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.
Thursday, July 13, 2017
Wednesday, July 5, 2017
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.
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.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
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.
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.
Monday, May 15, 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, May 14, 2017
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.
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.
Saturday, April 8, 2017
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.
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.
Monday, January 2, 2017
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.
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.
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