4 of 40

Doctor's appointments I have participated in so far this year:

January 6th Routine colonscopy for me. (It is bizarre to live a life where this type of test becomes routine) Diagnosis: ulcerative colitis not quite in remission but getting closer.

January 6th Audiology appointment as part of speech evaluation for one child. Diagnosis: chronic fluid (uninfected) in ears

January 11th Speech evaluation for child Diagnosis: speech therapy needed after hearing issues addressed

January 11th EMDR therapy for me. Diagnosis: we have a lot to work with here

January 13th ENT appointment for child. Diagnosis: tubes in ears after child no long has cough (ha ha ha aka possibly never)

January 23rd Pediatric check-up for all four children. Diagnosis: everyone has a bad cold.

January 26th EMDR therapy for me. Diagnosis: can I carry Melissa around in my pocket to help me deal with my life?

January 27th General Practitioner visit for me. Diagnosis: I have a bad cold.

February 2nd Dermatologist for me: Diagnosis: two pre-cancerous spots frozen. Self-diagnosis: oh damn, I see by my skin that I am almost 40

Later this month we have:

February 8th Annual hepatologist visit for me. EMDR for me

February 13th Tubes for child


Well shit. No wonder I'm so tired.

3 of 40

Written on 1/30, not posted because yuck there's some gross stuff in here.

Ashamed. Afraid. Entitled. In need. Frozen. Grief-stricken. Jealous. Lacking. Down. That's an attempt to sum up what I feel like on the inside. I want to be stoned and sit in bed watching Scandal all day until I fall asleep again. I like being on the outside watching other characters maneuver through their lives. It doesn't matter that it's not real, that someone wrote the scripts for them. I want Shonda to write my script so I can stop thinking about what to say, what to do.

So so tired.

I didn't drive to an airport and I'm so grateful to the people who did. I haven't called my rep for weeks. Unopened bundles of Times sit in piles inside and outside the house. Shorn piles of branches and leaves, the detritus of the hours of yardwork my husband did yesterday while I lay in bed. I feel like nothing.

My kids practically live at Stephanie's and I feel sad about that.



I can't work harder. That I can't do.So I need to do things differently. But I can't figure out how or

I feel mad at everyone else. Blaming everyone else. But then it must be me right?

I feel guilty not having my kids when I'm not at work. I don't allow myself that.

I appreciate how Shonda holds up "normal" as a goal but not really a good thing

I don't speak for white women. I feel called to stand up for others just at a time when I'm finally learning to stand up for myself. And I resent it even though I know it is my responsibility. And god that is painful to admit.

I picutred moments I would remember. Moments when I could feel it. Instead it feels like a hurricane. And I can't savor it because I'm just waiting for it to be over. So I can be alone.

And since I seem to imagine things in a better light than they could ever be, I'm afraid that my feeling of wanting to be home with the kids actually will make me miserable like I was before. I can't trust myself.

2 of 40

My new therapist Rebecca whom I've seen three times after a year's worth of loved ones and health professionals asking me if I didn't think talk therapy might be helpful told me last week that I have a habit of making things happen with the force of my will. Yes, I said. That resonates.

Sort of like declaring that I would write daily in the weeks leading up to my 40th birthday, despite the fact that the words haven't been coming to me for months. Despite the fact that I feel so roiled up inside and raw outside that the idea of committing words to print has been making me feel naked. Despite the fact that I don't trust myself lately. Not to know what is true or how I feel. But if  I say it, I will do it. No.

Instead I got sick and fell into a deep depression and have spent the past almost two weeks tucked under my electric blanket who I named Maurice, binge-watching Scandal at a rate that is embarrassing to admit. I shut down everything. Hardly saw my kids. Barely interacted with my husband. Called in sick to work (I was, in truth, sick). I did what I could to numb myself, make my brain stop thinking, hide from the world.

It made me sad to not mother my kids very well, to choose to spend time away from them only to watch TV in bed. But it was what I needed.

It made me ashamed, of my privilege. That I am white and not immediately threatened by this administration. My silence felt like violence. I wasn't doing enough. I wasn't showing up when others were and others needed to. It was what I needed. But I knew and know full well that most people wouldn't have that option. It felt shameful to take it.

I feel bored of myself, of the things that bother me that I can't seem to get over. And that is where I have been. That is the truth of where I have been and what I needed.

Yesterday at an all-staff meeting we sat and listened to a survivor tell his story. The story of how he almost died from 4th degree burns on 40% of his body and all the things he is grateful for, all he has accomplished, his deep appreciation for the work we do and the tissue donors who saved his life. He started by telling us to think about our own lives as we listened to him. Think of the struggles we are facing and apply his story to our lives. He spoke of the power of our attitudes to determine our fates. I felt a little stirring inside of me, the call to snap myself out of it, shake it off and deal with things as they need to be dealt with.

And then I felt a quiet No in response. No. I will get there eventually but that is not where I am.

It feels gross to write this, to think about posting it. But I'm writing it and I'm posting. Not proudly, very honestly.

I showered today, I'm writing. I took care of preschool business and I'm taking care of some stuff for work. Next I will clean the house and go get some groceries, including cat food because the neighborhood stray who has been strutting in through the cat door and eating our cats out of house and home. My kids are with Stephanie. I don't feel good yet but I am on my way up. And if I keep waiting to have words to share that don't make me cringe, there won't be any words on this page for a long time.

Now to see if I can find a way to post 38 essays in the next 25 days. It won't be pretty but what is these days?

Post 1 of 40

Turning 40 in a few weeks. Decided a few weeks ago that I was going to try to post daily for the 40 days prior to my birthday. . . except I already missed the starting point necessary to make that happen. That seems like a correct assessment of things, these days and possibly always for me.

Posting every day will be hard considering I don't think I posted 40 times last year. And I am a mess mentally and emotionally these days so the urge to write is. . . constant and easy to ignore because it feels so hard to a) get my butt in the chair and b) write words and send them out for other people to read because then the mess that is inside will be outside.

So it won't be pretty. It will be rough and full of mistakes, grammatical and otherwise. The things on my mind the most are my marriage, racism, sexism, my children, my work, this administration and my actual self--you know, what makes me me. All of those things feel scary to write about so I'm not sure what will make it on the page.

For now, here is a picture of the rain-filled, sickness-filled, disappointment-filled family vacation we took last week. I guess I mean my disappointment because the kids amazingly had fun. There's a lesson for me in that if I can get my mind right enough to pay attention to it.

Other random bits: if there's something you'd be interesting in reading about in this possibly impossible 40 posts by Megan, send a note to homeinsf@gmail.com or leave a comment.

If you're open to diversifying your Facebook feed to do better about listening to voices from people of color here are some suggestions that are funny while being enlightening:


VerySmartBrothas

Awesomely Luvvie


Here are words I'm thinking about a lot:
centering
intersectionality

Would be very open to hearing thoughts and opinions on these two concepts.

Musings

I feel so happy today and I am reminded to work from my strengths. Work, play and love from my strengths.
Feels good to be a part of planning Black Santa with East Bay Families for Social Justice.
Feels good to have decided to skip school with my sick, snotty kids after we all slept late and the idea of fighting tears to get dressed and hustle to school sounded bleh. The house was a mess. Instead I called us in sick and we hung out, watched a lot of TV, played together with fewer tears than normal and then headed in to San Francisco for some visiting.

That was yesterday. Today is Friday and it's drizzling outside. Kids are eating dry Kix out of plastic Ikea bowls colored like the rainbow. I'm drinking tea, reading through Pantsuit Nation posts, opening up ten browser windows at once as an online, visual to-do list:

Blogger
Facebook
Gmail
Amazon
New York Times
Girls Gone Child
Mom.me 15 Fierce Books about Females
Citibank

I've eaten three partly-burnt chocolate chip cookies for breakfast, despite recently finishing a cleanse that had me feeling energized and great. Drinking cinnamon tea.

Wearing my Boston College sweatshirt with the cuffs torn to shreds, exactly like the one I borrowed from a friend in Tijuana when we were there for a volunteer, Immersion trip with our high school the summer before our Senior year. The first time I'd heard of the school, no clue I would one day end up going there.

There is a line of beautiful holiday cards stretching across the shelf of our out-of-tune piano, faces of kids whose parents I love smiling out at us. Nikole and Annie's is the best times a million. We don't send one this year because I haven't put it together yet. Perhaps one for New Years.

The tenth load of laundry of the week spins its cycle, set to gentle because of the two Calvin Klein work dresses that will then go in the bag of clothes to donate to the clothing drive. Meena's Clothing Drive

Later today the kids and I will drive to Oakland and then Berkeley, first to deliver a Santa suit and then to go play at Habitot.

I am a community-builder. I am a continual learner. A questioner. I am opening up to become braver about putting my vulnerable heart into the world. To even let myself feel the pain of vulnerability. Of being scared and letting people see that.

There are a lot of scared people out there. I have to imagine that even many of the people saying the most hateful, vile things to their fellow citizens must on some level feel deep fear because the alternative is too hard to accept. And fear doesn't excuse it at all. It does help me try to understand.

I'm going to go eat a vegetable or something.

A story, unedited

I stood at the curb by the valet station in front of the hospital's main entrance, waiting for my Uber. It was already dark and I'd spent the day in the ICU, explaining death to a large family and helping volley the moments of grief and hope from person to person as they sat, stunned, trying to understand that their man had died. Suddenly, gone. There was regret in the room, at not having said "Thank you" or "I love you". There were smiles and stories passed across the tables, talk of getting together more regularly and not just waiting for tragedy to bring people together. It was a good day for me because I felt like I'd made a connection and I felt like by being there they were able to create a sacred space.

My attention slowly focused on a parked SUV to my left at the curb into which two women were slowly trying to climb. Well, one woman was attempting to coax an older woman into the passenger seat but the step was big and her legs were weak, unsure.

A couple weeks ago I probably would have turned my head back around, assuming they would work it out on their own. Instead I put my bags down and walked over to ask if I could help. The older woman work no shoes, her feet snug in yellow fuzzy socks with white flor de lis spotting them.

Can I help you? I asked.

It's dark, the younger woman who was older than I am said. Usually she has no problem getting in but it's dark and she can't see. She has Alzheimer's.

I'm Megan, I said. I will help you.

The older woman. She was an old woman, not just older. She didn't flinch as I gently put my hands on her. I flinched imagining someone touching me unexpectedly. She kept trying to grab the seat belt or something to help her hold on. Together the other woman and I gently tried to encourage her to step up, suggesting where she might put her foot or what she could hold on to. I held out my left hand and asked her to hold onto my hand but she wouldn't. I might not have either.

It's ok, you can do it. It's a big step. I said.

We weren't making any progress. The younger woman went around to the driver's side to see if that would help. It didn't really. In a way it was like watching one of my children try to navigate a stair or a step up a ladder, a foot held here and then there, testing the footing, putting it back down. She wasn't small but she was smaller than I am, shorter and with less mass. I felt like I could probably pick her up briefly and put her in her seat but I didn't want to hurt her or scare her or violate her in any way. We kept trying.

Through a series of small, shuffling moves we ended up with my foot up on the floor of the car, the old woman sitting on my one-legged lap. She didn't flinch, just rested her entire weight on my strange leg. We stayed like that for a while as I wondered how we would get out of this position. She was facing the seat and it was hard to imagine what Twister move would swing her around the right way.

She whimpered as we gently manhandled her around. The transition required her to give up her hold on herself. I imagined it felt like sky-diving to release your own control over your body, your safety. I thought of how scared I would be to be alone in my mind. I would hate it.

No one got mad or frustrated, at least not out loud. She never took my hand, we never really made eye contact. I buckled her seat belt and her grown daughter thanked me, told her mom to thank me.

That's Megan. She helped you.

I stepped back to my bag, checked my pocket to see two missed calls from my frustrated Uber driver who greeted my call with "Why didn't you answer?! I almost left."

He drove me to my next stop, both of us helping one another navigate the confusing GPS in a town neither of us knew. I went home.

I have been unable or unwilling to write these past weeks. The entire month of November has been silent as far as my written words though the words in my mind have been unceasing. So much happened in November that at any point it felt like if I were to try to write it down I would scatter like dust. I could try to write out a summary, at least a list of major themes, but it would read like a stone settling in the gut. Grief. Suicide. Loneliness. Marital strife. All that and then the world changed with the election results. Where would I start?

I grew up in a city, a city girl through and through. I revel in and rely upon the experience of being alone in a wave of strangers, soaking in the humanity without having to touch it. Putting up invisible walls against the person ranting to himself on MUNI or the sexist comments I've grown up with--I am untouchable, I am watching, it doesn't hurt me if I don't let it.

The walls are being torn down, painstakingly and at times ineffectually. I'm afraid to speak up. Afraid to put myself out there to be seen even as I write this for you to read and talk about wanting more than anything to be seen. I'm afraid to fight, having never been a fighter.

I am in this world and I will keep working to turn towards and not away. I don't know where I will find the words or the courage to share the words, raw, as they beat like hearts inside of me. I'll start here.

Embodied

My veins are shot. The ones in the crooks of my arms, at least. The rest of them still work ok. Spending most of September in the hospital last year is what did it--made my hard-working, long-suffering veins give up their ghosts. What does that phrase mean?

I remember hating shots as a kid. Being afraid of needles. It hurt so much I wanted to scream.

When I was eleven and got diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, blood draws became a not uncommon occurrence. Maybe a few times a year my mom would take me to Children's hospital to get some lab tests done. The blood lab was on the first floor. We would wait in the hallway that had no toys until it was my turn to go. The fear was still there--I felt it in my stomach. I wanted to cry. I didn't want a shot and this was worse than a shot.

Blood draws became IV sticks which were even worse. Those are bigger needles and they need to be jiggled into your vein and held there. The pain is a white-hot fire followed by streams of aching, stinging pain. I had a colonscopy every year so I got an IV every year--the tubing leading from the needle in my vein bringing me the forgetting meds they give you when you enter the weird dream state they put you in when they need to stick a flexible tube into your butt, into your colon, taking turns around intestinal loops that you can still feel in the dream state, just like you feel like you're falling off the bed even as they assure you that you are not.

After being discharged from the hospital following my liver transplant I was driven back to the hospital every morning, to stand hunched around my abdominal incision as I waited for the double-glass doors to opens so I could go get my labs done, first thing in the morning as my nightly dose of immunosuppresants was wearing off, before I took my next does. Every morning for thirty days, getting my blood drawn, my labs and med levels checked, tracking the function of the liver that was now mine. More needles, little cups of juice in my hand afterward.

Somewhere along the way I adopted the habit of turning my head away as the needle readied to enter my skin, enter my vein. I looked away and tried not to clench my body, gradually learning to take deep breaths. The pain got less intense. Sometimes the phlebotomist, the nurse, would ask me if I was ok. I assumed they were worried I was trying not to faint. Now I wonder if some among them noted that I had left my body and checked in because they felt the difference and wanted to draw the pieces of me back. Probably not. Or they noticed but couldn't tell what they were noticing, just that something had shifted.

I took my kids' to get flu shots a few weeks ago and for the first time had all four of them in one room with just me. They have varying comfort levels and levels of interest in their doctors' appointments, one or two of them gladly interacting with Dr. Miller the pediatrician I adore who has taken care of them and me since I first drove tiny Lily across the Bay Bridge the day after she got released from the NICU, the first time I'd ever had her in the car, the other one or two either crying out to me that it was time to leave or silently sitting in watchful judgement. As a mother it has been one of my jobs to soothe my babies, looking into their eyes as I hold their hands still as nurses plunge needles into their soft perfect skin. I've seen the flinches, felt them, as my kiddos get violated by pain for a second.They usually cry, snuggle into me, and get over it pretty quickly. This time I watched as the memory became permanent, embodied, in at least the oldest two. They will remember and they will be afraid the next time, I think. It made me sad. More than sad it made me feel like I was watching life happen in front of my eyes, catching the moment and holding it as it demonstrated it's universal truth to me. That the needles don't become less painful, we become more used to them.

I learned to leave my body, which felt necessary. My body got attacked, from within and without, over and over and over again. I did not know how to survive it, the pain and the violation, and so I left. It didn't feel like a choice I made. I didn't weigh the consequences. It just. . .happened.

The problem is that it became a habit. Unconscious. It wasn't like slipping in and out of a comfy robe that I pulled around me when I needed to soothe myself. I found that place, that out of body place, without putting rules or boundaries around the practice and soon I started to live there. I have been living in my head, in my thoughts, in my words, talking and thinking and observing. Narrating. I thought everyone did this. And even when I realized not everyone watched and thought about and narrated everything going on them, I didn't know it was something that was hurting me. Deadening my ability to feel anything at all. The trick was that still felt like I felt things. So I guess I did. Just not very much. So it's taken me decades to wake up to the sad bargain I've been making, trading away my body and the pleasure it can feel. Turning away, not just from the needles, but from the finely-tuned compass of my physical self and all the messages it has been sending out, in hope and increasingly in desperation.

I shrug things off. That's my style. Some people admire my calmness, my Zen. Sometimes I've felt cool, as though the things that bothered or worried others didn't make me sweat. But neither of those descriptions is accurate. Well, maybe accurate but not real.

The real me, the 9-year-old girl who stands shyly before me, grateful to be noticed now that I'm finally paying attention again, says its time to stay in this body, this precious vessel, and see where it takes us. Even though that means staying in the pain.

I get my blood drawn once a month now to check my liver function and my med levels, among other things. The same woman has tried every time for a year to draw from my antecubital veins, even as she frowns as she prods, feeling the scar tissue inside. She gamely tries anyway, as I keep my mouth shut because part of my almost life-long experience of leaving my body includes quietly receiving practitioners mistakes, the process of abandoning myself already begun. She stuck the needle in the crook of my right arm and the pain zinged through my body to the top of my head and the tips of my toes all at once.

 After a minute, I was glad. Because I'm coming back. And it hurts like hell.