Experience, the body's cartographer

I once, ONCE loved a man more than he loved me. I sat, hours at a time, rapt at the music of his voice.

The calluses that develop on a soul, wrought from years of aching for the hand that dangles out of reach, form a foundation. The heart grows firm. The intellect sharp. The body declines as we pass from bloom to bloom, sampling what nectar falls on the lips. But the mind toughens, gathers mass and expands to embrace all experiences. All joy. All sorrow.

As we age, the music that once seized us grows trite. Irrelevant and pedestrian. Poignant and pointless. And yet, the calluses remain. Reminders that once, we were tender and pliable. Waiting to take shape from the ephemeral. Constantly pushing against the world and not realizing until too late that the world pushes back.

Impossible Choices

I was raised by people who believe in the Old Testament God. I recall vivid images of fire and brimstone. I was often frightened when I left church. I didn’t sleep well (still don’t) because I was afraid God would return to earth and I wouldn’t have time to wake up and repent before I got left behind. Kirk Cameron’s movies were scarier to me than your favorite zombie flick. I lived in a world without television but I didn’t need it. I was imaginative enough to envision the apocalypse (or the Rapture) as you like it. Forgiveness was not in my vernacular, only sin and repentance. So, the big sins in my life, the ones that, when you’re older, you look back on and cringe? Those sins I’ve not only repented for, I’ve also atoned. There haven’t been many. I’m not a thief, I don’t worship things, I have always tried honoring the adults in my life, I don’t covet, I don’t lie very often and definitely not about big things, I don’t cheat or invoke God’s name to justify things like war and I’ve never worshipped any God except the one I was taught to worship. And when I’ve slipped, when I’ve done something REALLY wrong, I’ve made my case to God through prayer and tried to find a way to do a penance. Because I believe words are empty without action.

I tell you that to tell you this. I’ve lied to the lot of you, for a good reason, and it’s time to come clean. Before you go on, let me tell you that I know your opinion about me is about to be irrevocably changed. I can’t do anything about that, in fact, it’s part of my penance. I didn’t lie to you because it was fun. I lied because I couldn’t find it in myself to tell you the truth. I was bereft of feeling and strength of character and thought I was without options. I figure a lot of people in this situation feel the same way and so I consider my penance for this sin to be frank discussion and an attempt to guide others through the situation I was in, for the rest of my life. I do not yet feel forgiven. I don’t know if I will ever feel forgiven. I don’t know if God forgives for a thing like this.

I should have a three year old son or daughter. He or she, we’ll say he, because in my mind, he’s always a “He”. He was conceived around January 22nd, 2007 and should have been born on October 15th of that year. We made the decision to have an abortion on a Monday. On February 22nd, a Thursday, I was no longer pregnant. I don’t remember much about the procedure itself, the medication is really good at making a person forget such a thing. My best friend, Rachel, and my husband went with me. (As an aside, this was the day that an unmarked envelope landed on the doorstep of the clinic and the bomb squad had to be called. I have a fuzzy recollection of being interrogated by the police as I was the person who brought the envelope inside). The staff was kind, helpful, impersonal. The doctor was efficient. The clinic was well-appointed and benign. The act itself, the abortion, was 15 minutes of discomfort and now, a lifetime of what-might-have-beens.

We didn’t consider, before, what we would tell the people we had already told we were pregnant…so we just told them that we weren’t pregnant any more. The first one who assumed a miscarriage gave me an idea to side-step this whole nasty discussion, and so I went with it. I’m sorry, I lied, I did. I told everyone we’d lost the baby. In my mind, I had. I’d lost my child. I just didn’t yet know how it would break me.

You see, I made the wrong decision. I know, now, that I DO, in fact, consider a fetus a life. I believe that the soul is imparted at conception. It isn’t a belief rooted in logic. Logic has no bearing in this discussion. The choice is personal, as are the ramifications. And for another woman, perhaps the choice is the right one and no regrets are there. For me, there are regrets. And make NO MISTAKE: I am pro-choice. There ARE situations where, even if the fetus is a life, a desperate and awful choice must be made. Greater good and all that. I refuse to consider taking that choice away from physicians or the women whose bodies are in question. I consider it my duty to help them make more informed choices and to encourage everyone to consider adoption. Just consider it! If you aren’t in the right place to have a child, someone desperately wants it. And it’s surely painful. It’s got to be terrible, knowing there is someone out there with your face who you could have loved. Could have cared for. Could have cuddled and snuggled and tickled. But it’s worse knowing that there’s not.

So, for the last three years, I’ve marked in my mind 2/22 and will again, this year, remember 10/15. Because those dates, those numbers are the only thing I have to snuggle. I look at the gap in the years between my two beautiful children and I wish that I’d been brave enough and tough enough to try and make it a go. But a person will go crazy considering the butterfly effect. I cannot change the past. I am seeking spiritual forgiveness in a very personal way and part of that way is to share my story. To let you know that if you need help with a decision like this, when the clock is ticking…when, in my mind, every minute gets that lump of cells closer to being a baby…you need to know that there is no easy answer. There is pain in the carrying and the birth and the parenting. There is pain if you choose adoption. There is pain if you choose abortion.

There is a hole in me that will never be filled. You need to know that. It isn’t an easy choice. I’m glad it’s a choice you can make. I’m grateful I live in a world where we have choices. I just don’t think abortion is the right one for everyone, or mostly, anyone. It can crush your soul. Rip away any feelings of comfort you ever wanted. Don’t do that to yourself. And if you do, be aware that you might never sleep well again.

Requisite holiday blog

The holidays have always made me, like many people, kind of sad. For a number of reasons, at this time of the year, my expectations are always a little too high, my loneliness a little sharper, my nostalgia a little more distinct. "That's a part of getting older, Candace," you might say, but you'd be wrong; it was worse when I was younger.

I think, for me, Christmas has always been a symbol of the kind of life I wanted, but didn't have. I spent much of my youth living with my Grandmother, who, though she loved me more than anyone in the world had a right to be loved, didn't understand the chemical signals in my head are all messed up. Who did?

So, I'd get deliriously happy when I'd see little white twinkling lights sprinkled out over the world. Blankets of snow, the red Salvation Army kettles, the bells, the way your breath feels heavy on the first frosty day, the smell of evergreens, the warmth of looking into my Grandmother's home from outside on the porch, where I would always end up...

And really, that image is what sums up my holiday melancholy: I have always been out on the porch, bundled up in my favorite red dress looking inside at my cousins and their moms and dads and my grandparents and siblings and they always seemed so genuinely happy...and I wanted to be happy there with them, but I was still there, alone, on the porch.

This is my first Christmas away from that porch, and it's a lot more difficult than I anticipated. Andy and I have started this amazing life together. Two kids, moved away to the land of prosperity. We've got friends and family here...people who love us and care for us and who make us want to reciprocate. And isn't it interesting to note that I've never, not once, felt like an outsider with them. I don't hide from these people...my family and friends. I don't hide from my husband when I'm sad. He knew I was broken when he asked me to marry him, to spend my life with him. He keeps me inside the house.

And our friends, our beautiful friends, who compel us to be better people every day: they also know I'm broken, and they love me anyway. I think my family would have, had they known that I needed something more, had they known that my holidays were spent out on the porch, but I never gave them the chance. And I'm sorry for that, because the time has slipped away from me, like time is wont to do, and I cannot get it back.

I hope that I've loved them the way that they needed to be loved, but I cannot be sure. So, please, let me ask you to spend your holidays paying attention to the people on the fringes...sometimes you don't know they're there, but they are. And they need you.

up to capacity (or, the world's biggest pity-party)

Let's just start this off by saying, I don't need/want your sympathy. Commiseration? Sure. Good conversation? Bring it on! Sympathy? You can give that to someone else; find a blind/deaf orphan. There are people in the world who are starving, literally, to death. My problems? Way smaller. Nonetheless, my problems are my own and I'm allowed to talk about them.

There's this saying, right? About how, no matter how hard life gets, God isn't giving you more than you can handle. I'm calling bullshit. Those people must have bigger, better faith than I have in their own capacity.

I'm not knocking God, don't get me wrong. I'm talking about inner strength here, people, and my apparent lack of it.

The back story:

We set out on this adventure called moving-across-the-country-with-two-kids-and-no-money-and-one-job-for-two-people about four months ago. It may or may not have been the best idea, but with my PhD getting done in Arkansas and science jobs being in short supply, we didn't have a whole lot of options. So, we packed our things into a Budget truck and took off for the Triangle area in North Carolina. No looking back. And it's WONDERFUL here. Terrifyingly big, maybe...and often frustrating because of this terrible economy. But it's great. And I think we both still think we've made a good choice. There are trees, and good schools for when the kids get older, and lots of art and music and good people. Some of our best friends are here, and Big A's Dad and Step-mom. So, we've made the right decision, we think. But Big A CANNOT FIND A JOB. No matter what. He's put in hundreds of applications. Literally. No, he's not Ivy League educated, but he's smart and funny and personable and he works his ass off. So, I blame George Bush...see my previous rant on that.

So, we've got $$$ problems. Who doesn't? Cry me a river.

Well, it stems from growing up watching my Mother try and keep a bit of food in our cupboard, probably, but I feel like grown-ups, which we pride ourselves on being, ought to have some savings, and a 401k, and the dough to, you know, EAT. And we do, but we aren't taking care of business and building our credit like we were and it's frustrating.

NOW...I've been living in a state of limbo these days, too. Not knowing when my ACTUAL PhD will be granted (In case I need to look for another job). Not knowing when my ACTUAL job might get ripped out from under me like one of those cartoons from the 80's when no one cared if kids grew up thinking that it was cool to drop big-ass rocks on small animals. Not knowing whether or not I'm going to be funded...it's all just limbo, and I don't DO limbo. I'm a concrete sort of gal. But, you know...que sera and all that.

So, I've been doing a little jig of Pollyanna, trying so hard to be positive. I listen to happy music and concentrate on how great my kids are and how much Andy and I have grown closer to one another because of this move. I focus on how we have food and good friends and we've got places to go and people to see and so what if we don't live quite like we used to and have to budget every penny. I stay POSITIVE. And I am telling you right now, IT IS REALLY HARD!!!

But I've been doing it. I've put away the emo kid and the cigarette smoking hardass liquor swigging chick and I've been DOING IT.

And I'm about to break right into about a million pieces.

Because right before we got all pregnant and then moved across the country, we went through possibly the most difficult time of our pretty short relationship. My grandma died. My life's blood, the glue that held my very family together. She DIED. She seemed immortal to me, and she DIED. And so what? People's grandmas die. But she was my Mother for a long time. And she knew how to fix anything. And she was eaten alive by cancer and then suffocated in the plasma that leaked from her body into her lungs. No, it was not pretty. It was inhumane. There are laws about euthanizing racehorses in this country, but we let our octogenarians wither away and suffer like some sort of worm on the concrete after a summer shower. It's sick. But more on that another day.

And now, Andy's grandma is dying. Like right now. This minute. In hours or days, but not weeks, we will be driving to Kentucky to say our goodbyes. And I've got to find a way to explain this to Aidan and find a way to cope myself that doesn't involve thousands of dollars of diagnostics to diagnose a panic disorder...and I have to find a way to be there for my dearest Big A. Because he is my ROCK. People. He is the strongest man I've ever met EVER and his sweet, kind, perfect Grandma is going to die. And don't misunderstand me, Ruth is one of the MOST AMAZING women I've ever met. Raising 6 kids alone in the Kentucky wilderness with no car. Growing her own food. Managing an estate. Managing a LIFE. She and I share a birthdate and should I be able to count my contributions of goodness to the world the way she can? I will have lived a successful life.

And Big A is ill. REALLY ill. With what we are 90% certain is H1N1 influenza and he can't get out of bed and I constantly fret about him becoming a statistic and he needs me and the kids need me and I'm needing to be putting 65 or 70 hours a week into lab right now and I need to get the house clean and call creditors and explain things and brew the coffee and make the soup and give the medicine and keep the kids healthy and remember the doctors appointments and think about how I should have just insisted Andy be on my insurance because he's not on my insurance because it's so expensive and I wonder if Obama is going to fix this and the birthdays and think about Christmas presents and all the while pretend that everything is okay because Aidan is old enough to know that things aren't okay and my milk won't let down because I can't relax and I can't sleep because I'm afraid Big A is going to stop breathing and it just goes on and on and on.

And so I need to breathe.

But before I do that, I need to tell you that I don't really think that God is all that invested in this. I think he loves his children...I do...and I consider myself a child of God because I love Him right back and I don't think this is his fault. And I'm not the only one in the world with problems, or even with THESE problems. But it IS hard. And if He weren't dealing with all that famine and war and pestilence and stuff, I might be inclined to ask for a little help. But I won't. Because I know He's busy. But that whole not giving you too much thing? Bullshit.

Grandma Ruth would know what to do.

I have a warm, gooey center.

This is me now, with 2 of my 3 favorite men ever....Mini A, in the chair, and Little A in my lap.
This photo shows me, (with my finger in my mouth) in high school at a drama competition
with my good friend, Mindy, circa 1999.


I spent the better part of this day working in my lab "rocking" out to my very favorite tunes. Pandora makes me happy. I have the MOSTPERFECTPLAYLISTEVER...it consists of a quickmix of my The Fray/Kelly Clarkson/David Cook/Glen Hansard/Debussy/Sugarland....so, basically, a schizophrenic mix of songs to put on your favorite wife-beater, call an ex-boyfriend and tell him he sucks, then kill yourself to after your dog drinks your last good Merlot. I'm quirky. Deal with it.

I only realized that my musical leanings might be revealing too much about me when my lab mate, Audrey turned to me and said something like, "You're just a big softie, aren't you?" And I said, "Hunh??!?" and then turned down the music. She repeated, "You're just a big softie, all this music." or something like that. I think I may have blushed. I can't be sure.

Because, folks, I pride myself on being kind of badass. I am the chick with things in control. I have kids who eat vegetables. I keep my car and house clean even with a 3 year old and an infant doing their best to destroy them. I have a perfect husband. I do involved and precise research. I write. I often forget to brush my hair and/or teeth...but whatever. I'm AWESOMELY! (in my head) in control and I take no prisoners. I am scary and mean and tough and no one breaks me.

So, for the cutesy adorable Audrey to accuse me, ME! of being a softie? I must be losing my edge.

And then I had a look at myself in the bathroom mirror after lunch.

Jeans, flip flops, white T-shirt, heather gray short sleeved sweater, scarf, braided hair, no makeup, bags under the eyes, bad skin, men's watch, splash of perfume...wait, what???

I was emo before emo was cool (not that it is ACTUALLY cool). I wore all black and wrote in leather journals with quill tipped pens. I was accused (by teachers, even) of practicing witchcraft in high school. I was teased. I was ostracized. I was fringe. I was absolutely miserable. And I have forgotten what it is to be absolutely miserable. Thank God.

I'm happy. So I've lost my edge. I've got time in my brain to think about things like a national health plan and whether or not Obama is going to be the President I hoped/voted for. I have time to care and think about my family and how they're doing and even to admit that I miss them. I have time to care about whether my family is going to be okay through the flu season and whether I'll actually ever get a job doing what I love and being well-compensated. I have time to consider my husband and his fine ass and whether or not I am making him happy. Happiness...it's a double edged sword.

So, I care about you. I care if you read this. I want to take away your pain and make the world a better place. I want to make everyone around me happy. I love my kids and my husband and my family and my friends and I even love those people who hate me and have since I rocked the emo. And do you know what? It feels right. It feels good to know that I'm still growing and not just sitting in my cynical, superior corner, sipping wine and talking about what a stupid, fruitless world this is and how much people suck.

People DO suck. I am annoyed by the whole lot of you, sometimes. I cannot understand greed and intentionally inflicting pain. I am baffled by WHY people can't share their wealth with the homeless and the indigent. I am confused by why people believe anything they're told and don't seek out information. Why my generation considers it perfectly valid because WIKIPEDIA said so. In fact, it makes me IRATE to think about my peers, sometimes. But I still love them. I still love you! I want to make you grow and show you how different the world might be if everyone found it in themselves to give just a little shit.

I was told once that I had to take care of myself first and that the older I got, the more I'd realize that I had to look out for "number one" and tell everyone else to "go to hell". Well, I'm 27, almost 28 years old. I have three gorgeous men to care for. I am a grown up. And I STILL choose to try and help others. And while it is sometimes practical to ensure my and their safety first. I will NEVER intentionally put my own comfort over another person's. Ever. I find humanity to be cruel and unforgiving but also merciful and fearless and I want so desperately to contribute something worthwhile to them. To you!

And that's why my music is schizophrenic. It reminds me of where I was, who I am, and who I hope to be. I like being gooey. I suspect I may also be sweet. So suck on that!

Geore W. Bush ruined my career.

So, I begin too many sentences with the word "so". It's a habit. Sorry. I'm not going to change. If only the scientific world's editors would accept my sweet little stream of consciousness flavor of writing, I would totally be working in a posh lab at Duke Med instead of getting quasi-fired from my NC State post doc.

So, let's talk about NC State.

I've never been anywhere...let alone a college campus (in a metro area with many college campuses) that has 50,000 people on it on a given day. Fifty thousand. You didn't read incorrectly. And it's beautiful and sort of poetic in this unassuming way. See, State is an ag/vet sort of place...in point of fact, my building smells like the ass of a chicken has lit a cigarette and broken wind at the same time. Right now, it smells like someone has cooked the chicken with the cigarette and the gas...but whatever. It's downtown, so there's an urban feel to it, but the students are fresh-faced and genteel. There is a sense of history, of rural class. It's great, State, and I'm going to miss it.

"Why are you going to miss it?" you say. I'll tell you why: BECAUSE GEORGE W. BUSH ruined my life. Because he gave the greedy bastards who run the money in this country carte blanche and then declared war on both science and intellectualism. Make no mistake, his wars aren't wars of "freedom" or any other buzz word he wants to put out there...they're wars on the "other" and science, to him, was other.

I digress. We didn't get funded. It was always a possibility, so that isn't the problem.

The problem is this: I didn't expect to fall so in love with the folks I work with, with my boss and his silly awesomeness, with my boss' ex-wife who is awesome in a totally different way...with the techs and the grad students and even the undergrads. These people are quality, intelligent, quirky, worthwhile folks and I cannot imagine a world where I get to have this sort of gift twice. And so, I am angry. When I get angry, I try to fix things. I cannot fix this. Funding dates are too far gone, money sources tapped out, etc. etc. etc. I am the breadwinner in my family right now; we moved here because I wanted to. What happens when this turns out to have been a mistake? I am not the sort of person to shy away from blame.

So, I've been putting in applications. It's a hard thing, to put yourself out there again and again and again and hear no a thousand times. It's even harder when it's scientists telling you no, because we are a group of the most socially retarded people on the planet. We say things like, " We think you are qualified and would fit in the position, but we'd like to have someone who has a more team-oriented perspective." I.e. "We want a man from India and/or some other country where people are often politically forbidden to ask questions to work in our lab for 75 hours a week and do our bidding with no questions and no ideas of his own. We think you are bossy and loud and awkward and have little to no interest in answering your questions or making you a better scientist. Know your place, woman."

Make no mistake, quite a large chunk of the people I have met in my field are absolutely the most progressive group I've ever met...seriously, to paraphrase my good friend J, they literally wouldn't care if you're purple, if you do good science. But, come on, I don't think I'm the next Marie Curie or Linus Pauling, but I'm good at what I do! I'm fun! I swear a lot! I make the coffee! Give me a job!!! (Seriously - give me a job)

One way or another, something will give. Until then, I'll be putting in as many hours as my lab (and my stay at home husband's sanity) can take. I love science. Even when it doesn't love me back.

112606 - Poop

I was once an pedantic and sometimes eloquent know-it-all. It's shocking how quickly the humility of motherhood will knock the wind right out of your sails.

Little A is pushing a year old. I feel the swelling chest and the slaps on the back impending. I've almost managed a WHOLE YEAR without somehow irreparably damaging my son. Bring on the DRINKS!

But as I sit here, basking in the gloriousness that is my parental accomplishments, I am transported back to the first time I didn't know what to do with my kid.

Now, I took child-rearing classes. Big A and I had all the books, learned how to properly do this thing...Additionally, I'm the eldest of SEVEN children...of course I know what I'm doing...so imagine my surprise when I realized that I had to become a licensed chemist to interpret the goings-on in my son's diaper. At 2 days old, I gazed into his diaper ready for the "seedy, yellowish, sweet smelling" poo that the parenting books all told me a breast feeding mother sees. I was shocked and dismayed to find not sweet smelling seeds, but a tar-goopy substance that wouldn't leave his cheeks for all the rubbing in the world.

"Ahh, this is meconium," I say to myself, the prepared mother. I know this. It's supposed to happen. It's bits of amniotic fluid being excreted via his digestive system... But how the hell do I remove it? Mind you, this was back when I was still loathe to touch Little A with more force than a tap. So, four-hundred wet wipes later, the meconium was off, and he was pooping again.

This continued for about three days, then the "sweet" smelling stuff started. Now we're on to real people poop and I mean, it is stinky. These are the things that fill my mind day after day. If you have kids already, you know how I roll. If you don't, be sure you realize you will no longer have discussions about world peace and the ramifications or antiquation of affirmative action should you ever actually become a breeder. You'll chat about poop. And you'll like it.