Full of stars

We were driving home from hockey practice when Ian craned his neck up and exclaimed, "I can see constellations!" I was driving, and there were lots of trees.

"What do you see? It seems too cloudy to see anything."
"Well, a cloud just got in the way, but I saw some stars before that. I don't know what constellation I was looking at, but I know stars make up constellations, so I saw them."

He was so sure, so full of wonder in the face of cloud cover.

I confessed to Ian that I had never looked for constellations until I was in college. My boyfriend Jeremy drove us out to a cow field to look at them. I remember at the time being stunned that Jeremy had so much knowledge of the night sky. I focused on gaining skills that would lead to a job. I wondered if recognizing Orion's belt was something people listed as a skill.

I spent equal time that night with Jeremy looking over at his face as much as we looked at the sky. He was so sure of what was up there as if the stars were old friends of his. It was a personality so different from my own. I found it endearing.

And here was my son being just as sure.

After Ian went to bed, I started chewing on the idea of stargazing. Is it something we should all learn? Will it help us in life as much as learning the appropriate size of food to fit in one's mouth? (A skill my 10-year-old has yet to master.) If nothing else, spending some time staring up at the sky has some emotional benefits. I have never been one to have much "chill" or to enjoy being idle. There is an allure in charting the same stars others have for thousands of years. It's like a long thin thread through time.

I downloaded an app called SkyView for my phone. It can show you the constellations in the sky through the camera, overlaying the images over whatever it sees. Since it's working on GPS and direction, it doesn't need a clear night. I've enjoyed seeing what hides beneath the surface of mundane locations.

I look forward to trying it out with Ian one evening when we have fewer clouds. But even in the Philadelphia airport, it still makes things a little more magical.

Open your mouth and say "ow"

"My goal is to get you to say 'ow' at some point."
- My physical therapist guy, joking with me while digging around in my neck.

Many medical professionals have told me I have a high pain tolerance. It's the only pain tolerance I've ever had, so I don't know how it compares to others. But I have a variety of examples of powering through things that would have laid others out. 

I come by it naturally. I've watched both my parents persevere with few complaints through significant ailments and injuries.

We've been struggling over here lately. It's been hard to pinpoint the reasons why precisely. I realized that I am experiencing pain. I've never called it pain before, treating it like a situation, without emotion. I wasn’t in pain, I just couldn’t put weight on that wrist or turn my head to the left. Given that the pain resulted from the most mundane of activities, it didn’t seem to merit The P Word. People hurt if they’ve been injured, not from picking up their toddler. I was even resistant to seeing a physical therapist because that’s for people who are hurt, not me. I’m fine.

I’m seeing my experience as pain (on varying levels of the pain scale), and I realize that the pervasive pain affects me. If I can't turn my head, and my jaw is stuck, and my right elbow can't bear any weight from the shoe untying incident of 2019, I get to the point of "can't even." In that state, I don't deal well with Ian asking me to sign his coursework folder after having thrown out all the coursework because he already looked at it all and it wasn't worth keeping. 

I'm working on recognizing my condition and dialing down the reactions I have to external discomforts in addition to the ones going on inside me. (But why? Why would you ask your mother to sign an empty folder? Why??)

It could be seasonal. I have Facebook memories reminding me of prepping for Rich's first surgery in 2012, my beloved cat Hiro drowning in 2014, and the election in 2016. While it wasn't on Facebook, November of 2017 was a non-stop argument between Shrop and me. It's getting cold and dark outside, and I don't do well with either. It's not just physical pain we're navigating.

Ian is having a hard time too, and we're working on sorting out why. At the moment, I suspect he is going through a growth spurt. His legs have been hurting for several days. And much like my physical discomfort having far-reaching effects, he's managing a lot over there. Ian has been very emotional lately, crying over minor things.

Tuesday was election day, so he was home with me. He was hungry but wasn't sure what he wanted to eat. Nothing sounded good, and he was afraid to decide on food that didn't sate him, lest he waste it. I gave him several choices, but the options themselves were stressing him out. So I just walked away for a bit before I started one of my Mom Monologues (TM) entitled "If You Come To Me With A Problem, Don't Refuse Every Possible Solution I Offer While Continuing To Wail About Your Problem." It's a classic. 

I heard a thump in the kitchen, but I have a 10-year-old half-giant child as well as two large dogs. Thumps are not uncommon. A few minutes later, I walked into the kitchen and found Ian curled on the floor, crying. He was stuck and despondent. 

I sat on the floor with him. I told him that I understood. I told him I wasn't mad at him, and I know that he's struggling. After a few minutes, I pulled things out of the cabinet for him to look at and consider. We decided on chicken tenders, even though those take time to cook. He had two helpings. He felt better. After he ate, we walked together to the polling location because getting outside and walking can help reset things. 

He got stuck again this morning. We have worked on a new morning routine where I get help from Ian and Shrop (when he's there) so that I'm not all alone making the entire morning go and trying to get out the door by 7:38 am. Ian ground the coffee beans and filled the French press. He also fed the dogs, including their meds. He asked for specific foods but ran out of steam to finish them, which is fine. We were doing ok. 

Then he followed me into the backyard in his sock feet. That started me on my doctoral thesis of "We Don't Go Outside In Sock Feet, Particularly When We Are So Sensitive About The Lumps In Our Socks That We Must Try On Every Single Sock In The Laundry Basket While In Tears To Replace The Ones We Got Wet Outside After Protesting That The Socks Are Just Damp And Not Actually Wet." I didn't use Powerpoint slides but give me an hour and I could.

I hugged the top of his head while he went through every sock at the bottom of the stairs. "I gotta go." 

I made it about a mile away when he called me in tears.

"I didn't get to give you a real hug, and when I ran out to the driveway, I could see you pulling away at the end of the street." 
“Where are you now?"
"On my bike, halfway to Grandma's."
"Meet me in the driveway. I'm turning around."

I didn't need to go through an entire day with the last contact with my son being his sobbing over a hug. He didn't need the last image of his mother today being her driving away while he desperately needed a hug. We needed to fix this. I’m glad Ian called so we had the opportunity to fix it.

We stood in the driveway and hugged for a long time. Eventually, I suggested I could make fart noises to stop his crying. Ian laughed. I followed him to Grandma's with my window rolled down, coaching him on how his day was going to be good. 

I think I'm going to buy some more sun lamps. I'm going to remove unnecessary obligations. We have a lot going on right now, all of us. We're in transition, and while the change is all good, and we're not actively dying, there is discomfort in the process.

I'm a stand for being with a person through their discomfort. Many times people skip that step in favor of finding the fastest solution. But I believe people need to feel heard about their pain, in whatever form it takes. I'm not perfect about this. See my previous monologues and Powerpoint presentations. But I very much believe in it.

I'm learning to say "ow," and I'm learning to hear the people I love when they say "ow." 

Learning our fall lines

You know when you get a Slurpee from 7-Eleven and it’s a little too much for the regular straw? That’s my snow report for today. Dirt Slurpee.

There were people snowboarding in t-shirts with their jackets tied around their waists just so they still had their lift tickets that were attached.

We went down “the long slope” to the bigger chair lift once. That was all I needed as the conditions were pretty awful. It felt like a slog for me, though Ian never fell on that section today. We shared a chair ride with one of the snow patrol dudes. He asked how we liked the snow and I politely said, “It’s ok. We’re having fun.”

Ian said, “Well ... yesterday was a lot better but today it looks more like salt than snow and I don’t think that’s as good.” I pointed out that this was his second day on skis ever and we come from tidal Virginia so we’re not snow connoisseurs.

Patrol dude said, “I’ll be honest with ya, this isn’t very good snow. So if you can ski in this, you can ski in anything.”

We went down “the short slope” next, my taking the lead so Ian could follow me. After a bit, I realized he’d fallen. I stopped. I tried to side step up the hill. I took one ski off and tried to side step that way. Nope. My skis sank into at least 6” of Slurpee. I was nearly that horse stuck in the mud from Neverending Story.

So I just stood and waited. Ian tried to push himself up but ... Slurpee. So he took off both his skis, got to his feet, repositioned his skis, clipped back in and rejoined me. We continued to the small chair lift.

He looked a little sullen so I asked about it. “I can’t believe you didn’t realize I had fallen!”

“Dude! I’m a novice skier too. I’m doing my own ski. I can’t look back for you every two feet. When I realized you were gone, I stopped. I tried to get to you but it was really hard. And you weren’t in distress. So I just stood witness. You didn’t cry for help. You figured it all out and made great decisions. I’m proud of you. Do you want me to follow you next time?”

He nodded.

So we took turns that way. When I fell on the long slope he stopped and waited for me. He said, “Good job!” when I was able to stand back up in Slurpee. And I said, “Yes! Go you!” when he made a great recovery.

That’s how grief is for us. We have to take turns. We have to wait for each other. And if we can make it through this dirt Slurpee, we can make it through anything.