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.