sueeeus

Recently one of my new-found cousins (I have new-found cousins!!! [squeals with glee]) shared an article on FaceBook about the top 5 regrets people have on their deathbeds.  The first one, I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me, was especially timely for me.

In general, I avoid conflict and confrontation and tend to be a peace-keeper.  Having a peaceful nature isn’t in and of itself a problem, but the undue stress I subject myself to when navigating the tides of potential conflict is.    Case in point.  Gadget recently approached me for a loan.  I know.  Unbelievable.  I should know by now that any time he actually talks to me or is even remotely amicable, he is just playing me, working me, trying to get something from me.  I’m such an idiot.  An idiot, because I even engaged in the conversation in the first place.  Even more so, because both he and his wife were there.  That is some nerve, to team with the 28 year old new wife to ask the solvent, fiscally responsible 46 year old ex wife for a loan (oh, 25k, by the way).

The details are a work of art in themselves.  It would be a consolidation loan, to include all the moneys he already owes me, plus whatever other outstanding debts he’s managed to accrue in the year and a half since we’ve been divorced.  A loan from me to pay me back what he already owes me.  Hello?

The blinders I wore when I married that man.  Please.  I can only remind myself that I have my boys.  I have my boys.  I have my boys.

I was in the middle of the funeral arranging and real estate purchasing fray and told him I’ve got too many things to do right now, so I will think about it when I get some time.  I should have just said no, right then and there.  Couldashouldawoulda –the bane of my existence.

Part of me was angry that he would even put me in a position like that.  He knows that my nature is to help, and he knows that it’s hard for me to say no.  The problem is, he’s like a black hole.  He sucks energy and resources and life, without replenishing.  At some point it has to stop, which means I have to make it stop.  Hence the divorce.  Hence the need to say ixnay on the oanlay.  He cries his crocodile tears and racks up his layers of lies.

I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.

Saying no to him is being true to myself.  It’s an epiphany of sorts.  In a way it seems selfish, when I have the means to help him, but truly, it’s finally sinking in that I have to take care of myself (i.e., put myself first in some things) so that I can do what’s most important in my life, which is take care of my kids.  The best possible care.

Granted, I’m not particularly surprised to receive a message from him this evening that he won’t be able to pick up the kids in the morning, after all.  Is it coincidental that he knows I have a 10am appointment, since I made sure to confirm a few days ago that a 9am pickup would work, so that I could make the appointment in the first place?

I’m an idiot to give him the benefit of the doubt.  Again.  I should know better by now, not to make any plans.

I’m kind of pissed off, right now.*

kinda cute for a pissed off idiot, and kinda digging the stud and loop look

*Prior to the schedule change, I was going to write more about the epiphany, liberating thoughts, and being true to myself.  It was going to be a much more bright and positive post.  Alas, I have gone off on a whinge.  Again.

I need to write a will.  I’ve been meaning to for years, but I still haven’t done it.  I also need to establish a trust for my kids.  I want to minimize any burden my loved ones will have to endure in order to wrap up matters regarding my physical remains. In the event that I don’t get to it before my demise, let it hereby be known that these are my wishes:

• Estate. I leave everything to my children, to be divided equally between them, with my sister C’s oversight, should they not be of age.
• Body. I want to be cremated, via the budget route.  Waste no money on my remains, because I am not there.  It’s just a vessel and I’m done with it.  Enough.  I don’t want to be pumped full of nasty weird embalming fluids, and I don’t want worms and creepy crawly things creeping and crawling through my spent vessel, buried who knows where.  Don’t be duped into an emotional purchase of a cheesy urn, either.   Take my pulverized ashes in the generic plastic container and do with them what you will.  At that point, it’s your sentimental journey with the memory of me, and I embrace whatever that journey may be.   (If I’m wealthy enough or have set aside enough funds for things of this nature, I commission objects d’art be made from my pulverized remains, to be distributed as keepsakes for my loved ones.)
• Obit.  Oh, it’s a stressful thing to be tasked with preparing worthwhile and substantive words when you are traumatized or in shock or barely have your wits about you.  I could write my own, ready to be used in a pinch if my loved ones were in such a state.  Of course they are welcome to write what they want, but I could have something ready for them, in the case that they weren’t up to it.  I don’t really care if an obit is published, but maybe someone else does.  If they do, go for it.  It could go something like this:
  Suueeeus Maximus, 28 Mar 1965 – tbd
  Mother, sister, friend, working fool.  She loved everyone, she loved life, she worked hard, she did her best.  The end.
• Funeral.  I don’t want a dreary sad funeral.  If my loved ones gather, let them celebrate.  Let it be fun, with happy music, good food, drinks and much laughter.  Sing show tunes.  Laugh until your cheeks hurt.  Be together in the sphere of love and rejoice in each others’ company.
• Flowers.  Please don’t waste any money on those wretched stuffy and expensive flower arrangements that you see decorating caskets or propped against podiums at traditional funerals.  You know the ones, with sprays of gladioli arranged in ominous fans.  They mean nothing to me.  Simple happy farmer’s market type flowers are okay — daffodils, lilacs, tulips, lilies.  That sort of thing.

In Situ –  May 17th.

It’s going to be another bulleted post, since I’m lacking inspiration.  Or something.

• I thought I had a concept for a book the other day.  I played it out in my mind, and it was material that could be spun as a humorous tale.  The only problem was that it had nowhere to go.  I wanted a charming ending where the funny albeit wry bumps of the journey made it all worthwhile, but my imagination fizzled…  …however, it was very exciting to almost have a novel-worthy idea.
• I’m hoping to develop an addiction to exercise.  I’m finishing week 6 of the c25k program, and am pleasantly surprised that I actually look forward to the runs.  Who’da thunkit?
• Someone broke into and robbed the house next door to mine yesterday, and I was home and had no inkling whatsoever.  I have security cameras recording to a DVR, and retrieved some footage that might be helpful to the police.  Surprisingly, I’m not freaked out.
• I feel myself cycling back into a semi-anxious state, and need to do some regrouping and thinking over of things, in hopes of learning why this happens, time and time again.
• I stumbled upon a view property a couple of weeks ago, dismissed it, then stumbled upon it again last week and decided to take a look.  It was love at first sight, so I put an offer on it.  It’s a long shot, whether or not I’ll be able to buy it, but I’m strangely peaceful about it.  Whereas I’m anxious in general (see above bullet), I’m oddly and sincerely serene in accepting that if it’s meant to be, it will be.  Wow.

In retrospect – May 20th.

It’s been a strenuous week.

Independently of one another, my sisters and I have been dealing with a cloud of anxiety and depression that fell upon us over the past week.  We talk about these things, and speculate.  For one sister, there could be post partum influences.  My beautiful nephew, the sweetest bundle of perfection, is little over one month old.  For the other sister, there could be other health related influences, as she has adopted a vegan diet.  For me, the usual.  I’ve written ad nauseum regarding the yo-yo that is my emotional state.  We did speculate, however, that someone in the family was failing, and this funk in which we are immersed is the pre-stress to what lies ahead.

In some ways the news of my dad’s passing comes as a relief.  It’s an explanation for the anxiety and depression that has clouded us for the past week.  No longer do we have to question our individual selves, wondering “what is wrong with me?”  (I still do, though.)  It also strengthens our sense of connection we have with each other.  We are empaths, within our sphere.

My family.  Oh, I love my family with a fierce and abiding love.

~*~*~

I haven’t been able to breathe well for the past few days.  Allergies and stress are doing a number on me, and I am congested and have a headache from the lack of oxygen, I imagine.  I can’t breathe, I can’t sit, I can’t focus, I can’t stand the feel of anything on my skin.  It’s a good thing this is an exchange weekend — I dropped the kids off with their dad and I have a full evening and a day to be alone and process.

(This may be a very long post.)

By the time I finished my work obligations today, I felt like I was going to pass out from the physical manifestations of the compounded stressors.  I thought that a jog would help me to breathe and take my mind off of things.  I did a 5min warm-up, then jogged for 25 minutes straight, followed by another 5min cool down.  Yay me.  I really did it.  And it did help me to breathe (for that half hour, anyway).

Hello C25K week 7.

And then I curled up in fetal position in my kids’ bathtub and let tepid water rain on me while I cried.  (My big beautiful soaking tub doesn’t have a shower, and I had a strong urge to curl up fetal and be rained on.  I don’t know why, I just did.  And the kids are gone, so I could.)

~*~*~

The police were interested in my video footage, and a digital forensics detective came to my house to work with me to retrieve the evidence.  How CSI.  (I want to use an exclamation, “How CSI!” but I can’t muster it, except in reference.)  It took some coordination, because I happened to have had a very full workload this week, coupled with the flu-like symptoms that were kicking my @$$, as well as all the other bulleted items (see above).  It did feel good to be able to help, and it gave me a pleasant sense of community.

~*~*~

My sister told me she had a dream in which I whispered in her ear that I got the house.

~*~*~

I got the house.

~*~*~

I was serene at first (see bullets), then lost it amidst the fray of details that accompany real estate purchases, compounded with the hovering anxiety (see bullets), burglary (see bullets), and the passing of my father, in addition to that which is my life, i.e, commitments to my job, the demands of he who is two, and the challenges of he who is six.

I don’t actually have the house.  I have a verbal agreement via the chain of agents representing me, the seller and the seller’s bank that the seller’s bank will accept my offer.  My part is signed, and the ball is in motion.

Someday I may write about how it is perfect for me.  It’s small but it’s big.  It’s old but it’s new.  It’s Asian but it’s American.  I can look out any window and see salt water, trees and sky.  It speaks to me.  It’s meant to be.  It will be.

~*~*~

Some day, not too far hence, I will be able to look back on this time.  By then, these things that are closing in on me now will all be taken care of.  But in the next few days my siblings and I have to make our best guess at figuring out my dad’s last wishes, take care of his body, arrange a funeral, contact his siblings and friends, write and publish an obit, look for  a university or other appropriate place for his extensive library, and start to settle his estate.  Also in the next few days I have to choose a lender and commit to a mortgage and proceed with the remaining details of my real estate transaction.  Later I will have to get the new house ready, pack up and move my household, find a reliable renter for the house I live in now, find a good daycare for my children, and enroll my six year old son in school.  (Amidst all this there are plans to travel to Idaho to attend a 30 yr high school reunion, travel to Oregon for my niece’s wedding, travel to Oklahoma to visit my mom, grandma, and aunt, and travel to Arkansas to visit a friend. –This was going to be the summer to see everyone, and I was going to introduce my boys to their grandfather.  We were even planning to make the trip during our first available weekend, which might have been next weekend.  Alas.)

Things will settle.  By September, the bulk of these matters will be a thing of the past.  Today, this moment, it seems overwhelming and I’m exhausted (can’t breathe, can’t sit, can’t focus, see above).  I know we will all get through (barring the end of the world tomorrow, that is).

Right now, I just want to be alone, eat kimchee and rice, and say goodbye to my dad.

I’m grateful that I can be alone, this day of all days.

HCK

Hack.  The phonetic name he chose in deference to the imbeciles at Immigration who had no hope of understanding or correctly pronouncing his given name.  (He was and always has been the quintessential snob.)

“By Asian standards you are rude –understandable because you don’t know any better. –HCK, 20 April 2011”

Elegant. Charming. Original. Eccentric. Genius.  Fierce. Proud. Stubborn. Loyal.  Mystic. Recluse. Gourmet.

He didn’t refer to us as his children, but his descendants, my six brothers, two sisters, and I.  We are his descendants, and we collectively have six sons and four daughters, who in turn have three sons and two daughters.  We are his tribe, we are his clan.  In this he died a very wealthy man.

I’m starting to recognize my interesting and difficult personality is in many ways shaped by his.  I often wished that we could have had a better relationship, any relationship for that matter, but as well I can see that the very things that prohibited any sense of closeness are the things that contribute to the strength of who I am today.

From him I learned an appreciation for the finer things in life;  the best cup of tea, daffodils, garden fresh food, bone china, crystal, good leather, hard bound books.  Despite our poverty, he was impeccably dressed and always elegant, with a timeless sense of style.

From him I learned the joy of culinary adventures with exotic and intense explosions of flavor like kimchee, curry, and wasabi.

I hope the last moments were without fear or terror.  I hope he went peacefully.

I hope my brothers and sisters are mourning him gently, that their farewells are peaceful and without regret.  I hope the same for his brothers and sisters.

I’ve missed him most of my life, and now he’s gone forever.

My dad.

7 March 1926 – 19 May 2011

RIP

It’s easy to wax full of ambition and resolve when the sun is setting, the belly is content and the wine glass is nearly dry.  In my imagination I run effortlessly, cool wind on my face, the strains of Chariots of Fire echoing in my mind.  I run and run and run and run.  I fancy myself like young Beethoven, in that fabulous scene from Immortal Beloved, where he runs and runs and runs, finding his bliss, and floats beneath a million stars with the Ode to Joy bursting from his heart.

Alas.  The morning comes, and the light of day exposes the fantasy for what it is.  This body, though sturdy and strong, is by no means nimble and spry.  Binding the breastage in order to even attempt a run is no small feat that leaves me sweaty and practically winded before I’ve even put one foot to the floor.  Once outside, it takes almost no time for the burning sensation to sear its path along the outside of my legs, from my ankles to my knees.

I huff and I puff, and quickly decide that walking suits me fine.

Even so, I allow the fantasy to live on in the far reaches of my mind.

I want to be fit.  I do.  I don’t want to wait for a near tragedy or a wake up call to rattle my brains into acknowledging that I should respect myself enough to honor my vessel in every way imaginable, at all times, without fail.

There are so many forms of so-called motivation that I simply do not respond to.  In fact, they tend to have the opposite effect.  I need to find that sweet spot in which I block out that which doesn’t serve me well, and hone in on that which does.

I’m a work in progress.  I may be forty six, but it’s not too late.  It’s never too late.  Or, rather, it’s not too late until it’s too late.  Right now, it’s not too late.

So here I go.   Podrunner intervals for C25K locked and loaded.  Push ups for Android, check.  Water bottle, full.

a little fall of rain can hardly hurt me now

Look!

I survived!  (Day 1, anyway.)

Oh Lordy, 46 is closer to 50 than it is to 40, and 50 is a daunting number.

the sea refuses no river

I prefer not to trouble myself with silly numbers, though. I’m living life, reveling, seeking goodness, striving for the best of the best. In a word…

...busting out...

These are days.  These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break.
These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face.  And when you do, then you’ll know how it was meant to be…

(…there’s a song for everything…)

I’ve been smiling until my cheeks hurt.  Laughing.  Sleeping.  Dare I say it?  Relaxed.

In one extended weekend I’ve enjoyed so many things!  A ferry ride to explore an island, a drive to explore new parts of the city, fish and chips, and an amazing live performance of Carmina Burana with a full orchestra and over a hundred choral singers.  I’ve immersed myself in Immortal Beloved and been captivated by the Count of Monte Cristo.  I’ve had hearty country breakfasts, pink martinis, red wine and decadent coffees.

Good company, good friends, good times– I’m enjoying the best birthday of my life, effervescing in love and good will.

let there be cake

As for being 46?  I think I’m weathering it well.  Well enough.  I’m ready.  Bring it on.

lost in thought and lost in time

hope springs eternal

Spring is springing and I think I may be getting ahead of the seasonal blues, so I am hereby stopping the Wellbutrin XL therapy.

Today.

Now.

We shall see shortly whether or not this is (was) a good idea.

It’s another one of those days where I have everything in the world to joy and rejoice over, yet I find myself short of breath, anxious, and wanting to find a place to curl up and escape from who knows what.

meet the new boss, same as the old boss

I wish I could put my finger on it.  I don’t like it.  I actually stole away from my kids for a moment, under the pretense of changing into my jammies, and curled up in fetal position, in the dark, on my bed.  Two minutes, maybe three.  A brief, silent explosion of tears.

The only thing I can think of is an accumulation of things observed in my periphery.  Recognizing an estranged friend of a loved one and waving a greeting.  Relief that my little guy is finally eating again, after nearly a week of intestinal distress, and with that, possibly the realization of pent up anxiety and helplessness over his condition.  Knowing there is anguish consuming people I love, and not being able to do anything about it.  Feeling the ripples caused by my movements in and out of the lives of people around me.  Breaching comfort zones.  Guilt over not calling my dad to wish him a happy birthday.  I sent him a Ben Franklin, but I just couldn’t bring myself to call him.  Frustration with myself for allowing the simple business of life and living to affect me so viscerally and physically.

Fear, perhaps?  Fear that someone or everyone will notice that I’m not, after all, perfect.  Me, the girl with the golden life, unable to meet my own expectations.

Oh, who knows.  I’ll go to sleep tonight, and wake up to a brand new day with a smile on my face and a song in my heart, and all of this will be a thing of the past.  I will wonder how I could possibly ever fall into such a funk.  I will be perplexed, unable to understand it, so I will shake my head and dismiss it.  I might even tell myself I won’t let it happen again, because it makes no sense and there’s just no reason for it.  I might even believe it.

Until the next time.

Facebook is great for rediscoveries.  I recently stumbled upon one of my very first boyfriends.  We were so young — back then when going together meant sitting next to each other in the lunch room, or secretly holding hands on the band bus, en route to an event.

teenage awkwardness

Teenage antics.  There was a dance called the ‘morp’ – the opposite of ‘prom’ – in which roles were reversed and the girls asked the boys .  I wasn’t planning on going, and at the last minute, my girlfriends said they were going, so I decided to jump on the bandwagon and find a companion so I could go too.  I ambushed this poor boy with my invitation, after school on the day of the dance.  I was a sophomore, he was a senior.  I think he was stunned, but he agreed, and barely had time to rush home, take a shower, and return.  I don’t think we’d spoken a word to each other prior to the ambush, and we may have barely exchanged a word throughout the entire dance.  In fact, I might have actually ignored him completely, and hung out with my girlfriends.

And that is where we began.

puppy love

We never actually went out, other than the morp and the prom.  We were kids, poor, living out in the country in different directions from town, with very little freedom to wander.  But we were an item for that school year, and we’d sit next to each other in front of our lockers, and hang out whenever we could.  It was so sweet and innocent.  We were so sweet and innocent.

I’ve always had fond memories of that year; that chapter of my life.  I was coolly pragmatic, though, and when graduation time arrived, I let him go, broke his heart, and didn’t look back.

Through the years I’d wonder about him, off and on.  In my early twenties I heard through the grapevine that he had kidney troubles and might not have long to live.  I remember it was hard to hear that sort of thing, and I felt guilty for dropping him like a bucket of hot rocks and leaving him to pick up the pieces of his shattered heart and somehow patch them back together again.  I couldn’t process the thought of death at that time, so I did the cowardly thing and put my head in the sand, and went on with my life.

Thirty years passed.  The world wide web arrived, opening the floodgates for rediscovery.

Wonder of wonders, he survived the kidney failure(s) and is alive!  And not only that, he lives relatively nearby.  I apologized for my youthful cruelty, he graciously let bygones be bygones, and we arranged to meet, to catch up on the last three decades.

There is something warm and comforting about reconnecting with childhood friends.  We shared those formative years, and perhaps the bond feels tighter because we grew up in such a small town where everybody knew everybody.  It was a sweet reunion.  As adults, we live out of the hub in opposite directions, just like when we were kids, only the hub is much larger and the distance is much further.  We met in the city and walked arm in arm along the downtown streets and talked for hours.  We stopped for coffees, got drenched in the rain, stepped around puddles, and strolled and talked and talked and strolled.  We shared our stories of our families and friends, and reminisced about the innocence of youth.  Every now and then we’d giggle over catching glimpses of our childhood selves in expressions that crossed our aged faces.  We walked and talked the night away.

It was just what the doctor ordered.  I’m inspired to reconnect with more of my childhood friends, and awaken more fond memories.

I’ve just dropped the boys off with their dad.  I crave the tidbits of kid-free time that it affords me, but as soon as we part, I fall apart.  Every time.  If I’m not crying on my way home, I’m crying by the time I get there.

I’m nothing, if not consistent.

~*~*~

I try to put my finger on it.  I think a part of it is grief over the absence of a nuclear family.  It seems like it should be so simple.  Why can’t the man be the man and do his job as a man, the woman be the woman, and do her job as a woman, and the couple be a couple and do their job as a couple?  It worked in Mayberry RFD.  It seems like the Cleavers and the Cunninghams had it figured out, too.

Maybe it’s even more simple than that.  Why can’t the grownups be grownups and do what grownups are supposed to do?

~*~*~

I put some valentine goodies together for the boys to share with the other kids, and a card and box of chocolates for them to give their dad and his wife.  I wasn’t planning to do anything at all for Valentine’s Day, but it occurred to me that other kids in school will probably be exchanging valentines, and I don’t want my BB to show up empty handed and feel awkward about it.  So.  He will be well prepared.  While perusing the options, it also occurred to me that the new kids, the step-brother and sisters, would probably be delighted to receive valentines from the boys.  And of course, their dad would probably appreciate the sentiment from his boys as well.

I am a saint.

Mostly, I hope to instill thoughtfulness in my boys.  I doubt they will pick up on it much now, but if I’m consistent and steady, they will hopefully –eventually– learn to think of others, and not just themselves.

~*~*~

I have to get used to the fact that our life isn’t a storybook life.  It’s our own story, and we’re living it, and we’re living it fairly well.  I know this.  I have evidence.  My boys are healthy, boisterous, imaginative, inquisitive, humorous, and playful.  They laugh.  They tease me, tickle me, and play tricks on me.  They sleep soundly.  They are happy.  They know they are loved.