No Words

Pairs well with: "The Story" by Brandi Carlile and "In My Life" by The Beatles

One month from today I will begin the Komen 3 Day, a 60 mile walking journey through Atlanta.  Today I was reminded why I agreed to take on this challenge.  Today I found out that a woman I met (through my Myriad Genetics network of friends) lost her long battle with breast cancer.  She was exactly 2 years & 1 day older than me, born on Oct 17, 1971.  She was a wife and the mother of 5 young children.  She fought like crazy, but unfortunately was unable to win the battle.  As I read the note informing me of her passing I sobbed.  And every time I think of her and the sweet family she left behind I cry again.  I just can't stop. 

 I know that I'm just one person.  And to a lot of people me walking 60 miles "to end breast cancer" is a silly idea.  What's walking going to do?  How am I, an almost 40 year old woman, going to help find a cure to this terrible disease?  The only answer I can come up with is this: I don't know.  I don't know if a cure's going to be discovered in my lifetime.  But I do know that I can't stand the idea of how empty my friend's house must feel tonight for her kids.  I can't stand the idea of how cold her side of the bed is going to be to her husband, now a widow.  What about the lunches that need to be packed tomorrow morning, and the exciting walk to school chatting the whole time about who's going to play with whom at recess and wondering what snacks they're going to get in the afternoon, how about this weekend's soccer games, and everyone gathering upstairs tonight to watch the new Ghostbusters DVD over & over again?  What about field trips to the pumpkin patch, and the school's 1 mile fun run on Friday night, and everyone taking turns at the dinner table talking about their favorite part of the day?  What about her upcoming 42nd birthday party?  

These are all the things I do every day and am thinking about in the coming days - for myself.  I could be her.  And I can't imagine how scared I'd be if I was as sick as she was and had been for quite a while.  And I can't imagine how helpless it must feel to be weakened by a disease and it's attempted cure.  And I can't, for the life of me, imagine how it feels knowing that you're going to die and leave behind this life, this precious life and every little thing that fills it up and makes it unforgettable and brilliant and funny and joyful and exhilarating and beautiful. 

I know that I would hope that someone was "on my side" and willing to fight with me AND for me. 

That's why I'm walking.

I can't just sit around and hope that something happens.  I want to be a part of the something happening.

Thanks from the bottom of my heart to every single special friend who's sponsored me, who believes in me, who will cheer for me & my team and who will pray for every person who's life has been affected by breast cancer.  

Born This Way

Pairs well with ANY Indigo Girls, Melissa Etheridge or k.d. lang song.  

Any one of 'em.  

You pick.  

And you might want to put on a flannel shirt and a pair of Birkenstock sandals.  

"There are moments in your life that make you and set the course of who you're going to be. Sometimes they're little, subtle moments. Sometimes, they're big moments you never saw coming. No one asks for their life to change, but it does. It's what you do afterwards that counts. That's when you find out who you are."

And Mama said she had NO IDEA?!?!

 

All good lesbians like a cold beer

Any card-carrying lesbian in the 80's had a Pac-Man t-shirt

And took a picture with their elementary school principal 

My mama made me wear that barrette 

I was OK just rockin' the collar 

Did you have a bad-ass Darth Vader t-shirt?  

Check out the socks and Superman tennis shoes

My baby boy, Kelly, started screaming when he saw Mommy in her own Hulk t-shirt

 There were a few random snow flurries in south Louisiana and I had to grab my Saints ski cap & mittens

'Cause it was real cold and stuff

All lesbians are aggravating big sisters

Um, can you say Mighty Mouse PJ's?  

I.FREAKIN.LOVED.THEM!

Mom, seriously?!

Again, really?  Did you know this had a name? 

It's called a mullet.  

This is the one I call "Elijah Wood in a red hoodie jacket"

All I have to say is this:

RAINBOW tennis shoes

Star player (at least in MY mind) on the Tiny Mites softball team 

In case you didn't know, all lesbians like wearing visors

even when they're 8 years old

Cedar Rapids, Iowa is apparently the gay capital of the U.S.

That's why I loved this damn t-shirt so much!  

OMG I loved the Miami Dolphins SO much

This was taken on a Superbowl Sunday when they were playing

A hat and shirt weren't enough

I had some orange & aqua yarn hung around my neck, too

Just in case

Could you rock a pair of jams like these?

Don't worry.  It's OK.  Don't feel bad about it.

I was obviously working so hard I needed a sweatband 

Who needs socks?

And, again, I ask:  Why in holy hell didn't anyone inform me of the magic that is eyebrow waxing?! 

a.k.a. Lesbian tries to figure out how to work some hot rollers 

So, this is totally unrelated.

I just wanted to show off the picture of my award-winning zucchini. 

Escape Plan

Pairs well with: 

"Fast Car" by Tracy Chapman and 

"Interstate Love Song" by Stone Temple Pilots and 

"Goodbye, Goodbye" by Tegan & Sara

The 60 mile walk is quickly approaching & I'm pretty nervous that I haven't been training enough.  Because of that I have come up with a few quick backup plans to make a fast escape.  

What do you think? 

The Runaways (heehee)

(This really isn't an escape plan as much as it is a plan for each night that I actually make it through the 20 miles of the day!)

For Crying Out Loud

Pairs well with: "Trouble Me" by 10,000 Maniacs and "Everybody Hurts" by R.E.M.

By the time everyone walked out of the house at 7:30 am this morning each of the 3 boys had already cried.  Kelly's tears came because he wanted to wear his soccer ball underwear, but because he wore them just yesterday he was forced to pick another pair out of the underwear bin (which holds approx. 117 pairs of little boy drawers - so don't feel sorry for him).  Becker was snotting on himself because I, the meanest mom in all the world, wouldn't let him eat a bowl full of Oreo's and drink a Sprite for breakfast.  And, then there was Nolan, my teenager trapped in a 4 year old's body, who was crying simply because it was time to get up.  Most weekday mornings are complete chaos here.  For goodness sake, we have 3 boys at 3 different schools.  There have been quite a few mornings since the school year started when I've looked at Sarah and said, "I, too, am crying.  Just on the inside."  

When days begin like this I often hop in my car, sweaty & already exhausted with travel coffee mug in hand, feeling like shit.  I hate thinking about any of the dudes beginning his day feeling sad or mad or disappointed.  This morning found me there.  In my reflection of the previous hour's events, I realized that on the mornings when it's typical chaos - minus the crying - I don't feel nearly as terrible as I do on the mornings when there are tears.  

Why?  What power do these tiny droplets of saline hold?  

And when is it that we lose permission to cry everyday?

And when is it that crying turns in to a sign of weakness and not just simply a means to express frustration, sadness, exhaustion, pain or loneliness?  

I know more than one person who's proclaimed to me, "I am not a crier!" or "You'll never see me crying in public."  Am I supposed to be impressed?  Does that make them stronger than me?  

I had to actually think for a few minutes trying to recall the last time I cried.  Then I remembered.  It was on Wednesday morning.  Nolan walked up to Adia, a little girl with Down syndrome who's in his class at USM's Children's Center, and told her "Good Morning, Adia.  You look beautiful!"  (she - wearing a hot pink long skirt, white blouse & donning a yellow flower in her hair - absolutely WAS beautiful).  I barely made it to my car before I, too, was snotting and crying like a baby.  My precious boy, my boy of few words, had spoken volumes in those couple of sentences.  Before that was Sunday evening when I was telling Sarah a story my mom had just shared with me over the weekend.  Mom & her siblings, my 4 crazy aunts & uncle, are all getting together at the beginning of October to celebrate my grandparent's birthdays.  Both of my grandparents are deceased, which is why I found this plan so sweet.  Their 5 kids alone (no grandkids or great grandkids are invited, damnit!) are gathering for a weekend at their camp in Kentwood, LA, to fish (one thing that Maw Maw & Paw Paw both loved to do), tell stories and cook all of Maw Maw & Paw Paw's favorite foods (crispy fried catfish, fried chicken, potato salad & homemade ice cream). When it comes to these two individuals (my Maw Maw especially) I'm extra-sensitive and cry very easily.  The whole idea of this get-together and all the thought that had already gone in to it was what got to me, though.  They, the 6 grown kids, still miss their mom & dad so much that solace will be found just by dedicating time to honor &  remember them and comfort will be felt in enjoying some of their favorite things.  <insert my tears here>

The first time I ever went to therapy I was in my mid-twenties.  I was carrying around the biggest secret and felt like I had the weight of the world on my back.  I knew what the truth was, but had never found the courage to even say the words aloud.  Because I felt like I was ready to explode, I made an appointment to see a therapist.  Maybe being forced to talk would make me feel better.  Maybe talking about my secret would help me make better sense of it & figure out what to do with that knowledge.  I left work on the day of my first appointment & told everyone I was just going to lunch.  I had strategically scheduled my appointment during the lunch hour so I could sneak away and no one would be the wiser when I returned.  I walked in to the therapist's office, was handed a clipboard with new patient paperwork and quickly got stuck on the section: "Tell Me Why You're Here."  The only answer I could muster up was "Because I'm sad" and I turned the clipboard back in to the receptionist.  The next thing I remember was being called back to a room with a couch, desk, nice big window with a view of the interstate, and a giant over-sized chair positioned directly across from the couch.  A thin, grey-haired woman with eyes that glimmered with gentleness immediately shook my hand and introduced herself as Sally.  She directed me to the couch, sat down in the comfy chair and simply asked, "Why are you sad?"  I opened my mouth but nothing - not a sound - came out.  I looked at my new "friend" Sally, who was staring at me & waiting for an answer, and started crying.  The tears fell slowly at first.  I was embarrassed.  "This is awkward and uncomfortable," I kept saying to myself.  I kept thinking that I need to stop and answer her question.    But I couldn't.  And I didn't.  For the entire hour.  I never spoke a word.  And Sally just let me cry.  At the end of the hour a small timer went off, Sally stood up & said so kindly and sympathetically, "Let's go ahead and schedule your next appointment for the same time next week."  

Every afternoon at 3:00 pm I listen to the show "Tell Me More" on NPR (this is possible because I'm in & out of my car all day, every day).  During this hour-long talk show, a handful of current, relevant topics are discussed by a few "experts" who are solicited to speak on the issues. A few weeks ago I was late tuning in, so I missed the intro to the first story being discussed.  All I could gather upon listening for a few seconds was that the topic was how much farming in the U.S. has changed and how outside issues, in this case a severe drought in parts of the country, were having such adverse effects on the farming industry. I didn't know who all the experts were that had been asked to speak on the topic, but the one & only that I remember was an actual farmer (everyone else was a professional consultant or some kind of paid "thinker") who called in to the show to speak.  Farming was all the man knew because it was all he had ever done.  He was raised on the land he now farmed.  That was how he attempted to make his living.  He had a family to raise & and a future to think about.  His voice was deep and he spoke with a bit of an country twang.  When he started describing what a typical day was like in his line of work all I could envision was a big, tall man with huge calloused hands.  His skin was probably wrinkled and leathery from the sun.  I didn't picture a little man.  In my mind, he was big & strong & rough and hard.  So, he explained his "job" and then stopped talking when he was finished with his description.  It was so abrupt & unforeseen that Michelle Martin, the host, asked if he was still on the line.  "Have we lost you?  Did we get disconnected?" she asked.  And, then he spoke again.  But this time his voice cracked and he had to clear his throat.  This time he was crying.  Through the phone lines and then through the radio waves I could clearly hear the sadness and desperation and frustration in his voice.  He was absolutely pitiful.  He wasn't complaining or blaming anyone.  He wasn't bashing our President or asking for handouts.  He was just overcome with emotion.  When he was finished and off the line, Michelle Martin said, "I wonder if that's the first time anyone's ever asked him how he feels?"

You may be wondering what in the world any of these stories has in common.  The answer is: nothing, really.  Other than the fact that there were tears shed.  But they stood out to me as excellent examples of the power of crying.  In no way was crying a sign of weakness whatsoever.  I can't speak for the farmer, but for me those tears, specifically my 60 minute cry, were very therapeutic (no pun intended since I was in therapy).  I had been strong for so long that it was almost like the pressure from that facade blew a valve and the tears came erupting from my deepest, darkest place.  They were healing tears.

I would bet that the farmer's tears were not a sign of weakness, but rather of exhaustion & disappointment.

My tears on Wednesday after Nolan complimented his classmate were joyful, grateful tears.

My tears on Sunday talking about my grandparents were tears of loneliness.  Just talking about Maw Maw's favorite foods brought me back to her house as a child, making homemade ice cream by her side, and I missed her.  There's definitely a void in my life since she's been gone, but it's breathtaking when I stop and allow specific memories to come flowing in my mind.

As emotionally exhausting as a good cry is, it also feels really good, too.  And for every fond memory that I recall that involves laughter & smiles, there's another that includes tears and Kleenex.  And I am thankful for each & every one of them.

It's going to take a little work, but the next time a dirty pair of underwear sends my kid to Cry Fest 2013 I'm going to try to let it not bother me.  Because a missing pair of favorite underwear is right on up there with things like Beaches (the movie), Folger's (coffee) commercials, and those TV shows about military men & women surprising their families when they return home early.  There are just some things that absolutely require tears & I have to remind myself:  that's OK.

What makes you cry?  Are there things that guarantee a good cry for you?  Would you say that once you allow yourself to have that good cry you feel better?