Be On Your Toes, Angels

Services have just wrapped up in Atlanta for my beautiful Aunt Jane, who passed away suddenly last week.  And while I hope that the heavens prove a peaceful and happy place for her, I also grapple with the selfish sadness and fear of finality that death brings.  And curious observation of what is left behind.  I suppose that's what a legacy is...the emotions that swim in the wake of a departing ship.

In general, I wasn't very close with my Aunt Jane.  I saw her much more often when I was a kid, and I thought she was so beautiful.  SO smart.  Really clever and, above all, so funny.  She amused Marlie and I - and was amused BY Marlie and I - constantly.  I remember her dry, quippy humor and sarcastic observation so well that I can summon the sound of her voice and the look on her face just like that <snap finger>.  Her short, feathered blonde hair and that crooked mouth that barely moved when she spoke...just like my Grandpa's.  I have such vivid memories of visiting her in my Grandparents' living room that they may well have happened yesterday.

People used to tell Marlie and I all the time that we looked like Aunt Jane, jokingly saying we could be triplets.  Though, in a heartwarming way, I can't say for sure now if it was "people" who said that, or just my Aunt Jane herself.  But my cousin Tony called the three of us Barbie Dolls, so at least one other person kept that joke going. :)

My Aunt Jane's legacy is a bit tricky, as my distance from her throughout my adult life leaves me drawing from a shallow well of direct and personal memories which, lucky for me, are happy and admirable.  But for my parents, and my Uncle, that well is much, much deeper.  I know that my Aunt Jane is not the perfect person my 8 year-old mind cemented into my memory.  How could anyone live up to an 8 year-old's vision?  So much of my experience with her life is indirect.  I know she could be as troubled and difficult as she was intelligent and witty.  As much a good conversationalist as a pain in the ass.  So on this day, I toe the line of holding my own personal memories dear, while appreciating the whole of the woman I barely knew, who was a daughter, a sister, a partner, and a friend to many.  The Barbie Doll, and the Human.

As my sister said the other day, alarm bells are going off in Heaven. Look out everyone, you've got an adventure on your hands.  Grab your wits and your smarts, cause Aunt Jane is going to find Grandpa and seek out some debate.  Better be on your toes, angels.

The Baby Battle

The "why" behind the absence of promised posts on this blog is my own web of issues that I won't bother you innocent readers with, but I've found myself in a desperate need to write and share, so here I return.

What brings me here?  The hard fought but highly unsuccessful Battle for Baby that has been raging on in my body, mind and life for 9 months now.  Not that magical nine months where you battle to harbor and birth a baby, but my shitty 9 month "supposed to be fun, but actually not fun at all" battle to CONCEIVE the baby.  You guys, this fucking sucks.  And for anyone out there who is going through the same thing, let's be hopeful lunatics together.  If infertility hasn't affected your life, take a quick moment to say "thank you" to God or the cosmos, but then bring your hopeful lunatic self here anyway cause I welcome all brands of crazy.

I don't hate women who are pregnant or have kids.  Well, sometimes I do.  Every month when the Period Witch comes to visit, I hate all women who have conceived.  But only for a few hours.  Then I'm much more likely to look at you like, "How on EARTH did you DO THAT?"  I know we all know that creating life is a miracle, but no really....with the sliver of a 24 hour window each month, it's amazing that ANYONE EVER GETS PREGNANT!  Good on you, humanity.  Life will find a way. (insert footnote for Jeff Goldblum, yes!)

I've got a long story that starts in January of 2015, but let's not get SO personal.  I'll just say that no babies showed up, and by January of 2016, I was starting fertility treatments at a WONDERFUL, AMAZING place called Reproductive Partners in Redondo Beach.  It was all hope and positivity.  Matt's numbers were solid, a miracle in and of itself considering he is a survivor of testicular cancer and resulting surgery and radiation.  My health was A+, thank you very much, and I had no reproductive issues.  I was even told that, at age 36, I was considered young for their office.  For the win!

But, it's September now, and still no babies have wanted to show up.  I'm nice, potential baby!  Dammit, I'm nice! (insert footnote for Ouizer from Steel Magnolias, yes!)  To date, I've had 7 unsuccessful interauterine inseminations.  3 with clomid, 3 with injections, and one IVF that was converted to insemination, when I failed to create enough follicles during the stimulation phase.  Or, for those of you versed in the lunatic "infertility speak," I've been TTC for 21 months, with 3 IUI/clomid, 3 IUI/Gonal-F, and one IVF/IUI w/Gonal-F & Menopur injections.

The period witch flew down on her evil broom this weekend so I find myself at the very beginning of Attempt #8.  IVF Attempt #2.  I feel hopeful, but the last 9 months have exhausted me in every way.  I have felt, at times, angry, sad, confused, tired, optimistic, cynical, lost, lonely, and HORMONAL.  I'm telling you right now, and this is solid advice: If you find yourself in the Zombie Apocalypse, and you need some ladies who are READY TO FIGHT, go grab some women from the Reproductive Partners waiting room who are on Clomid, Gonal-F, or Menopur medications, or especially weed out those taking progesterone injections with inhumanely large needles, and build your army.  YOU WILL NOT LOSE.  I dare a zombie to attack this crazy mob.

And I say "crazy" with a great deal of love, for myself and anyone else who is doing this.  The journey of infertility is full of traps.  I feel lonely and frustrated and sad, but the medications throw me into such a roller coaster of hormones and symptoms that I'm not myself, and can't grasp the things I usually grasp to deal with problems.  They are fleeting, and unstable.  So I feel crazy and moody.  And yes, I know the whole "You think you're hormonal now, wait until you get pregnant!" reaction.  Well, damn, when I'm pregnant at least the hormones are because I'm PREGNANT and not because I'm taking a bunch of medications TRYING to get pregnant, but then NOT and my it was all useless and, by the way, really expensive.  So thanks for the joke, but waiting to get pregnant is all I've been doing, so how about you make me laugh with a funny cat video or, better yet, baby goats in pajamas instead.  BOOM.

I appreciate the many faces that pregnancy and motherhood can take.  I have heart for women who can't get pregnant but want to, and heart for women who can get pregnant, but don't want to...and everything in between and around.  There are dozens of reasons and emotions for any situation and I am in awe of the mere idea of parenthood.  I feel very lucky that I don't have any major health problems that prevent a good chance at pregnancy, and lucky that Matt and I can afford 9+ months of treatment.  I have it harder than some, and far easier than others, and I respect my place in the mix.

And mostly, I'm lucky for an incredible core group of family and friends that give me amazing advice and endless support, and help me talk myself out of feeling like a failure, or like less of a woman, every month.  It's so hard to think that my body was made to accomplish one thing, evolutionarily, and I'm not doing it.  But I still have a lot of hope.  I have no reason to believe this next round of IVF won't work, except for the 7 reasons that have made my other attempts unsuccessful, but since I don't know what those reasons are, we'll just line 7 question marks against a wall and unleash a firing squad on them.  Goodbye shitty unknown reasons!  FIRE!

Intro, "The Leopard"

Every time I think of my Grandpa Eckelman, no matter what memory I'm re-living, I always picture him smiling.  He had the warmest, most genuinely joyous smiles.  And while everyone else whose life he passed through may have seen many expressions cross his face, this smile was almost entirely the only expression he ever had for me.  There was so much life behind his smile, and I find that 7 years after he left us to engage in hearty debates with God himself, that life has come to touch me in ways I would never have anticipated.

I always thought my Grandpa was special.  He was whip smart, and a phenomenal painter.  When Marlie and I were little, he taught us how to play ping pong and pool, and played along when we presented him with a tea cup full of costume jewelry and said it was "hot chocolate" from our restaurant.  As we got older, I could always look up in the stands during a volleyball game and find him sitting there in his sport coat, eating a hot dog from the concession stand.  He rarely missed a game, and he certainly never missed a newspaper clipping the following day.

But above all, he was a great storyteller.  (As many grandpas are).  When Marlie and I were little, he told us so many stories, so many seemingly tall tales with both heartwarming and ornery characters and adventures.  These stories have stayed with me all my life, but one in particular would, nearly 30 years later, come back to me in a life-changing way.  The story of the leopard.  Pronounced by my grandpa, joyous smile in place, as "the lee-oh-pard."

This is such a magical story to me that I find it an extremely lofty ambition to attempt to share it with others.  But I'm going to try, because I am literally incapable of keeping it to myself any longer.  I don't even know what order to tell it in, except that to understand the ending of the story, you'll need to understand more about my Grandpa, and more about my relationship with him and his world.  So I'll just figure it out as I go.

More to come...

Welcome to my Bloggy Blog

Well, hello everybody,

In my heart, I have always considered myself a writer. I write constantly, and in high volume.  But it has always been for myself only - for my own therapy, or amusement, release of insanity, or the simple need to be creative.  I've never shared it with anyone, for so many reasons.  Some logical and some reeeeally illogical.

For my entire adult life, my doubt and insecurity led me to shred and destroy (literally burn) hundreds of journals with countless numbers of poems and writings. It was therapeutic to burn the pages where I fought depression by emptying my troubled mind onto paper.  But for my creative endeavors, I simply didn't think they were good enough to share, so I unceremoniously threw them in the fire too. I would read amazing books by amazing authors and think, "I'm not a writer.  I can't do that."  It's been the only goal in my life to which I have consistently, time and time again, given up.

So while I may have written 7,000 pieces, what I have now is about 10.  Not because these were set aside as the best, or my favorites, but because I typed them on the computer, saved them to a folder and forgot about them.  It will be hard not to notice that besides "The Chateau," these were written around the same time, a few years back, in the throws of a bad depression.  Which, thankfully, the writing helped me to control.

I only share these (few) writings now because I have always believed that art needs no purpose except to be of pleasure, need, survival, or expression to the artist. And it's with that spirit that I finally shed this suffocating skin to behave as I believe. Also, I dream of being a writer and my dream will not stay quiet any longer.  I want to be a writer in practice, not just in my heart.  Perhaps I will fail badly, but perhaps not.  Either way, I am exhausted by my not trying.

So, I've thrown these past remnants of my writing onto this blog, and from here on out, I have no goal for this site except a house for my rambling thoughts and writings and dreams.  Although it is a completely selfish act, I do hope that you enjoy what I share.

Toodles!

"The Chateau," cont.

In the cold, damp mornings, she can always find him with pup in the garden.  A close resemblance to the neighboring bourgeoisie gardens, but whose rigidity and structure were long ago blended into loose borders and happily spreading grasses.  He walks through the trodden pebble paths with no great purpose but to be present and lightly thoughtful.  Always humbled by the natural wonders around him and never missing a chance to take a deep breath.  He takes his time, always.

A small limestone bench sits at the far end of the garden, happily and almost completely hidden by purple and yellow wildflowers.  He pauses here at times...revisiting favorite passages from a worn down book, or embarking on new adventures from crisper pages.

Though he never sits for too long.  Always calmly anxious to move through his surroundings.  Sometimes alone.  Sometimes with pup.  And sometimes with her on his arm, laughing and loving and observing the green infinity around them

An Exercise - "The Chateau, Part 1"

I read once that a good way to practice writing was to take one still frame of a movie, and turn it into an environment of your own.  "The Chateau" was this part of this exercise, to a still frame from Gosford Park.  Though I certainly want to revisit these at some point.
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He walks barefoot on imperfect, uneven hardwood floors, carrying a mug of coffee, walking from the kitchen to the piano.  Completely engrossed in the music playing in his head.  He sits down and tousles the hair of the quietly snoring pup, who slowly gets pushed aside as the bench he's sleeping against is pulled back.  He sits, and disappears into the keys.

Tink, tink tink on the panes, a distracted rain!  He walks excitedly to the tall windows, pulls on the black wooden handle and nudges one open to hear the rain pouring outside.  A beautiful overgrown green landscape, with rolling hills of the English countryside.  The rain is coming down so hard in the distance that it looks like a solid gray sheet.  The rain is damaging the already worn iron chairs on the nearby patio, which are certain to never be replaced.  Quite purposefully.

The home is drafty, underlit, and under decorated, but not uncared for in the least.  There is an admiration and attention in the open and sparsely furnished spaces, left alone and not burdened by unnecessary trinkets.  Everything has a purpose, even the blankness.  The home never gets in its own way of a pleasant situation.

He is happy here.  Calm, and perfect, and continuously inspired.  Without him, the house is large, spacious, old and rundown.  Stark.  But as he walks through the rooms, the house warms with his steps, and personality spreads from the walls.  It is simple, beautiful, peaceful.

He makes the house a wonderland.

And in the library down the hall, she sits reading, listening to the patter of rain and the interrupted sessions of piano music.

Talk To Me (Dec, 2009)

I won't tell you I need you today
But I need you, I need you...
My soul collapsed this morning
I'm frightened to let you know,
to watch your eyes scan the horizon
while the truth spills behind your back

Talk to me of things that matter
Please, I beg of you today
Don't forecast the coming snowstorms
And talk of travel and holiday plans
Funny fucking dog stories and cats that snore
And Christmas recipes you adore
Gift frustrations and last minute searches
Cause I don't care, I don't care.

Talk to me of things that matter,
Save me from this space of nothing,
Tell me what you're thinking -
Why you love what you love
How you  hurt when you hurt
Passions tucked behind your wall
all of it, that's all I want, just all of it...
to soak in the truths of you

Talk to me of things that matter,
Close my eyes to everything but you
Speak of fingertips tracing warm skin
and lips searching through sensations
of blissful tears crawling down my cheek,
and voices whispering in the darkness
Feel the shudders that flow through me
when distance is closed with a gaze.

Speak of what matters, or don't speak at all.