the grand scheme of things, when do I as a person, as a mother, daughter, wife, sister, adult, spiritually- and religiously- rich comfortably wealthy, I as ME, count? When do I have a say?

Maybe I will always be treated like the little girl that so many in my family still see me. All I know is that I will do everything I can to give voice to my children in these situations. They can’t be guided if you are dragging them.

Sleeping arrangements

My husband is home for a couple of weeks and it’s sooooo nice. I feel spoiled. Someone is in the house to help me with the kids, to take one for the team and wake up early with them, and to paint my toenails just because I asked nicely.

We don’t always share the same bed though when he’s home. And this actually started after I was pregnant with our first child.

If you’ve ever been pregnant or have known anyone who was pregnant, you know that it is extremely hard to get comfortable. Even harder to STAY comfortable. The growing baby in my expanding belly demanded rib eye steaks every night for dinner and hot dogs, eggs, and rice at four in the morning. I couldn’t get comfortable at night. It was fall in Augusta, Georgia and I insisted on opening the sliding door in our bedroom because it was too hot. Meanwhile, my poor husband had to bundle himself in a huge blanket next to me.

Sometimes it wasn’t even about the temperature. I needed something to hug. I used a body pillow for a while but even that was no match for the humongous orb.

During one long afternoon nap (aren’t they all?), I found that if I swung my arm and leg over the side of the couch just so, I could sleep like I was hugging something as wide as me. And there I retreated every time I couldn’t sleep in our bed.

Most people whose spouses are away frequently know that you get so used to sleeping alone. It takes a few days or even weeks to readjust to falling asleep alone but once you past that point, it’s not so bad. You get to stay up as late as you want, reading or surfing the web, without worrying if your partner wants to stay up too. You get to spread out and sleep literally in the shape of a star. Every appendage can touch opposite edges of the bed. You don’t have to sleep on YOUR SIDE.

There is no side.

Then your spouse comes back and you’re cuddling and it’s wonderful and you miss the way he smells, the way he knows exactly how to hug you so you can fall asleep, the way he talks about stuff you might not be interested in but listen anyway because he loves it so you do too. Or at least pretend to anyway.

And then you remember that he snores. Or that he likes eating Taco Bell at nine o’clock at night.

And then you’re up thinking about it. Pretty soon you get tired too. Might even catch yourself snoring also.

Then you’re up worrying about whether or not you’ll wake your partner up. Insomnia takes over. You make the trek downstairs to that couch that hugged you back every time you were pregnant so he can have a good night’s sleep in his own bed in his own house.

Yes, you’re bummed that you’re not in the same bed but nothing compares to knowing that at least he’s IN your bed and not across the country or across the world.

He’s home and that’s alright with you.

There’s always tomorrow night.