"You can't see the picture if you're inside the frame."
The above was said by a junior boy in my AP US History class, or as Hannah and her friends now call it, "A-PUSH." I'm sure Erik would be shocked that I remember it, as I'm sure he doesn't. I can't remember the context, but we had the best discussions in that class, and it could have been about anything. But that football player with the twinkling eyes said it, and I wrote it down, and remember and think of it often.
Because how often are we too close to the problem to be able to see it clearly?
I work with three different organizations outside of my full-time job and parenting responsibilities. I have high-ranking positions in each, and I'm proud of the work I do to support them. But it is volunteer work, and is often outside of what I'm professionally experienced in doing. I have to leave my comfort zones to give input and support, and the time I have is often limited, but I do the best I can. Sometimes, that doesn't live up to what others expectations may be, and that's tough to hear and accept. But sometimes, I may be too close to the issues at hand, and getting feedback from someone more on the outside can be really helpful. It's hard not to be defensive and even overprotective of the group, and to take the comments in. That balance can be a difficult one to strike, but it's worth it.
Deep breaths. Listen and absorb before responding. Dive in again.
I've been noting on Facebook lately that I've been doing so. much. adulting.
Maybe it's because life has, frankly, not been so enjoyable with this virus raging and not much to look forward to doing. It feels like life is an endless list of responsibilities and very little pay off right now. I'm not saying that to be depressing, just honest. By focusing on the things I'm getting done, especially those little things without much of a reward for having done them, seems like a way to still feel accomplished and like life is moving forward.
So this week started with paying to have two dead trees removed before they became threats, and it ended with me ordering a new lightbulb for the refrigerator. I also changed the batteries in our door lock, ordered more compost bags, and refilled the JetDry in the dishwasher. I picked up groceries for our local pantry donation, and the supplies for Max's at home science experiment next week. I registered Hannah for an online event that required an absurd amount of forms. I made incremental progress on details for Max's bar mitzvah. I held my office hours at work and checked in on my teammates.
The other day I was driving Max to Hebrew school, one of his only in-person activities, and he admitted that if I hadn't told him it was time to go, he wouldn't have had any idea he was missing it. We talked about how people can use tools to help them stay organized, or they can try to design a life where there are few time-sensitive tasks. Or maybe you rent an apartment instead of owning a house, so you don't have to coordinate tree trimming services. But no one can really get out of growing up.
And sometimes, when you're a grown up, you get to decide that you're just having candy. Because candy is good. So there are some perks.
It's November, and in the past for me, that's meant "NaBloPoMo," or National Blog Post Month, where people attempted to blog every day for the month. I've done it a few times, and each time, I found it to be a fulfilling experience. I liked the challenge of making time to show up for myself each day. And it really was a challenge to figure out something worth saying EVERYDAY, or even a picture worth posting. I never continued to post daily after it ended, as the end always seemed to come through with a limp at Thanksgiving and such. I managed to do it from 2014 to 2016, and again in 2019.
This year, my blogging friend Melisa astutely recognized the challenge that is 2020 all on its own, without things like manufactured blogging challenges to keep us on our toes. But she offered to aggregate links and send them out to people, and so I signed up again for this exercise, and told myself that I'd aim for once a week. If I hit publish today, that will be two for two.
But dear lord I am dragging today, and showing up is hard. And The Bachelorette used the phrase "show up" so much in the last few weeks that it's basically lost all meaning for me.
I made it to another Friday. Hannah had her wisdom teeth out this week and while it wasn't fun, she's made it through the worst of it. Max is going back to some in person school on Monday and enjoyed some extra time off this week. We're all okay.
For now, that's really all I've got. A lot of telling myself that we're all okay, that I'm okay. I'm learning to be okay with okay.
Today is the first day in a while where I haven't felt completely overwhelmed.
I know a lot of that is self-imposed. But keeping all of the plates spinning these last few months has taken so much effort, and we all know that I'm already a so much effort kind of person. And it's funny, because it's the day before Election Day, and I can see the spinning out of so many others as their worry crescendos in a palpable way. I've had to shut out so much of that for myself, because as much as I'd like to have been right there with them, I just can't. Kids, dog, job, home, board work (times three), planning a bar mitzvah, and trying to figure out a separation and divorce. I toggle from email to video meetings to reminders to voicemails to lists and notes. I write emails to a friend that include the phrase "and and and and and" often. Basically daily.
I am okay, and I'm really not complaining. It is a lot, but I am better than I was, and I know that. I am zoning out in my favorite way, watching TV (which is a totally legit form of self care, thank you very much), and I am going to be fine.
There are going to be more days like this one ahead, when the work is manageable and the kids are quiet and the dog is napping and the house is clean and the dinner is made. It's good to know those days are still ahead, even if their frequency is limited right now. And someday, I'll probably look back on my time in the Land of Overwhelm and know that I'd give anything to be back there again. So I should probably try a little harder to be grateful for all of it right now.
It's my birthday, and I often feel compelled to mark it here on ye old blog. I remember writing for my 33rd birthday so clearly, actually sitting right where I'm sitting right now. I'm glad to know that some things don't change.
Because this year has been so, so much change. Losing my mother and ending my marriage in a six month period during a global pandemic. I mean, that has to be a sub-definition of "A LOT."
But today I feel so, so lucky. I've gotten lovely flowers and a lawn sign from my friends. Hannah draw a picture of the two of us on a happy evening, and Max gave me a lovely cookbook to probably not ever make anything from, but I'll enjoy reading it.
Forty-three (gratefully, thankfully) feels like so much time left. I've been waiting to feel the peace I've heard about from my friends, and honestly, I'm not sure I'm there yet, but I think I'm closer. I know I'm closer.
About three weeks ago, I had surgery to remove a large lipoma from the back of my neck. As I've detailed the first surgery I had, to treat herniated disks in 2010, and the second, LASIK in 2015, here on the blog, I thought I'd write about this experience once again.
The journey to this third surgical experience was a long one. I can't remember for certain, but I think I first noticed the lump forming in 2016, but it may have been earlier. I know that when I saw the photos from Hannah's bat mitzvah in 2017 that I felt like I was holding my head in a funny way. I'd kept bringing it up to my doctor, but she said it wasn't anything to be concerned about. In the summer of 2018, I met with a plastic surgeon about it, and he agreed, just leave it be. I asked my doctor again in 2019, and she scheduled an ultrasound that fall to get a look at it. The results were what she expected, just a blob of fat. But by then I was having more and more trouble with pain in my shoulders, arms and hands. I saw a dermatologist last December, who I hoped might be able to help me out (as I had seen many helped by Dr. Pimple Popper by then - and I won't post a link - you can Google that yourself if you'd like). But she took one look at me and quickly sent me on my way, saying I needed a plastic surgeon for sure, as the lump was now quite large. I found someone to do the surgery, who didn't second guess me one bit, saw him in February, and was scheduled for May 1.
I'd chosen the date carefully, trying to make sure the surgery and the healing process wouldn't conflict with any important work or family things that I wanted to be sure to attend, like a work trip to Minneapolis (the last trip I took) and show tickets Hannah and I had for April in NYC (which of course didn't happen). So much for planning. But one Monday in June they called and asked if I could come in that Friday. I was a bit shocked, and said no, but rescheduled for June 29.
And then the anxiety really escalated. While I wanted the surgery, and knew how happy I was with the results of my two prior surgeries, I was FREAKED OUT. Reading back on it now, the experience I had in recovery after my back surgery was really downplayed on the blog, and I was terrified to have a similar experience. Plus, now it was surgery in a pandemic. I had to get a COVID test, and I was really worried about that too. I didn't think I'd get the virus while in the hospital for such a short time, but it was an extra layer of stress. I spent a lot of time crying. I wasn't sure if I was doing the right thing, because I could have just left it all alone too.
The morning of surgery was a fretful one for me. My emotions were right at the surface. When we walked into Beth Israel, I was suddenly overcome with memories of when I'd last been there, December 2007, when I was told I was miscarrying. I cried in the lobby remembering that day.
I met with the surgical team in pre-op, and I told them all of my fears regarding the procedure and recovery. They were great about talking me through everything (one anesthesiologist gave me a little too much detail, which I assured her I did NOT need to know), and they even took my iPhone with them so they could easily check my blood sugar through my continuous glucose monitor. They walked me in to the operating room, and I was given a tube to suck on to start the anesthesia, and then I woke up in recovery. Or at least, that's how I remember it.
I came to and kept tugging at my surgical mask. I couldn't understand at first what was on my face, and I wanted it off. But I quickly calmed down and realized I was alive and okay. I was scared, but not in that much pain. I had to have a surgical drain left in place to prevent excess fluid from building up, and it was gross but manageable. I didn't see anyone from my surgical team again, and Marc hadn't been permitted to stay in the building, so he was called and then picked me up at the curb. That afternoon, in my anesthesia haze, I told the kids I felt like I'd been hit by a bus and then somehow robbed a bank, and Marc was driving the getaway car. I think they liked the version of mom on heavy meds.
The rest of the week was basically lost. I was fortunate to not have to work, and we were closed on Friday for the fourth of July. The pain wasn't too bad after 48 hours or so, but it was hard to hold my head up the whole day. I was just exhausted, and I'm sure a lot of it was mental as well.
I had the drain removed at my follow up appointment a week and a half later. The doctor told me they removed almost 20 centimeters of tissue from my neck and shoulders. It was a lot.
I'm healing well and can definitely feel a difference, but it will take time for some parts of my shoulders to settle down after being pushed around for so long. It's hard for me to see it because I can't really see my own back, but Hannah says it looks a lot better. I've usually hidden it from the world by keeping my hair down in public almost all the time, but seeing as the pandemic has basically obliterated the need for blow drying, maybe now I'll feel better about putting my hair up when in the outside world. We'll see.
The one continuing downside to this is that it could happen again. If it does, hopefully now I know more and can speak to better doctors and not go through a years-long process again.
I'm glad I did it. I'm glad it's over. And I'm wondering what surgery I'll be having in five years time, assuming the pattern holds.
It began during my freshman year of college. With long distance calls still being relatively expensive during the week, and my mom being, well, who she was, my mom and I had weekly 8 am Saturday morning phone calls. The rates were cheaper, and my mom wasn't particularly busy then, but most importantly, what trouble could I possibly get in on a Friday night when I had to call her so early the next morning?
My roommate, Carol, was not a fan of these calls. I eventually purchased an extra long phone cord, and had to do these calls sitting just outside the door of our room, in the hallway, while she continued to sleep. I didn't blame her at all.
The ritual of these calls continued long past college. My mom started sleeping a bit later over time, and many Saturday mornings I would go to synagogue with my family. But the need to call my mom each weekend always hung over me. She was very particular about when she would want to talk to me: not too late, not when my Dad was available to watch TV, not when she was eating. Her timing often didn't mesh well with mine. The kids had a birthday party or a play date, or I had some errands to run, or some actual plans of my own. I'd try to call on Sunday instead, but that was clearly not what she wanted either. Sometimes, more often than I wanted, she wasn't happy when I called her. But I stuck with it all these years, and spoke to her the Saturday afternoon before she unexpectedly died the next morning.
During these last few weeks, I will admit that for many reasons it's been a relief to be free from these conversations. I'm not a great sleeper, and with nowhere to go now, I don't have the motivation to get up early, definitely not 8 am on a Saturday morning anymore. This past weekend was the Saturday before Mother's Day. Lots of kind people reached out to see how I was holding up that Sunday, but they didn't know that my mom had already made herself known the day before.
Still not wanting to get out of bed, I decided to treat myself to the Shahs of Sunset reunion episode on Bravo, but for some reason, I guess it didn't air. Most of the things I watch these days involve Hannah, so my remaining options on my DVR were limited. I put on an episode of NBC's "Indebted," a show starring Fran Drescher (of "The Nanny" fame) who moves in with her adult son and his family after going broke. It's not one of my favorites, but funny enough, a fine way to pass half an hour. I had four episodes left to watch, the first of which had aired four days after my mom died. Shortly after this episode began, while setting up the plot, Fran's character is telling her family an anecdote about someone that is tangentially related to whatever is happening. It's a familiar part of the routine of this show, and Fran often mentions some Jewish-sounding so and so. Only this time, it was my mom. Watch this (volume up, it's hard to hear).
Fran's talking all about her friend, "Susie Pollock." Now my mom was Susan, but lots of people called her Susie. She didn't like it, but they did, and now, three minutes in to my Saturday morning distraction from life, and they're talking about her on TV. Or she's talking to me. (And for the record, this daughter of Susie Pollock is not pursuing any form of procreation.)
Unlike past episodes, or at least not that I'd ever noticed before, they went on to mention the same Jewish so and so, my mother (!), three more times during that episode. I know that they'd never mentioned that character before, because surely I would have heard it, even if I wasn't paying the utmost attention as I watched. Honestly, I was a bit freaked out. The coincidence is uncanny. Her name was somewhat common, but even in the Jewish world, there are a lot of other names that could have come up before Pollock. If she had been alive to see it, I think even she would have been shocked, but now that she's not, and it was my first time watching this show since she'd died, and it was when we normally would have been talking, and, and, and...it was a lot to take in.
It was my first Mother's Day without my mom, but kind of not really.
Two days later, I watched another episode without incident. I was feeling emboldened, and I put on one more. And then right from the start, this.
Now, this time, I really couldn't believe it. I paused the show just after "Susie Pollock is ...dead" and ran into Hannah's room to get her. We then watched the rest of the scene, and were relieved to know that *this* Susie Pollock is resting comfortably in Florida.
But COME ON. I've literally never talked to anyone about this show. I know it's on a major network, but I don't know anyone else who watches it. These episodes aired weeks ago. It's a lot, right?
I finished the remaining episodes without further incident. The season wrapped up neatly; I have no idea if Fran and her friends will be picked up for another season. But if they are? I'll be watching for another hello from my mom.
