Keep it going.
"The battles that count aren't the ones for gold medals. The struggles within yourself - the invisible, inevitable battles inside all of us - that's where it's at."
--Jesse Owens
The tears are always there. They are painful, these tears. Trying to hold them in is physically painful. And it is always a surprise at what causes them to spring forward.
One day, it is the commercial about hair products. Another day, it is an email some thoughtful soul forwarded to me with an extremely moving video about a family and their lost baby. On the airplane, it is the woman who is showing off pictures of her dog. In the booth, it is when my sister tells the story of Jukebox, a game we used to play as kids.
I’m crying for more than just the loss of the baby. I’m crying because my body is still at odds with the miscarriage. I’ve been bleeding off and on for a little over two months and now I’m crying on the phone to the midwife, because it seems like each time I start bleeding, I have to start the whole grief process over again and I’m thinking something is wrong.
After I speak with the midwife, I’m crying on the phone to my therapist, because I’m afraid I’m falling into some sort of depression from all the bleeding.
And just when it seems like it is all over and healing can begin, that blood, red and angry and punctual, starts all over again and reminds me exactly where I am.
And that is when the tears start all over again.
**********
I’m ordered to get an ultrasound to determine if any products of conception remain.
Products of conception, if you were wondering, is what the medical professionals deem to be the least threatening way to say dead baby. I wish they would just say it. Dead baby. Without life. Gone. Empty.
On the phone, while waiting for the ultrasound orders, I will the nurse to say anything other than products of conception. Products of conception. I hear those words, with their sharp edges and fingernails-on-the-chalkboard tips, before she even says them. They ring in my ears. Shake my core. Peel my skin back. It is inevitable that these words will bring forth the tears that I’m so desperately trying to hold back while nonchalantly pushing my cart through the grocery store. Inevitable.
No one can go with me to the ultrasound appointment. This is largely my fault. I’ve pushed myself so far away from anyone, with the exception of Mr. Shortpants, that he is the only one who even knows I have to go for this ultrasound. He is the only one who even knows that there are complications. He is the only one who knows about the remaining products of conception.
I sit cross legged on the only non-sticky seat in the ultrasound department. I’m trying to be breezy so that I don’t wind up lying on the floor because I know there are disgusting germs on the floor. Emphasis on disgusting.
The nurse told me to drink eight glasses of fluid before my appointment, so I drank twelve glasses, just to be safe. But now, my bladder is about to burst, no one has called my name, and it is exactly thirteen minutes past my scheduled appointment time, which I was fifteen minutes early for.
I hate the number thirteen.
So I close my eyes until it is fourteen past the scheduled appointment time. When I open them, to check the clock, Mrs. Huxtable is sitting next to me.
“That seat is sticky.” I say to her without flinching.
“Is it? I hadn’t noticed. What is going on, dear?” She says as she reaches out and touches my arm with her perfectly manicured nails.
“No one could come with me today.”
“Who did you ask to come with you?”
“No one. I told Mr. Shortpants that I didn’t need him to come even though he offered to come with me.”
“Then you can really be mad at anyone, can you?”
“No, I suppose not. But I really want to be mad at someone.”
“I know you do. Be mad at me, dear. I’m alright with that. It is not really fair to be mad at people who don’t even know what is going on.”
“I don’t think I can be mad at you. I’m glad you are here.”
“We’ll go get sandwiches after this. Now, how about a hug, dear, before you go in?”
“How Many Miles? Are you ready to come back?” The technician shouts across the room. I wonder what she will do if I say, “No, I’m not quite ready to come back, I’m having an imaginary hug and conversation with Mrs. Huxtable, I’ll just be a moment.”
I decide it will be better if I just go in.
**********
The ultrasound people can give me no definitive answer about anything, so they tell me to make an appointment with the midwife, which I do, and then I promptly forget about it as I’m heading off to the national conference in Dallas for work.
I probably would have cancelled this work trip if I didn’t think working would help me get my head in a different place.
I needed to be somewhere where no one really knew me, no one expected me to be full of grief, somewhere I could be fully immersed in work.
Of course, I cry on the plane to Dallas because I’m filled with so much hope (I flew to Dallas on Election Day). But I take this as a sign and go for a run when I get to the hotel.
And I was right about this trip.
I needed it.
Even though I spent the week someplace between grief and hope, I manage to spend a lot of time laughing, seeing some friends I’ve befriended on the road, hearing some messages I never heard before in my sister’s workshops, eating some great food, dancing in the booth, and overall losing myself, in a totally healthy, productive kind of way.
And most importantly, I run. I do all my workouts that week and admittedly, it was my first dedicated hardcore week back to running since losing the baby. It was the first week I pushed.
Even when I start crying in the gym while listening to Barack Obama’s acceptance speech, I feel like my tears are filled with hope and possibilities, rather than grief and anger. And when the treadmills are all occupied one morning, I run up and down eleven flights of stairs.
I feel strong. I feel like parts of me are coming back, a little bit at a time. Muscles I haven’t used are stretched and flexed. The old How Many Miles commands me to run those stairs. The old How Many Miles stands with her fists firmly planted on her hips and barks in my ear while running those stairs. She can be a bitch, that How Many Miles, and I never needed her to be a bitch more than I did that morning.
On that trip, my hair stops falling out. The pregnancy mask that was developing on my face fades. The intense pain ceases without the help of painkillers. The mood swings start to level off. And best of all, the bleeding stops.
Because that is the shit off this whole miscarriage thing, isn’t it? All the symptoms of post-partum without anything to show for it. A childless mother. And that what was really pissing me off more than anything else.
At least if I had a tiny life in my arms, I could have managed the mood swings, the bleeding, the mask, the hair loss, the pain. But all I have cradled in my arms is grief.
**********
Dallas.
Dallas is big hair. Dallas is the place to buy cowboy boots. Dallas is where Kennedy was assassinated. Dallas is surprising. Dallas has some of the friendliest people; they even love this gum-snaping, liberal Yankee who has a California accent and an obsession with cutesy skulls.
When I lived in Austin, Dallas was the stiff upper-lip older brother. Dallas had extra starch in the collar. Dallas wore crisp white gloves and pleated skirts to lunch.
But Dallas surprised me.
Dallas helped heal.
***********
Part of my job when I’m on the road is to be the entourage of sorts after the actual gig. I go to functions with my sister to remember names, take notes, drive, and to watch the clock. I go shopping for the stuff that makes her tick, I load the luggage, I scope out dinner places. I’m the assistant. And you know what; I’m really good at it, too. I can anticipate things.
So in Dallas, when Lisa said she was going to a memorial for a colleague who passed away last spring, I knew I would be going along. I didn’t mind either, even though I knew two things for sure.
A) I never met this colleague so I knew it had the potential to create some awkward situations.
B) I was tettering very precariously on the ship plank of grief and could tumble into the sea at any moment.
The memorial was for Tom Hunter, a singer, song writer and educator. Tom Hunter was diagnosed in May 2008 with Creutzfeldt-Jacob Disease and died from this disease on June 20th.
I never met Tom. I do know that he touched a lot of people’s lives, as was evident from the turnout at the memorial, but also because my sister talks a lot about how amazing he was.
I do know that he looks a lot like my grandpa who passed away when I was sixteen, and with whom I was extremely close, so I feel a strange akin to Tom even though we never met.
The memorial started with music, as well it should. Many musicians who are educators themselves paid tribute to Tom this way, including Bev Bos, Hugh Hanley, Michael Leeman and others.
What I didn’t realize is that I grew up with this music. I remember my mom playing the tapes for me and the daycare kids. We played them so much we wore them out.
I knew all the words to all the songs they sang.
I knew what was going to happen. I looked around the room for Mrs. Huxtable. She was nowhere in sight. Darn her.
A lot of people told stories about how Tom touched and changed their lives. A wonderful slideshow was prepared, and in the background, Tom’s music played.
While listening to this music and looking around the room, something reached inside of me and shook me a little bit. Something poked all those raw emotions that I had been trying to avoid and deal with all at the same time.
And then someone told a story about a dog that knew Tom.
My grandpa used to say that the source of all sadness comes from stories that involve animals. I couldn’t agree more. This story made me thankful I had a hanky in my back pocket.
The dog is an assistant dog and her owner is blind. The dog apparently loved Tom immensely and at one conference, after Tom’s passing, someone was playing a copy of the tribute DVD, and the dog heard Tom’s music playing.
She pulled her owner over to the sound of Tom’s voice and the owner asked where Tom was. The owner and the dog did not know that Tom had passed.
I might as well have jumped off the plank right then. And Mrs. Huxtable was still nowhere in sight.
**********
Do you know what Tom’s last words were?
Keep it going.
Those are some powerful last words. Keep it going. They are powerful because they can be applied to so many amazing things.
Of course, they apply to the work Tom did for the education of young children.
But those words, Keep it going, struck me in a different and yet still powerful way.
And then they sang a song that pushed me right over the edge. A song that I haven’t heard in a long time but that pushes me right onto my knees every time I hear it.
ROCK ME TO SLEEP (Tom Hunter)
All I can hear are the crickets
And the whistle from some lonely freight
I've been working so hard to make everything right
But for now it'll just have to wait
CHORUS
`Cause tonight I'd like you to rock me to sleep
I'd like you to sing me a song'
I'm tired of trying to figure things out
And I'm tired of being so strong
I've never been too good at asking
I'm more apt to do it alone
And it's strange how a lot of us think something's wrong
If we can't do it all on our own
It's funny how times when you're hurting
Make what's so familiar seem strange
So when you need help, it's hardest to ask
And it always takes so long to change
Suddenly my tears seemed natural. There I was, in a room of strangers, and yet I felt totally in place. I told my heart to open like a flower blossom, and let the light in.
And then, I cried.
I cried for Tom, a man who I never met but who pushed me out of the darkness. I cried for the loss of Caleb. I cried for loss in general. I cried for pushing myself so far away from everyone. I. just. cried.
I’m not sure if I even heard what was happening around me. All I know is that I was wrapped up in infinite love and felt totally safe to submit to my feelings. And I felt things change.
But then what I did hear was someone, I don’t even know who or in regards to what, say: “Someone asked her how she was, like grief was something bad. Like grief was something to carry and then put away. But in reality grief is something that becomes a part of you. Part of the process. Makes you a more complex human being. Makes you more rich.”
Sometimes I get caught up in what the process should be that I forget to let things happen. I hold on to things really tight, my poor hands getting all raw and scratched in the process.
Then someone asked us to write down how we would keep it going in our lives.
I wrote that I would sing all of Tom’s songs to my babies and to anyone who would listen. I also wrote how I would melt the grief into a part of me instead of carrying it as a separate piece of luggage. And then I folded up the little piece of paper with love and light and gave it away.
**********
Does it mean that I’m miraculously healed?
Of course not.
I know this because I stood in the parking lot at the birthing center for my appointment with the midwife for the better part of an hour trying to come up with a good reason to not go in.
The only thing I could come up with is, “I don’t want to” and I’m pretty sure no one would buy it.
When I finally did walk into the center, there were probably a dozen or more mamas with their babies attending a new mama class. The babies were all round and laughing and, of course, adorable. Some were probably no more than a few weeks old; some were on the edge of six months or so.
As I stood there, feeling really out of place and yet totally comfortable, I realized I was not crying, freaking out, or making a scene, all of which have been regular practice for me prior to the national conference.
I was progressing.
Of course, it helps that the midwife told me that there were no problems, no products of conception remaining. The bleeding was part of my body’s process of healing, not the result of some terrible problem. She gave me a thorough check-up, just to be thorough, which I can get behind, and then sent me on my way with a hug and advice, for the future.
**********
So there we have it.
Like I said, this is not some miraculous story of healing.
I spent most of December feeling fairly Grinch-like. I didn’t put up my tree or the normal decorations. I decided not to send out a card this year. I ostracized most of my friends. I worked very little. I got mad at people for tip-toeing around me. I got mad at people for not tip-toeing around me. I got mad at myself for crying. I got mad at myself on days when I did get a lot of work done.
The one constant, other than Mr. Shortpants?
Running.
Running is always there for me. I can always put on my shoes and go. Running loves me even if I curse it. Running never asks why I’m crying. Running is there even after I avoid it for days on end. Running holds my hand, tells me to cry if I like, coaxes me out of my hole.
I ran on days when I felt like crawling back into my hole of depression. I ran on days when I felt entirely happy and like the old HMM. I ran on days of indifference.
I ran. Just ran. For the hell of it.
I do feel more like my old self. I feel strong. I set new time records on days when I thought things were really shitty.
And now, I can’t help but feel how fitting it is that I’ve been given a fresh start with the New Year. Cause isn’t that what the New Year is about? Fresh starts, second chances, hope eternal.
And I feel hopeful. Hopeful about running, babies, work, love, relationships and life. I feel so hopeful that it is sort of pitiful actually, because the hope brings those old familiar tears to my eyes and I have to choke them back.
Hello, 2009. I’m How Many Miles. I’m full of hope when I think of you. So full I’m about to burst. You should know, I’m different now than I was in 2008. I’ve grown. I want to keep it going, 2009. I want to keep it going. Oh yeah, I forgot to mention: I’ll be kicking ass, 2009. Kicking ass and taking names while keeping it going.
Hell, yeah.
Please visit http://www.tomhunter.com/ and http://www.tomhunterblog.blogspot.com/ for more information about Tom Hunter. Keep it going, whatever that means to you, with Tom in mind.