7 posts tagged “friends”

You know, I was so excited when Bennett built me this computer, I love computers. They hate me, but I love them. When I realized I had a computer but couldn't get internet for it, I was very sad. Then Carrie came to town, and she got my internet hooked up and I thought: "Yeah! I have a computer AND internet! Woohoo! I won't be lonely at night anymore!" Because that's what I honestly thought, that if I had a computer with internet I could spend the evenings emailing, and blogging, watching old episodes of Bones, downloading music, chatting, and Googling cool stuff.

Alas, it hasn't worked out that way. Most nights, I'm too tired to be creative enough to add anything to my blog. It's not that I don't want to, it's that I just can't think straight...I've been thinking straight all day, and my mind just refuses to do anything but run around in circles yelling, "Bah bah bah bah bah," like Goldie Hawn in Overboard. And most of my friends seem to be in the same boat, because I eagerly check their blogs and see that they haven't updated since I have. Now, one is pregnant (and sick, sick, sick), one works full time and just gave birth to her second child, and one is brand-new to Vox and hasn't done anything but upload a few pictures. Karen updates fairly regularly, bless her soul, and the other two people in my neighborhood fell off the face of the blogosphere two years ago. I could cruise Vox and try to pick up new friends, but that makes me feel a little like the desperate guy at the night club....

As for emailing, well, that's not working out too well either. I only have one friend that will email me back, so I get exactly one personal email a day. The rest are account balance updates from the bank (Ugh!) and newsletters from school. Now, Mom did send me some really cute pics the other day, but then her panda killed a spy and downed too many cookies, so she had to take care of a sick panda. Whatever that means. I thought they just had dogs and cats and birds and the odd wolf-hybrid out on their farm.

The chatting seems to be a 'feast or famine' situation. Right now, I would pay good money for that irritating little smiley face to pop up and say that someone sent me a message. I'd bake him a cookie, as a matter of fact (since Mother's panda ate them all), but he's just sitting in the corner of my screen smirking at the fact that I'm alone, the kids are asleep, and I don't have any friends who can talk right now. Jerk. The 'feast' part comes in when Carrie and Bennett are sitting across the room from each other, tinkering with their computers, and decide independently to IM me. When that happens, it never fails that a third person pops up, the telephone rings, or the doorbell sounds off. Or (D) All of the Above. At which time I start pulling my hair and yelling, "Bah bah bah bah bah!"

You know, after that run-in with Walker and his girlfriend at his apartment a few weeks ago, I had really gotten okay with the State of the Dissolving Union. I realized that day that he really didn't know who I am - that I really don't think he ever did. I realized he had created some hateful, selfish, self-indulgent woman and put my face on her.  I had started to believe my friends and family (male and female) who told me that I was going to be alright, and that I deserved better, and that it's probably all for the best. I felt like I could be strong and independent. I had a plan for an education and a career that I had already taken steps to implement. The kids seemed happy and if I waited to go to bed until I was absolutely exhausted, I didn't have any trouble falling asleep.

Until two days ago. Until my husband felt the need to send me a text informing me that he thought we were making a mistake. Until he showed up at the house in the middle of the night and told me he still loved me. Until he told me that not only did he still love me, but that he was sorry it took him so long to figure it out.

Until he told me all that, then said that he still didn't know what he wanted to do.

I hate yo-yo's.

My friend Brit is amazingly matter-of-fact. If she's your friend, she will literally hand you the shirt off her back without you even having to ask for it. However, if you tick her off then you'd better watch your back. She does not take crap off of anyone under any circumstances. That being said, I probably don't even have to tell you that she's not really happy with my husband right now.

This past weekend was our annual 'Big Girls Only Slumber Party' - no kids, no husbands, no bosses. Most of our girls ditched us this year, but Ken and Brit were here and, of course, we were discussing the 'State of the Dissolving Union'. Brit looked at me and in a flash of brilliance said, "Oh, don't worry about him. He's just an old pair of shoes." When I asked her what she meant by that, this is what she said:

"You know when you're out shopping and you find this fabulous pair of shoes? The ones that make your legs look great but are actually comfortable and seem to go with everything in your closet? Well, after a while they get scuffed and need to be resoled, and you notice that they pinch your toes now. So, you give them away...and maybe someone else sees them and thinks, 'Hey, with a little polish those could be good-looking shoes.' They try them on, maybe even wear them for a little while, but eventually they decide the shoes need more than just some polish to look good, and they drop them off at Goodwill. Well, Walker is that pair of shoes."

I have to admit, I laughed. Alot.

My laughter was, however, short-lived. Yesterday I was at my grandparents house filling them in on what was going on, and needless to say they just aren't really very happy either. My cell phone rang and I saw that it was Walker. I thought it was weird for him to be calling since I didn't have the kids and neither did he, so I decided to answer it. He sounded tired when he said, "I don't know why I'm even calling to tell you this, but I don't want you to hear it from the kids or Mom and Dad." Great, I thought, he's finally 'fessing up to having a girlfriend. I really didn't need this. He continued, "The wench line snapped at work today and took off part of my finger. I'm having emergency surgery to fix it." My heart pretty much stopped. I asked him where he was but he wouldn't tell me which hospital he was in. I reminded him that I'm still his wife but he wouldn't budge, and I was really surprised at how badly it hurt me to realize that he really must not want anything to do with me if he doesn't even want me there when he's having surgery. 

His parents did call this morning to tell me that he was out of surgery and doing fine, for which I was very grateful.

But it still smarts.

I found this while checking out...yes, I'm going to say it...a friend's blog today. I understood exactly what she was talking about, but I've learned the hard way not to let this happen and I think it's a lesson we should all heed.

Two years ago, a close friend contracted spinal meningitis. A normally irritating but benign virus piggybacked its way into his brain and caused a secondary infection that very nearly killed him, at 29 years old with a wife and two small (2 & 4 yrs) daughters. He survived against all the doctors' odds - I think by sheer willpower - but sustained brain damage that has left him...different, though still a wonderful treasure.

The point of that is: life is not gauranteed and there are many things you can do to cut down on the regrets you will have if yours, or someone you love's, life ends tomorrow. Pick up the phone. Drop an email. Send out Christmas postcards. Don't let another minute go by.

I know you're busy. I know you have small kids and pets and a husband and commitments and responsibilities. I do, too - we all do. Hours turn into weeks which morph into years...We all get caught up in our own lives and though we think about our friends, and worry about them, and love them from afar, we empty the dishwasher instead of picking up the phone. After nearly losing Dax, I've taught myself to empty the dishwasher while I'm on the phone. And most of my friends don't mind the noise of my children in the background - they're just glad to hear my voice.

Life is fleeting and friendships are a precious gift. I know that's cliche but most cliches become so by being true. So, please, take my hard-won advice and make the call. You won't regret it if you do, but you just might if you don't.

I love the smell of fall. Woodsmoke, moldy leaves, wet earth...the perfume of heaven. I love the nip in the air - just the slightest bite - and drizzly rain.  I love putting the down comforter on the bed and leaving the windows open at night, snuggling and cuddling under the covers in a chilly room. Sunday morning rain is falling...steal some covers, share some skin. I love watching Walker build a fire in the fireplace so we can all spend the day in the room that has no TV, watching the flames jump and listening to the wood pop and hiss. I love to see the leaves turn, especially the huge old oak trees that turn flaming orange like their tops are on fire. I love pumpkins and gourds, and hay bales, and scarecrows and turkeys.

It reminds me of childhood - the first day of school, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas. All the things little kids love, the holidays of childhood, free of acrimony and full of wonderful, almost magical, surprises. Mom cooking all your favorite things for Thanksgiving dinner. Dragging out the Christmas decorations after the Thanksgiving dishes have been washed. Tiny white twinkle lights.

It reminds me of meeting my husband, and sneaking away from college to spend the weekend with him. His coat on my shoulders, road trips and hay bale surfing and long walks with your best college friend. Deep conversations, endless dreams, and youth in the season of aging.

Now, it's my turn to teach my kids to love this time of year. I get to make magical memories for them, pasted on a background of scarlet leaves and perfumed with the smell of autumn in the air. And I ask you a question: what season wallpapers your fondest memories?

Back in the mid- to late-eighties, my absolute favorite band was a county-pop number called Restless Heart. Anybody who's ever worn Rocky Mountain jeans or Wranglers starched to the point that they could stand up by themselves knows what band I'm talking about. One of their songs was titled, "I Want Everyone Who Hears This Song To Cry." It was a typical broken-hearted country ballad, but it got stuck in my head this afternoon after I got off the phone with my friend, The Woman of Steel. Her story can be found at www.melpate.vox.com .

"I want everyone who hears this song to cry.

Maybe I'll get over her...if the whole world helps me try.

When I'm through don't let me see...one dry eye.

I want everyone who hears this song to cry...."

Out of five pregnancies, my friend Mel and hubby Sean have a single surviving child. For years, none of the doctors - not even the ones who delivered her two stillborn 27 week babies - would seriously consider the notion that the problem was anything other than some really atrocious luck. My cat, with her partial hysterectomy and total lack of prenatal care, has a better track record for giving birth to thriving offspring than Mel does. That sounds mean but it's not intended that way, it's intended as a slap in the face of the medical community. If someone came to you with a story like this, what would you say?

Six and a half years ago, at her bachelorette party, Mel confided in me that she was losing a baby, possibly two. She had definately been pregnant, and the doctor at the quack shack on campus at West Texas University said that her HcG levels were high enough to have been supporting twins. She had woken up the day before the wedding spotting, and the pregnancy was lost. Though painful, Mel and Sean shrugged the early miscarriage off as a sign of bad timing or divine grace - maybe there had been something wrong with the baby(ies). 

A few months later, Mel found herself pregnant again with a baby girl they planned on naming Avery..we were all so excited for them. I had two small children of my own at the time, and every happy parent wants their friends to share their misery, right? One day I'm feeding my 10 month old breakfast when the phone rings. I answer, and I'm glad to hear the voice on the other end belongs to Mel. When she told me that she was in the hospital being induced to deliver a baby girl that the doctor had already confirmed was dead, I felt exactly like I had been punched in the stomach. The air whooshed out of my lungs at the same time that tears started rolling down my face. I remember looking at D. sitting in her high chair and thinking, "That's not fair. It's not fair that I have two perfectly healthy babies and Mel can't even have one." Mel is a couple of years younger than I am, the first time I ever met her she was wearing her high school cheerleading uniform. I always called her 'my baby friend', I always looked at her as still being a teenager. From that day on, Mel was an adult to me, one who had shared with her husband the one thing that I hope to God I never, ever have to do: have a funeral service for a child.

What do you say to someone who has had to endure giving birth to a dead baby? To someone who has had to pick out a tiny coffin and watch it be lowered into the ground? 'I'm sorry' doesn't cut it. 'Please don't hate me because I have children' doesn't quite do it, either. For the first time in my normally eloquent life, I didn't know what to say. I wanted so badly to take some of her pain and somehow absorb it into myself so that she didn't have to endure it all by herself. Then, five months later when I found myself pregnant with my third child, I really didn't know what to say. I couldn't tell her, I just couldn't. You can only imagine my relief when I got an email from her one day, and all it said was: "I'M PREGNANT!!" I called her that night and said, "Thank God, because so am I!" We laughed and cried, and she fussed at me for being afraid to tell her that I was pregnant. That was when I started calling her The Woman of Steel. As much as she had lost, she still held the capacity to feel joy for people who could have what she couldn't. How amazing is that?

After a difficult pregnancy and quite a bit of bedrest, Mel gave birth to a beautiful baby girl exactly one week after I gave birth to our youngest son. When Mel called to tell me that M. had arrived in this world safe and sound, I remember looking up toward the heavens and saying a prayer of thanks. I was more relieved when that baby was born than when my own was born! I had the pleasure of getting to babysit Mel's daughter last week, and let me tell you - she is a little dream.

After all the trouble they had had, I was kind of surprised a year and a half later when Mel called to tell me she was pregnant again. Come to find out, Mel and Sean had been surprised, too. But we were all glad, because they had never intended for M. to be an only child. None of us were expecting Mel to have an easy pregnancy, but we all figured the worst was behind them. Mel made it through the first trimester, and we all breathed a sigh of relief because that usually means that you're home free. Walker and I saw Sean and Mel in May, and when we were driving home we both agreed that she had looked a little peaked, like the pregnancy was taking a toll on her. I worried - but not too much because frankly, being pregnant makes me look like hell, too. Walker and I bought our first house that summer and we were terribly busy. We were packing and closing and moving and raising 5, 4, and 2 year olds. We spent a week sleeping on an air mattress on the floor of the new house so that we could paint and clean. The day the movers were coming to load up the furniture, we got up at the crack of dawn and drove to the old house. I decided to check our email before we unplugged the computer, because I was afraid that somehow the emails would be lost to me during the move. Sean and Mel had said that they weren't going to find out the sex of the baby before it was born, so when I saw the email subject line that read, "Jackson William Pate," I had opened it up, excited and thinking they had caved in the presence of the sonogram tech. Walker heard me scream and start crying from the kitchen and came running into the bedroom thinking that I had hurt myself. I was hurt alright, but it was a broken heart, not a bruised toe.  The screaming and sobbing began when I read the email and saw, instead of fuzzy sonogram pictures, a birth/death announcement for another 27 week baby, this time, a son. There was a sad little picture at the bottom of the page of a beautiful, normal looking, ever-so-tiny baby with only the slightest tinge of blue to his perfectly porcelain complection.

I could not wrap my mind around the fact that it had happened again. Once is a tragedy, twice is beyond endurance. It was cruel. I have not forgiven myself yet for finding out two weeks after the fact that they had lost another baby and Mel had spent several days in the ICU, hovering near death. What kind of a friend gets so wrapped up in her life that she forgets to call and check on the people who mean the most to her? The Woman of Steel tells me, of course, not to beat myself up about something I couldn't have helped or change, but the guilt lingers. Where was I when she needed me?

Fortunately for Mel and Sean, they still had a child at home who needed her parents. I think that M. is probably what kept them going. She forced them out of bed in the mornings, and kept their minds busy during the day. I don't know, but I think the nights would be the hardest, when the house was quiet and M. was asleep. I would think you would lay there unable to sleep because you know it shouldn't be this quiet - a little voice should be crying out to you to feed me, change me, rock me, hold me. But I don't know, because I can't even begin to imagine.

Even though she nearly died from complications that arose with Jackson, Mel is made out of sterner stuff than most and after two years she was actually ready to try again. I didn't even know she was pregnant again until I got an email telling me that it was lost, this time very early. The good news, she said, was that the OB/GYN and a maternal/fetal specialist were both taking her seriously and running a whole bunch of tests. They both felt that the problem had to do with a clotting issue, and could probably be solved with some baby aspirin or heparin. It seemed ridiculous, when she told me, that something as simple as a baby aspirin could have spared them the heartache they had suffered. Both Drs. ran tests, and both gave them the unofficial okay to start trying to conceive. I saw Mel this past weekend, and she was talking about asking for some Clomid to regulate her cycle a little. We were all excited at the prospect of them having a successful pregnancy, of giving M. a sibling.

Today Mel called as she was leaving the follow-up appt. with the specialist. Through her tears of anger and sadness, she told me that basically, she can't have any more children. That M. was a fluke that likely would not be repeated. That, if she got pregnant again, she would have a 45% chance of delivering yet another stillborn child, and a 20% chance of not surviving the pregnancy herself. I don't know about you, but I wouldn't take those kind of odds to Vegas. The Dr. also told her that if she were stupid enough to get pregnant again (the Dr.'s words - not mine), the Dr. would not be able to treat her since it would in essence be a suicide mission.

So, after mourning two early miscarriages and two dead babies, my friend now gets to mourn her fertility. Something that comes so easily to millions of women - including teenagers, crack whores, abusers, and welfare leeches - is beyond her abilities. What's wrong with this picture? So, the chorus of an old song keeps running through my head:

"I want everyone who hears this song to cry.

Maybe I'll get over her...if the whole world helps me try.

When I'm through don't let me see...one dry eye.

I want everyone who hears this song to cry."

I know I'm crying, and I can't help but thinking that maybe...if the whole world cries with Mel and Sean tonight...just maybe it will ease their pain.

My mother swears that before a woman leaves the hospital after having a baby, she should be handed a lifetime prescription for anti-depressants.

I think Mother's on to something. But I think the hospital should take it one step further, and make sure that the new mother has a list of all her friends' phone numbers and email addresses with her in her diaper bag at all times. And a medic-alert ID bracelet that says: "In case of meltdown, contact one of the women on the emergency sheet in the diaper bag, she'll know what to say."

Who else is going to listen to you when you describe the baby's poop because you're worried that it's too loose, too firm, too yellow, too tarry, too often, or too irregular? After you've had a fight with your husband, who else is going to tell you that he's an ass and it's all his fault, then tell you a story about when her husband has done the exact same thing? Who else is going to tell you that you're being an ass and you've got to stop, then tell you a story about when she's done the exact same thing? It makes me feel better to know that I'm not alone, to know that husbands and wives across the nation are having the same types of arguments that my husband and I are having. To know that other mothers are at their wits' end, too. Somewhere, there's solace in the fact that my problems aren't unique, that the people whom I think of as "having it together" sometimes don't have it together. Most of the time, the advice my friends give me is wonderful and helpful. But what is really helpful to me is that they act as my sounding board, they let me hear the things out loud that are rattling around in my head. I think out loud, I guess you could say. I can't really get a handle on a problem or something that's bothering me until I've heard it out loud. And they never, ever throw back at me later something I've said to them while I was thinking out loud. Women need to talk - it's a fact. Oprah said so. I probably need to talk more than the average woman, I seem to talk a lot.

Sometimes, I think I may lean on my friends too much, like I don't pull my own weight in my friendships. Sometimes, when I'm feeling really down, I wonder if my friends don't get tired of hearing my problems. But I always try to reciprocate whenever the opportunity arises. I don't have any sisters, and I don't have the kind of relationship with my mother that some girls have - the "tell mother everything" kind - because Mom kind of lives in her own little world. And my husband, well, let's just say that he's not the most empathetic man in the world (if there is such a thing). But my girlfriends, they take up the slack. They're my family. And I love them.

So, in order of our meetings, thanks Cree.

And Beth Ann.

And Chris.

And Ken (Mouse).

And Brit.

And Mel.

And Tonya.

And Spouse.

And Tataum.

And Julia.

And Erika.

You guys rock.