Tag Archives: Life

Reality trumps fantasy: she’s really sick

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It’s no secret that my sister and I do not have a close relationship. Most of my issues with Julie stem from her tendency to be the victim, “cry wolf” over non-existent situations, and even create her own fairy tale kind of world through her lies and malicious actions. Frankly, I’m tired of her bullshit. Since she was about 10 years old, she doesn’t care who she hurts or seems to realize that her actions have consequences on those around her.

Hell, she stole (and sold) a coin collection from our grandmother, stole painkillers from our dad, made up lies about Mike, lied about being abused by our parents and her husband, and made up stories of sexual harassment in more than one workplace. And that covers just 10 of her nearly 40 years on this planet.

Julie lives her life balls-to-the-wall (but not in a good way) for about three to five years, then she burns so many bridges and has told so many lies that she can’t keep anything straight. So, she reinvents herself and moves on to a new life, new town, new job and a new pseudo-identity.

She been in her current life for about six years, so I figured she was due for a change.

In fact, it’s become a joke with my mom and me: what will Julie “be” next? My money was on her getting knocked up by a random dude. She hadn’t done that yet, but she’s been trolling around (and sharing her sexual exploits with — MY MOM… WTF?).

She’s been complaining of being sick for YEARS. My dad thought she was just lazy, looking for the easy way out of life and responsibilities and adulthood – seemed reasonable and it totally fit her M.O. I wrote off any seriousness when she refused to let my mom go to the doctor with her a few years ago. (Even my mom didn’t believe her tales of illness and wanted confirmation from the doc that Julie was really sick and not faking it for attention, which wouldn’t have been the first time.)

But last night, after talking to my mom and Julie, and researching her condition, I realized that she’s dying. Dying.

She has a chronic virus that will kill her. It has already caused a form of chronic fatigue syndrome, which has her on disability from her job. It will suppress her immune system to the point where fighting a cold will be dangerous. It can increase the chances of getting certain cancers. And if that doesn’t do it, her organs will eventually shut down.

We know she’s tested positive for a certain marker for about six years. (From the limited information I can find, there is a much shortened life expectancy.) Doctors originally balked at a diagnosis because the rare disorder she has is typically only found in Asian cultures. (We are not of Asian descent, and Panda Express is as close as Julie has ever come to visiting Asia.) She has a team of some of the best doctors in the country, and they’re baffled. They’re referring her to a specialist for recommendations for how to keep the virus at bay as long as possible. But there is no cure, no known explanation for how she contracted this virus, and things are going to get much worse for her.

Last night, after accepting that Julie IS sick and not faking it, my mom and I started some difficult conversations: at what point do we make Julie move here by us? (She’s currently about 11 hours and four states away.) Will we have to put her in a care facility at some point? How and when can we take responsibility for Julie’s 19-year-old daughter?

Fuck.

My favorite photo of Julie (pink) and me (blue). My dad instructed us to "hold hands and pretend to like each other."

My favorite photo of Julie (pink) and me (blue). My dad instructed us to “hold hands and pretend to like each other.”

Unexpected direction

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Grief is a weird thing. And it’s back, sort of, in a weird way.

I’ve been fine, GREAT actually, for the last year. The kids are doing well – they’re funny and smart and kind and doing well in school and all-around awesome. My mom continues to struggle with some minor health issues, but she’s thriving in her own home now (which the kids LOVE to visit). My job is fantastic – reviews of my teaching have been over-the-top positive and there’s a move to make my position permanent (and possibly become equivalent to a tenure appointment). My relationship with B continues to grow, and we’ve had the most amazing times with each other and our kids.

Yep, things were rolling. Happy. Fun.

B and I decided to go to Chicago for the weekend. It’ll be our second trip there together (but the first time he got really sick and we came home early). We checked our calendars and agreed on a date. It wasn’t until I opened my calendar to write it down (yes, I still use a hard copy calendar) that I noticed the actual DATE.

January 25.

The second anniversary of Mike’s death.

Thoughts flooded my head: Do I cancel? Would it be wrong to be in Chicago (my favorite city in the world) with B? Would it be awful to be having FUN on that day? To laugh, to kiss, to hold hands with someone?

Overwhelmingly, I thought no to all these questions. Mike and I were separated when he died! I had filed for divorce! We should have been divorced, but dammit, he refused to sign the papers! I should be enjoying my life! I’m going, no biggie!

But I felt the need to gut check someone so I called my mom. “Go,” she said. “If anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you. You and B should have a great time. I’ll have the kids. It’ll be okay.”

(Side note: Ethan knows the anniversary date is coming up, but he doesn’t know the exact date. Lauren has no concept of when/where/why/how of her dad’s death. Because they don’t “know,” we can memorialize on a different calendar date.)

And for weeks, I’ve been completely okay with the decision that I will be in Chicago with B on the second anniversary. Until yesterday.

I’ve been hit with feelings of sadness. Sadness that my marriage failed. Sadness that I missed so many signs. Sadness that my kids will grow up without knowing their dad (the good parts, of course).

It isn’t so much that Mike is dead and cremated and buried. It’s more of the loss of what was. The happy times of our marriage and relationship. His physical death has become a symbol for the loss of the life we HAD. It’s all just coinciding with the date on the calendar.

I’m not changing my plans this weekend. B and I will still go to Chicago and enjoy each other’s company and take in the marvelousness of an awesome city. But I owe it to him and our relationship to let him know what’s going on in my head and with my feelings/emotions.

So I’ve scripted out the conversations I need to have with him tonight. Letting him know what I’m going through and what I need from him (random and unexpected calls and texts, hugs and hand holding).

It’s the first “anniversary” that I’ll go through while not “alone.” There are milestones for milestones on this grief roller coaster, aren’t there?

“Is he a hobo?” or revealing the truth to Ethan

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First, I realize that my writing has been quite sporadic this summer. Truth is, I love having the summer “off” this year. This teaching gig is seriously awesome, and even though I’m spending time preparing for next semester, I have no official research or teaching obligations until mid-August. So, I’ve finally organized the house (I closed on the house days after Mike’s funeral, immediately got strep throat, and had to leave for a business trip two days after the movers left – so nothing was where I wanted it and I never painted or hung all the photos or really decorated or anything else), planted a garden, re-landscaped the yard, spent time playing with the kids. I’m not just on the computer as often as I am during the school year.

I came clean to Ethan. And it was overwhelmingly positive, and touching, and funny, and kind of weird.

Until now, whenever I had a date, I told E that I had a “meeting.” It’s terminology with which he’s quite familiar. In my professional life, I’ve had a lot of meetings, some on weekends, some later at night. So my going out to a “meeting” hasn’t been a big deal.

On my last date with B, I was asked how long I thought Ethan would believe the “meetings” thing. After all, he’s a smart kid, and as things are going quite well, there could be many, many more “meetings” in the future. That question struck me and made me rethink “meetings.”

E and I were spending the morning running errands, just the two of us. We stopped for lunch at one of his favorite restaurants, and it felt like the right time to broach the subject.

“Ethan, what would you think if I started to date?”

His eyes lit up. He smiled widely and started nodding his head. “Yes, mommy,” he said. “Yes, you need to meet people and make new friends.”

“Um,” I said a little stunned by his overly positive reaction, “I have friends…”

“Yeah, but they’re married friends. You need bachelor MAN friends,” he replied, still smiling.

“You’d really be okay with it?” I asked.

“Mommy, YES, you NEED to date. You should look into M@tch.com – they have more marriages than any other site. Well, at least that’s what their commercial says. Yay, dating! I’m so happy!”

“OK…One more thing,” I started. “You know the ‘meeting’ I have tomorrow night? It’s really a date,” I said.

“What?! You’ve met someone already! That’s GREAT, mommy! You know, on a date, the man pays for everything. Just so you know,” he said.

“Well, that’s not always true,” I began.

“Yes, he should pay. I have some questions.”

Then he started with the questions (in order, to the best of my memory):

–          “Is he a hobo?”

–          “Does he have a job?”

–          “Does he own a home? What color is his house?”

–          “Does he have kids? Are they boys? A boy and a girl? Oh, two girls…”

–          “Was he married before? Nevermind. Obviously, if he has kids, he was married before. So, he’s divorced then?”

–          “Is he handsome?”

–          “Is he famous? Because it would be cool if you dated Aaron Rodgers. Wait, he probably has a girlfriend or a wife already, huh?”

–          “Can I ask him questions? I have A LOT of questions for him…”

Then Ethan got up from his chair, walked over to me, and hugged me close and tight. “I love you, mommy. This is really good news! You have a DATE!” he said.

Sidenote: Ethan is not a touchy kid. I mean, he’ll kiss us and hug us after we prod him, but even when he asks to cuddle, he just wants to be close, not touching and certainly not embraced/embracing. He’s always been this way, so to have him initiate a hug is completely unexpected. And it didn’t stop in the restaurant. He’s been REALLY affectionate – coming up to me eight, nine, ten times a day to hug me or put his arm around me and smile at me and tell me how happy he is for me.

The next day (the day of the date with B), Ethan started his morning by wishing me a “happy date day” and more hugs. By afternoon, Ethan had some fashion advice for me. “What are you planning to wear tonight?” he asked me.

“Um, I’m not sure. Probably jeans – it’s going to be chilly tonight,” I replied.

“No. You need to show some leg,” he said. “Maybe a skirt that’s like this short (gesturing to mid-thigh) with a slit up the side to about here (another gesture a bit higher). THAT’S what you wear on a date.”

“No, I think I’ll stick with jeans,” I said. (FYI: I wore jeans.)

___________________________

Ethan’s reaction was unexpected, and so positive.

But it isn’t just E.

I’m wondering if nearly everyone in my life thought I was a lonely, miserable wreck of a woman. I didn’t think I was appearing miserable IRL, but the overwhelming response to hearing that I’m dating someone has been ridiculously over-the-top (in a positive way).

Of course, my mom has been talking it up – to her dad, her aunt, a family friend, cousins, neighbors, just about everyone she meets. Everyone is happy for me. Many have commented that I “deserve” to be happy and have a relationship with someone “nice.” It’s great. I’m very aware that not all widows/widowers have such support when they decide to move on.

Maybe I’m just being overly sensitive in thinking it’s been TOO positive. I honestly don’t care what anyone thinks about my dating. I DO deserve it. And I’m REALLY enjoying myself (and REALLY enjoying spending time with B)…

Kissing

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So B and I continue to see each other. And it’s been positively awesome. We went to a local festival, which turned out to be pretty crappy and not what we thought it would be, but we had a great time together listening (and just a bit of singing) to a local band. (It was his birthday and when I found out – the next day – and asked why he didn’t tell me, that I would have planned something special, he replied, “It was my birthday and I did exactly what I wanted…I spent it with my kids during the day and with you at night.” Um…sigh.) We’ve met for dinner and drinks at cute cafes and restaurants. We talked and laughed and had fun.

And he kissed me. (And not on the cheek.)

Quick, little, sweet, innocent goodnight kisses at the end of dates. One, maybe two, kisses. So fast, these kisses, that I couldn’t even really prepare – or even pucker up. Fleeting kisses. Quick “friend” kind of kisses, these were. And I liked it.

But each time I wanted more; I knew I had to take control.

I texted that I had an idea, a concept, for our next date, but I would wait until we talked next to tell him the details. He called to find out more.

“Our next date,” I said, “needs to include more kissing. Not just goodnight kisses, but real kisses. I don’t know what we’ll do on the date or where we’ll go, but kissing needs to be part of it.”

There was a long pause then he said, “I was hoping you’d say something like that. Definitely.”

Due to schedules, it would be almost two weeks before that date. (That’s a long freaking time after just telling someone you wanted to REALLY kiss them…)

He invited me to his house for a completely unplanned/unscheduled night. We drank some wine, went to a little neighborhood restaurant for a quick dinner, then back to his house for dessert of port and fancy dark chocolates (um, yum…). We were sitting on uncomfortable stools in the kitchen, enjoying the treats, when we had a really weird, long pause in conversation. We were just staring at each other. In silence. I wanted to look away, but I felt like I always look away in these situations and if this date would EVER include my kissing idea/concept, I had to hold fast to his gaze. We joked about the rare conversational pause. Then he asked if he could just walk over and kiss me.

“Yes. Please.”

His arms embraced me, pulling me closer, and I reciprocated – arms around his neck, fingers intertwined in his hair. Our kiss started like the other ones – the quick goodnight kisses – but turned into something more. Lovely, passionate kisses in the kitchen. The kind of kissing that makes your breath quicken, your pulse race, and tiny little sighs escape from deep in your throat. The kind of kissing that makes you want much more…so much more than just kissing.

We moved to the living room, and even though it was a little weird being IN FRONT OF THE FRONT WINDOW (with no window coverings – WTF?), the kissing continued. Now combined with cuddling, and (slightly) roaming hands, and kisses that extend down the neck to ticklish places near the collarbone. Sweet kisses. Passionate kisses. Fast kisses. Slow kisses. Urgent kisses. Patient kisses. This went on for an hour or so before we both agreed we had to stop before things went further than we intended.

Ending the kissing and driving home was incredibly difficult.

It’s been a CRAZY long time since I’ve been kissed, especially REALLY kissed. I honestly can’t even remember the last time. Maybe more than three years? That’s a ridiculously LONG time… It’s ABOUT time.

I liked it. And I want to kiss B more. And I think I like B – a lot. And I’m pretty sure that the fireworks are starting…

Coincidences or signs?

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It’s been a weird 12 hours.

First, there was the amazing sunset after the balloon launch at Ethan’s grief group. What I didn’t say in my post last night was that on my balloon’s message to my dad, I asked for a sign that I was doing things okay, and that we’d be all right. Enter the most magnificent sky ever. I’m taking that as a sign from my dad.

Then I realized that I “knew” the new guy in grief group. First, his son looked familiar, like I had seen him before. Then the daughter’s name tripped alarm bells (it is not a common name). And the timeline of his ex-wife’s life from cancer diagnosis to their divorce to her untimely death was strangely familiar. I checked an obit this morning, and sure enough, the kids’ names and his name match. He’s the ex-husband of a former co-worker who died earlier this year. (I wrote about her in a previous entry, but I made the post private because “people” were searching for terms associated with her and stumbling across my site.)

This would be odd enough, but in one of the last emails that Donna sent to me, just weeks before she died, she talked about her kids and my kids and wanting to get them all together for a play date. I guess now they’ll get to know each other, having the chance to hang out every two weeks at grief group…