Living in the Present; Remembering the Past

Gary is traveling for business this week. Today he is in The Netherlands and tomorrow he will be in Sweden and Norway. We have certainly been apart before, but never for this length of time. He will not be home until Saturday night.

Our house is off balance without him here. The three of us work in such harmony that when one of us is gone for any extended amount of time, we feel it. A lot.

I often say that I barely remember what life was like before Miranda. I remember the raw grief and gut-wrenching pain of Allie’s death, do not misunderstand. In many ways, though, that seems like another lifetime. This lifetime feels like it belongs to Miranda. 

Today I was trying to remember what life was like before Gary. We will be married eight years in May and together for ten years in October. So I went to my memoir, which is so hard to write that it is taking FOREVER, and saw this excerpt. I felt it was appropriate to share now.

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I am not sure how many frogs you have to kiss before you meet your prince. I kissed my share. And I did more with a few others that I really should not have done. After many diets, I finally felt positive about myself, and I was ready to share my life with someone. I was in my thirties by this point, and I felt like a late bloomer. I had a good job. I had my own place. I was ready! Many of my friends were married and starting families, and I wanted in on the fun. 

So I played pool and went bowling and met for drinks and agreed to dinners. I went on online dates and blind dates and any date that came my way. One low point was sneaking out the back of a restaurant during one particularly awful date. I just kept at it, though…what other choice did I have?

One warm June night, I was sitting on the lap of a date, kissing my face off and thinking about how he wasn’t so unattractive if didn’t open my eyes. When we came up for air, my date asked me what kind of engagement ring I wanted. I got up and looked at him – really looked at him. He was a husky fellow, with a grease stain on his big and tall shirt, and beads of sweat forming on his brow. I silently banged my hand against my forehead. What was I doing???? Not to mention that he looked nothing like his online profile. I guess he used his Bar Mitzvah picture which was a good 15 years old. I wonder now if it was even in color? This guy was not what I wanted. Not now. Not ever. Maybe it was time to take a break from the dating world.
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Gary and I started dating that Fall. It was all an accident, really. We were co-workers who went out for drinks to celebrate a recent job promotion. The rest is history.

I know how lucky I am. I really do. I found someone who is just as likely to laugh with me as he is to laugh at me. I hope I never take it for granted, although I am sure that I do. I hope that I do it less as more time goes by.

Four more days till he is home... 

The Seven Year Theory

At least a decade ago, I was introduced to the theory that your body shifts or changes every seven years or so. I can't remember how it related to me at the time, but it made a lot of sense to me then.

I was curious about it now, so I looked it up:

"Are you the same person now that you were fifteen years ago? In fact, are you the same person you were just seven years ago? Most of us have heard the old saying that every cell in the body is changed over a period of seven years; but recent investigation has uncovered facts of far more significance to us as human beings. This concerns the emotional, physical and mental changes that seem to occur in approximate seven-year intervals. Of course there are no fixed boundaries and so one may achieve these levels of maturity at any period of our life." Credit: Tony Crisp

So why am I thinking about this theory now? It's simple. Allie would be seven this April.

Something has shifted or changed in me over the past few months. Although I miss my first baby so much, I also feel like I need to let her go a little bit. I do not want to live in my grief anymore. I am taking a step back from publishing articles about stillbirth and loss. I want to move forward and stop standing still.

Is that the changing of my cells talking or my heart? Or both?

The recovery from my surgical procedure from last month has been much more intense than I anticipated. I have spent a lot of time sleeping and healing and reflecting and what I realized was that despite my best intentions, I spend a lot of time mourning the past or anxiously awaiting the future.

My family has always been my first priority. Lately, though, I feel more present when I am with them. Forcing myself to slow down helped me take a focused look around. That's what happens when you can't drive for over a week!

To quote Dear Evan Hansen which I saw last week in New York City, "No one deserves to be forgotten. No one deserves to fade away." Allie will not be forgotten. Not by me. Not by her dad. Not by her sister. And not by anyone that loves us. I think it's time to trust that love.

For example, in New York last week, I thought a lot of my dad. He loved that city and called it home for a good number of years. The sounds, smells, and energy all made him feel alive. I always shared that passion with him. I have not hidden the fact that my dad was a flawed man. A hurtful man, even. But I felt connected with him last week as the taxi cabs whizzed by us. I trusted the love that we did share and knew it would be there for me when I needed it. As suddenly as I felt him, I also felt him slip away. He is not forgotten. He has not faded away. If anything, the negativity of him has, leaving behind just the good.

I just turned 44 on Sunday. While that is not a derivative of seven, I feel a shift in my soul as well. Part of it is from the surgery. Part of it is that my daughter is heading to Kindergarten next year and I see this chapter of our lives closing and the next chapter getting ready to be written. Part of it is just the passage of time. 

I am excited about the future. I am even more excited for the present. It truly is a gift.

Souvenirs from NYC. No one deserves to be forgotten.

To Thine Own Breast Be True

At Spring House Country Day Camp, I was cast as Danny Zuko in the Summer production of Grease. I was never going to be Sandy, and I was thrilled to land the role of one of the leads, even if it was the male lead. We put lots of pomade in my hair, had a knock-off T Birds jacket on standby and on opening day, my mom and step-dad were there with the camcorder ready to record my theatrical debut.  I think I was 11 or 12.

"Danny Zuko's got tits!" was the first thing I heard as I stepped out for my first line. It was preserved forever on the recording my parents made.

That may not be the first time I was embarrassed about my chest size, but it was the first time I remember being so self-conscious about a part of myself that I could not control. And it was surely not the last time. Not even close.

Clothes never fit me right. I was buying adult sizes when I was just a kid. I often looked like I was wearing a curtain or a drape when my contemporaries were wearing The Limited or Guess. My poor mother took me specialty bra shopping when I was a new teenager and almost fell over at the sticker shock of what a minimizer bra would cost and at how much material was needed to hold my ladies in place.

Sports were hard, so I stuck to drama (which was more than ok with me as I started to fine-tune my craft and get cast in female roles!). There were always certain things I could do not or wear, but I got by. The Fields women were known for their ample bosoms, and that was just the way it was.

Over the years, I lose and gained various amounts of weight. At my very lightest, I still need 2-3 sports bras to run or exercise and I never got below an XL top. It was what it was.

I met someone in college who had a breast reduction, and she was reborn! Victoria's Secret was not just a shop for perfume! She could fit into the bras, too! WHAT?

I thought seriously about the procedure after college, but I knew I would need help. I would need my mom to live with me or vice versa for a good week and tend to my dressings and take care of me. We were both working full time then, and it seemed not so much a "waste of time," but not the best use of our time. So I put it to the back of my mind.

About five years after that, I thought about it again. I was in my early 30's and single, but in the back of my mind, I thought that there might be a distant and remote chance that I would want to be a mother someday. And if I were, I would want to nurse my child. Nursing can happen after breast reductions, but often times it is complicated and sometimes even impossible. So back to the back burner it went.

Then I met Gary. Love changes your perception of things. I no longer cared as much about the size of my chest or the back pain or the shoulder grooves I now had from wearing such heavy bras so much of the time. It was just a part of my story, and I liked that this guy was really into my whole story.

When I got pregnant with Allie, I felt like my breasts were like, "FINALLY! SOMETHING FOR US TO DO!" I registered for a breast pump, and I bought nipple pads and salve for cracked nipples and a whole bunch of things I knew nothing about. But I was excited to have a use for these things and ready to put them to work.

When my baby died, a part of me died as well. No question about that. I stuffed my maternity bras with cabbage and wrapped them in ace bandages and prayed that my milk would not come in. I do not think I could bear it if it did. They somehow heard my prayers, and I was spared that added pain.

This past summer, I reconnected with an old family friend. She had a reduction a few months prior and was thrilled with the results. So much so that she wanted to take me into the Ladies Room to show off her new appendages. That lunch got me thinking. If not now, when?

I talked to Gary. I talked to my primary doctor. I got a referral. Quickly, I got my insurance company to approve the procedure. We were all systems go.

My reduction mammoplasty was scheduled for December 9th. We were all ready to go. I went to the surgical center, got ready to go, went under anesthesia...and then promptly got pulled out because I had bronchitis and it was too bad to continue.

I was in tears. I was SO close, and then I was denied yet again. The doctor and the nurses hated to see me in so much pain. They all agreed they would come in over their Christmas break and do the procedure for me then. New year, new you - I heard that more than once. December 29th was my new date.

I did not tell many people. That shame I had since I walked out on that stage at camp had followed me through my life. I could not quite figure out why I was embarrassed, but I was. In a way, my surgery became my little (big) secret.

That was 12 days ago. What I have learned in my recovery is that there is nothing I should be ashamed about! I had plastic surgery to correct an issue that has plagued me my whole life. The path to healing has been rocky for me - first I had a reaction to the anesthesia and puked the better part of my first night home and then I learned I had to sleep on my back which has been problematic for me, so sleep has been elusive for me. The pain was more than I expected and I still have not driven yet. Plans have been canceled; apologies have been made.

But get this - I NO LONGER HAVE THESE MAMMOTH FUN BAGS HANGING OFF MY BODY! I have these perky little things that I have no idea what to do with. I saw my doctor on Wednesday, and I am healing beautifully. I go back in a week and a half.

My back and neck pain were erased immediately. The shoulder grooves will go away in time. I feel freer and lighter and almost euphoric! I am tired and sore and in many ways, happier with my body than I have ever been.

I have lots more work to do. Work I can do myself once I can exercise again. Work on my mind and my soul, as well as my body. I am not worried. I know I can do it.

Gary deserves a plaque and an award and every Captain America statue that exists. He has taken on me as a patient (not an easy task) while comforting and tending to Miranda's every need. I am never ever letting him go.

A special shout-out, too, to Dr. George Zavitsanos and his incredible staff for all the care and support they gave me and will continue to give me, of this I am sure. I cannot imagine using anyone else.

So that's my story. I will not spend time wishing I had done it sooner or that my belly was flatter (now that there are no boobs to obstruct it!) or that this happened or that happened. I got the surgery when it was right for me. And I am so very glad that I did.

Lunch at the food court yesterday, My first time out of the house in a week!