Untitled Post because I just don’t know…

I have always wanted to be a mom, to have babies. When I was a little girl, I used to dream of getting married and having four babies – two boys and two girls. I had some names picked out like Christopher Richard and Anastasia. My sister and I used to pretend we were having babies (i.e., in “labor” – when you’re about six or so, who knew it wouldn’t be “fun?”) with our Baby Tenderlove dolls. It is one of the few memories I have from our house in San Antonio.

Even  my dreams of being a famous actress came in second to being the world’s greatest, most loving and ultimately cool Mom. I would imagine myself onstage accepting my Tony Award and looking down at my children in the front row, dedicating the award to them, telling them how much I loved them and was so glad they were my true life.

The greatest part of that dream has come true – I am a Mom. I have two beautifully amazing children – one boy, one girl – about nineteen months apart. They are currently nine and eight. As far as being the penultimate parent? Well, you’ll have to ask my kids about that (but not today, as I am a bit grumpy). And, no, there is no Tony Award in my near future. (still holding out hope to work that in someday…)

Why am I writing this? Good question. I don’t know other than why do I write about anything here but to wrench out some meaning behind feelings, dreams and/or occurrences in my life. And hormones. I may have written a few times about those. ;0)

I have been having dreams lately about being pregnant again. Just last night I dreamed of myself with a full, round belly excited at the prospect of another child. One of those surreal dreams where I could almost touch the stretched, smooth surface and feel the baby moving inside. I was also heating cinnamon rolls and lettuce via a refrigerator toaster oven while my entire extended family gathered around a large table. It was an odd dream.

Odd especially because – not sure why it matters, but feel the need to state it – I am 41. I haven’t tried to get pregnant for, well, about nine years now. My husband had the v-snip about four years ago to ensure our family size maintained its status quo. I agreed to and even had to legally sign-off on that decision way back then. Getting pregnant again has long been out of the picture for me.

And, oh yea, one other thing – I had a hysterectomy about a year and half ago. I may still have my ovaries, but due to the fact that it was on its way to falling out and I needed other reconstructive surgery to repair damage during childbirth, I have no uterus for a womb. My tubes have been shut off to any egg deliveries and there is no cervix to dilate. In short (which, I know, is not possible for me), I am no longer a physically functioning instrument of human reproduction.

There. I’ve said it.

Then why the dreams? Why the twinge of heartache when I feel whatever eggs I have left being expunged into the empty cavern where my uterus used to be? Am I doubting a decision that is irreversible? The time for that was nearly two years ago. Could it be that I fear my track record so far as a Mom and would like a do over? Is it grief – still? If so, how does one properly grieve a uterus? Should I have kept it and buried it under a budding tree as a way for it to continue it’s sole purpose of supporting fetal development?

I have actually wondered what happened to it. I was, of course, under general anesthesia and have no freaking clue what went on after I was wheeled into the operating room other than to comment about all the massive amount of stuff they had in there. I felt so calm that day, so sure it was all going to be all right.

And it is.


My body is different – feels different. I have residual pain from one of the other surgeries they performed that day which doesn’t help matters and can get debilitating if I am not careful. Though, it is nice not having to worry about when I can go swimming or plan a vacation around a 28-day cycle.

And yet…(think long pause – like the one in Aliens where Sigourney Weaver’s cigarette ash was two inches long…)

So, now that I’ve reached the end of the blog arc, what’s my usual conclusion that I can pull into my psyche all wrapped up in a curly-q bow in order to move forward and find some peace about my withdrawn uterus?

Unfortunately, all I’ve come up with is this haiku.

Altered instrument ~
What life can I produce now?
Spring winds move the trees.

Lost things…

I used to have this beautiful gold necklace. It was a gift in honor of a very sacred occasion. It was given to me, for me on that special day out of love and pride. I cherished it. I was still very young and I wore it most of the time for about as long as I can remember.

Then, at some point, I lost it.

I have no idea how it happened and it was long while, I would guess, before I even realized it was gone. I went to put it on one day and it wasn’t there. I searched everywhere – it’s not like I have a lot of jewelry or many places I would have kept it.

It was just gone.

It made me very sad.

It still makes me sad.

I reactivate my search efforts every now and then thinking it will show up or reappear out of some blissful magic.

It never does.

Most days I don’t think about it. Yet, on the days I do, I can almost pinpoint the place I last saw it. It was on top of the medicine chest in our apartment in Manhattan. Hidden away from sight. Not sure why it was put it up there, but I think it was and now I see it in my mind’s eye laying there covered in dust and cobwebs. Almost lonely from not being worn, the gold glistening so hard in the harsh light of the bathroom hoping somebody will notice it and rescue it from its obscured, lost place.

Then, if my thoughts are extra fierce that day of regenerated seeking, the internal argument begins.

“You should just let it go – you’re never going to find it again. It’s gone.”

“But what if was accidentally put it in that old black leather bag I carried then? Maybe it is stuck in the side zipper pocket?”

“Did you check there?”

“You know I did.”

“And was it there?”

“You know it wasn’t. Maybe it got stuck in between – ”

“Why can’t you accept that it may be just be gone?”

“See – even you said – ‘may be gone‘ – that sounds like there is room for hope!”

“There is always room for hope, my dear. In this case, you may need to switch that hope into to finding a new necklace.”

“But I didn’t find this one – it was given to me as a gift.”

“So, you’ll get another gift that is just as special.”

“That is not possible.”

“Well, who’s leaving out hope now?”

Needless to say, I don’t like losing things. I have enough brain chatter going on without adding the constant anguish of not knowing where something is. Or if it even still exists.

So, if by some chance of fate, you are reading this from your second floor brownstone apartment on the upper east side of Manhattan, 89th and Lex, check above the medicine cabinet, will ya?

If you find a small gold crucifix, shoot me an email, please?

If there is nothing there, well, honestly not sure what I would do with that information…

Who’s life and death is it anyway?

Not sure how to eloquently start this post, so I’ll just tell the truth.

This is not a topic I generally think about but I was listening to one of my favorite radio stations the other day, and they were discussing the recent death and funeral of Kay Yow, historic women’s basketball coach.

She apparently recorded a video that was played at her funeral and the debate was “on” as to whether or not that was appropriate.

My initial and continued reaction to the discussion was how freakin’ selfish have we become in our society to think it an intrusion for the dead person to be making remarks at her own funeral? Screw whoever said the funeral was for the living and not the dead – why does it have to be that way? After all, the star of the funeral is the one who’s life it was that ended (or transcended somewhere else) – not ours.

No matter what you believe happens to our souls when our physical body dies, the death of the physical body is nonetheless a traumatic and life-altering event to the person suffering the actual death – much more so than the one watching.

So, I would hope that we all get our big girl panties on and deal with it.

And, you know what, maybe I’ll just make that music video I’ve always wanted to and sing for all to hear after I’m gone. (To those of you that think you know my vocal capabilities – stop shuttering!) How about Feelings? Something less torturous with a twinge of irony maybe? Every Breath You Take? Maybe I’ll stadium rock it with We Will Rock You/We are the Champions? How about one that I always wished someone would sing about me anyway – What’ll I Do?

Whatever I decide – it’ll be for me, since my name will be on the program for those sitting in the audience!

(It will especially not be for Kevin Kiley who will not be invited anyway since it would be too much for him.  Michael Irvin, however, is always welcome – to my funeral or any living party. And, they know what I’m talking about.)

(PS – I tried to call in but couldn’t get through…sorry for the delay…life goes on…)

Pinter and the practice of pause

It has been a long time since I studied Harold Pinter’s work in a scholarly fashion and yet I was saddened by his recent death.  I love the seemingly simplistic dialogue in his plays that were anything but simple.

Pinter had the miraculous gift to put ordinary people into misleading situations that often brought about emotionally brutal results.

And, of course, the pauses.

Cannot help but love the pauses.

When I was an actor, interpreting the air and being alive during those pauses was more than an exhilarating challenge – it was akin to  becoming a prima ballerina.  To get it right could take years of experience and training and yet it needed to appear effortless to anyone watching.

It could be as basic as letting the directed time pass until your next line or it could be as difficult as thinking of the eight million things you want to say until the sound of the scripted words makes the journey from the bottom of your diaphragm through the saliva pooling at the back of your throat where it finally escapes through your possibly trembling lips.

Those are the pauses I remember.  Those are the pauses I have more experience with in my real life.  I have never, ever been even remotely adequate at allowing time to pass without marking every second with a blistering bombardment of questions waging gangland warfare on my conscious state.

Fortunately, as I’ve gotten older and have less time in which to participate in these paralyzing games, the previously determined pauses are fewer and their duration far shorter.

The unexpected pause, however, still, well – gives me pause.

A comment from one of my kids that pierces my sternum because it comes from someone too young to couch it behind anything but the truth.

A pointed remark from someone I had believed was not capable of tossing them out at me especially when it is repeated and shared with others.

The extra wrinkles, continuous pain from a distant surgery, and rapid mood shifts that I was not warned about occurring so early in my aging age.

The moment unimaginable news is delivered about someone I love that absolutely alters my cellular makeup.

The intensity and reason for the pause may have varying levels of degree and importance within whatever hierarchy the linear part of my brain has placed on my life while the pause itself reverberates the same Pinteresque array of colors in the other.  Together, they create an internal conversation akin a stage play performed by extremely talented actors without an audience.

Voice on the Phone
You know, it was our anniversary on Monday.

Pause. [Me thinks “oh, shit” what do I do now?  How mad is she? I really did mean to call – even picked out a present but just ran out of time to get it done.]

Oh. Yes. I am sorry. I forgot.

Pause. [Me thinks the Voice on the Phone is thinking, I cannot believe you didn’t call – what does that say about you?  What does that say about your relationship with me?]

Voice on the Phone
Yes.  Well, I almost forgot, too, until he reminded me.

Pause. [Me thinks well, crap, you forgot my birthday more than once.  I didn’t realize we were keeping score but now that I know we are I guess it’ll have to be game-on.]

Well, I am sorry I forgot – Happy Anniversary.

Pause. [Me thinks I don’t want to fight with this person.  I want to love this person and have this person love me without conditions like I thought it was supposed to be.  Will it never be possible?]

Voice on the Phone

Silence. [Me thinks I won’t outlive this one either.  It will be added to the ever-present grade-book that I don’t know where it is hidden nor the grading system in which to get a passing grade.  I guess that’s okay as long as I remember the rules I was never told.]

Okay.  So, I’d like to order a large sausage pizza with light sauce and black olives?

Voice on the Phone
Will that be for pickup or delivery?