To Hell & (Hopefully) Back

Farewell, And Safe Travels

2011-07-11T11:06:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted here in a very, very long time because...well, frankly, because my life has gotten more or less back to normal. Or at least, what "normal" looks like post-divorce.

I'm doing the usual things: raising my kids, keeping my head above water in this hideous economy, and trying to maintain that elusive work-life balance all working parents dream of. I've also been seeing a wonderful man since late January, but to blog about him or our time together would be an invasion of his privacy.

My sister and one of my closest friends are both going through marital bust-ups now, which is another topic I can't blog about without invading their privacy, but I'm glad I can be there for them now and pay back some small part of all the support they gave me in my own dark hours.

Thanks to everyone who's followed this blog and commented or emailed messages of consolation and support. It made a HUGE difference to me at the time, and every one of those comments and messages was like a cyber life-preserver when I was at sea.

So the dust has settled, and life goes on. But maybe that, in and of itself, is the happiest ending anyone going through a major crisis can hope for. Please know that if you're facing trauma of your own right now, things can and do get better. The road may not be easy, or even clearly marked, but you will find your way to the end of it and when you do, you'll be stronger, wiser and more capable than you ever thought possible. And when the time comes, you and your hard-won experience will be there to help the next lost traveler find his way back home.

Be happy and well.
- A

Dating Games

2011-02-17T17:47:00.000-08:00

If you've ever tried online dating, no doubt you've seen it, or some variation of it, on countless profiles: "No games, please." "I'm just looking for someone who can be real, and honest with me." "No drama!"

Don't believe a word.

If I may translate from dating-profile-ese to English, what these assertions really mean is, "No games except for the ones I enjoy and expect, and no, I will not tell you in advance what those are," "I'm just looking for someone who will be operating on the exact same wavelength of attraction and intimacy as I am at all times, and if not, will fake it skillfully enough to keep my interest until or unless we're more in synch," and, "No outside distractions, commitments or actions that are irrelevant or scary to me, and no, I will not tell you in advance which kinds of distractions, commitments or actions I find irrelevant or scary," respectively.

Even when put into such stark terms, all of these desires are totally legitimate and typical to most human beings looking for romance. If we're on a dating site, it's because we want more or less the same thing, whether in a transient or more lasting form: connection, and the validation that comes with it.

The question of whether or not you'll conclude someone you've met is "playing games", much like the question of whether or not you feel you're being sexually harassed, comes down to how much you are, or aren't, enjoying it. To paraphrase Adam Carolla from his book, "In Fifty Years We'll All Be Chicks", barring exceptional outliers, no one minds getting a wink or flirtatious compliment from someone he or she finds appealing. But put that same wink or flirtation in the context of an encounter with someone you find creepy or grossly unattractive, and suddenly it's an offense to your delicate sensibilities.

Similarly, the new acquaintance who starts calling you two or more times a day, every day, following a first date may seem refreshingly open and unwilling to "play games", or scarily smothering and desperate. The only difference is how you feel about that person, and whether you want that kind of attention from that specific person. Unfortunately, there's no way to tell how you're going to feel about this stuff ahead of time, and most first dates do not end with a Vulcan mind meld.

So the man who's really into you, who even said he's really into you at the end of the evening, opts not to call you for a few days—not because he was lying, or because he doesn't want to call you, but because he doesn't want to blow a shot with someone he thinks could be special by coming on too strong. After all, there's a fair to middling chance you're not quite as excited about him. Is he "playing games", or playing it safe? The answer depends on whether you spend those three days anxiously waiting to hear from this potential Prince Charming, or just going about your business as usual, either having no strong feelings one way or the other, or actually hoping he doesn't call.

As for drama, look at it this way: there's a reason why every successful romance story prominently features the couple bonding over some kind of Seemingly Insurmountable Hardship, ultimately culminating in a Big Gesture that wins over the reluctant swain or doubtful heroine. Every one of those Seemingly Insurmountable Hardships and Big Gestures is drama incarnate.

So if you're really into Lara Croft, you can hardly imagine a more fertile ground for romance than traipsing across the globe hunting for priceless relics while dodging bullets from bad guys. If not, you call, "Drama!" and take a powder. If you dig Lloyd Dobler (from the movie Say Anything, IMDB it), having him stand on your lawn with a boom box hoisted over his head playing "In Your Eyes" loud enough to wake you and all your neighbors is the most romantic and heart-melting thing ever. If not, you call, "Drama!" and tell him to get lost. To bring this closer to non-movie reality…if you're kinda nuts about your neighbor's wife and she's kinda nuts about you too, you see the issues of infidelity and possible disastrous repercussions as sexily dangerous. If she's kinda nuts about you and you don't second that emotion, you just see her as kinda nuts in general, you call, "Drama!" and stop going to block parties in your neighborhood.

True, there is a class of people in the world who seem to thrive on crisis, and for them, there's a corresponding class of people who seem to thrive on crisis management. These two groups were made for each other, and not for anyone else. But even then, if this is not the sort of relationship you're looking for, it'd be more accurate to say you don't like high-strung people than to say you don't like drama.

You love drama, you crave drama, as do we all. But you only love and crave the specific kind of drama that registers as a Big Gesture in your specific lexicon of romance and reality, and only when it's coming from the right person.

You might think it's still better for people to follow their instincts and act on their impulses, because if the couple aren't on the same page it's better for them to discover this early on, before either one has invested too heavily in the other. However, as we all know, the typical trajectory of romantic interest fulfilled follows a predictable arc from "interested" toward "totally into me", so if there's any spark between the couple at all, it's probably a mistake to abandon all hope on the ground floor just because one of you is sparking a little harder than the other at first.

Don't kid yourself. At the outset you want games and you don't want anyone to be totally real with you, and when you're with the right person, you love drama.

And that's okay.

Dating, Twenty Years Later

2011-01-26T19:24:00.000-08:00

I've bitten the inevitable bullet and signed up for a couple of those online dating sites. The theoretical efficiency of this approach (tell us what you're like and what you're looking for, and we'll match you up with others in our database) appeals to me, but there is still a human factor at work, and that's where things get...interesting. Yeah, let's go with "interesting".

True, I haven't dated since about 1990, but it's kind of shocking how much things have changed. In the 90's, there was no such thing as a "milf" or "cougar". Now that those species of older woman exist, there are apparently large numbers of young men out there in the world who seem to be under the impression that all over-40 women want nothing so much as casual sex with younger men. I guess this is the new millenium replacement for getting girls drunk in bars for an easy score. I'm flabbergasted by how many of these 30ish-and-under Romeos include sexual references in their very first contact, and dumbfounded by how many of them have testimonials posted to their profile pages featuring women singing the praises of their anatomical details and bedroom skills---or, in the current vernacular, "skilz".

Then there are the men's descriptions of themselves, their interests and hobbies. I don't know if 80% of the guys took a seminar in what to say, or if it's just a function of the high incidence of mid-life crisis in the 40's and 50's, but I'm finding it hard to believe that eight to nine out of every ten men aged 37-55 really spend all their free time engaged in extreme sports, riding motorcycles, working out, traveling to exotic locales and watching sunsets while drinking wine. Funny; I knew a number of men in that age range before I was single, and it seemed like eight to nine out of every ten of them spent all their free time watching sports, playing with various kinds of technology (iPhone, XBOX, internet...it's all more or less the same), and tending to various guy hobbies (e.g., model trains, fishing, hunting, rebuilding classic cars, etc.). And I was fine with that.

To be fair, for all I know the women's profiles on the sites are just as suspect and perhaps many of their first contacts are sexually predatory as well. I guess twenty years is a long time to be out of the dating world, and I'm feeling pretty out of touch.

My experiences haven't all been bad thus far, but I'm not going to be sharing the details since I don't assume any new man in my life wants his involvement with me served up for public consumption. Just as importantly, I don't intend to even introduce my children to any man I get involved with unless or until it's looking like a longterm commitment. The internet is a public space, and my kids are computer-literate, after all.

It's Christmas, I'm Alone, And I'm Okay

2010-12-25T11:00:00.001-08:00

Per the custody schedule, I had my Christmas with the kids yesterday. Today may be the 25th, but for me, it's just Saturday. And I'm fine with that.

I know there are lots of divorced families who alternate, having the kids spend the holiday with one parent one year and with the other the next, but I just couldn't imagine spending any Christmases without my kids. I also knew an alternating schedule would steal something important away from them, and they've paid far too much for the foibles of their parents already.

All the kids' lives, they've been used to attending the huge, extended family blowout at my ex's parents' house on Christmas. All the usually out-of-town cousins, aunts, uncles and friends will be there, and it's a big, colorful, noisy, fun day of feasting, playing, visiting and eating far too much candy that lasts from around noon till nearly midnight. The 26th, everyone who's travelled to be there usually sticks around for one more day and the huge group ventures out for bowling, or to the park to play with new sporting equipment, or for a hike, or something else, followed by an afternoon of noshing on leftovers, more play and more visiting. If I'd agreed to an alternating schedule the kids would miss out on this every other year, and however hard I might try to make the 25th and 26th special for them, it would never measure up to these ghosts of Christmas past.

To be clear, it's not that I'm no longer welcome at my former in-laws. I think it's very much the opposite, and they would prefer I were there with them and the rest of the group today. But it would tax my already tired heart to be there, with him and the kids there, but no longer as a family. Everyone would be trying very hard to act as if nothing's changed, just to keep the mood light and festive. But I can't do it. Not yet. It's too soon, it would feel too much like a denial and dismissal of everything I've been through this year.

And let's face it, the divorce would be the elephant in the room, it would dominate everyone's thoughts whether or not anyone actually speaks of it. I was part of that extended family for nearly 20 years, and I still care about them. They shouldn't have to spend their holiday worrying about appearances and split loyalties, or wondering what they can or can't say.

The ex originally proposed letting the kids be with me for Christmas morning and then picking them up around 10 so he could have the "Christmas experience" with them at his place, and then continue on to the big party. But the thought of trying to cram my Christmas with the kids into a few, rushed hours and then hugging them goodbye, knowing it's Christmas and I'd be spending the rest of it alone, was too much to take. Far better, I decided, if I could wake up alone that day and treat it just the same as any other day when the kids are away for visitation.

So the kids and I have formed our own, new Christmas traditions. The 23rd is our Christmas Eve, the 24th is our Christmas, and the 25th is just another ordinary day for me. The kids' father picked them up at 8 last night, so he got to have his "Christmas experience" with them this morning. The kids will get to have the festive, boisterous Christmas they've always enjoyed at their grandparents' home the rest of today and tomorrow, and I've already had my own, quieter holiday time with them.

I spread the word ahead of time that I planned to spend the 25th the way I understand a lot of Jewish people do, going to the movies and eating Chinese food, and some of Santa's helpers have come through for me with movie passes. I've never had a problem going to the movies or to restaurants alone, so this is nothing new for me. Unfortunately, out here in the predominantly gentile/Christian 'burbs where I live all the Chinese places are closed, but I can probably find something with "Asian" in its title on the dinner menu at Denny's tonight, after I've seen the latest Harry Potter and Tron.

Since this day was planned well in advance, I've actually been looking forward to it. Even more so as it approached, because I've been pretty ill this past week with a chest cold. Thankfully, the rain that's been drenching the Los Angeles basin for the past couple of weeks stopped on Thursday, and the sun is shining today. I'm still not fully back up to par, but I'm well enough to sit in a darkened theater for a number of hours and then let a waitress serve me a coffee shop meal.

I can honestly say: it's Christmas, I'm alone, and I'm okay.

Real Life Photoshopping - Cut And Paste You Can Feel

2010-12-10T20:23:00.000-08:00

Friday night is when he takes the kids for the weekend. It's when the house gets very quiet very suddenly, and I know I've got two lonely days ahead.

Last weekend he took our kids on outings with the woman he left me for and her child on both days the kids were with him. I know that when he left me, his most fervent desire and even expectation was that he'd be able to simply cut me out of the family picture and paste her in, like some kind of real-life Photoshopping. I didn't think he'd start on that project so soon, though; the divorce isn't even final yet. I guess this means that from now on I can expect he'll be out there with our kids, play-acting Family with that woman, right in the same town where we both live.

I know I'm not the first woman scorned and abandoned in favor of a younger model, and I certainly won't be the last. But how do they do it? How have all those moms over the centuries survived the heart-stomping, gut-wrenching, soul-sucking spectacle of That Woman, the woman for whose sake they were rejected and for whose sake their families were torn apart, taking their places in a prematurely reconstituted family portrait? I really need to know, because the pain is unbelievable. Giving birth to those kids scarcely registers on the bearability scale, next to this.

The initial rejection hurt, and knowing that the many years I spent building a life with someone ultimately amounted to nothing in his eyes hurts more. Knowing I've been rejected in favor of someone else, someone younger, hurts still more. Having to witness my children's suffering and knowing there's nothing I can do to just make it stop takes my pain to yet another, higher level. None of these things came as a surprise. But this...this is pain of an entirely different caliber, and I didn't see it coming.

Now, I feel I must insert an aside...

To anyone reading this who's about to post a comment saying I shouldn't blame The Other Woman because everyone knows that in cases like this there were underlying problems in the marriage, I have two things to say. First, unless you've actually experienced what I'm going through right now, you're talking out of your hat. And second, while it's true that guns don't kill people, people do, the gun helps.

How many troubled marriages might've weathered the storm with some counseling, were it not for the distraction of worshipful attention and flirtation from a younger woman? How many male mid-life crises wouldn't end in divorce if all women everywhere adopted an ironclad policy of Married = Off Limits?

Sometimes marriage is hard work, and just like any kind of hard work, it requires motivation. There's nothing to erode a man's motivation to stay true to his wife and family like the lure of a younger woman who places no expectations on him, and who never misses an opportunity to make her no-work, all-play availability to him apparent. Of course, she'll feel very differently about him once she really gets to know him, he's no longer trying to impress her, they become familiar with one another's faults, someone has to start taking out the trash and doing dishes, and the whole "the world doesn't approve of our forbidden love" melodrama fades, but by that time the damage to his marriage and children is done---and irreparable.

Damage like being Real-Life Photoshopped out of my own family unit and relegated to the recycle bin, as if I'm little more than a photographic imperfection. As if, in his eyes, I was just a 20-year mistake that needed to be corrected. Ctrl-X, Ctrl-V, and it's as if I never existed and our children sprang, fully-formed from his DNA alone, right out of the ground in a cabbage patch.

And again I ask: how does anyone survive this?! I thought the worst was over. I was wrong.

Bystander, Yes. But Innocent?

2010-11-04T18:10:00.000-07:00

What ever happened to shame? What ever happened to public shows of disapproval? What ever happened to shunning people who behave badly? I suppose these things have all been swept under the rug of, "Who am I to judge," "It's none of my business what someone else does in their personal life," and similar evasive, spineless rationales.

But when one person stands witness to the wrongdoing of another and turns a blind eye to it, that witness is broadcasting the message that as far as the witness is concerned, what the wrongdoer has done is perfectly acceptable. The witness is also sending a message to the wrongdoer: "I don't have any problem with what you've done, or with you." Such witnesses are practically accomplices to the wrongdoing, since they facilitate it through their silence, inaction, and tacit approval.

Certainly, each witness has limits. Perhaps he'd stay mum about his child's school teacher telling off another parent's child in inappropriate terms and at an excessive volume level, but would most definitely speak up to the teacher or school administrators if it were his child on the receiving end of the tirade.

Perhaps she'd keep quiet about a neighbor's failure to clean up after his dog on another neighbor's lawn, but would confront that dog owner if he dared allow his dog to relieve itself on her lawn.

There are plenty of public offenses far worse than these, with plenty of blind eyes being turned to them. And our society is the worse for it.

In so greatly desiring to avoid saying anything to, or about, the wrongdoer, the witness is instead saying something about him- or herself. What the witness is saying is, in effect, "I'm a coward who won't stand up for anyone but myself, and won't look out for anyone's interests but my own. So long as that other person isn't harming me or my interests, I don't care what he or she does. The community is on its own."

But what is a community, if a not a group of people with shared goals, resources and values? Isn't community supposed to be about looking out for one another?

If a person thinks it would be wrong for someone to steal from him, then he should be just as adamant that it's wrong for someone to steal from other members of his community, and he should be invested in seeing that it doesn't go unnoticed when it happens.

If a person thinks it's wrong for the kid who's taking her daughter to the prom to drive drunk, she should be just as interested in making it known to her family, friends, co-workers and neighbors that she has a problem with any of them driving drunk, too.

Whether a witness is aware of an abusive parent, a drunk-driving friend, a date-raping college roommate, a cheating spouse, a litterbug neighbor, an openly racist co-worker or the actions of any other wrongdoer within her sphere, in remaining silent she's actually saying quite a lot---and everything she's saying is about herself, not the wrongdoer.

If the witness's convictions are so flimsy that he's unwilling to assert them, they're hardly convictions at all. At best, they're preferences. So when someone steals from him, lets their dog use his lawn as a toilet, makes a racist remark about him, cheats with his spouse, or drives drunk and plows into his garage or family members, he should take it in stride. After all, he merely preferred that none of these things happen to him, and never cared at all if they happened to other people.

Keeping The Tea Low

2010-10-20T22:06:00.000-07:00

I once read an old Chinese saying about maintaining balance and avoiding burnout. It went something along the lines of, "If your cup is already full, stop pouring the tea." Until you've drunk enough of your tea to bring the level down, you can't accept more. And if your cup is filled to the brim, it's hard to pick it up and drink your tea without spilling any: you've got to keep your tea low.

It wasn't so long ago that my tea was spilling all over the place. But now, I'm keeping the tea low. I'm feeling good, I'm working on all kinds of great promotional activities to support the launch of my book, and I've learned that because my house is underwater (real estate term that means more is owed on the house than it's worth) it can't be sold. The mortgage holder is working on a loan modification that would make the monthly payment affordable, which means I get to keep my house. ='D I don't care about the equity, or lack thereof, in the property. It's my home and I'm thankful that I don't have to leave it.

I'm not a big believer in fate, or kismet, or whatever you want to call it, but here's a funny coincidence: December 17 is the official release date for my book, and also the day my divorce will be declared final. Funny how things work out, innit?

A Maternal Legacy of Loss...and Strength

2010-09-25T20:58:00.000-07:00

I haven't posted here in a very long while, and that's because most of what's been going on is stuff I can't write about here. But there's been considerable change and progress since the last time I wrote. A tentative custody schedule is in place and we've begun to follow it. While my teenage son is dealing with the changes pretty well, my much younger daughter is really struggling.

Of course this divorce is a profoundly life-altering event for both kids, but my son is already at an age where he's begun to pull away a bit from the nuclear family to start thinking about himself as an independent individual. He's also at an age where it's healthy for young men to start distancing themselves from their mothers and hanging a bit more tightly with the men in their lives. Having regularly scheduled time with his father (and apart from me) is helping to facilitate this for my son in a way that wouldn't have been possible before his father split from me. Which isn't to say I think the divorce is a good thing for our kids in any way, because I don't. I'm just trying to focus on the positives, and teach my children to do the same, however few or slight those positives may be.

My daughter is a whole different story. She's just entering adolescence, a difficult transition for kids even when their families are intact. The timing of the divorce could hardly be worse for her in terms of the negative impact it's likely to have on her future relationships with men. I wish I could just soak up all her suffering like a sponge, and spare her all this pain and confusion. But as I told her myself just last night, she comes from a long line of strong, resilient women, and I know she'll get through this.

Her great-great-grandmother was a survivor of the Prohibition Era and then The Great Depression. I say she "survived" the Prohibition Era not because I think the lack of alcohol is some kind of trial to be survived, but because it was a dangerous and financially trying time that only got more dangerous and financially trying when The Great Depression took over. Breast cancer eventually claimed Grandma May's life, but that's more a function of the time than of Grandma May's strength. At a time when women were such second-class citizens that they'd only just won the right to vote, and it was considered distasteful to even speak of breast cancer, it's not too surprising that the state of the medical arts in the area left much to be desired.

Next came Grandma May's daughter Geraldine, a career woman who'd been working fulltime for the Skylab team at TRW for well over a decade before the Equal Rights Amendment passed in 1972. She wasn't a scientist, but was excited by her daily exposure to the cutting-edge engineering, aeronautics, avionics and physics in which she was immersed as a secretary for the group. I have many happy memories of Grandma sharing artist renderings of the space station during its planning stages, along with lots of interesting stories about the in-orbit experiments that would take place on the station once it was launched. She also brought home some early, experimental samples of holographic images cut into crystal discs by lasers. At the time it was amazing, like something out of a science fiction movie. There was quite a bit about her work she couldn't share, of course, and she took that responsibility very seriously. Since I was a small child at the time, I had no idea how unusual Grandma was; I didn't know it was atypical for a woman to work fulltime outside the family home, or to be entrusted with national secrets. I just took it for granted that anyone who was interested, whether male or female, could get involved with the space program.

My mother is Geraldine's youngest daughter, and the challenges and injustices endured by Mom early in her adult life dwarf everything I've been going through this year---and that includes the breast cancer. Mom dropped out of high school to get married, had her first child at the age of 17 and two more within the following four years. Her husband was soldiering overseas for the latter two of those years (me and my older sister were conceived during brief home leave visits), and shortly after I was born (I'm the youngest) Mom received a letter from him announcing he'd fallen in love with another woman and wouldn't be coming back.

There was Mom, all of 21 years old, with no high school diploma and few skills, now forced to fend for herself and three kids aged between three months and four years, all alone. She worked two part time jobs and did ironing piecework at night for ten cents a garment to keep a roof over our heads and food on our plates, but it wasn't enough. Eventually, confronted with the dangers of our poverty-level neighborhood when a homeless man was shot and killed on our back porch, she had to swallow her pride and let her parents take us in so she could take night classes to finish her high school education. Like her own mother before her, Mom was a working woman for most of her adult life, yet I never felt as if my sisters and I had to take a back seat to Mom's work. I knew, as I'm sure my sisters did, when the chips were down Mom would be there for any one of us in a heartbeat. Mom remarried when I was five and is still married to that man, the only man I've ever thought of as my father, to this day.

The stuff I've had to endure this year is small potatoes compared to what Mom's been through, and I have advantages my mother didn't: a college education, over twenty more years of life and career experience, and a strong support circle of friends and family. Mom had her parents, but that was pretty much it. Having said that, surviving cancer and divorce in the same year hasn't exactly been easy. Yet I have survived, and the light at the end of the tunnel gets nearer and brighter every day.

Being a survivor is virtually encoded in my daughter's DNA. And as much as I wish she didn't have to draw upon that legacy, I'm glad it's there.

On Creating New Traditions

2010-08-20T17:31:00.000-07:00

If you're divorcing or losing a love relationship of longstanding, in addition to the loss of the relationship you will also have to endure the loss of numerous traditions that were based around the relationship. Holidays, in particular, will be hard at first.

In my case, because my immediate family all live far away, I've been used to spending every major holiday and birthday with my soon-to-be-ex's family. While they still care about me and still consider me "family", realistically, I know I won't continue to spend my holidays with them. During this first year following the breakup of my marriage, to do so would only provide painful reminders of what I've lost. He would be there, and I would be there, and our kids would be there, but we wouldn't all be there together as a family, and that's an important (and for me, painful) distinction. In future years, he'll be there with some new woman who won't want me around while she's establishing her presence with the extended family, and whether I feel I have a right to be there or not, making things uncomfortable for everyone else isn't how I want to spend my holidays.

On the other hand, there's no way I can duplicate the big, extended family experience for me and the kids if the visitation schedule has them spending this or that holiday with me. I've decided that the only solution for this is to let the old ways and old habits go, and create new traditions that have nothing to do with the way things used to be.

Rather than spend Thanksgiving with the three of us huddled around a small turkey in a small apartment, I've decided to make it a travel weekend. There's an affordable family resort about two hours away which we've visited before and all loved, and that's where we'll spend our Thankgsiving weekends from now on. It'll be a completely new and different type of holiday experience for all of us, and shouldn't leave me wondering what's going on at the place where we used to spend Thanksgiving at any point.

Similarly, instead of having the kids wake up with me Christmas morning only to be hurriedly packed up and out the door by 9am so their father can have the "Christmas Morning Experience" with them too, I've decided to make Christmas Eve our Christmas. The kids and I will have a Christmas dinner together (probably ordered in from Boston Market or something like that, since I would rather not waste all that precious time on cooking and cleanup), open our gifts to each other and from my side of the family, and spend the evening watching some hokey Christmas specials, playing with our new toys and eating way too much pumpkin pie. Then their father will pick them up and they'll spend the night of the 24th and all day on the 25th with him and his family. I'll spend the 25th pretending it's just another ordinary day, and doing whatever it is Jewish people usually do that day: go to the movies, get Chinese food, and generally enjoy the quiet.

And so it will go, all through the year. If you're in a similar situation, whether due to a relationship breakup, a death, a job loss, or anything else that has thrown a major wrench in your usual holiday plans, forget about trying to duplicate the old ways. You're not likely to succeed, and however close you may come, all you'll be thinking about are the ways you think you're falling short. Create some new traditions of your own instead.

I Can Do Magic!

2010-07-18T11:40:00.001-07:00

I did a magic trick on Friday. I colored my hair, and presto! I became visible to the opposite sex again.

Premature gray runs in my mother's side of the family, so while it may not be all that uncommon for a forty-five year old woman like myself to be going gray, I started going gray in my twenties. And I used to color it, but when I had a daughter and she got old enough to notice, I thought I ought to set an example of aging gracefully (and not giving in to the impossible beauty standard foisted upon women in popular media) by letting my hair go gray. I've never worn Spanx either, even though my body's not quite what it was pre-childbirth. And since my then-husband seemed just fine with both decisions, I saw no reason to change course. Until recently, that is.

My husband dumped me back in March. It's been four months since, and while I'm in no rush to jump into a new relationship after having been with the same man for nearly twenty years, I *am* making an effort to start getting out there in public and acting like a single person again. It feels strange to me, but that's precisely why I have to do it. I AM a single person now, for all intents and purposes, and I need to start getting used to what that feels like.

I figured it would be enough to dress up a little when going out with friends, it was never my intention to go get an I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar, post-breakup makeover like you see so often in the movies. But now, I understand why the post-breakup makeover is such a common fixture in those movies.

I never used to notice if any men were looking at me in public when I was married, because I just wasn't tuned in to that kind of thing. I was married, off the market, end of story. Since getting back on the Table For One team, I *have* started tuning in, and I've discovered that if you're a woman with salt-and-pepper hair, you may as well be invisible to most men when you're out in public. Here's me, invisible:

See, even though I was born and raised and still live in Southern California, the land of Botox, breast implants, spray tan and vaginoplasty (yes, women here really do have plastic surgery to make their lady parts prettier), I figured that since I still have a fairly youthful face and an okay body---not perfect, but at least I'm back in a two-piece bathing suit this summer---, I shouldn't have to make any major changes in my appearance for the sake of being single. Boy, was I ever wrong.

Three weekends in a row I went out with friends. For the first two, I was invisible. No men talked to me or even seemed to notice I was there, though they were only too happy to flirt with my married, non-gray girlfriends. The third weekend, this past Friday night specifically, I went out with my hair newly-colored:

And guess what? Guys not only noticed me, they talked to me and flirted with me.

It's like having gray in your hair erects some kind of invisibility force field that can only be breached by a bottle of Miss Clairol.

What's up with that, guys?! I'm the same woman. Same face. Same body. Same personality.

And just for kicks and giggles, I went on the dating site Match.com to check out what the guys there are posting in the 'what I'm looking for' section of their profiles. Not surprisingly, while "salt and pepper" is one of the available choices for hair color, and the guys can list as many different acceptable hair colors as they'd like, very, very few have "salt and pepper" in their lists of acceptable hair colors.

Also not surprisingly---though depressingly---most of the men my age also list an upper acceptable age limit five years or more below their own ages. I've never seen so many fifty year old guys out trawling for someone no older than forty. Thanks to my hair dye I can now easily pass for 35, but I don't plan on lying about my age.

In short, ageism is alive and well on the singles' scene, and Spanx, Miss Clairol and the demand for plastic surgery won't be going away anytime soon. ='/

You're Not Yourself, And Never Will Be Again, And That's A Good Thing

2010-07-11T08:48:00.000-07:00

Here's what I'm trying to keep uppermost in my mind these days...

You will be a different person when all of this is over, and that's not only necessary, but right and proper.

The you that you are now was half of an unhealthy and unhappy couple, and in some important ways, a passive bystander in her own life. The you that you are now is hurt and angry, though with good reason. The you that you are now is a victim, a person to whom things have happened.

The you that you will become is a strong, secure person who's gone through a major trauma and has come out on the other side with reserves of hope and energy you never even realized were being sucked out of you on a daily basis. The you that you will become is a person who's newly unfettered, free to make her own choices and explore possibilities she thought had been cut off to her forever. The you that you will become is serene, content, and a lot wiser.

As the proverb says, "Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly." The only world that's over for you is the world of pain and deception. The world that's just beginning is a world of opportunities, a world you get to create for yourself.

When you've lost a relationship, job, or anything else that defined you as a person, you will never be the same. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. Maybe you should've been defining you as a person instead of letting a relationship, job, or anything else do it. Maybe I should've, too.

In Adelaide Einstein, a novel I wrote over a decade ago, at one point the protagonist explains her holding pattern of a life to another character by saying, "I thought I was done, the way a cake is done, and people would just keep taking little pieces of me away until there was nothing left."

Clearly, the me that was meant to be, the one residing only in my subconscious at the time, was trying to tell me something.

On Taking The High Road - Or, If I'm Doing What's Right, Why Do I Feel Like Such A Doormat?

2010-06-26T17:48:00.000-07:00

If you've been following this blog, you know that from the beginning I promised not to make this a dumping ground for my anger. I agreed not to write about the other people, and events, involved in the breakup of my marriage. I made these commitments partly just because it's the decent, proper way to behave in public, partly to protect my kids from any blowback, and partly because a certain, specific person asked me to do so. But as the ugly events keep unfolding, it gets harder and harder to stay on the high road.

I'm sure you've all been there, whether you've gone through a bad breakup or not. In the workplace, in family squabbles, in arguments with friends...not every relationship is destined to stay happy and functional forever.

What follows is at least partly reflective of my current reality, and some of it may be reflective of past experiences having nothing to do with the people in the current situation, but I'm not going to say what's current (versus past), or what's reality (versus rhetoric).

Does continuing to act honorably when other people aren't doing likewise make me good person, or just a doormat? I don't know anymore.

At the start of the incident, whatever it may be, you tell yourself you will not resort to namecalling. You're not that kind of person, and you don't want to say anything in anger you'll regret later. Even if on some level, you would absolutely love to see the other person wounded as deeply as they've* wounded you, you know you'll feel bad about yourself later if you give in to that impulse. Then the other person starts calling you names. And you feel defenseless.

Still, you hang in there. You remind yourself that staying strong is something you're doing for you, regardless of what the other person does. You tell yourself that while in your darkest, most hurting moments you may have wished the other person could just disappear, you know you don't really want harm to befall the other person and it would be very wrong to express those dark, thankfully transient thoughts aloud. Then the other person starts expressing their dark, and apparently not-so-transient thoughts aloud. To your face. And you feel like the victim of an assault who isn't even trying to fight back. You know you don't deserve to be treated this way, but feel that short of going back on your promises to yourself, there's nothing you can do to stop it.

Nevertheless, you do not respond in kind. You tell yourself that even though you know this person very well, and it would be very easy for you to dredge up all sorts of things to hurt and humiliate the other person, you must not do it. Secrets told and embarrassing experiences endured under the bonds of family, friendship, or even just professional courtesy are never to be used against a person who trusted you with them at the time. Maybe even more importantly, such things are never to be shared with others. And then the other person starts dredging and sharing with a vengeance. And you start to question the rationality of keeping confidences when the other person isn't.

Even so, you control yourself. You tell yourself that even if the other person has said or done things that pretty much amount to a scorched-Earth campaign where your life and self-esteem are concerned, it doesn't mean you're entitled to do the same in return. Oh, there are things you could do, or things you could say in certain circles, that would ruin the other person professionally, legally, socially, emotionally or otherwise, but you don't.

Yet the other person has zero gratitude for your consideration, and repays your kindness with more cruelty. The other person acts as if you have done and said all the terrible things you haven't, and seems to feel righteous in lashing out at you. The other person claims to have the moral high ground, and you're so (figuratively) bloodied, exhausted, confused, and filled with self-doubt that you have to keep taking reality checks with friends and family to verify the truth of the situation.

You start to feel like someone who's getting up at dawn every day to: bake a pie from scratch, hand-deliver it to someone piping hot, let the other person throw the scalding pie in your face, and go to bed early so you can get up the next day and repeat the process all over again. I never thought of myself as the type of person who would allow herself to be treated poorly, yet lately I'm more or less volunteering for it.

If what I'm doing is good, why do I feel so bad? If playing by the rules is its own reward, why does it feel like a punishment?

*I realize this use of "they" or its variant is grammatically incorrect, but I'm trying to avoid using gender-specific prounouns in this post; I feel that using the typical "he or she" construct would be awkward here, and would only draw more attention to my avoidance of those pronouns

Flatten Your Stomach With This One, Silly Old Trick

2010-06-07T20:39:00.000-07:00

Aren't you sick of seeing that stupid tagline all over the interwebz? I know *I* am. But believe it or not, for anyone going through major life trauma of some kind, I have a tip to share that will alleviate your stress and flatten your stomach. Full credit where credit's due: this tip comes from my friend Ken, who got it from his brother, Kraig.

In the spirit of new beginnings, I did something a couple weeks ago that's either brave or foolhardy: I bought my first two-piece bathing suit in over 20 years. It's one of those new ones with board shorts for the bottoms and a bikini-type coordinating---but not exactly matching; what will these crazy kids today think of next?---top. Now all I have to do is wear it. In public. Around other people. Some of them, men. I never thought this could happen, but in a very roundabout kind of way, icky thoughts have become my bathing suit season friend. If you're wrestling with a demon or two, put 'em to work.

Every time you catch yourself thinking about the thing that upsets or worries you---you know, stuff like financial difficulties, being forced to leave the home you love, your marriage ending abruptly, wondering how that big 'ol scar on your breast is going to go over the next time you get naked with someone...but I digress---immediately do 5 stomach crunches. More, if it's convenient.

Doing something that requires physical coordination instantly shuts off the higher thought processes in your brain so your head can concentrate on what your body's doing. No higher thought processes = no more mental treadmill. Amazingly, when the 5 crunches are over your brain will not immediately snap right back into that icky thought track you were so anxious to leave behind, either.

In my case, the icky thoughts most often seem to assail me when I'm out in public. For some reason Target and the grocery store are major icky thoughts magnets. Maybe because those places have such strong associations with home, marriage and family for me. Now, I can't just park my cart, lie down in the aisle and punch out 5 stomach crunches in front of a bunch of other shoppers. And sometimes it's not convenient to do so at home either; like when I'm in the shower, for instance. At such times I just flex my abs, hold for a few seconds, release, and repeat four more times.

Considering how frequently I need to quash icky thoughts these days, my midsection should be all ready for its summertime unveiling by the end of the month. if you'd rather work some other part of your body, you can adapt this trick pretty easily so long as whatever it is you're trying to tighten or reduce can be easily flexed in public without drawing attention.

On a totally unrelated note...if it seems like I'm not posting very often, that's because I'm not. I'm going through some pretty heinous stuff all right, but it's stuff I can't write about here. ='(

Our House, In the Middle of Our Street

2010-05-21T14:37:00.000-07:00

As I write this, I'm sitting in the front bedroom of my 1896 craftsman cottage home. It's on the city's historical record and everything. When my ex and I bought it---the first home either of us had ever purchased---a little over 13 years ago, it was a small but charming two bedroom, one bath on a generous lot, with plenty of room to grow. We could add on in the future and still have a large yard out back, with all our fruit trees and the frogs, birds and squirrels that call our yard home.

About four years ago, we decided we'd put it off as long as we could. Our son and daughter were getting too old to keep sharing a bedroom, and mortgage rates were still low---but who could say for how long? So I planned and designed a remodel that would do away with the negatives of the original house while introducing some new, custom features I knew my family and I would particularly enjoy. I even drafted the first set of drawings myself. By the time all was said and done, we'd have a four bedroom, three bath house with a larger kitchen and plenty of storage space.

I chose the paint colors, the window treatments, the bath fixtures, the lighting fixtures...everything, right down to the outlet covers and switchplates. Of course I ran everything by my ex, and he had veto power, but I was the designer and prime driver of the project.

We stayed in the house all through the remodel, including a four-month period during which the one, pre-existing bathroom had been demolished and none of the new bathrooms were yet ready for use. We used a port-a-john on our front lawn, made frequent trips to my in-laws' place the next town over for showers, and generally got used to a different level of personal hygiene than any of us would've liked. My ex even used a camp shower on the front lawn a few times.

Budget was always a concern, right from the start, but I've always been a smart shopper. If there was a deal to be had, I found it. We got top-of-the-line flooring at half its usual price because I hunted down a bolt of the stuff someone else had custom-ordered and never picked up. I waited until the start date of a special rebate deal on top-quality paint before buying up all we'd need for the interior. I bought "past season" lighting fixtures, wondering how something that's supposed to be installed permanently can have a "season", but happy to save 25-50% all the same. I haunted the 'returns, dings and dents' department at Ikea for months, ever on the lookout for deals on the new fixtures and furnishings we'd need. We had the contractor's crew prime the interior walls, but did all the interior painting ourselves to shave a few more thousand off the budget.

When city hall tried to impose a because-we-can fee to the tune of $4500 on top of the usual permit and inspection fees, I was the one who did all the legal research, filed the paperwork to fight the fee, and eventually found a pro-bono legal group to take on the case. It took a lot of time and a ton of effort, but in the end I won.

I have so many memories of the remodel. Cooking dinner in our living room, using nothing but a microwave and a handful of cups and dishes. Nearly flying off the air mattress in that same living room each night when my ex sat down on it (not that he's heavy, he's actually a naturally thin person; it's just the nature of air mattresses). The looks on the kids' faces the first time they saw their new rooms framed, and their excitement in being able to set up those rooms exactly how they wanted. Standing at the checkout counter of Home Depot one bleary evening after my umpteenth trip back to get some piece of hardware or other that day, having a spider rappel out of my hair, land on the counter in front of the cashier and scurry away, with me not even flinching. Soaking in the master bathroom tub as soon as it was plumbed, before it was enclosed by walls, steam rising all around me in the chill air, looking up at the stars. Designing and glazing custom ceramic switchplate covers for each of my kids' rooms at one of those paint-your-own-pottery shops, and their joy at receiving them. My ex and I working side by side to install fixtures and paint the rooms. *sigh* It was an exhausting, demanding, happy, and---I thought---bonding time.

We received our occupancy permit from the city, marking the end of the project, Memorial Day weekend of '07. Not quite three years ago. Two years of planning, working, fighting the city, going without a bathroom for months at a time, and memories of building a home for my family, and it all amounted to less than three years of enjoying the fruits of all that labor. And unfortunately, thanks to the real estate crash that began almost immediately after our remodel was completed, having to sell the house now means we will not realize the full value of all we put into it.

Not surprisingly, upon hearing about my impending divorce, friends and family are quick to ask if I can keep the home I've poured so much of myself into, and have worked so hard to create. The answer is no. There's simply not enough money coming in to support both the mortgage on this house and the second home my ex now requires. Unless some wealthy, selfless samaritan happens to leave an envelope addressed to me on my porch, containing the 300k it would take to pay the mortgage down to a point where I could handle the monthly payment on my own (or deposits a similar sum in my PayPal account - hint, hint to any wealthy samaritans), this home I've loved so much is just one more loss being thrust upon me.

I know it's just a building. I realize many families have lost their homes in recent years, due to economic hardship. I know I should just be grateful that when the house is sold, my share of the equity will be enough for a modest down payment on a condo. It will be smaller, and it won't have a yard, and it won't be in this highly desirable neighborhood, but it beats being homeless.

Still, it's hard to walk away. On reflection, I realize all the time, effort and love I put into this house were really just manifestations of my efforts and desire above all else to have a happy, secure family. I wanted my children to have the space they needed to grow up in. I wanted my husband and I to have a place to retreat, away from the household bustle, as a couple. I wanted one of those kitchens that's the heart of the home, where everyone likes to gather to share both physical and emotional nourishment. I wanted a place in that kitchen where my husband and I, or son and I, or daughter and I would share heart-to-heart talks and cocoa in the wee hours. I imagined the sight of my kids, all dressed up and all grown up, coming down the new stairs on their respective prom nights.

I'm not sure which part of this is the harder: knowing exactly what I'm giving up, or not knowing what will replace it.

Nights Are Hard, Part 2

2010-05-17T23:31:00.000-07:00

At midnight the tears
Spill into your ears
And the pain is a thing that’s alive.
So happy to see you,
It wants to be you.
And hopes morning will never arrive.

What Goes Up...

2010-05-16T17:06:00.000-07:00

...must come back down, evidently.

I'd been feeling so good. So normal. So functional. I hadn't cried in weeks. And then something happened, something I can't write about here because it involves certain other people who would rather not be featured players on the internet.

If you've been following this blog from the start, you know what my deal is. You know my husband recently left me after over 18 years of marriage. You can guess some of the circumstances surrounding that situation, they're not unusual. And if you try to guess what might have happened two days ago, about a month after he moved out, that would bring my new, fragile little world crashing down around me, the list of possibilities is short. Pick one and plug it in; if you're not right, you're not too wide of the mark.

It's crushing to feel most of the progress I've made over the past few weeks evaporate in a single day. No, in a single moment. It's demoralizing to realize I'm still in a place where my sense of well-being is still largely under the control of other people---and that the one person who has the most control over it is the one who walked out on me in the first place. Hardly the person I would've left in charge, if it were up to me.

The unwanted companions are all back: pain, doubt, fear, anger, insomnia, loss of appetite and sudden, unexpected emotional outbursts in public places.

Tomorrow, a realtor is coming over for a consultation about getting my house ready to sell. I was feeling strong and confident when I made that appointment. Now, not so much. Dread, come on in. The gang's all here.

Better Things

2010-04-27T19:02:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling SOOO much better since that last post, and I have some IRL (In Real Life) friends, cyber friends, colleagues, family members and the commenters on this blog to thank for it.

Sandee brought over a lovely dinner basket with her homemade spaghetti sauce and lots of other goodies over a week ago, but since I just enjoyed the second jar of sauce I'd like to thank her again. With me just getting by from day to day, barely having the energy to get to the supermarket, never mind cooking anything, the gift was appreciated both in the practical and emotional sense. Sandee's clearly one of those ladies who can show her love through cooking, and I definitely felt it.

My tough and level-headed but sweet friend Karin took me to the Renaissance Faire on Saturday. It was my first day out in weeks, and neither the weather nor company could've been better. I used to love the Faire as a teenager, but since getting married and having kids, I haven't had the same kind of Faire experience as back in the day. Saturday was like a refreshing blast from the past, with Karin generously encouraging me to do whatever I liked. Luckily, we both particularly enjoy the shows at Faire, as well as browsing the artisan booths---more to admire the craftsmanship than to buy, for the most part, though I did pick up a couple of small items for my kids and a beautiful piece of pottery crafted by Jon Price.

It's a lovely, wide-mouthed vase with a sunny, multi-colored glaze. The first picture shows the entire vase, though it's a little fuzzy. The closeups show details of the glazing at the mouth of the vase, and at the base.

It has all the colors of the rainbow in it, and because of the glazing technique, looks like it's covered in a combination of multicolored flowers, dandelions and fireworks. The blue-green parts toward the bottom remind me of Monet's Waterlilies, and the brighter parts at the top remind me of the work of Roger Dean. (Go ahead and feel free to click the links - images will open in a new window)

Dean designed most of the album covers for Yes, one of my favorite prog-rock bands from high school to this day. This one little piece of pottery encompasses so much beauty and warm nostalgia for me, it makes me happy just to look at it sitting on the shelf in my room. But because of its association with things I loved in my youth, it also very nearly conjures my 17 year old self back into being when I admire it.

And were it not for Karin's offer to take me to the Faire, I wouldn't have this gorgeous little oasis of well-being. So thank you, Karin. Thank you so very much.

The evening after my day at Faire, I called Ken, a very dear friend I first met as a freshman in high school. We'd gotten back in touch on Facebook some months back, but hadn't truly reconnected. Ken reached out to me when he learned about my recent troubles and invited me to call anytime. Since he's also divorced now and has children close in age to my own, I figured he'd be a great source of much-needed advice. But he's so much more than that.

We talked for close to three hours, and amazingly, it was as if we'd only been out of touch for a few days instead of over 27 years. He's the same funny, kind, honest and warm Ken he was back then, but now he's a lot wiser to boot---and I mean moreso than the wisdom that naturally comes with age. We compared notes, we reminisced, we talked about Big Issues and small things. By the end of that long talk, I felt more authentically me than I have in years. More importantly, I felt my authentic self was valued. It's a feeling that has yet to fade, and for that, I owe Ken more gratitude than I can express in words.

Then, of course, there's my stalwart rock of a friend, Paula. She's been right there with me through all the ups and downs, just one town over and never further away than a phone call. She's been going through some stuff of her own lately, and still finds it in her heart and schedule to be there for me in my time of most dire need. Paula was happy to hear I had plans to go out this weekend, and happier still to hear how my day went afterward. Paula, I love you and hope that very soon, I'll be pulled together enough to reciprocate for you.

Sunday, I spent some time cleaning out my email inbox. Doing so gave me occasion to look back over the many, many supportive emails I've received in the past few weeks. This definitely helped to keep the good feelings going. I could easily fill another two paragraphs just reciting the names of all these thoughtful friends, acquaintances, colleagues and even some total strangers, but you all know who you are. I'd also like you to know how much I've appreciated your messages of hope and concern. There were many days when your uplifting energy was the only thing keeping me afloat, because heaven knows I didn't have it in me to get through this alone.

I also get email notifications when someone leaves a comment on one of my blogs, and those small packages of caring have meant a great deal, too. In recent weeks, I've often felt like someone trying to cross a raging river by leaping from exposed stone to exposed stone. The comments of my blog readers are some of the largest and most stable stones I've had while making the crossing. Thanks to all of you, as well.

This brings me to today. Today, I reserved the domain http://www.indieauthorguide.com/. I've long been planning to create a companion website to go with the book when it comes out this fall, but recent circumstances have delayed any actual activity on that front. It's just a baby step, reserving the domain. I still need to build the site. But amazingly, instead of feeling daunted and overwhelmed at the prospect of such a big project (as has been typical for me of late), I'm excited about this and looking forward to it. There are some other large-ish projects I've promised to others that I'll need to finish first, but I'm feeling very positive about them, too.

Besides the welcome industry on tap for me this week, I'm looking forward to my usual Wednesday night screening with another close friend, Erin. She and I started our screenings by watching both seasons of Carnivale, one episode at a time. When that was over we switched to Dexter. Erin's concern and caring have been very important to me, but so has keeping to our Wednesday night routine. In a world where nothing seems to be where I left it or expected it anymore, routines have become surprisingly crucial. I'll see you Wednesday, Erin. Thanks for keeping on keeping on.

I know my separation and divorce aren't finished with me yet. There's still plenty of ick, why me, no effing way, you gotta be kidding me, and oh god when will this be over in store. There's divorce proceedings, selling the house, buying a new home and moving, none of which will be fun. There's a lot of other stuff involving my kids, ex and family members which I'm not writing about here, too.

But I've felt really good, and really okay, for four whole days now. And it's all because, in one way or another, this is the message with which I've been so generously surrounded:

Here's hoping four days turns into five. And then six. And then, maybe, a whole week.

Milestones & The New Woman

2010-04-23T18:49:00.000-07:00

I washed the dishes and cleaned the kitchen today. It probably doesn't seem all that impressive to you, and it wouldn't have impressed me either about two months ago. But today, it seems like winning the New York Marathon, reaching the summit of Everest, and swimming the English Channel, all rolled into one big accomplishment.

It's been a little over a month since everything fell apart. I've only just begun to feel sort of like myself again, and only for a little while each day. But it's a little longer each day. Eventually, instead of counting my "feeling like myself again" time in hours, it'll be days. And then weeks. And then months.

Today, it was about ninety minutes this morning, and maybe another hour at some point in the afternoon. The rest of the time is still weird, unfamiliar and surreal. Six weeks ago I had a certain reality, a specific life with specific routines and trappings. Now, I'm not quite sure what I have. It's something I'm having to figure out all over again, hours and days at a time, but without the youth, self-assurance and cockiness that were there in me the first time around. Where the life I set out to build in my twenties was defined by possibilities and expansiveness, this new one seems distinguished by limitations and losses. It's easier to think about it in terms of what it isn't, and never will be again, than what it is and could be someday.

My friend Paula (remember her? the wise, web-developer one?) tells me this kind of thought process is called "catastrophizing", and it's a normal part of the cycle of loss and grieving. It's like your mind and heart have to imagine the worst case scenario, you almost have to feel that pain, to bear a future reality that's actually nowhere near as dark as your imaginings, but is definitely different and sometimes pretty awful. For now I have to take it as an article of faith that my new life will be better than the old one in a lot of ways, because hard evidence of that won't be forthcoming for a long while. For now, it's about coping with loss, and grief.

Make no mistake, I am most definitely grieving. I feel like I'm grieving not only for my old life, but for the old me too, because that woman is dead now. There's this new woman in her place, but I've only known her for a little over a month and she's been a useless wreck for most of that time.

The dead woman was a dynamo of productivity, energy, hope, caring, organization and good humor. And I miss her. She could get more done by 9am than the new woman can get done all day. She was always full of good ideas and practical solutions. She loved to laugh, and talk to people about common interests. She loved to learn new things and explore the unfamiliar neighborhoods of her town and the nearby college campuses. She was the sort of person who'd get a notion and act on it, just like that.

The new woman only shows glimmers of some of those things; blink, and you'll miss them. She's sad, and tired, and has a lot of trouble focusing on the positive. She's not sure there's much positive to be had yet. She doesn't eat much, because nothing tastes good. She rarely smiles, because she doesn't feel good. She sleeps a lot because she's healing, in every sense of the word. She casts about for distractions, but nothing can hold her attention for long because nothing seems very interesting.

But today, she cleaned the kitchen and did the dishes. She did these things because she remembered that it's in her nature to be neat, and she realized that having a clean kitchen might make her feel a tiny bit better. More like herself. She also realized that the act of cleaning it might make her feel better, too. More capable, more normal.

And it did.

It's Over, And I'm OK

2010-04-15T21:30:00.000-07:00

The pathology report showed a small "nodule" of hinky stuff right at the center of the mass, entirely surrounded by benign cells in a very thick layer. It also shows nothing but benign or normal tissue all around the exterior of the mass, so that's pretty much the end of that. It's out, I'm cured.

Oh, I still have to remain vigilant for recurrence, but that's not really any different than before. All women my age are supposed to be doing self-exams and staying alert for changes, whether they've had a close call or not.

I won't be counting myself among the community of "survivors", since my experience was so short-lived and relatively non-traumatic, and the mass was so overwhelmingly harmless. There was no chemo, radiation, or hormone therapy for me. There was no mastectomy and reconstruction---only the worry of it.

So yeah, I had a good scare for about a month. And I had a surgery, and now I have about a 2.5" scar. But I also still have the rest of my breast, my hair, my peace of mind, my uncompromised immunity and plenty more that I feel puts me squarely in the Technicality category here.

But I can tell you one very good thing that's already come out of this, something I feel really good about. Both my Mom and sister had been neglecting their self-exams and mammograms, and both scheduled mammos within a week of my diagnosis.

Yay! I'm a living cautionary tale! ='D [<--first smiley emoticon I've put out there in weeks]

Now, to just get through selling my house and that pesky divorce...

Monkey Slippers, Ladykillers & Chocolate

2010-04-11T17:42:00.000-07:00

My surgery was performed this past Thursday, the 8th. The surgeon said the mass turned out to be a little larger than she anticipated, but she's confident she got all of it out. I won't know for certain if she's right, or what was found in the mass, until I go back this Tuesday. That's the date of my follow-up visit, when the surgeon will check the condition of the incision and go over the pathology results with me.

Until then, I'm living in limbo on two different fronts. The obvious one is not knowing what's in the pathology report. The second is that I can't really get off the starting blocks on my new, single life until this matter is settled since I don't know if more treatments or surgeries are in my future. For now, I'm stuck living in the ruins of my old, married life. And it's very, very hard.

But none of that is what this blog post is supposed to be about. The night before my surgery, I collected some of my thoughts and wrote them down...

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It's ten pm, and I'm due to check in for my surgery in exactly twelve hours.

I've taken my Silkwood chemical shower. At my pre-op appointment, I was given two sealed surgical scrub sponges and told to wash myself from neck to waist with one of them in the shower tonight, and repeat with the second tomorrow morning. It seems like overkill, since I know they're going to swab my entire torso with betadine antiseptic---that awful orange stuff that irritates your skin and stains---when I get there anyway. And if this extra bit of washing is really critical to the surgery, shouldn't a nurse be doing it? I mean, it's not like bagging your own groceries.

I've been told not to eat or drink anything past midnight. That's no challenge for me at all, since I've had no appetite ever since my life imploded. Except for the frequent emotional breakdowns in public and the total lack of motivation to do anything, divorce + breast tumor = the best diet ever!
='/ [<--that's a rueful emoticon, in case it's unclear]

I've lost over 15 pounds in the past two weeks, thanks to living on nothing but twice-daily servings of beef jerky and the occasional Carnation Instant Breakfast drink. I figure if jerky kept the Native Americans alive through harsh winters and long journeys, it'll do for me in a pinch. It's easy, protein-packed, and unlike all other foods at this point, doesn't taste like cardboard. It tastes like jerky-flavored cardboard.

Part of me wants to chow down on every scrap of junk food I can find right up until midnight, but the rest of me thinks it's childish and isn't hungry anyway.

It's finally sinking in, at the worst possible time: I'm going under the knife tomorrow. One of the possible complications of surgery is...death. I'd better plan to leave my laptop with my very dear friend Paula, who happens to be a freelance web developer, along with instructions for how to login to my various sites as Administrator. That way, in a worst-case scenario, she can let all my online peeps know what happened and close all my accounts.

I'll also have to let my Mom know where my important papers are, where the kids' important papers are, and where to find all my financial account information. I know that in light of my recent separation, planning for the worst is very necessary. But it sure isn't helping me "hope for the best," as they say.

For some reason, my thoughts turn to what I'll be wearing on the table, and what I'll be changing back into for the ride home. In the supercharged melodrama of the moment and circumstances, it suddenly seems important not to miss this opportunity to seize on the power of symbols and talismans.

I've been trying to follow Paula's (wise) advice to me when everything first fell apart; she said if there's anything I can do, say, write, wear or think that will make me feel even the tiniest bit better or stronger, I should do it without hesitation or embarrassment. You know what always makes me feel a tiny bit better? Wearing my sock monkey slippers and Ladykillers pajama bottoms:

Comfy, warm, and sort of like having two sock monkey dolls with you wherever you go. What's not to love?

They say things like, "Look at you with all those curves and me with no brakes!" and "If you were a laser gun, you'd be set on stunning!" and "I'm new around here, can you give me directions to your apartment?" They always make people who see them laugh, and laughter makes me feel better.

So my pre- and post-op wardrobe is set.

I remember the two Ghirardelli chocolate bars my Mom bought for me earlier today, hoping to entice me to eat a little more. Maybe I should take one in my bag for tomorrow, after it's over and I'm awake again. Chocolate-flavored cardboard is better than plain cardboard.

What Trumps Fear of Cancer?

2010-04-06T19:16:00.000-07:00

A number of people have marveled at my cool head with respect to my upcoming surgery, on the 8th. They've asked how I manage to keep so calm, and remark that if our roles were reversed, they'd be nervous wrecks.

The answer is that my separation and impending divorce are weighing much more heavily on me than the health issue. I do tend to be the obsessive type, and I myself have wondered why and how I could possibly back-burner the threat of cancer. After thinking it over I've concluded the reason why I'm not living in fear for my life is that I feel as if I've lost it already.

I've lost virtually everything that matters most to me; so many things I thought I had and always would. A marriage, a life partner, a best friend, an intact nuclear family, a shared future, a home I designed and loved, a certain kind of relationship with my children, the security in believing I'd never have to worry about being someone's ex-wife, someone else's second wife, or any child's stepmother. The security in believing I'd never have to get back on the dating merry-go-round, or endure any awkward blended-family holidays.

All of those things, the things that formed most of the fabric of my life, self-image and identity, are gone now. I have to build a whole new life, a new self-image and identity, and I have to do it at the age of 45. Cancer can't be any scarier than that.

Nights Are Hard

2010-03-31T10:55:00.000-07:00

I'm not sleeping much, and what little sleep I am getting is mostly during the day. When you've been used to sleeping next to a certain warm body for over 18 years, drowsily reaching out to squeeze a hand or stroke an arm when one of you stirs enough to wake the other, the absence of that body is felt more keenly than the presence of it ever was.

In the indifferent dark and quiet of the wee hours, when everyone else is peacefully snoozing---even the cats---, I'm lying wide awake and exhausted. Every time I start to get within range of a doze, some new and unwanted question or realization inserts itself into my psyche. Here's a sampling from around 2am this morning.

What's going to happen with the trip we've always taken every summer with his side of the extended family, for which the condo has already been reserved? Is he going to go with the kids, or am I? Will we just send the kids with his parents? If he goes, will I resent it? If I go, will I be able to enjoy the trip at all or will it be awkward? And if we just send the kids, will they spend the whole time wishing we were both there?

If I end up having more surgery, how long will I be laid up and dependent on him to take care of the kids? How will I look when it's over, and how will it feel?

My car's 11 years old and we'd been talking about getting me something new. What happens now? Is this something I can have written into the divorce settlement?

What questions do I need to ask our tax preparer when we see him in a couple of days? What are the tax ramifications of divorce?

I'm a 45 year old woman with two children and the body of a 45 year old woman who's had two children. Soon to be divorced. Is any man ever going to be interested in this package deal, or am I doomed to be alone for the rest of my life? Could I be happy alone, like Kate Hepburn?

Should I go back to dyeing my gray hair? Do I have to start wearing Spanx now?

In Something Wicked This Way Comes, Ray Bradbury writes that 3am is the "midnight of the soul" for men. It's no picnic for women either, Ray.

OMG, It's Totally Like That! OMG, It's Totally Not!

2010-03-30T10:10:00.000-07:00

You know how in the movies, sometimes people react to a shock by throwing up? And you're sitting there watching the movie, thinking, "Now come on, that's some major dramatic license! Bad news can't make people throw up!" As it turns out, yes, it can. If the news is bad enough---"sickening" enough would be the literal term, I suppose.

And you know how in the movies, when the spunky heroine gets screwed over, she spends a few hours having a photogenic cry in a lyrical montage, walking on a windblown beach, through a fall-dappled park (the falling leaves symbolize change), or sniffling into a tissue as she sits before a roaring fire, surrounded by gorgeous home furnishings, taking occasional sips of tea from an antique cup, often with a breathtaking view of the city or the bay through the windows in the background? And how the next morning she pulls herself together and Gets Back Out There To Take On The World, perhaps beginning with a shopping spree for clothes that broadcast her newfound self-confidence? That one is a big, fat, honking lie.

What really happens is, you have a huge, noisy, messy, window-rattling cry at first, surrounded by the piles of laundry, dishes and mail you're too exhausted to even contemplate. That lasts maybe twenty or thirty minutes. Then it happens again. And again. And just when you're starting to think you'll be okay and are finally ready to rejoin the world of the rational and self-controlled, it happens again. There's nothing photogenic about it, or about you. Thanks to a number of huge, noisy, messy, window-rattling cries over the past two weeks, my face now resembles that of a sunburned mole. With the mumps.

Then you calm down, wash your face, try to make yourself look presentable and finally leave whatever little cave of anguish you've been wailing in. And you're still very, very upset, but you're holding it together. Until suddenly, you're not. This usually happens in public, and without any particular precipitating event. Unwanted thoughts assault you and hold you hostage on a mental merry-go-round of fixations, recriminations, rage and despair.

When you pick up a bottle of window cleaner at the supermarket you're reminded that very soon you will be using it to clean different windows because you'll be selling your house. But it's not just selling a house, it's losing your home. You turn on the TV for some distraction and wonder why you never realized how many happy couples there are on your favorite shows. You realize many of the favorite songs on your iPod are favorites because they're associated with memorable times you've shared with your ex, and it occurs to you they will never, ever sound the same to you again. You hear, see, or read something that strikes you as funny, fascinating or provocative, and you're halfway there with the impulse to share it with your partner before you realize he's not your partner anymore. Then you realize how much of your former enjoyment of such things came from sharing them with him.

You also find that the customary greeting of, "How are you?" has suddenly become a loaded question buried in an emotional mine field. You have to muster every ounce of self-control to reply with the anticipated rejoinder of, "Fine, thanks. And you?" instead of collapsing into the other person's arms in a sniveling heap. Amazingly, that's the impulse you have even if the person who asked how you are is a bank teller or retail sales clerk. Those church ladies I turn away from my door every month may be in for a surprise next time they show up.

(If any of you church ladies are reading this, my advice is to open with, "How are you?" and as soon as you detect my jaw tightening, follow it up quickly with, "You seem upset, is anything wrong?" You'll be so in there.)

Then you call or email your friends, and sympathetic family members, and they spackle over the cracks in your self-image and self-control with their love and support. They tell you you're not crazy, you're strong, you're capable, that you'll get through this and one day, you'll wonder why you didn't leave him a whole lot sooner.

And then, if you're me, you write.

Descent

2010-03-16T19:02:00.000-07:00

About two weeks ago, a doctor told me she suspects I have breast cancer.

Two days later, my husband of over 18 years, the father of our two young children, announced he's leaving me.

Go ahead, take your time; let it sink in. Let your jaw hang slack and your eyes go glassy a while, that's the normal reaction. I'm not even sure I've fully processed it yet. There's ugly and a whole lot of it here, so let's just tackle these two mind-boggling, life-altering traumas one at a time, shall we?

Like Sarah Palin, My Right Breast Has Gone Rogue

A mammogram, ultrasound and core needle biopsy have all shown a mass with some characteristics of Phylloides Cystosarcoma (PC). It also shows some characteristics of Fibroadenoma, a benign type of mass, but since the usual treatment prescribed for Fibroadenomas is take two wait-and-watch-for-changes and call when it's time for your next mammogram, I'm interpreting the fact that they've scheduled me for surgery in ten days as a strong indicator that there's good reason for concern. I get my healthcare through an HMO, and HMOs aren't known for handing out tests, treatments or surgeries like candy on Halloween.

PC is a rare type of breast tumor that's technically classified as cancer whether its cells are benign or malignant because either way, it tends to grow quickly and large, interfere with or deform surrounding tissues, and some studies have shown the so-called benign form is actually more likely to metastasize, or spread, to other parts of the body than the malignant form. In related news, there's also a "borderline" form of PC that's kinda malignant, and kinda benign, and totally unpredictable. Fun!

PC isn't quite like any other kind of breast mass, but since it only comprises about 1% of all diagnosed breast tumors PC has not been widely studied and is not well-understood. The cherry on top of this particular sundae is that PC tumors have not been shown to respond to chemotherapy, radiation or hormone therapies; the only treatment for them is removal.

My Husband Is No Longer My Husband

Apparently he's had his mind made up about this for quite a while, but on reflection (or a total lack thereof), decided that two days after learning about my health crisis was the right time to share the happy news about the new life he intends to have without me.

There are plenty of sordid details and shocking incidents surrounding this that I'd absolutely love to share with you, but I won't, because it would ultimately hurt my children more than him. He is still their father and always will be, and I realize this is a very public forum. Protecting my children from further trauma is uppermost in my mind, and indulging my baser impulses, however justified they may be, isn't the way to accomplish that goal.

Why Blog It?

So, that's the 'To Hell' part of this blog. The '& Hopefully Back' part is what I hope will be happening over the rest of this year. This blog won't be a repository for my anger at the former Mr. April L. Hamilton. Instead, I want it to be about the process of surviving, and then, one day, if I've earned any positive karma in this life at all, thriving again.

I need someplace to document the surreal-ness of it all, to validate the experiences of others who are facing the same challenges (though hopefully, not both at the same time like me), offer a window of insight to those who have friends or family facing these crises, and share whatever little life preservers I find along the road to recovery.

Well, all of that, and it's cathartic. Writing is my home, and my safe haven. It's something that's always been totally mine, the one area of my life where I'm not anyone's wife or patient, or even mother. I'm just me. It's both a tool and a gift I've been given, and it's the only thing that can pull me back from the void sometimes.

Right now, I'm still in shock. I feel like someone who's just managed to crawl onto a lifeboat leaving the Titanic, only to have the lifeboat crash into another iceberg. But I've got a life jacket, in the form of my children. A flare, in the form of my writing. A warm and protective wetsuit, in the form of the love and support of friends and family. And a large piece of driftwood to cling to, in the form of my sense of humor.

Now, since I intend to make it back to shore, I'd better start swimming.