I'm Missing You

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 7:43 p.m. and I'm lying in bed, watching Thursday night football and talking to you while Amira PRESUMABLY finishes her homework upstairs.

This was one of the longest weeks I've had since you've been gone.

In preparation for my first day of work, I put Amira to bed early on Sunday night. I signed off on her agenda, packed her homework folder, and made both her breakfast and lunch ahead of time. I set my alarm for 5:45 a.m. so I'd have time to workout before getting myself showered and dressed by 7:30 a.m. I went to bed that night, certain that I was completely ready for my first day on the job.

But at 4:30 a.m., Amira awoke from a bad dream and couldn't fall back asleep. And at 5:30 a.m. she began to cough.

Having been her mother for the past 9 1/2 years, I know the difference between the beginning of an asthma attack and the beginning of a cold. I know when Amira cannot possibly go to school without coughing herself sick, and I know when a few sessions with a nebulizer is all she needs. From the sounds of Monday's cough I knew she probably shouldn't go to school but that her cough wasn't bad enough for me to miss my first day of work. She was still eating, laughing and watching TV and these are all good signs. So with both Amira and your mom's encouragement, I left my, only-just-starting-to-get-sick daughter home with grandma.

I was gone for exactly five hours including travel time, and for exactly five hours I worried non-stop. I worried while being trained on a new-to-me computer program. I worried when I texted your mom to check in and she didn't text back. I worried until 12:00 p.m. when I left the office, called the house phone and Amira picked up and let me know she was okay.

And when I got home and gave her nebulizer treatments every 4 hours on the dot, when I put her in a steamy shower and let her breathe in the heavy, moist air, when I put her to bed that night with her head propped up on damn near every single pillow in this house, I worried about my baby then too.

Being a single mom is hard. Being a single mom to a child with a chronic illness is fucking brutal. I absolutely know this could be so much worse. The support I get from both of our families is something I will NEVER be able to repay. The fact that our daughter "only" has cough variant asthma and never has problems breathing is a gift compared to what others have to endure. We have health insurance, a roof over our heads, enough food to eat and clothes on our backs but...when I hear her cough, I worry incessantly anyway.

If you'd been here this week, you would have SUCKED ASS at being supportive.

You would have gotten on my damn nerves with all of your ineffective, all-natural home remedies. You would have called me overanxious and neurotic. I would have called you callous and insensitive. We would have driven each other crazy until Amira's cough had subsided, and then we would have grinned at each other sheepishly, grateful that this episode had ended at last.

There is not another soul on this planet who could work my last good nerve that way that you did but sometimes, when our daughter's sick and I'm all alone with my worry, Lorenzo, I miss you anyway.

Good Enough

Dear Lorenzo,

It's Friday night and Amira and I are sitting in my bed, she on her recorder, practicing, and me on the tablet, talking to you.

I've spent a lot of time in bed over the past two years.

After you died I kept my bedroom door closed and slept on the living room futon for 365 days. On weekday mornings I'd take Amira to school and then rush home to lie on that futon for five hours straight. I'd spend my days listening to whatever was on ESPN and the sound of your mother's footsteps, pacing back and forth in her apartment, just above my head. For an entire year I'd bury myself amongst pillows and comforters, amongst my shock and my denial, and I'd pray that somehow you'd come back to me, that the accident was just a bad dream.

It was a long road to acceptance but almost two and a half years later, I've finally arrived.

Amira and I...our lives aren't going to be the same as they once were. We may never go to Vegas again, much less get a second home there as you and your brother once planned. And your dream of  retiring at 50, getting yourself a scooter and moving into my mother's "old age home" isn't going to happen either. Instead, you're gone and I'm left trying to figure everything out on my own.

I don't have all of the answers yet, hell, I may not have any at all, but as soon as I "woke up" from the spell your death had cast, I knew where I had to begin.

On Monday I'm going to do something you swore I'd never do again.

I'm going to start a new job OUTSIDE of the home.

On Monday morning I'm going to wake up at 6:00 a.m., workout, shower and get dressed in clothes that aren't my usual mismatched pajamas. I'll get Amira up, clothed and fed. I'll take her to school, then rush to the El and head downtown to work in an office from 9:00 am. - 1:00 p.m., three or four days a week.

I finally got a job. A temp job, but a job nonetheless. A job that will allow me to take our daughter to school and pick her up everyday. A job that will allow me to pay off my credit card debt and still have a ridiculously over the top Christmas for Amira. A job that will remind me of what it feels like to be something other than a mom. Something other than your partner. Something other than the girl who lost half her heart when her boyfriend died way too soon.

It's just a temp job, just part-time but...it's a start. And it's a reason to get off of the futon. And right now, that's good enough for me.

Treading Water

Dear Lorenzo,

It's 11:26 p.m. and like most nights, insomnia has rendered me sleepless so right now I'm up, half-heartedly watching The Goldbergs (you would've liked it) and waiting for the melatonin to kick in.

Nighttime is still hard. Brutally fucking hard. I don't usually get lonely until night falls.

Normally I'm too busy to be lonely. And even if I'm not busy, I find ways to occupy my time, to fake having a life, to ignore the nagging emptiness that sometimes threatens to pull me under. But at nighttime, when Amira's asleep, before the melatonin or Tylenol PM knocks me out...it's hard to pretend I'm not alone.

But, two years, three months, and five days since you've been gone, I'm beginning to see light at the end of the proverbial tunnel. Today was a rainy, dreary Wednesday and since Samaiya called me this morning and offered to take Amira to school, I had absolutely no reason to leave the house. Two years ago, I would have put on ESPN, curled up on the futon, and not gotten up again until it was time to pick up Amira and take her to theater but today...

Today, I got off of my ass and got to work.

I washed and twisted my hair, cleaned my house, warmed up on the trampoline for two minutes before working out on the elliptical for 45. I had a big salad for lunch and an apple for a snack. I didn't curl up in a ball and pretend the world didn't exist until my alarm went off at 2:00 p.m. I didn't eat my weight in potato chips or have a glass of wine (or two or three) with dinner in an effort to forget.

I didn't let depression win on a rainy, dreary Wednesday.

I didn't let depression pull me under.

Going With My Gut

Dear Lorenzo,

In my quest to return to the land of the gainfully employed, I've spent the past few months registering with various temp agencies. I'd wake up, get the kid off to school, shower, get dressed in the one and only work appropriate outfit I still own, and then haul ass to whatever downtown temp agency was on the schedule for that day.  Meeting recruiter after recruiter, and attempting to explain to them why they should hire me after my ten year hiatus from the work place was fucking exhausting. So you can probably imagine my relief when Danielle said she might have a job for me. After giving her my resume I first had a phone interview and then an in person interview with her boss. And today, exactly one week after that two-hour, six-person group interview I FINALLY received an email back from the hiring manager.

I didn't get the job.

I cannot begin to tell you how relieved I am.

Don't get me wrong, had I gotten the job I would have made the best of it. I would have loved working with Danielle. I would have loved taking the train into work with Heidi after we dropped the kids off at school. I would have loved having a legitimate reason to go downtown every day. I would have loved the money, the benefits, the security. Being able to help your mom out financially. Being able to pay for whatever we need without worrying as much as I do. I would have loved feeling useful again.

But...

I wouldn't have loved the panic I'd feel calling out from work every time Amira's asthma flared up. I wouldn't have loved scrambling to find someone not only willing to pick her up from school every day, but also willing to take her to play production four days a week. I wouldn't have loved not being able to chaperone school field trips or attend class parties. I wouldn't have loved not being able to volunteer for school picture day, or for Fiesta de Arte, or to help bring the kids from their classrooms to the first floor conference room to have their vision and hearing tested once a year.

And I wouldn't have loved not being able to visit my mom as often as we do.

I guess being an associate in new market development just isn't the right job for me.

And that's okay.

Because I already have my dream job, and unbelievably enough, it's being Amira's mom.

And right now, that's the job that has to come first.

Chapter Two

"Get in shape, girl, you'll love the feeling.

Get in shape, girl, it's so appealing."

Kick-ass 80's commercial

Dear Lorenzo,

I have no idea where to start this entry.

I'm not sure why I'm having such a tough time writing tonight. Amira's lying beside me, sleeping soundly. The TV is on of course, but it's been muted and the only distractions I have are the whirs of the ceiling fan and the occasional sound of fireworks from some asshole who can't accept the fact that the 4th of July has come and gone.

Although it's past 10:00 p.m., I'm not particularly tired because I've done nothing but sit on my ass all day.

I've done nothing but sit on my ass for the past two years.

Don't get me wrong, I've taken breaks from my inertia. I still love to work out and so on most days, I take long walks or use the elliptical or even jump up and down on the trampoline. And I always show up for our daughter, of course, but other than that...

Couch, tv, potato chips, wine.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

If you could see me now, you'd barely recognize me.

I barely recognize me.

And it's not just because I've gained so much weight, you never gave a shit about that so you probably wouldn't notice, but...it's my lackluster attitude. I no longer have the energy to even pretend to care about much of anything these days.

This isn't a life.

Not the life I want to live.

So...Mira and I leave for Boston in a few weeks and the plan is to stay for the entire month of August (or, until my mother and I can barely stand to look at each other, much less live together, a moment longer). But before we leave Chicago I will take the next two weeks to revise my resume and submit my applications for grad school.

And I've gotta get serious about losing some weight. No more fucking around. I'm old so it won't be easy to lose but I finally feel ready to try.  

And I don't want to work anywhere that makes me miserable. My life is hard enough right now without adding a shitty job to the equation. I want to work for an organization that appreciates me. I want to surround myself with people who make me want to get up and get out of bed every morning. 

I want to be happy again.

Despite the fact that I can no longer be with you.

  

Back To Life

"I want my mullet back, my old Camaro and my eight track."

Robbie Ray, as seen on Hannah Montana

Dear Lorenzo:

I'm lonely.

And scared.

And tired.

Really, really tired.

And stressed the hell out.

There.

I said it.

That wasn't so bad.

And it only took two years and seven days to wake up.

I miss you but that's not all of it.

I miss my old life.

I miss not having to worry so much. 

I worry all the time now.

I worry about Amira and I worry about your mom.  I worry about single parenthood and about whether or not I'm doing a good enough job. I worry about going back into the workplace after spending the past ten years as a stay at home mom. I worry that working outside of the home will be another adjustment that Amira will have to add to an already full plate of crappy adjustments. I worry about my work schedule conflicting with school plays and dance recitals. I worry about not being able to take her to theater class after school anymore. I worry about field trips and class parties. Bullying and peer pressure. I worry, and worry, and worry, and worry, and worry.

And when I'm done with all of that worrying, I go to bed. 

Alone.

I miss you.

I miss your presence. I miss not being afraid at nighttime. I miss not repeatedly checking to make sure all of our doors and windows are locked. I miss hearing you argue with Dwight about Madden or an upcoming game. I miss laughing with you and fighting with you and all the fun of making up.

I miss you.

And for the first time in two years and seven days...

I'm lonely.

I think between the grief, shock, antidepressants, and, let's keep it real here, self-medicating, I haven't really FELT anything for a long time. When friends have asked if I'm interested in dating yet I've always laughed and thought to myself, "How can I date, I'm completely dead inside." 

But I'm starting to feel not so dead anymore. I'm starting to feel...sad. And lonely. And loss. Somehow I lost you. And it sucks.

I don't know what comes next for me. Work, grad school, I have no idea but...I'm not dead inside anymore. I'm sad, and scared and lonely but that's real. So...okay. 

Feeling sad and scared and lonely will have to do for now.

I'll figure the rest of it out as I go along.

I Choose You

"You're all I know, I can't let you go."

Mariah Carey

You died exactly two years ago today.

In your short time on this planet you got to be a teacher, an EMT, and a firefighter. You got to bet on football games with your brother in Las Vegas, bond with your firefighter buddies in New Orleans, and drive your fancy Highlander (blasting your horrible music) all over the northside of Chicago. You got to see a lot of your dreams come true and for that I am eternally grateful but I wish with all of my heart that you'd been given more than seven years to be a dad. Amira is nine now. And she's a force to be reckoned with. A couple of weeks ago, in a misguided attempt to clown her, one of her classmates looked at Amira and said, "What's the matter with your face?" Without missing a beat (or giving a fuck) Amira looked at him and shouted, "What's the matter with YOUR LIFE!?" to the amusement and laughter of her fellow 3rd graders.

That is YOUR CHILD, Lorenzo.

She's into Selena Gomez and Taylor Swift, dancing and musical theater. She plans to one day become a singer, actress, dancer or SLIME ENTREPRENEUR. I hope that you can still see her. I hope that, somehow, you still get to watch her grow up. You'd be so proud of the ass kicking, talented, HILARIOUS young woman your daughter is growing up to be.  

You died exactly two years ago today and while I've forgotten a lot from July 5th, 2016, I still remember certain moments from that day as clearly as if they'd only just occured. Your voice on the phone that morning, telling me you loved me for what would turn out to be the very last time. Amira and I heading out to Whole Foods to get you the vegan protein shakes you'd finally agreed to drink. The phone call from your mother asking us to come home, telling me that you'd had a seizure and that we needed to get to the rehab facility right away. The rushed Uber ride to Des Plaines, the prayers I repeated to myself over and over again. And then...the head nurse or doctor or whoever the fuck she was, meeting us at the lobby elevator to tell us you were already gone. 

But I don't dwell on that day. Not anymore. Instead, I choose to remember you for who you were before July 5th, 2016, before a drunk driver whose name I've purposely forgotten, took you away from us forever. 

I choose to remember the Lorenzo who wore a suit to our impromptu superbowl party, because he wanted to be as sharp as Ray Lewis. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who sang "Commas After My Commas" with his daughter at the top of his lungs. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who slept with his arms around me every, single, night that we were together. I choose to remember the Lorenzo who did squats in his hospital room a mere week and a half after the accident.

I choose to remember the man you've always been. And no accident on this Earth, no drunk driver, no shitty rehab facility can EVER take those memories away from me.