On Books, Periods and Best Parts

I love to read a good book.  To dive in and stay under.  Hold my breath as the plot develops and the characters become flesh-and-blood company.  I prefer to stay under, floating in the ether of printed word, until the last page is turned, but rarely does a day or two present itself for such a pleasurable undertaking as devouring a novel from cover to cover.

In either case, when the story does end -- always before it should -- I hold the cover up for final inspection, returning to the jacket to again review the story outline, to peer at the author's photo and envision that writer's process: a decompression ceremony akin to watching the credits scroll at the conclusion of a movie, figuring out how to best reacquaint myself with my lungs.  How best to return to the surface and gulp the air of real life, of daily life as I absorb what has just been imparted to me.

But let's backtrack.

For the past day and a half, I've been sidelined with one of my infamous periods.  There.  I've said it.  The big dot-at-the-end-of-the-sentence word that makes our mothers cringe when we say it in public.  And I'm guessing MY mother would count this blog as a public place.  I know I do.  Anyhow, how could I ever have a real blog and NOT discuss my period from time to time.  It's a fixture.  It likes attention.  It gets attention.  One day, it will shut up.  And then it will be arthritic joints or impacted bowels or some such physical condition which competes with my regular life for attention.  (I'll just say right now that I'd prefer to NOT have the whole bowel issue if I have a choice in the matter.)

So, the thing about my periods is that they involve a significant amount of pain that I once endured without the benefit of medication.  Enduring said periods involved crawling on the floor, crying and praying, and afraid to take anything to alleviate the labor-like episodes.  Eventually, a smart doctor talked me through my irrational fear of medication.  I began to ingest ibuprofen in 800 mg doses, every 4 to 6 hours, for 3 to 5 days.  Despite researching alternate ways to handle this problem, and thus avoid developing resistance to, or stomach damage from, all those wee green-blue liqui-gels, I always end up back here.

When I don't adhere to this schedule, when I try alternate meds, I'm met with little or no success . . . and significant amounts of pain.  And that doesn't include the 'cloudy brain' syndrome which precludes thinking my way out of a paper bag.  The extreme sensitivity to noise and scents.  Irritability which makes me want to tape my mouth shut.  And an often heavy depression which feeds into my body image issues.  I try to rest, read, distract myself, pray, and apologize in equal measures during these times.  Some cycles are worse than others.  For awhile, when I was on the anti-depressant last year, my periods were more in keeping with the size of a grammatical period.  And after this weekend, I may return to that anti-depressant, despite the sound reasons I had for quitting last fall.  I've been trapped in a pattern whereby if I move, the pain rears its ugly head and puts up quite a fuss, and when I'm still the hormonal dark clouds fill my brain and mutter ugliness I know isn't true but feels quite potent in the moment. 

All of this to say that I used my distraction tools to keep my mind and body busy as much as possible.  Yesterday, I slept in, easier to do when doped up by the ibuprofen.  And then I moved my heating pad, pillow, ANSAID and iPhone to a docking station of sorts on the back patio where I was entertained by my family, including Ashley's boyfriend, for several hours with grill cleaning, meal preparation, jocularity, dog watching, and actual eating (which I also do in more dramatic fashion at this time).  Later, when the sun, sights and sounds got the better of me, I relocated to the recliner in the living room, where I remained planted until after 10PM.  I did, indeed, read post-film credits after admiring Michelle Williams' performance as an American icon in "My Week With Marilyn."

And in between all of this period subterfuge, I read a good book.  Anna Quindlen's "Every Last One" work of fiction, handed off to me from my mother earlier this month.  At 10:30 this morning, I found myself at the last page.  Crying one last time.  Scanning the dust jacket one last time.  Reacquainting myself with the lungs of regular life.  Once again.  Wanting to share with all of you.  Once again.

In a nutshell, an ordinary suburban mom must find a way to develop a new normal after a truly horrendous intimate tragedy shakes the foundations of her life and that of her family.  Fiction or no, any story worth the time it took to write affects the reader.  Parallels can be drawn.  Descriptions visualized.  Characters understood or misunderstood.  Sympathies and empathy elicited.  And I want to be affected.  Entertainment is not my primary goal when I crack open a book.  Betterment.  Growth.  Improvement.  Perspective.  They are on my short list of that which I hope will happen during my discourse with everything between prologue and epilogue.

I had tears in need of shedding.  There were thoughts in need of coalescing.  Painful though wide swathes of this book were, those same swathes served as catharsis for this suburban mom in the midst of transition.  That my present condition has opened several emotional conduits which might have otherwise stayed shut and dry is a given.  Truly, I believe this is one of the most useful functions of a period if it is exercised outside of stress and stereotyping.  Though I can, emphasis on CAN, be more volatile right about now, if those emotions on tap are allowed a healthy outlet as opposed to being exercised in a rough moment, there are benefits.  Because I'm slowed down and not able to busy myself, I can think and emote my way around an issue in its entirety and gain a bit of closure or deeper understanding.  That makes for better days ahead.

This time around the circumspect block, I needed to examine the whole issue of my Sarah now belonging to someone else.  Her new status as wife trumps her old status as daughter, though I'm well aware she exists as both.  I will miss everything about my relationship with her.  Mostly because mothering was not this natural sunny experience for me with any of my kids.  I grew into motherhood.  I learned from my mistakes.  Apologized for my shortcomings.  And eventually begin to give myself credit for those areas where I got it right.  Sarah and I have trampled through some pretty overgrown fields together to arrive at this lovely expanse of deep green meadow all around us.  Somehow, that frustrated and fiery little curly-headed girl who could NOT, would not, be swayed until she was ready, whose moods and motivations I did not always comprehend no matter how desperately I yearned to plumb those depths, somehow she came to know ME the best. Out of my children.  Out of my husband.  Even out of those with whom I was raised. 

Wherever those inner battles took her in her young life, however it was that my nights of holding her and coaxing her and waiting her out allowed balance to take root in her heart, whenever it was that the painful lessons of her choices became valid in her mind, these forward movements of her existence gifted her with a natural discernment of her mother's core.  How best to approach me.  How best to talk with me.  How best to pay attention.  How best to comfort.  How best to back off.  How best to pull me up by the short hairs.  And because she is a part of me, and vice-versa, and because such understanding is a rare gift, and because we are both bright lights in a dark world, there is this especially profound joy which wells up within me when she is around.  It is not that I love her any more.  Or that I consider her 'favorite.'  It is that somewhere in all of this she walked right into me and allowed me to have a rare glimpse at the best parts of herself . . . and they were, and are, also the best parts of myself.  As giving as I am, as much I am one who shares and imparts and gifts, I would not be human, nor honest, if I didn't say that I would love to keep her right here on terra firma America, attending UTC for another 3 years, allowing a bit more time for good ol' ma to adjust to her eventual grown-up life.

However, having seen those best parts, and knowing that two bright lights separated will push back more darkness than those same lights concentrated on one shadowed area together, the larger part of me is bursting with excitement for the life my daughter is soon to start abroad with her Pfc. Ekmanis.  As we have both played a part in revealing one another's hidden layers, it is only fitting that we branch out and find our independent ways in our interdependent lives.  We are alive.  And healthy.   And still living on the same planet.  And we no longer have to rely on the Pony Express for long-distance communication.  Before long, I'll be a Skype Master.  And have a few European stamps in my passport.

But as Sarah has reminded me, there's still the summer of 2012 -- or at least some part of it -- for us.  For ALL of us.  And then I join the ranks of parents everywhere, many of whom are my good friends and family members, who've had to wave and sigh from their empty, or emptying, nest.

Just remember that there will be two more similar entries in the years to come.  But no rush, Ashley and Zachary.  No rush.