F #adulting
I will blog like a 20-year-old!
No, I won't because I really don't have the kind of confusion and soul-bearing vulnerability that I did back then. But I recently read
this article in The Atlantic and decided... I like to write. About myself. I haven't done it in a long time because #parenting #worklife #momlife and now a global pandemic and #cancer treatment. Well, too bad so sad I'm going to make time for myself and well-being and do it anyway.
The other day, my son--to prove his point that people don't end up fulfilling their dreams--asked me what I had wanted to be, as a little girl, when I grew up. Dangit! Kids are too smart these days. I told him I had wanted to be a writer, to which he gave me the look of "See?? You aren't a writer and dreams suck." Ugh, heartbreaking. I attempted to defend myself by saying, "I write a lot in my job... on behalf of the bishop and the Church and for people..." blah blah yeah, it was a sad moment and a little soul-crushing for both of us. Luckily, he does not dwell on the negatives for too long and was back to ninja slashing his sister shortly. And both his father and I have been restraining ourselves to be gentle with his dream of becoming... a ninja. For the past 3 years, that has been his dream, and I honestly don't know how to tell him that is not likely going to work out. Not as a career, anyway. Maybe as a hobby... if it doesn't land him in jail or something.
Anyway, back to writing about myself.
Yesterday was the second Sunday of Advent, and I had another good cry in the shower. (The shower is a great place to ugly cry because no one can see or hear you.) Ever since we (ok, I--it was me ALL ME AND MY UTERUS OK??) miscarried the twins, December has been a bitter month. I try not to make a big deal out of it, because I remember when I used to work at Raph and would be walking on eggshells every December due to Fr. Mark (...not my grief story so no need for details here). I don't want people to feel bad about it. I have a little monologue I go through for myself (with or without crying depending on whether or not I'm in the shower) and then I am ready to move on. And I know it's not my fault despite my earlier parenthetical outburst (sorry). Grief is... sticky. Every December I seem to find another sticky spot that I need to run under some warm water to rub off.
They would have been 2 years old this month.
I'm not able to speak cogently about abortion when I think about the twins. In the dangerous space of my head, it was a weird few days/weeks in the lead-up to the Dobbs case earlier this month. My inbox was flooding with action alerts, prayer alerts, notifications from the USCCB and other Catholic outlets. It was all over my social media from both sides. But in the dangerous space of my head, concepts like "choice" and "viability" just do not register in May/June, or December with respect to this issue. Sorry.
My husband and I had discussed not long ago how the loss of the twins has been more painful than this cancer diagnosis. So far, this cancer has been presented to us as "treatable." Yes, I will have long-term side effects and have exposed myself to all kinds of risks that may blow up later. But it still feels somewhat reversible. The twins, on the other hand, are gone. Nothing will bring them back. Even if we can have more kids, which it sounds like we probably won't, no future children could replace the ones we lost. So... that sucks more.
Anyway, back to Advent. So much could be said about this liturgical season, but I will just say this for now... this year has been different. The holiday season as a cancer patient is... eye-opening. "What do you want for Christmas?" Seriously? I WANT TO BE CANCER-FREE FOREVER AND EVER AND EVER. I never want to smell the adhesive that keeps everything attached to me when I have the infusion bottle for 2 days every chemo cycle. I hate hospitals forever and ever and ever! I never want to taste a saline flush again. I want my tastebuds back. I WANT TO LIVE MY LIFE, not just exist.
Fr. Alex asked us how we are preparing for Christ Mass this year. I am staying alive and praying for patience. I am struggling to be a good patient. I HATE THIS. I can't even describe how frustrating it is to have to rest in bed. To feel nauseous and gassy and gross. To be lethargic and brain dead. To not be able to complete the NYT crossword! I never check my kids' homework. I can't start any new projects for work. I am just stuck like old silly putty... onto hospital chairs, needles, and toxic drugs that kill white blood cells.
I'm not sure I've ever been terribly consumed by the material aspects of the holiday season (at least not in adulthood). Sure, I enjoy silly gift exchanges, shopping in a decorated mall, NSync's Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, and getting gold embossed cards from friends near and far (especially since many of us have had kids... so fun to see genetics at work!). I've been a good since-Kindergarten Catholic who has celebrated Advent with the proper liturgical colors and observances in remembrance of the 1st coming and preparation for the 2nd coming. I am faithfully passing this on to my kids as best as I can.
But this year, I for sure am WAITING on a whole other level. ANTICIPATION has new meaning for me. And while yes, it is for the coming of Christ, it is also for me to be made whole again. Bodily whole. My flesh. I realize it won't happen for Christmas, but it will eventually, one way or the other.
Last anyway, apologies for the feisty tone of this post and its length. It has been a hot minute since I've really done this in a dedicated posture. Also, I've been trying to stay in bed all day and have all this pent-up frustration but no energy to dispel it bodily or with higher level critical thinking. I will try to ungrit my teeth for the next post and keep things nice and concise.