Wondering Why

If you are new to me, you may not have a firm grasp on my core values.  Well, sometimes I feel like that makes two of us.

Although my family can be confusing for oh-so-many reasons I won't get into here, one could take a look at my parents and some of the branches on the tree and assume I'd been groomed to be a right-wing, Wonder-bread-eating, Christian housewife.  Except for the Wonder-bread-eating part, maybe all of that isn't so far from the truth.  When I look at myself, though, I don't really know who or what I am.  

I hate politics.

I understand why all of you politicophiles care so much that you will go for blood.  If that part of me exists, I haven't met her yet.  She's probably also the part of me that handles balancing the checkbook.  Before you think I hate you because you voted for Obama, are pro-choice, or live a lifestyle more colorful than my own (and who doesn't, really?!), get a grip on yourselves.  Life is too short for all of that, and that's not the way I operate.

I love Jesus.  

You may not, and sometimes I feel ya, dawg.  Life can be full of, for lack of a better word, crap.  We tend to want to blame that on someone or something.  God is often the scapegoat.  Sometimes the bad a person has to endure is truly horrifying and they stop believing in the Divine altogether.  Or, many just don't believe because they have reasoned away a Creator with logic.  Wherever you may be in your religious beliefs is your business, and I am not writing to begin a debate or change your mind..... just thinking about some things....

Last weekend I came across a photo album that's spent the last decade hidden away in the drawer of one of my old dressers at my mom's house.  I was specifically on the hunt for some missing pictures of my dearly departed horse, which I successfully found, along with a ton of pictures from my childhood.  

I hate looking at my baby pictures, nearly as much as my mother LOVES looking at them.  A severe reaction to the DPT vaccination as an infant caused my lower lip and cheeks to swell up like a balloon.  The doctors called it hemangioma, which, in basic medical terms, means tumor of the blood vessels.  

Throughout my childhood, Mom was always super-paranoid I'd cut my lip and bleed to death.  Doctors urged her not to introduce anything to my bloodstream (piercings, tattoos, etc.) for fear I'd be infected and there'd be no way to save me.  When I mentioned getting a tattoo a couple months ago, I saw the color blanch from her skin and I didn't have to guess why.  

Socially, my life with hemangioma has been awkward.  As a teenager, boys never asked me out.  Little kids stare.  All the time.  The bolder of them will point-blank ask me if I've been burned.  I mostly gave up caring long ago.  The plastic surgeon who saw me as a small child mentioned that he could do laser surgery to remove some scarring if I'd like to.  I mentioned it to my mother one time, and she seemed almost offended by the idea, like I would be erasing a miracle.

Flipping through the photos in the picture album, my mom pointed out my hospital picture, one I'd never seen before.

"See there, you looked like a normal baby before that shot."  She commented.

A lump formed in my throat.  I did look normal.  My lower lip was small, my cheeks were smooth.  I was your ordinary, run-of-the-mill newborn, and that made me jealous and upset.

It's surprising how angry I felt with God at that moment.  My problems are small, I know they are, and He is faithful in many other ways...  But why did that have to happen to me?  I know my knowledge is simple and finite, but I really wish I had an answer for this one.  Have you ever felt the same?

Tumbling

I have never, ever seen a needle that enormous, and I'm around needles and IVs all the time.  He snorts as the injection pierces his sleek neck, the whites of his eyes brilliant despite how much sedation is running through his system.  It only takes a second, and his body begins its horrible, final downward spiral.   The veterinarian holds one end of his lead rope, motioning with his free hand that I should stay back.  Moe falls forward, catching his full weight on his nose, the same sweet, soft muzzle that was always so eager to search visitors for goodies.  Now his momentum doubles his neck painfully, nearly flipping himself over.  I yelp partly in anguish, partly in helplessness, knowing there is no bringing him back from here.  Ever.  And he is down, laying on his left side, his breathing deep.

Somehow I manage to choke out words, enough to ask if I can pet him as he passes.  The vet nods, and I wrap my arms around his neck, watching him through tears as his life beats away slowly, slowing, slower, to nothing.  Inches from my face, the vet is checking for a pulse, the dilation of his pupils, those last exhales, but I am lost, burying my tears in his mane.  He is gone, and I feel like maybe I have gone away with him.

~ ~

It's been a month, and contrary to what my blog posts may lead you to believe, most days I feel okay.  I function.  Today it was work as usual.  An interview.  Cleaning my grandparents' house so they don't have to.  Coming home to kids, who promptly inundate me with request upon request.  Working on formatting some business documents for a friend.

It hits me out of nowhere.  A lady who runs a horse rescue I am "friends" with on Facebook was being criticized for being overly-emotional because she was upset about a rescue horse that had to be euthanized.  I guess.  I don't really know what the story was because I couldn't stop picturing Moe tumbling and falling that last time.  As long as I live, I am sure I'll always be able to recall his last minutes.  I'm traumatized, in only the way you can be when you see someone you love so much slip away right in front of your eyes.  It was my choice to be there until the end.  They tried to send me away, to shield me from this pain, but I knew the pain of not being there with him would have traumatized me more.  There was no winning this one, only an endless array of options for losing.

When I see a picture of their horse's weird skin crud someone posts online, I remember the endless hours I doctored his legs.  Horse fungus shouldn't make me cry, but it does.


When I close my eyes to pray in the middle of church, he is there.  If he comes to me in prayer, my heart wants to believe it means something bigger.

I see that silly horse everywhere, and in everything because, for 19 years, that horse was with me for everything.  I talk about him a lot, and most of the time it doesn't make me break down in tears.... but sometimes I do.  And I write about him and about this sadness because I need to, probably more than any of you need to read about it.  Thank you for letting me do my thing and for not giving me a hard time about it--at least, not to my face.

One Month.

If I let my mind be still enough, he always wanders back to me.  Feet dragging, but ears pricked, searching eyes and wriggling muzzle.  In the quiet, his low nicker echoes.  My hand reaches out to trace the swirl of his forehead, but it fades from view.  Then he is tumbling, tumbling until he is no more than a waning vessel, his spirit snuffling the hair at the base of my neck before he turns to go.

That horse embodied all that was good about me as a child, and maybe what was good about me as a person.  I'm not the same without him.

Curses!

I've been so busy this past week that I haven't even had time for thoughts, no less blogging or working on the novel.  It makes me anxious to not be writing.  Like, reallyreallyreally anxious.

When I write, I neglect things.  Kids tend to stay in their pajamas all day.  Floors don't get swept.  Dinner doesn't get cooked.  So, yeah, I don't like to cook anyway--can't blame that just on writing.   When I sweep the floors and cook dinner and attempt to be domestic, I get to the part of the day where the house is quiet(er) and I'm just too darn sleepy to make the words.  Try as I might, every time I venture down into my newly-redesigned writing room and curl up in my papisan chair under my fuzzy blanket, I fall fast asleep.

In the non-winter months it's worse because my brain is constantly waging a battle between using my "free" time to ride the horses or holing myself away to write stuff.  So what's a rider/writer to do?  If you have the answer for that, please let me know.  Apparently I haven't figured it all out yet.

Last week was an exceptionally weird and hectic week. The oldest Ohboy was away at camp, and my parents were vacationing.  I'll be the first to admit that I'm very dependent on my parents, and in their absence I was forced to do a lot of things they often help with, in addition to taking care of their house and chores.  Without an emergency babysitter system, I had to take kids with me to do everything, like a real mom would.  One night I bought a pizza, spread a blanket on the grass outside the barn and rode my horse while the kids ate dinner.  My selfish attempt at multi-tasking didn't work that well, but I sure gave it my best shot.

The highlight of my exciting week was Tuesday night I went to the Florence + the Machine show at the Fox Theater, which was pretty darn amazing.  Florence is like an Art Deco goddess, and I've never said this before, but I'm pretty sure I have a girl crush.   Shhh!  Don't tell my husband, though I'm sure he already has his suspicions.  During the concert, she sang all of my favorite songs, including “Cosmic Love”, which I consider the theme song to the 1st draft of my novel.  To hear it performed live was completely surreal, and I'm not sure if I can describe it well enough to demonstrate the absolute rush of emotions I felt.  Here was the soundtrack of my love story--in the flesh.  The show was done well before I was ready for it to be, though it could have lasted an entire day and it wouldn't have been enough.  Now I'm looking forward to duplicating the experience with some of the other bands that I listened to while I was writing the 1st draft–including Bon Iver, Mumford and Sons, and Wye Oak.

Thursday night, I was supposed to go to dinner with some old high school  friends, but instead I ended up at a birth with one of the midwives I assist.   The birth wasn't going as smoothly as we assumed it would, and I ended up sleeping on the floor of the nursery all night, only to leave to go home the next morning still waiting for the baby.   Of course, Mr. Ohboy had to leave for work as soon as I walked in the door, leaving me with three boys full of energy.  All day my eyes were on fire, but I couldn't bring myself to take a much-needed nap out of fear of the plots for world domination that the boys might pull off while I was incoherent.  Worse yet, my house was vile and scuzzy, and I needed to create the illusion of cleanliness for the babysitter who was coming over later that evening.  When the husband finally rolled up the drive that evening, we gathered our few dolla bills and headed to the racetrack to have dinner with his sister, her family, and my mother-in-law.  My mother-in-law lives in Texas, but comes to visit about once a year for a couple of weeks, usually for the annual family reunion.  I would have been tempted to stay home to sleep if (a) I saw her more often, and (b) I didn't love watching the races as much as I do.

The family reunion took place all day Saturday.  Like I said, it's a yearly thing, the passion of my husband's grandmother.  To say that she is into genealogy would be a huge understatement, like telling someone that I like horses or coffee or Johnny Depp.  She's devoted years to traveling the world, piecing together her family's past, and takes endless pride in even the most mundane family detail unearthed.  My family had a family reunion, oh, 17 years ago.  My in-laws, it's every year without fail.  

So, Saturday I spent the greater portion of the day at the beach with the family, except for an hour break when I was picking up the oldest Ohboy, who had just returned from summer camp in a haze of sweat and funky, musty clothes.  I had to drag him there ("All I want to do is sleep, Mom!"), but as soon as we hit the beach, I didn't see him again until a thunderstorm rolled in and we were forced to pack everything up.  They frown on lightning and water, for some reason.  Go figure.

A text message startled me from my slumber Sunday morning at about 6:35.  One of the girls singing during morning worship at our church wasn't feeling well and asked me to fill in for her, which I did.  As soon as I returned home from church, I scarfed down a couple of pieces of pizza and ran out to ride my horse.  I always lose track of time when I'm riding, and before I know it, I've been riding for an hour even when it seems like it's only been minutes.  With 12 minutes to spare, sweaty and dirty, I took my second shower of the day and rocketed back into church for Praise Band practice.

After church, I went with one of my friends to a party that her friend was the event planner for.  I wasn't dressed for it, because I honestly just didn't have time to coordinate a cute party ensemble in the 12 minutes I had to shower and dress.  I also was pretty certain that I wasn't going, based on my energy level and because the husband had been home with the boys all day long.  But, alas, I did end up at said party in my sundress and no make-up.  And, if I'm being straight with you, I was okay with that.  When my friend got up to dance with her friend, I was okay holding down the chair I was sitting in.  I had become okay with being old.  Or maybe "old" isn't  the right way to describe it.  Maybe I'm less old than I think, and just prefer not shouting to talk to the person sitting right next to me.  Or maybe I was just exhausted and showing poor party form.

After said party, I had to grocery shop(!), so I didn't roll into bed until nearly 3:30 a.m.  In an unspoken answer to that challenge, Mr. Ohboy decided to vacate the premises for 14 hours yesterday.  Four boys for 14 hours on fumes of sleep.  No bueno! Seriously, not my best decision, but historically I've never been famous for making smart decisions.

And that, good friends, is why I'm making no progress on draft 2.