One foot in front of the other (Alternatively: Running is hard)

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Today I started training – in preparation of the real training. I’ve never run before in my life – hell, I’ve never really exercised. But years of eating and drinking basically whatever I wanted, plus two babies, plus a relatively sedentary job, it’s all taken its toll.

I’m geared up with specialty running shoes (and comfy inserts) and a ridiculous-looking sports bra (described online as designed to “encapsulate the breast… while compression limits motion…” sexy, right?!?) I dropped the kids off at school, fulfilled my school volunteer assignment (making photocopies for Ethan’s teacher), went to the grocery story, suited up to run (getting the bra on was a workout in-and-of itself…), and stretched.

I’m fortunate to live in a beautiful (and pretty flat) neighborhood with wide sidewalks, perfect for running. The weather was beautiful, about 42 degrees, slightly overcast, no wind. I had my route measured, exactly one mile from my house to the main road. My iPod was loaded with a running app to track my time and distance. How hard could it be to run (with a little walking) one mile to the road, one mile back?

It was hard. Really fucking hard.

I was feeling okay at 0.25 miles, so I thought I’d start my run. I made it another 0.1 miles before I was breathing hard, my calves starting to tighten. I slowed back to a brisk walk. At the 0.5 mile mark, I attempted another run, and I made it another 0.1 miles before walking. Then I kind of panicked. I wasn’t sure I could even get to the mile mark, but what if I did get there and then didn’t have the energy to get back…

“Just keep walking,” I willed myself.  I thought about how I was doing this for me, for my kids. In the last few weeks, I’ve been thinking a lot about my mortality. If I die, what happens to my kids? I need to get healthier. I need to set a good example for my kids. I need to live a long and healthy life FOR THEM.

I made it to 0.75 miles before turning around and starting back toward my house. I had one other brief interlude of running before going back to walking. My pace was slower than when I started. My calves were really tight and my ankles were sore.  I was breathing loudly and couldn’t silence it. I had a weird pain in my side, and I could “feel” my lungs and my heart.

I walked (with three BRIEF runs – “run-lets” I’ll call them) for a total of 1.5 miles. My time was incredibly embarrassing. But it’s a start, right?

Also, an hour (and some water and some breathing exercises) later, and I actually feel… dare I say… good. I just need to remember “one foot in front of the other.” I just need to keep going.

My Dad

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I haven’t blogged about him much, but sometimes I feel more sad about losing my dad than I do about my husband’s death. I usually only cry about Mike’s death when I think about the impact on my kids. But with my dad… I cry at the thought of him and that he’s gone.

My dad holding Ethan for the first time. He called E his “little buckaroo.”

I was always very close to my dad. He was a terrific father, an incredible role model, a loving (but demanding) husband, and an unbelievable friend. He was so smart – he was full of facts on an incredible array of subjects. He was the funny one, the guy who would light up a room just by being there. His wit was quick and he had a great laugh. God, how I miss his laugh. (SIDENOTE: I make myself think about his laugh and the way he said, “Jackie’s home!” several times a week. I don’t ever want to forget the sounds.)

He had his flaws, but he was the most incredible man I’ve ever known. He loved Mike, taking my husband under his wing and acting like a father-figure to him. He adored Ethan, spending hours with my son teaching him about fishing and tractors. He loved my mom with an incredible passion.

But I was his favorite.

Many times, I would be the one to have the “tough” conversations with him. My mom would tell me about something that she couldn’t address with him (usually because she knew if she brought up certain topics – like his health, he would not be receptive, and they would argue). But I could talk to him about anything – and he would listen.

From the time I started college to the time of his death, we talked everyday. Sometimes we talked for hours about politics or family drama. Sometimes we talked for five minutes (“Hey, turn on this random TV show – you won’t believe it!”). Sometimes we talked five or six times a day. But we talked. Often. About everything and anything.

The last six or seven years of his life were difficult. A couple of heart attacks and two strokes made him move a little slower. He didn’t want to be as social as he once was. He didn’t leave the property as much. But he was still very much my dad.

My dad died suddenly, in his sleep, at a relative’s house. He and my mom were staying overnight with family, and at some point, a blood clot traveled from his leg to his lungs. He probably went very quickly, which is a relief.

I’m thankful that he got to “meet” Lauren. I’m thankful that the kids and I stayed with my parents for a week before he died and that we created some new memories while we were there. I’m thankful that he died peacefully. I’m thankful that he didn’t know about Mike’s drinking – it would have broken his heart.

But I hate that he’s gone.

My dad and Ethan picking wild berries on their last adventure together. My dad would die three days later.

EDITED: As expected, I cried through writing this entire post. I’ve gone through four tissues and I think my makeup is unsalvageable at this point (awesome since I don’t teach until 2 today…) I miss my dad…

Therapy update: starting over

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Right after I wrote the post on rethinking the direction of Ethan’s therapy, I got an email from R, Ethan’s therapist. He attached a link to the neuropsychologist evaluation process and a list of professionals at the local children’s hospital. As I suspected, he was pushing an evaluation, ignoring my concerns that Ethan’s grief wasn’t being addressed.

I let the email sit for a week before responding. Then I responded (this is the actual email – except I used his name, not “R”):

_______________

Thank you, R. I’ve done a lot of research in the last six weeks or so, and I’ve talked to several people on the issue as well. As I mentioned in Ethan’s last session, I was leaning toward an ADD/ADHD diagnosis when we first started seeing you; however, as I’ve become more aware of the grieving process in children, I think there’s another issue that needs to be addressed before he is evaluated. Ethan *might* very well be ADD/ADHD to some degree, but until the core issue of Ethan’s grief is addressed, it will not benefit him to be labeled. 

To recap what Ethan’s been through: Within weeks during the summer of 2010, Ethan became a big brother, his grandpa died (and my mom moved in with us), his father was sinking deeper into alcoholism (and Ethan saw many things relating to that), and my marriage was crumbling. Literally, all this happened over a four-week period. As if that wasn’t enough to deal with (and he was seeing a counselor at school and another one outside of school), a year later, Mike and I separated, and I decided to relocate the family to Wisconsin. Five months after the separation and just weeks after Ethan moved here, Mike died. 
That’s a lot for a child to take in, absorb, and figure out how to deal with. A lot of his behavior issues at school (and to a lesser degree at home since we don’t see the same behavior outside school) mirror what other children go through as part of the grieving process. The acting out, the aggression, the anger are all part of the process that many children go through. 
You’ve done a good job helping Ethan become more aware of the symptoms and finding ways to deal (i.e., handling his anger), but I think there needs to be a focus on dealing with the grief aspect. If this isn’t an area of expertise, please let me know. I truly believe this is where Ethan needs the most help right now.
_______________
It was a week before I heard back from R. I wasn’t surprised by his response. Turns out, he has very little experience helping younger children with grief issues, and he recommends taking Ethan to a different therapist. Not surprised, but a little ticked off because:
  • My reason for seeking help was very clearly spelled out for R from the first meeting. We spent two hours talking about what Ethan had been through in the last few years, including (very much including) dealing with the deaths of his grandpa and his dad.
  • R had adequate opportunity to indicate this was not an area of specialty. Every session, R prompted Ethan and I to talked about upcoming (or recently passed) anniversaries like the date of my dad’s death, Father’s Day, my wedding anniversary. Hearing me talk about Ethan’s reaction to these dates might have been opportune time to say, “hey, that’s not really my thing, you know? But let me refer you to someone else…” Unfortunately, that didn’t happen.

Ethan really clicked with R, and I haven’t told him that we will be changing therapists. The therapist to which R has referred us has requested that I meet with her alone the first time. I’m a little hesitant to go with someone who R has recommended, but it’s worth (at least) meeting her. I’m going to lay it on the line though – we need to address Ethan’s grief. He needs the tools to comprehend and process these two deaths.

New therapist is going to get grilled: I want to know what kind of experience she has with kids E’s age, and what kind of processes she has for working with kids dealing with grief. And I won’t hesitate to find a different therapist if I don’t feel she can address the issues and REALLY HELP Ethan.

I’m making the call tomorrow to schedule the first meeting with new therapist.

Last conversation: REVISITED

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So what would I have said to Mike if I knew it was our last conversation? I don’t know…

Would I have reminisced about the old days? When we met in college and started dating? What about his confession of love at the reflecting pond? Remember the corner of my dorm room that I let him decorate with beer signs? Or how about when we moved to St. Louis in the heat of the summer? How about when he proposed in our tiny campus apartment (still my favorite engagement story of all time)? How about our wedding reception at the haunted brewery – and getting locked in the haunted B&B the next morning? Remember what a fun time everyone had, some even calling it the “best wedding ever!”?  Remember how we didn’t even know if we’d have wedding guests, since it was weeks after 9/11 and people weren’t sure if they’d be safe? How we didn’t know if there’d be a honeymoon since it was supposed to start in NYC? What about finding our first house and moving into it – how excited we both were that we could afford a brand-new house? Oh, and what about the home improvement projects (the deck and the “Dr. Seuss shelves” and the tiled backsplash), and how we always joked that Mike was “handy for a lawyer”? Remember when I decided I wanted to be a mom, and how Ethan was born almost EXACTLY nine months later? Remember taking Ethan home the first time and not knowing what to do? How about when he let Ethan slide out of his car seat in my parents’ living room and his panicked “don’t cry, don’t cry!” plea to a tiny baby? Remember why we bought our second house because I said our first house was too small for another baby? And how Lauren was born nine months exactly after we moved into the Highcliff house?

Or maybe I would have just screamed at him, begging for answers. When did the drinking start? Why did it get so bad? Was this the reason he lost his last two jobs? Was he even applying for jobs in the two years he sat in the basement? How many times did he blame OD’ing on his depression meds, but it was really because he was drunk? Why couldn’t he just stop? Didn’t he love us enough? Why did he throw everything away for a bottle of cheap ass vodka? Did he ever drive drunk with Ethan in the car? When did the smoking start? Did he not care that he was putting our lives at risk when he smoked in the basement (and put out the cigarettes on the carpet – which we found after he moved out)? How COULD he trash the basement with his empties, cutting open the couch to hide bottles in the cushions, pushing aside ceiling tiles to hide cans, pulling out insulation in the storage room to store empties between the cement wall and the drywall? Rehab, AA, detox – nothing worked, but why? Couldn’t he stick with a program? Weren’t our kids “enough” for him to get his act together? Wasn’t I “enough”?

Or would I just say goodbye, hold his hand, and watch him go?

Would there have been a message he wanted to share with our kids? Or would he just say good-bye? Would he have even wanted to see the kids? (After all, Mike refused to have Christmas with the kids last year because he “didn’t want the kids to see him like this.”)

I just don’t know what I would have said to him…

Last conversation

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It was a Monday evening in January when Mike and I had a phone conversation about urinal etiquette.

I know it was Monday because it was the last time Mike and I spoke. My last conversation with my husband was an argument about bathroom behavior.

Earlier in the day, Ethan’s school called me. There was an incident in the bathroom involving a group of boys who were acting inappropriately. All the parents were asked to have conversations to discuss the appropriate way to act in the bathroom, specifically the urinal area.

This was a little out of my area of experience.

I called Mike on my way home. He answered, sounding tired and pissed off.

“Hey,” I said. “I heard from school. We need to talk to Ethan about how to act in the bathroom. I don’t know any details other than all the parents of the boys are having the talk with their sons tonight. Maybe you can call later and have that conversation with him?”

After months of calling every night at the same time, it had been days since Mike called to talk to the kids.

“That’s not happening,” Mike said.

“What?” I asked. “I just need you to tell Ethan how to behave at the urinals. You know, boy stuff.”

“Why can’t YOU do it?” Mike asked.

“Because I’m not equipped, pun intended, to talk about urinal stuff. All I know is you’re not supposed to look at anyone around you in the bathroom.”

“That’s it, just look straight ahead. No talking. Honestly, I don’t know why you can’t do this,” Mike replied.

“Because it’s your chance to be a dad. To have a man-to-boy talk with Ethan about something important, a life lesson.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Mike said. “You do it.”

“Fine!” I yelled. “I have absolutely no credibility in this area, but I’ll handle it, just like I’ve handled everything else! There’s nothing weird or awkward about a MOM having a talk with her son about urinal etiquette. Thanks for nothing, asshole!”

I hung up the phone, furious that Mike was refusing to man-up and talk to Ethan about “boy stuff.”

That was the last time we talked.

On Tuesday, I had two missed calls and messages from Mike’s cell number. I didn’t want to listen to the messages or return his calls. I was so mad that he wouldn’t talk to Ethan, and I didn’t have anything nice to say to him.

I wouldn’t listen to those messages until after I knew he died. The messages were pocket dials, obviously not planned or intended. I could hear background of the TV and rustling of something. I heard Mike cough. I heard his mom offer him something to drink. Everything was muffled, in the distance. I was just eavesdropping on those last hours.

Those pocket dial messages are now gone forever from my phone. But I’ll always have the memory of our last conversation. Urinal etiquette. Not the topic I would have chosen, if I would have known.