by Band Back Together | Nov 13, 2010 | Adoption, Anxiety, Blended Families, Family, Love |
I sing you to sleep.
The boys, whom I gave birth to, wouldn’t fall asleep to my singing. We sing together at night, before they go to sleep, but their song is filled with silliness and laughter. But you relax as soon as soon as I start your song.
I didn’t meet you until you were five months old. I was your fourth mother. I was nervous that you wouldn’t bond with us, after having been uprooted so many times. But, the second time we visited you, it was clear you recognized us.
The weekend you had your first sleepover with us, we went out to dinner. A woman stopped by our table to tell us how beautiful you were, and how she loved watching you stare at me.
“Babies always know their mommies,” she said.
I may be your mommy, but you are still not my daughter. We wait. The court is still considering its decision. It is a decision I am glad I do not have to make myself. We have come to know your birth mother, your birth father, your birth family. Both of your birth parents love you very much, and would like you to be with them. Part of me hopes they can do all the things they need to do to make their lives safe and secure enough to have you back. But, another part of me knows that it is a herculean task.
I also know that if you do go back, we will be devastated. Your father has already started looking into therapists, just in case. Your silly brothers, who adore you and compete to make your smile, will have a really hard time adjusting. I suspect this will make my postpartum depression look like a party. But what really worries me is you. Will you be safe? Will that nice lady and man you have playdates with be able to continue their progress? Will you miss your brothers? Will you grow up to be the happy, healthy, amazing woman I know you can be?
Who will sing you to sleep?
by Band Back Together | Nov 13, 2010 | Adjustment Disorder, Coping With Depression, Major Depressive Disorder, Mental Health |
For the past few weeks, life has gotten the better of me.
Work and home have been hectic, but no more than normal.
Something else is wrong.
I’ve stopped blogging (until now, obviously). Twitter is all but a memory. I have 287 unread posts from some of the most amazing people that I can’t even find the energy to read. I haven’t really spoken to friends. My mum forgets my voice I’m sure, it’s been that long since I’ve called. I don’t read emails. I ignore my husband. I sleep through most weekends and can’t bring myself to leave the house at times.
I feel hurt. I feel empty. I feel like crying but lack the care factor to do so.
I don’t care.
Everyone’s always angry with me. I can’t do anything right.
I’m lost.
Again.
I’m so sick of feeling useless. Feeling guilty. Feeling angry. Disgusted with myself.
I’m sinking.
I’ve lost interest.
I’m struggling to find five minutes of peace to myself. It’s just not there. I don’t have any time. This post alone has taken me 4 hours.
I’m over everything. I’ve got nothing left to give.
There’s nothing left within me. No energy. No hope. Sometimes no love.
I don’t need help. I need space.
I don’t know about anything anymore.
Nothing’s certain.
by Band Back Together | Nov 12, 2010 | Cancer and Neoplasia, Chronic Illness, Coping With Cancer, Grief, Health, Help For Grief And Grieving, How To Help A Friend With Chronic Illness, Loss, Parent Loss |
In August of 2006, my mother was diagnosed with cancer. I was at the movie store with my boyfriend and our 4 month old daughter when I got a phone call from my aunt. I had to stand outside because I couldn’t hear her inside. As I stood in the wind with one ear plugged, huddled so she didn’t hear the gusting through the line, she told me my mother was in the hospital fighting for her life. I couldn’t believe it. In shock, I think, I asked her question after question.
My most important question: “What happened?” She went to the ER with abdominal pain, which turned out to be a tumor pushing on her internal organs. She was in multiple organ failure and had to be wheeled into surgery immediately. They only had time to get contact information for my grandparents before she was under and being cut open. They had removed what they could, put her on dialysis and a colostomy bag, and told my grandparents to come as soon as they could. They were 4 states away.
Against the odds, my mother survived the massive surgery which left her with no large intestine, no reproductive organs, and one barely functional kidney. My grandparents packed her home up, leaving behind precious memories and beloved family pets in the process, to try to get her back to their home before another rent payment was due. A few days after they finished packing, my mother was declared stable enough to transport and made the several hour flight away from the only state she had ever called home.
Practically an invalid for months, she relied completely on my grandparents for everything. I was unable to get down to see her, despite impassioned pleas to everyone I could think of, including my and my mother’s previous employer, for a loan. I just needed a plane ticket. A simple fucking plane ticket. $300 that our family couldn’t afford without shutting off the gas in the middle of a Michigan winter. What if she had died in that hospital? Or the months just after? The doctors hadn’t given her much chance, and I couldn’t get a lousy $300 loan to go see her.
How could things get so fucked up so fast? I’d just seen her! She came up after our daughter was born, twice, because soon after she left the first time I needed gallbladder surgery. She may not have been a poster-girl for perfect health, but she wasn’t DYING! How could two months make such a difference? And why the hell couldn’t I get someone to give me a fucking hand up so I could go see one of the most important people in my life when they were practically one foot in the grave?!?!
By the time I finally got to see her, she had mostly stabilized and was started on chemo so the tumors wouldn’t start growing again and really do her in this time. It was a calculated risk: if they started it too soon, and she couldn’t handle literally injecting poison into her body, she died. If they waited too long, the extremely aggressive tumors could grow right back and totally kill her internal organs, if they didn’t starve her of essential nutrients first. Rock, meet hard place. Fuck me.
But she survived. Against all odds – and often stupefying her doctors – she lived. She bulled through that surgery, her recovery, chemo, and eventually radiation as well. And in the end? She kicked cancer in the balls, hard. Her very last oncologist appointment gave her an official diagnosis of remission. Three months later, she died. The treatment(s) had left her with an inability to absorb vital nutrients.
But even as she lay dying, she had the satisfaction of knowing she had won.
She might be dying, but she’d taken the big C with her, kicking and fucking screaming. I’m proud of you, Mom.
by Band Back Together | Nov 12, 2010 | Cancer and Neoplasia, Coping With Cancer, Sadness |
I got the call last night. It’s Stage 4 cancer this time. It’s “everywhere.” I don’t know what to do. I’m half a continent away from them.
On one hand, it’s not right to mourn. He’s not out yet, and they’re beginning chemo again next week. But really, it doesn’t look good. The chemo is just to “slow it down.” And I’m a realist. And so I mourn, if only inside.
This is the uncle that is quietly awesome. He’s in the background, making sure everyone is okay. He’s brilliant, and made sure his 3 kids all went wherever they wanted for college (we’re talking Ivy League Schools), despite living on a teacher’s salary. He’s the rock. When I drove through town on a whim, getting in late, he made sure a bed was made, dinner was left out, and then took me out for a hockey game the next day.
And he’s too young to go.
I guess I don’t really have a question. I just need to type this out, and make it somewhat public. Thanks.
by Band Back Together | Nov 11, 2010 | Gender Nonconformity, Transgender |
I turned the radio on to that station you hated.
You know the one, with the blaring rock music, and the DJ’s you never liked. Not that you found them offensive. You just thought they weren’t funny. You laughed when I told one of their jokes.
I turn the volume up. Just a little. Just because you always hated it.
I don’t drink anymore. You ruined me for it. Not that it is a bad thing, not drinking. But sometimes I think of those girly drinks I used to love, that you would always tease me for… Cosmos, redheaded sluts, you know, the fruity ones. The ones that I would joke would make me no less of a man (even though I was and am pre-op trans). The ones I would chase with a shot of tequila, or whiskey. Or both. Those were some interesting nights we had, huh?
I still sometimes think I see you in crowds. It used to be, if I thought you were there, you probably were. Magic of running with the same crowd, and inevitably doing the same things. Now, I haven’t seen most of those people in over a year. Interesting that the people I called friends weren’t more interested when I fell off of the grid.
Hey, congratulations. You always talked about wanting to do something big and lasting, in that way that people who fancy themselves artists have. You certainly managed it. Thanks to you, I can’t be a mentally healthy human being. Probably ever. You didn’t start the ball rolling, no – we have my family to thank for that one… Though you did pick at that wound, so thanks for that. But you managed some irreparable damage, and left me totally broken. You rock.
So, still hanging around the same crowd? Anyone ever mention me or where I went? Probably not. They were all pretty superficial. Unless they were high… In which case, they tried so hard to be deep. But anyhow, they ever ask you what happened? You ever tell them? Probably said that I made a move on you. Because you were so fuckin’ irresistible. I don’t trust people very easily anymore.
Over a year since our little ‘anniversary’. Do you ever regret it? You planned to prey on the one with the blossoming drinking problem, shame and guilt issues and the body issues who trusted you? Probably. I sound like kind of an easy mark.
I just wanted to let you know that I found people that accept me for all of my awkward, neurotic tendencies. They always call me by my right name. They love me, and would protect me from someone like you. And yeah, in the back of my mind, I am still just a little fearful of them. Because I trusted you that much once.
Funny how something like a radio station can bring back such memories.
