Sick And Tired

I am sick and tired of being sick and tired.

I feel like crap.

Not every day, not every other day, but often enough that it's become a real problem for me.

I take antidepressants to make it through the day.

I take sleeping pills to make it through the night.

There are days in which I still have trouble getting off of the couch.

There are days in which I barely eat.

There are days in which I eat everything in sight.

I believe that there's a lot of shame surrounding the grieving process. It's human nature to want to protect the people we care about and so those of us who are truly in the depths of despair don't talk about it. We don't share with people what we're going through. We suffer in silence.

We suffer.

I don't want to suffer anymore. That's a big part of why I started this blog. Writing has always been therapeutic for me and I truly believe that we're only as sick as our secrets. 

I refuse to be sick anymore.

As my daughter would say, this blog is about to get real.  :-)

Another Goodbye

I lost a friend today although, admittedly, friend is much too strong of a word to describe our relationship. What lies between friend and acquaintance? I'm not sure; all I know is that he was one of us. One of the good guys. And this is the only way I know to say goodbye.

Two weeks ago a parent at my daughter's school suffered a massive heart attack. A parent I've talked to every single school day for the past 4 years. A parent who stood beside me on the playground as we watched our children run and climb and wrestle each other into the dirt. A parent who always had a kind word for those around him. A parent who never failed to make me smile. 

I prayed for him every day for the past two weeks. I prayed that his wife would never know the pain that I'm experiencing. I prayed that his children would have much longer with their father than my daughter had with hers. I prayed that he would make a miraculous recovery and that in a few short weeks he'd be back on the playground, talking to Blythe and I about what tattoos we want him to design for us. Unfortunately, my prayers and the prayers of countless others did not come to fruition. 

When she is ready, I will offer my support to his wife. I will offer to pick up her son from school, to cook dinner for her family, and to sit with her when she doesn't want to be alone. I will give her my copy of Option B, by Sheryl Sandberg, and tell her how much it helped me. I will give her the name and number of my therapist if she wants it. I will let her know that she can call or text me day and night.

As so many others have done for me, I will let her know that I am here.

Fall

Dear Lorenzo:

It's finally Fall.

Last week we were hit with a heatwave.  It was hot enough for us to keep the windows closed and the air conditioner on all day.  Hot enough for me to sleep under just one comforter instead of the three you always complained about. Hot enough that I began to seriously wonder whether or not I was going through the Change.

But after a week of that hellfire, Fall has finally arrived. Football season is back in full swing, Halloween decorations abound, and pumpkin flavored everything has invaded both Dunkins and Starbucks.

You loved Fall; it was your favorite season. I hated Fall because it seemed little more than a precursor to the cold. I remember the first time you came to visit me; it was Fall 2007 and you refused to sleep under my many blankets and comforters. "How can you sleep like this?" You asked. "I can't sleep any other way" I replied but you ignored my pleas and threw all but one blanket on the floor. "Don't worry" you insisted, "I've got you, I'll keep you warm."

And that's what you did for almost 10 years.

I took Amira to hip hop class today. Afterwards, we went to lunch at the Chicago Diner, then to Target to get her the slime she's been begging for for the last three months. By the time we got home it was early evening and when I went to grab my robe from the radiator where I'd last flung it, I was shocked to see that the heat was on. Apparently, the temperature in my bedroom had dipped so low that the heat had automatically kicked on. In lieu of the baggy shorts I wore all summer long, I'm currently wearing one of your old Bob Marley shirts, pajama pants, winter socks and my robe. In a moment, I'll make myself a cup of warm tea before getting more blankets for my bed.

Fall has just begun and I'm already feeling the cold.

I wish you were still here to keep me warm.

Acceptance

Dear Lorenzo:

I've been to Target three times in the past two days.

Yesterday, I went to buy Amira a new pair of sneakers.

This morning, I went back to exchange said sneakers for a bigger size.

And this afternoon, I went back yet again with the receipt I'd forgotten to bring on my previous trip.

Suffice it to say, I still have to get Amira a new pair of sneakers since Target didn't have any that I like in her size but...something good came out of my time there anyway.

While shopping for juice boxes and school snacks I passed both the liquor and potato chip aisles several times, but unlike what I've done for the past 14 months, this time I was able to walk past those aisles without purchasing anything from their shelves.

I think there will always be a part of me that wants to hide under the covers whenever I think too much about what I've lost.  A glass of prosecco, a container of stacked lays and an episode of NFL Live makes it so much easier to temporarily alleviate the pain but...I don't want to live there anymore. I don't want to live in a make believe world where I'm so busy trying to forget what I lost that I eventually stop appreciating what I still have: a healthy and happy daughter, a warm and loving home, supportive friends and family who've been by my side through every step of the grieving process.

Numbing myself from the pain doesn't work anymore. It's a temporary palliative at best. Inevitably, the fog lifts. The empty potato chip cans go into the recycling bin; the liquor bottles are rinsed and set to dry on the shelf above the sink; football season ends and ESPN moves onto sports that I don't care about. And through it all, you still can't come back to me. That's what I realized while weighing the pros and cons of getting a cheapo bottle of wine from Target this afternoon. No matter what I do, no matter how long I put it off, no matter how much alcohol I drink, potato chips I eat, or dumbass movies I watch, the fog is going to lift eventually.  And I'll have to face reality head on.

So today proved an important step in my journey.  In not buying the potato chips and wine, I chose to accept the inevitable truth. I chose to face the pain of loss without my usual "coping" mechanisms. And that's a damn good start.

Do You Know What Today Is?

Happy Anniversary, Babe.

10 years ago today we fell in love.

We were supposed to be together forever, we would have been together forever, bickering and driving each other CRAZY, if not for the drunk driver who took you away from me.

I don't remember how I spent our last anniversary.  I know I wrote about you, but the rest of the day is a blank.  I'm willing to bet I spent a good deal of time on the couch, watching ESPN and blotting out your memory with potato chips and Mike and Mike In The Morning.

But I didn't do that today.

I got up, took Amira to school, then went to Target to get her a new pair of sneakers.  I came home and had a salad for lunch, before folding and putting away at least four bags of clean clothes.  I picked Amira up from school, brought her to theater class, then went to the Pick Me Up Cafe to get her chili for dinner.  After theater, we went to Open House at her school.  We talked to her teachers, toured her classrooms, then came home and had dinner while watching The Thundermans.

I didn't binge eat my way through the day.

I didn't attempt to blot out the memories with television.

I didn't have a glass of wine with dinner, or a Heinekein while watching the Bears game (they're playing at Lambeau tonight; even you would have bet against them).

Lorenzo, I'm ready to move on.

Not from you, not from us, but I'm ready to let go of the grief.  I'm ready to say goodbye to the past and start looking forward to the future.  It won't be the future we planned together, I've finally accepted that. We're not going to get a condo in Vegas and spend our summers there with Dwight and Danielle. We're not going to grow old and fat together.  You will never get the opportunity to convince me to have another child, and we won't ever have the threesome I once promised you if we ever made it to our ten year anniversary.    

Instead, I'm going to have to create a new life without you.

One of the things I HATED most about you was the relentless way you pushed me to be perfect. You could never just accept me for who I was. The Khadija I am today, the Khadija I was 10 years ago was never good enough for you. I resented you for that. I resented the way you tried to turn every single moment into a life lesson. I resented your lectures, I resented your unasked for opinions, and I resented the amount of control you attempted to exert over my life.

Like every other couple on the planet, we had our fair share of problems, but now that you're gone...I find myself replaying some of the lessons you tried to impart upon me. Now that you're gone I find myself missing that unsolicited advice. In 42 years, no one in my life has ever pushed me the way that you did.

In 42 years, no one ever believed in me the way you did either.

And I miss that.

I miss you.

But now that you're gone, now that I'm healing, I'm finally ready to believe in myself.  I finally get what you'd been trying to teach me all along. You were right. With hard work and determination I really can do anything I set my mind to. Absolutely anything. I finally get the lesson you tried to teach.  And that realization is probably the best anniversary gift I could ever give to a natural born teacher like yourself. 

Except of course for the threesome, but alas, that ship has sailed.  :-)

I love you.

Happy Anniversary, Babe.

The 100% Brand Spanking New and Improved Khadija Jamila Brewington!

Dear Lorenzo,

2017 was supposed to be my comeback year.

Remember when Adrian Peterson got hurt during the 2011 season and we weren't even sure if he'd be able to play the following year? Remember how, despite all of the odds against him, he made his 2012 comeback, breaking all kinds of records and winning all different types of accolades? (NFL MVP of the year, NFL Offensive Player of the year, etc.)  He didn't just play the game, he played his heart out and had the comeback of a lifetime.

Well that was supposed to be me.  

I was supposed to be comeback player of the year, or at the very least, comeback mommy of the Peirce Playground.

I had a plan.

Every morning, I'd wake Amira up at 6:45 a.m. and she'd get herself dressed before joining me in the kitchen for breakfast.

Aferwards, she'd take her inhaler, brush her teeth and wash her face while I got her lunch together (homemade black bean stew, organic, sugar-free juice and a serving of fresh fruit all stored in her brand new, bpa-free lunch bag).

Next, I'd get myself dressed in a casual yet fashionable outfit, and we'd stroll to the busstop, hand in hand, and be off to school on time.

Afterwards, I'd walk the 30 minutes back home where I'd proceed to: clean up the kitchen, wash the breakfast dishes, do laundry, workout and then write. By the time I finished these tasks it'd be 2:30 p.m. and I'd walk the 30 minutes back to Peirce to pick up our daughter from school.

I'd give her an hour of playtime at the park before we'd head home to complete her homework, have dinner, play a boardgame, take showers, brush teeth and meditate our way into a peaceful slumber at last.

Today is the 3rd day of school and so far...

This is NOT shaping up to be my comeback year after all.

I woke up this morning with a start.  It was 6:45 a.m. and Amira lay snoring beside me.  I jumped out of bed, grabbed Amira's already-FILTHY-even-though-I-just-washed-it-two-days-ago pink jacket, and ran downstairs to put it in the laundry.  Next, I raced back up the stairs and attempted to wake our daughter. Epic fail. After a few minutes, I grabbed the clothes she'd picked out the night before, and dressed her myself while she continued to sleep.

Next I hurried into the kitchen, grabbed the leftover pasta from two days ago, threw it in a pan and began to heat it up for Amira's lunch. I microwaved two frozen pancakes, put syrup on them, and brought them into the dining room/Lorenzo's media room/the room Amira and I still sleep in. I put the breakfast on an end table in front of the futon, turned the TV from Mike and Mike to Liv and Maddie, and shook Amira awake so she could hurry up and eat her breakfast.

After packing her lunch (trader joe's pasta arrabiata, whatever juice box was in our fridge, and a snack sized bag of lays) I rushed into our bedroom and in lieu of the casual yet fashionable comeback outfit (that I know for a fact I don't even own) proceeded to dress myself in the following: the exact same jeans and long sleeved shirt I wore yesterday; a black knit cap to cover my uncombed, still gray-rooted hair; and one of your Chicage Fire jackets to cover up the entire ensemble.  Next, I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I put toothpaste on Amira's toothbrush, ran back into the dining room, gave Mira her inhaler, turned off the tv, handed her the toothbrush and told her to hurry up. I grabbed a facecloth and washed her face while she brushed, before we hauled ass into the living room, put on our sneakers, and made it to the busstop with exactly 2 minutes to spare.

I suppose today could have gone a little more smoothly had I gotten more done the day before. But I didn't. You see, yesterday wasn't a comeback day either. I was SUPPOSED to wash my hair yesterday. I was SUPPOSED to work out. I was SUPPOSED to crock beans for Amira's stew, finish up the laundry, and head to the hospital to visit your mom before picking Amira up from school. But I didn't do any of those things. I couldn't. Because yesterday was one of those days where I couldn't muster the energy to get off the couch. It still happens from time to time; turns out, I'm still human. So instead of crocking the beans for Amira's homemade stew, I sat on the couch and watched Will Kaine on Mike and Mike in the Morning. Instead of working out, I sat on the couch and watched Parks and Recreation on A&E. Instead of finishing the laundry I sat on the couch and watched repeats of Worst Cooks in America on Food Network.

Everyday isn't like the day I had yesterday. I truly am getting better, bit by bit, moment by moment but there are still days in which I can't get off the couch and that's okay too. There are still days in which I watch ESPN and text updates to your brother because I can't text you anymore.

I may not be comeback player of the year, I may not be comeback mommy of the Peirce Playground, and I may never, ever, EVER be the 100% brand spanking new and improved Khadija Jamila Brewington.

You used to tell me you'd love me no matter what. If I gained 100 pounds, if I got sick, if I had brown hair and gray roots, you'd love me regardless. Now that you're gone, I'll have to learn to love myself enough for the both of us.

Don't worry, babe, I'll get there.

Just One Of Those Days

Dear Lorenzo:

Today is Tuesday, September 5, 2017 and you've been gone for exactly 14 months.  After less than 20 minutes of meditation, Amira is finally, peacefully, mercifully asleep. Normally, this is around the time that I'd be turning on the t.v. Right about now I'd be watching "Pop Star, Never Stop, Never Stopping" (you would have LOVED it!) before swallowing 2 gelcaps of Tylenol PM and shutting off the dining room light. But with the craziness of Amira's first day of school finally upon us, I wasn't able to write this morning, and since I promised myself (and promised you) that from now on I'd spend an hour writing every day, I figured I'd better get this down before going to bed.

Jabez started Kindergarten today and just as you'd hoped, he's going to Peirce, too.  Amira's thrilled to have her little cousin at the same school as her, and at 3:00 p.m., I stood outside of Jabez's dismissal door, hoping to catch a quick peek of him to make sure he'd had a good first day.  As I watched him interact with his dad, I couldn't help but remember Amira's first day of kindergarten.  As usual, you had taken so long in the shower that I feared Amira would actually be late for her first day of school.  I took pictures of her in her brand new uniform while you were busy getting dressed and when you exited our bedroom, I was shocked to see you in a shirt and tie.  Normally, on your days off from work you wore nothing fancier than a pair of Chicago fire sweatpants but on this day, you insisted on overdressing and making a good impression on her teacher.  After walking Amira to her classroom door and videotaping her with soon-to-be new friends, it was time to let her go.  When she walked into Mrs. Fitzgerald's classroom with not much more than a casual goodbye wave in our direction, you turned to me in shock.  "That's it?" you asked incredulously.  "I'm just supposed to leave my baby here, with these strangers?" And I laughed at the look of horror on your face.

"Ummmmm, yeah" I responded. "This is school, you know how it works, you used to be a teacher. This is what we do, we can't go in with her." You were despondent for the next several hours and at 11:40 on the dot you shouted at me to hurry up, get dressed and meet you in the car.  To my surprise, we headed back to Amira's school, where we sat in the car outside of the playground, and spied on our daughter and her playmates during their 20 minute recess.  Your plan was simple: we'd watch her while she played to make sure she was having a good time; we'd watch her to make sure that she was safe.  

At your insistence, we did this every, single day for a week.  

You used to call me Disneyland and Rainbow Bright.  You said you didn't know what the hell they put in the Cambridge water to make me so damned happy all the time.  You rolled your eyes at my "glass is half full" outlook on life.  You smirked at my ever so sunny disposition.

It's hard to remain an optimist after losing you.

It's hard to watch all of the other dads dropping their kids off in the morning or playing with them at the playground in the afternoon without feeling that pang of longing. It takes some effort to remind myself how lucky we were to have had you in our lives for as long as we did.

Missing you is hard.  Some days are harder than others.

Today was definitely one of those days.

Reclaiming My Mind

The first thing I do is disassemble my food processor.  Though it's not as cumbersome as the one Lorenzo once used, it does need to be taken apart in order to fit more easily beside the juicer and Yonanas machine in the cabinet under the microwave.

Next, I go down to Lorenzo's fridge in the basement and pull out my favorite yogurt, (strawberry flavored Almond Dream) and my favorite beer (Heineken Light) and bring them back upstairs to be stored in the kitchen fridge.

And last but not least I tackle the pantry.  I use a yet-to-be-opened lemon zester to move cereal, croutons and a brand new bottle of mirin from the highest shelf of the pantry to the lowest.

These items were once on my "bad foods" list.  After losing Lorenzo and gaining a shitload of weight, I've spent the past year hopping from one fad diet to the next.   The food processor was for the weeks I spent on the Shred diet, sucking down green smoothie after green smoothie and picking spinach out of my teeth for days on end.

The expensive ass juicer I bought from Amazon was for the Crazy Sexy Diet, a vegan plan that mandates buying pounds of fresh produce each week and blending them into green juices (and before you even ask, yes, they are exactly as unappetizing as they sound).

But in learning to sit with my feelings as opposed to running from them, I've figured something out: I'm not fat because I didn't know potato chips have more calories than kale, I'm fat because I was depressed as fuck.  I lost the love of my life.  I sat on my couch for a year and cried.  I drank and ate my way through the pain because I didn't know what else to do with it.  And that's okay.  I'm human.  I did the best I could with the knowledge I had at the time.

But as much time as it took me to put on this weight, it'll take AT LEAST as long for me to lose it.  And that's okay too.

And now that I think of it, neither Shred nor the Crazy Sexy Diet were such bad plans, they were just bad plans for me.

So.. no more living by anyone else's rules no matter how authoritative and knowledgable that person may be.

No more drinking a gallon of water a day and having to pee every 5 minutes because that's what Skinny Heffa magazine says I should do.

No more eating foods I hate because Dr. Phil or Dr. Oz or even Dr. Seuss says that this is the fastest way to lose weight.

And no more depriving myself of foods that I love because a well meaning, but often overbearing boyfriend disagrees with my choices.

No more living according to anyone else's rules except my own.

I will never, ever be perfect.

I will never be Beyonce, or Halle Berry, or Tyra Banks.

But I will be in much better shape than I currently am.

I will be a good role model for my daughter, and the healthiest version of Khadija that I can be.

And for now, that's good enough for me.

Reclaiming My Life

Nighttime is always the worst.

Each night begins the same way, with me trying to soothe Amira to sleep.

I do my best to alleviate her fears.  We say our prayers, I hold her close, we follow the gentle instructions of a guided meditation app.  We take long, slow breaths from the pits of our bellies.  We imagine ourselves walking along a beach, or through a forest, or leaving terra firma altogether to soar through the evening sky.  I hold her in my arms and do not let her go until she is sleeping peacefully, jaw slackened, chest rising evenly, her mind temporarily freed of all anxiety.

I wish I could say I've been as kind to myself.

While every night begins the same, it ends the same as well; with my feeble attempts at numbing myself of the pain.

Once Amira falls asleep I turn to my number one drug of choice, the television.

I put on the same mindless comedies night after night, "Parks and Recreation", "Girls' Trip", "Popstar, Never Stop Never Stopping".  If there are chips in the house (and there are ALWAYS chips in the house) I munch my way through the entire bag, pausing only to laugh uproariously at the antics of Connr4Real and Leslie Knope.
If there is wine in the house (and there is ALWAYS wine in my house) I'll have a single glass to relax myself even further.  And when the movie has ended and the potato chips have been eaten, I take two tylenol pm to ensure I'll sleep for at least a few hours before getting up and beginning another day without you.

Yesterday, as I dressed to run to the grocery store, Amira took one look at me and asked, "Is that what you're wearing?  Seriously Mom?"

I was stunned.

I was wearing a fairly typical outfit: one of your Bears' jerseys and a pair of recently-purchased-but-already-starting-to-get-too-tight jeans from Target.

"Well yeah" I replied "What's wrong with this?"

"Mom, there are a lot of single dads out there you know."

"Amira!  I am NOT looking for a single dad or any other man, I'm going to pick up your lunch for school and that's it!"

But the entire way to the store I thought about our conversation.  I'm damn sure not looking for a man and everything about my appearance sends that message loud and clear.  I don't know the last time I got my eyebrows done, but I know it was while I was in Boston.  I don't know the last time I had a pedicure or my gray roots touched up, but I know it was during the Spring.  I don't know the last time I shopped outside of the plus sized department, but I know it was while you were still alive.

I don't know exactly who I'm going to be after all of this.  Will I ever be in a relationship again?  Will I ever care about anyone enough to actually WANT them to see me naked?  Will I ever go back to the fully vegan lifestyle that you and I embraced together?  Exactly who is Khadija Jamila Brewington now that Lorenzo Douglas is gone?

I don't yet know where the answers to those questions reside, but I know where NOT to continue looking for them.  They aren't at the end of "Girl's Trip" or at the bottom of a bottle of wine or a bag of potato chips.  They aren't in the plus sized department of Target either.

I won't find any answers if I'm too afraid to confront or even acknowledge the pain that is my life without you.

I have to start treating myself with the same gentle patience with which I treat our daughter.

So here we go.

I love you, babe.

I miss you.

It hurts so badly that there are still days in which I don't want to get out of bed.

It hurts so badly that I have to take Prozac to function normally.

It hurts so badly that there are times I wish I could pull an Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and have a procedure done that would make me forget all about you.

I hurt so badly.

Because I loved you so much and I still do.

Because I don't know where I'm supposed to put the pain.

Because I don't know what the rest of my life will look like without you in it.

But I suppose I'm ready to find out.

Plan B

So what's next?

I'm supposed to come up with a plan, right?

Isn't that what we do when Plan A blows up in our faces?

We regroup, we keep moving forward.

I'm supposed to get a job, right?

I should find and update my old resume, register with all of the local temp agencies, start contacting former employers and asking for references.

That's step 1, right?

Or, I should go back to school.

I should drop Amira off at Peirce each day before heading downtown to sit in a classroom full of other 40 something year olds, and begin working on a Master's in something I don't really give two shits about.

That's what I'm SUPPOSED to do, but...

I'm not going to do either of those things.

I've spent the past 10 years doing exactly what I'm SUPPOSED to do.  Putting my family first, putting my own dreams on hold for so long that I damn near forgot what they were. 

I don't want to do what I'm SUPPOSED to anymore.

I don't want to spend every waking hour taking care of someone else and going to bed each night, exhausted by the weight of solely fulfilling others' expectations of me.

Exhausted by the sadness of another day spent not pursuing my own dreams.

That's not the example I want to set for my daughter.

I want her to know that if you want something badly enough, you work your ass off to get it.

You don't settle.

Life is too short to waste one moment of it working like a dog to obtain a career you're not even sure you really want.

I don't have a Plan B yet.

But I know that I want to write.

And I know that I want to be fully available to parent my child 24 hours a day.

I know that I don't want to work for anyone whose name isn't Khadija Jamila Brewington.

I know that I don't want to make a living taking care of anyone whose name isn't Amira Kenya Douglas.

And that's all I got right now.

Me

My kitchen's a mess.

There are empty plastic bags on the table surrounding the tablet on which I'm writing this post.

There are dishes in my sink, trash that needs to be taken out, and an empty heineken light bottle that has yet to be rinsed, dried, and put in the recycling bin.

It's 9:39 a.m. and I woke up 10 minutes ago.

That is extremely late for me.

You see, I'm an early bird.  Before I had my daughter, I was in bed no later than 9:30 p.m. each night.

I'd wake up around 6:00 a.m. every morning, jump out of bed and be ready to face the world within minutes.

But things are different now.  Instead of waking up at 6:00 a.m., washing my hands and immediately tackling this kitchen; putting away the plastic bags, wiping down the table with disinfectant wipes, doing the dishes, taking out the trash, putting away the unopened bottles of Newman's Own marina sauce, and Open Nature peanut butter, I'm sitting on my ass talking to you.

I am 42 years old, a mom, a daughter, a sister, a friend and although school doesn't actually start until next week, I'm already room representative for my daughter's classroom.  And I am SO proud to wear all of those titles but the problem is...I'm not much else.

Lorenzo was the love of my life.  When he got into the fire academy I took on a new role: helpmeet.  On the days he forgot part of his uniform at home, I'd ride the train an hour downtown and bring it to him.  And on the evenings when he came home to us, exhausted from having to run up and down stairs while hoisting 50 pounds of equipment on his back, I kept Amira quietly occupied so Daddy could get his rest.   Lorenzo fulfilling this dream was our number one priority and the day he graduated was one of the proudest of our lives.  Amira and I became the Earth to his Sun, revolving around his schedule, basking in the warmth of his attention on his days off.

It didn't take me very long to forget I'd ever had dreams of my own, until one day, while driving home from Best Buy, Lorenzo took my phone out of my hand and threw it in the backseat.

"You don't need that to take pictures of Maggie's wedding" he'd said in response to my indignation.  "You can use this instead."  And then, from under his seat, he pulled out a box and handed it to me.  A brand new tablet.  "Dude asked if I wanted to get this insured and I was like, 'hell no!' before remembering who I was buying this for and then I told him to give me the highest level of insurance possible!"  I laughed through tears and kissed him on the cheek at this unexpected gift.  "And Dija, it comes with a keyboard too.  So now you can write again."

I may have temporarily forgotten my dreams, but Lorenzo never did.  So right now, I'm sitting in my still-needs-to-be-cleaned kitchen, writing this post before Amira wakes up, before I wash even one dish, before I check facebook, before I hop on the elliptical, before I eat my breakfast, before I begin the chaos of my day.

In good times and in bad, Lorenzo never forgot who I was.

Maybe it's time I start remembering her.

Home

I dreamed about you again last night.

I used to think I didn't dream.  It wasn't until I got to college and took freshman Psych that I learned the opposite was true.  That everyone dreams, some just have no memories of them.  That's how it always was for me until you died.  Now, every so often, I dream of you and while I rarely remember specifics what's left is always the feeling that I was holding you until somehow, you got away.

It was a shitty morning in Cambridge.  It's rainy and dreary here today and I did not want to get out of bed but I pushed myself anyway, pushed myself because I only have a one month membership to Healthworks so I have to enjoy every minute of it.  Pushed myself because now that I'm on Prozac, pushing myself is a possibility again.  Pushed myself because it's what you would have wanted me to do, yet when I got to the gym I still didn't want to be there.  Took the elevator up to the fitness studio instead of walking the three flights of stairs.  Got on the treadmill halfheartedly, instead of putting in real effort on the elliptical.  But by the time Chris Brown finished singing "Party" (the clean version that you would have laughed at me for downloading) I was smiling again.  And by the time Shawn Mendes finished "There's Nothing Holding Me Back" I had picked up the pace.  And by the time I finished listening to Shawn Mendes for the second time in a row, the high had kicked in and I was running. Slowly of course, jogging really, just jogging one minute, walking the next but a calm had settled my spirit and the endorphins were elevating quickly and by the time someone finally got on the treadmill a few machines over from me, I was glowing and sweating and panting and happy as fuck.  And as I walked/jogged for the next 45 minutes, as I watched Jeremy, my virtual trainer telling me to pick up the pace, as I watched the green hillside of British Columbia whiz by me on the treadmill's television monitor, every single cell in my body was singing.  And I wished I had somebody there to share it with.  Wished I could call out to the woman two treadmills away and ask her if she felt this way too. If she hadn't wanted to get her lazy ass out of bed this morning either but now that she was there, running much, much faster and much, much more consistently than I could ever hope to do, wasn't she elated too?  Wasn't she thrilled that she had decided to fight her way through the gloom and doom of a rainy Thursday morning, through her own still lingering depression, and made her way over to Healthworks in spite of it all?

I have a long way to go, babe, I know that.  I'm still digging my way out of the abyss that is clinical depression. But...being home, being back in Cambridge, being back at Healthworks is helping.  I'm healing.  Slowly but surely I'm healing and while I can't imagine living here again, can't imagine living anywhere where memories of our life together don't come at me in a rush the minute I open my front door, for now, for the month of July, it feels really good to be home.  

 

Life After Death

It's 5:30 a.m. and I should be making my way to the gym right now, or eating my favorite yogurt breakfast, or trying to decide between watching 21 Jump Street for the 100th time or a basketball saturated episode of Mike and Mike.  Instead, I'm sitting on my mother's couch, listening to the ticking of her loud ass clock, and watching Amira sleep peacefully on our new air mattress.

You died exactly one year ago today.

I know that I'm supposed to have something profound to say about your passing, about what I've learned, about how we've coped.  I know that I'm supposed to have amassed a bevy of philosophical musings regarding the nature of grief, the path to overcoming depression, and the fragility of life but the truth is, I can't focus on any of that bullshit right now.  Instead one thought keeps running through my mind.

Khadija, how do you want to LIVE?

The one thing I've truly learned this year is that the old cliche is true:

Life is really fucking short.

It's too short not to apologize to those we've wronged.

Too short not to tell our loved ones just how much they mean to us.

Too short not to take chances.

Too short not to fix that which can be fixed.

Too short to waste precious time holding on to that which is beyond repair.

I've lived the majority of my life vacillating between two default conditions: fear and regret.

No more.

Life is too short.

I'm so grateful to God for the years I got to spend with Lorenzo.  He was my life partner, my baby's daddy, my best friend.  He was the kick in the ass I CONSTANTLY needed, he was the annoying voice of reason I hated to hear.  He was my biggest cheerleader and my biggest critic.  He was the therapist I never wanted, and the comedian who refused to get off the stage.  He was a man of God, a man of science and a man of his word.  He was a complete and a total know it all.   A never ending pain in my ass.

He was the love of my life.

Last night, while helping my best friend clean out her deceased mom's home, Michele asked me what I want to do today, to commemorate Lorenzo's passing.  I've thought about that all night and here's what I've come up with.

I want to spend today living and loving fearlessly.

I want to celebrate the memories of our life together.

I want to begin the process of moving forward without him.

Simply put, I want to live.

Daughter

I've always had a fairly crappy immune system.  I used to get migraines as a little girl, excruciatingly painful headaches that could only be vanquished by darkness and total silence.  I developed asthma at around 21, and have had bouts with allergies, sinus infections, vertigo, and bronchitis.  Having Multiple Sclerosis means regular occurences of neuropathy (numbness and pain in my fingers and toes) not to mention the daily injections of Copaxone that I take to halt the progression of the disease.  At best my various illnesses have been minor annoyances, at worst, they've been painful and life altering but like every single mother I know, I would gladly endure all this and more if I could spare my daughter one minute of pain. Because as shitty as it is to be sick, nothing hurts more than watching your child suffer.

Over the past 8 years she's been called Amira, Mira, Mirabella and Poopy but Lorenzo only called his child by one name: "Daughter".

"Hi Daddy!"

"Hi Daughter!"

"Where are we going today, Daddy?"  Amira would ask from the backseat of our car, smiling at the answer she knew was about to come.

"To bootyland!"  He'd reply and I'd shake my head in mock disgust, watching those two nuts scream with laughter at their oldest joke.

They'd argue about who could eat the most bean laden nachos.

They'd embarrass the hell out of me by singing, "Commas After My Commas" in public, and at the tops of their lungs.

When she wasn't looking, Lorenzo would sneak up behind her, scoop her up, and plop her down into an empty laundry basket.

When he was up late, eating cereal in bed, she'd crawl in beside him to watch Family Guy and American Dad and all the other shows I forbade her to watch before falling into a peaceful sleep on her Daddy's chest.

Daughter.

Children are resilient.  Amira goes to school every day and afterwards, she plays in the park with her friends.  She goes to hip hop and theater classes, movies and museums but every, single night she tells me how much she misses her father.  How she wishes he could come back to us.  She misses going to Home Depot and Whole Foods with him. She misses our trips to Vegas.  She misses Lorenzo sneaking bites of her black beans when she isn't looking.

She misses her Daddy.

And there's nothing I can do to fill this void.

My Big Fat Ass Explored

I love working out.

Always have.

I love walking uphill on the treadmill, going backwards on the elliptical and lifting light weights at home during NFL Insiders.  I love walking home after dropping my daughter off at school, music blasting, sunshine warming my face.  Nothing relaxes me more than a good workout.

Except for potato chips of course.

Lots and lots of potato chips.

Oh, and wine.

And Amstel Light.

And countless hours of Words With Friends while simultaneously watching ESPN.

And that is how I've gotten through the past ten months.

And how I've managed to gain so much weight.

Lots and lots of weight.

More weight than when I was diagnosed with MS.

More weight than when I was growing a seven pound, seven ounce human being inside of me.

OH MY GOD, SO MUCH WEIGHT.

And if I don't start reigning it in now, I'm going to end up like one of the women from my all time favorite reality show, My 600 Pound Life.

The ones who need a team of firefighters and a broken down wall to extract them from their homes.

I have two choices. I can continue down this path to a land of morbid obesity and depression, or, I can cut the shit, deal with my emotions, grieve my loss like a normal, healthy human being and start to lose this weight.

I'll go with option two.

Wish me luck.

 

The Green Couch

It started with tingling in my fingers and toes.

I was 24 years old and living in Los Angeles with one of my girlfriends.

And I was the healthiest I'd ever been in my adult life.

I had a job as an online customer service rep at an office in downtown L.A.  After work, I'd walk the 45 minutes back to my apartment, change into my workout clothes, and go straight to the gym.  Five days a week.  I began reading about vegetarianism and was slowly incorporating more meatless foods into my diet.  Having left all of my old drinking buddies in Boston, I cut WAY back on the alcohol and weed and didn't even miss 'em.  As lonely as I often was, I was happy.

Until my fingers and toes started tingling and I couldn't figure out why.

After a few weeks of these symptoms I began to develop a low level of panic that was with me round the clock.  And then, one day, I had a seizure at work.  Two days later I was diagnosed with relasping remitting Multiple Sclerosis.  I knew absolutely nothing about MS except that the only other person I knew who had this disease was confined to a wheelchair.  With no other examples around me, I assumed that was my fate as well.

I moved back to Boston the day after my diagnosis.

And fell apart.

I'm blessed enough to have had the same best friends my entire life.  Within a year of moving back home, I left my mother's house and moved in with one of my lifelong girlfriends, Maggie.

Originally from Portugal, Maggie didn't come to our school until 6th grade but when she did, I was instantly enamored with her.  She had endless amounts of energy.  She was bigger than life.  While I shyly stayed on the outskirts of whatever recess activity was taking place at hoyt field that day, Maggie played sports with the boys like she was born to do nothing else.  She'd go home with ripped jeans and dirty knees and a grin on her face that let me know she didn't care about such trivialities.

She was fearless.

We did everything together.  Rode bikes together after school, went to the mall together on weekends, and after my diagnosis, she sat with me on her green couch for MONTHS and let me cry.

Eventually, I began to put my life back together again. I started seeing a psychiatrist who put me on antidepressants, taught me to meditate and bore witness to my pain, week after week, in her tiny closet of an office.

Amazed at the way therapy was helping me heal myself, I went back to school and studied psychology.

I found a job I adored, rejoined the gym, and became a full-fledged vegetarian.

Several years later, when my father died, I was grateful for having had the experience of being diagnosed with MS.  This time around, I knew exactly what to do.  Go straight to therapy, keep working out, get back on Celexa should the depression become overwhelming again. Journal, talk to my friends and family. Don't even try to go it alone.

And together, my family and I got through the loss.

But losing Lorenzo has been an entirely different experience.  For the first time since my diagnosis, I fell apart again.  For weeks I only got off of the couch for Amira.  I'd get up to take her to school, get up to pick her back up again. Get up to take her to swim class, or hip hop, or drama or to the museum.  But when I wasn't getting up for Amira, I wasn't getting up at all.  I no longer had the physical energy to walk the two feet from my couch to my ellipical machine, let alone actually go to the gym.  I drank lots of wine and ate LOTS of potato chips.  I watched ESPN non stop.  But it still took me a solid ten months to realize that I needed help again.  Three weeks ago I was on the phone with a complete stranger, when I began to cry and I couldn't stop.  I called my doctor right away and he greeted me with a hug, a referral to the therapist in his office, and a prescription for prozac.

And it's working.  In the three weeks since that breakdown/breakthrough I've started working out again.  Started eating salad again.  Started feeling like myself again.  But I know that I'm at the beginning of a really long journey.

I have to come up with a whole new life for myself and for my daughter and I have NO CLUE where to start.

And here's the thing...I'm not supposed to be writing this post right now.

My plan was to create a brand new blog AFTER I "got over" the pain of losing Lorenzo.  I wanted to be the "after" photo in all of the before and after makeover stories we see on tv and in the magazines.  You know the ones.  Girl meets boy, girl and boy fall in love.  Girl sits on her ever increasing ass for ten months after boy is killed by piece of shit drunk driver and girl no longer knows what to do with herself so she eats and drinks and watches tv to numb herself from the pain.  Well, I was going to start a blog AFTER this phase had ended.  AFTER I had gotten all better and could be a shining example to others that there is in fact life and joy and happiness AFTER your entire world has ended.

But that blog is bullshit.  Who gives a shit about the after?  Maybe, just maybe, somebody out there needs to hear my story NOW.  Maybe somebody needs to hear about what a struggle it is to get up day after day, knowing you will never hear your partner's voice thundering down the hallway ever again.  Maybe somebody out there is going through this too and we can go through it together.  We can get off of the green couch together, just like Maggie and I did almost 20 years ago when I was just diagnosed and was more afraid of a wheelchair than I was of death.

I'm no longer interested in the AFTER anymore.  I'm interested in the now.  I'm interested in today.  I'm interested in finding a way off of the couch and sharing my story with you because today's the day I have.  Not tomorrow.  I'm not the after photo, I didn't lose Lorenzo and become so inspired by his legacy that I became a raw foods, vegan, marathon runner with 10% body fat.  No, I lost Lorenzo and couldn't get up for ten months but I'm here now.  And I'm inviting you to go on this journey with me.

Nine Months Later

Dear Lorenzo,

Right now it's 7:08 a.m. and I've been up for the past two hours or so.  This used to be my favorite time of day.  I loved being the only person awake in the house.  More often than not I'd wake up, creep out of Amira's room having slept there the night before, and peek into our room where you would have only recently fallen asleep.  The tv would still be on (though Family Guy would have long given way to some Comedy Central paid programming) and our bed would be littered with cereal boxes and Back To Nature cookie wrappers.  Your blue bowl would be perched precariously on the stool you kept bedside, and I'd wonder for the umpteenth time how you managed to never knock it over in your sleep.  I'd bring your debris to the kitchen, recycle the empty boxes, wash up all of the dinner and midnight snack dishes, then set about preparing for our day.

Everything's different now.

For the first time in my life, early morning is no longer my favorite time. 

Instead, my favorite moments now occur on Monday through Friday at exactly 1:00 p.m. because that's when NFL Live comes on.

I love football.  I love watching the Pats win virtually every game they play.  I love catching the highlights of games I'd previously missed, shown ad nauseum on ESPN.  I love watching superbowl commercials and halftime shows, Sunday Morning Countdown and Mike and Mike, but I have never met anyone who loved football as much as you.

Having opted not to learn the sex of our unborn child, you spent months planning "his" NFL career.  Your plan was to name our future running back DOMINANT so he'd have the "dopest football name ever".

 When she was born, instead of shelving your dreams you began to plan Amira's barrier-breaking future as the first female kicker in the NFL.

You bragged for weeks about the time you threw Amira a touchdown pass in a friendly game played at a family cookout.

 We went to Bears Friends and Family Day every year that you weren't scheduled to work, ignoring the fact that the Bears have sucked for years, would inevitably suck again, and that within the first month of the season, you'd be sure to have given up on them and have resigned yourself to not making it to the playoffs.  Again.    

During football season you watched ESPN and NFL network every waking hour, and at night, I'd catch you whispering to your brother on the phone about the week's upcoming games and your chances of making big money in Vegas.

 You've been gone for nine months now. 

 I can no longer smell your scent on your clothes.  I will never again hear you shout at me from the confines of your basement theater to bring you an Izze's and a pee bucket.

I will never again watch you fall off of the futon, tears rolling down your face, laughing uproariously at something that happened on Family Guy, American Dad, or Blackish.  But on weekdays, from 1-2 p.m. I've had Trey Wingo and Herm Edwards and one of the Hassleback brothers that I can never differentiate between since like I've told you before, they add so little to the show.

 And at 1:00 p.m. Monday through Friday, I allow myself to pretend. I pretend that you're still here with me, taking note of every word from Adam Scheffter or Mel Kiper so that you can get ready for the upcoming draft.  I heard your joyful exuberance at the prospect of Marshawn Lynch coming out of retirement to play for the Raiders. "Aw shit, we're going to the bowl, we're going to the bowl" you would have shouted repeatedly while  jumping up and down on the futon before jumping up and down on me.  "Get off of me, fool" I would have laughed while pushing you off and reminding you that, "there's no way in hell the Raiders are going to beat the Pats in the championship game."

But yesterday, I didn't watch NFL Live.  You've been gone for nine months and in that time I've managed to parent our daughter but do very little else.  My heart, my attention just isn't in ANYTHING I do that isn't related to Amira.  I have zero interest in virtually every area of my life that doesn't remind me of you and I know I can't go on living this way.  It isn't healthy. It isn't what you'd want for me.  It isn't what I want for myself.

You are and will always be the love of my life.  Thank you for teaching me the true definition of love.  Thank you for putting up with me and all of my bullshit.  Thank you for being my partner, my baby's daddy, my biggest cheerleader, and my best friend.

Nine months.  I cannot believe you've been gone for nine months.


It would have been enough time for me to have had another baby.  It would have been enough time for me to write a book.  It would have been enough time for me to do ANYTHING besides lie on the couch under the covers, only sticking my head out to watch NFL Live and shove potato chips down my throat.

 Lorenzo, I have to let you go.

Not my memories of you, those will always be cherished.  Not my love for you, that will never die.  But I have to let go of the dreams I had of our future together because through no fault of our own, they aren't going to happen after all.

Nine months is enough time to complete any myriad of tasks and in the nine months that you've been gone I've finally reached the one stage I never really wanted to get to.

Acceptance.

New Year, Still Here

One of my favorite tv shows is a fun, whimsical confection called Younger. In it, the main character must return to the workforce after her husband of twenty years leaves her for another woman. Liza is both smart and Ivy-league educated, but when her lack of work history deems her unemployable she does what any character on a well-written tv show would do. She pretends to be a 25 year old recent college grad and gets her dream job in publishing. Liza's best friend at the publishing house is a 20 something year old whose fiance is killed in a freak accident. Upon his death, Kelsey does what any tv sitcom character would do. She wears trendy black outfits for a couple of episodes to remind us  that she's in mourning, and within a few weeks is back on the dating scene, being "tram-slammed" by a handsome stranger with whom she realizes she has no future.

I love this show. It's a fun, light-weight fantasy and like most tv shows, it is complete and total bullshit.

Weeks after you died, in lieu of trendy black announcements of bereavement, I wore your old clothes around the house. Sweatpants several sizes too big, CFD t- shirts and boxers, your robe with the enormous hole in the right armpit. That robe, the one piece of clothing you left behind that still smells so much like you I live for the moments when, right after my shower, I can wrap myself in that tattered piece of flannel and smell your scent as strongly as if you'd wrapped your arms around me in embrace.

Months after you died, in lieu of the dating scene, I had moments where, upon receiving friendly compliments from men (CTA bus drivers, cashiers at the grocery store) I wondered if I had done something wrong, something to encourage what was probably nothing more than polite flattery, and rushed away from these encounters as though someone were chasing me. It took a long time for me to recognize the bandit as my own needlessly guilty conscience.  And I'm sure this goes without saying but I don't see any tram-slamming in my immediate future.

Yesterday, while watching Game Day Morning I realized that it was the last Sunday of the regular season and began to panic. Football season will be over in about a month and when it ends I will no longer be able to rush home from Amira's school, put on ESPN, listen to Mike and Mike and pretend that I still have someone with whom to share the daily news.

When you died, time stood still for me but now...it's 2017, a new year, a year that you will never get to see. I will have no memories to cherish of you and I in 2017. You won't be here for my birthday in three weeks, you won't be here for Amira's birthday in three months. You won't be here for Bears Friends and Family Day in July, you won't meet my grandma when we go to Barbados for spring break. You're gone.

But as Maggie gently reminded me yesterday, I'm still here. God spared me which means it wasn't yet my time to go. Unlike you, my job on this planet isn't finished yet.

Our plans were simple. To travel as much as possible. You and Dwight were going to go in on a condo in Vegas together, so we'd always have a place to go for long weekends or for Mira's breaks from school. You wanted me to become an EMT, a job that would guarantee I'd have similar hours as you, and if I really had no interest in that job (and I didn't) you hoped I'd have another baby. "I can't do what you can." You'd say. "Fuck all that politically correct bullshit. I'm a man, we aren't nurturers, but you are. You can be a provider if you want to but I cannot be a mother. Only women can give life. Ya'll have the most important job in the world, regardless of whether or not society knows it. Your job is much more important than mine. It's a gift." And I'd look at you, a man with sentiments so different than what I'd always known, and be reminded once again of why I'd fallen in love with you in the first place.

I'd look at you and almost be convinced.

If you were here this is what I'd tell you:

THE CUBS WON THE WORLD SERIES the same year that the Cavaliers won the NBA championship!

The Bears still suck. They went 3-13 this season. Nuff said.

The Raiders kicked ass this year until Derek Carr broke his leg. They're still in the playoffs though so I know how happy you'd be about that.

The Pats are the number one seed in the AFC!

And finallly, in non-sports related news, I outdid myself this Christmas. If you were here you would have killed me but... it was our daughter's first Christmas without you so yes, I went completely overboard. But it was worth it because she didn't cry on Christmas. She still cries a lot. Her heart is completely broken. She's scared to go to sleep at night, scared to be in a room without me, scared she'll lose the other person she loves most in the world. She's in therapy now and I'm going to meet with her counselor to see what else I should be doing at home. But...she didn't cry on Christmas. Your entire family was here, minus Dwight and Danielle, and she had a wonderful day.

I don't think I'm in denial anymore. I was angry for a minute there. Very, very angry at God for taking you, and even angrier at you for leaving me. Angry at myself for every argument we ever had (even the ones that were your fault), angry for not having a second child, angry for not giving you everything you could have possibly wanted in what would turn out to be a life ended way too soon. But I don't feel as angry anymore and when I do, the anger seems to have redirected itself to its rightful target, the bastard who took you away from us in the first place.

You used to say I was the strongest person you knew but that I just didn't know it yet. Well I know it now. And I know that eventually I'll be okay. Doesn't mean I'll stop missing you, or loving you, or wishing you were here. But...my goal for 2017 is to be okay again. And that's the most I can ask for right now.