Painful Reminders

Today I had a meeting with a client who happens to be from the local version of the place I spent last Monday in agony. A group of seven surrounded our conference room table and I was running the show. I was trying to make light chatter. I'd been prepping for this meeting in earnest before I left the office, and I felt the weight of it on me - the need to bring my A-game and push everything else to the side.

They began talking about having a full house because of the flu. One said, "We're starting to ask patients if they're lucid, and if they are, we send them home." It was a joke, of course. The kind of inappropriate joke that gets made about a serious subject to alleviate the tension.

These are not bad people; in fact, they're all quite kind people who believe in what they do. I've said the same sorts of things about my clients - without thinking, with utter flippancy. But I couldn't let it pass. I couldn't let the moment go by, couldn't think about people with the flu who get to walk out of the hospital. So I told them what happened, mostly to make it stop. But part of me, truth be told, wanted to zing them. Even though they weren't intending to be cruel or malicious, even though they were blindsided by my experience, I felt myself hurling out a little bit of my anger.

I felt contrite afterwards, wishing I'd have kept my mouth shut, not understanding my sudden need to share. Why couldn't I just keep it to myself and move on? My only excuse is that my befuddled emotions have me acting in befuddled ways. Untangling the tangled lines of anger, frustration, guilt that my life is going on, irritation at those for whom normal really means normal...inevitably, something is going to snag.

Devastate, In All Its Forms

devastate
overpower
The fever escalates to 106 degrees and his body is packed in ice. The lungs labor, no longer able to pull breath in of their own accord. I begin to sense that we could lose this battle.

to lay waste; to render desolate
It is unstoppable coursing through the body, cutting a path through blood and tissue, corrupting organs. In order to focus the body's energy on repairing the rampant destruction, the doctors render him unconscious. The machines wheeze and click, the tubes snaking from both legs, both arms, the ventilator clamped loosely between idle teeth. By the time I see him, he is hovering on the line, fighting in still sterile silence.

destroy, sack, despoil, ravage
Most people look smaller in the hospital bed, shrunken and wasting, but somehow he looks larger and stronger, a mighty Goliath felled. Yet there are signs of the illness everywhere. The tape across his face holding the ventilator in place. The blood stains on his cheeks, pillow and sheets leaked out from his serrated lungs. The distended look of his body from the amount of fluid being administered. The tense, fearful pitch of the voices surrounding the bed.

I take his hand, and it is heavy and limp; the skin is dry and rough. I squeeze and nothing happens, but I believe he can hear me. I say, "Ronnie, I'm here. It's Ashley." I tell him to fight, to be strong, that we know he can make it. I tell him I love him. And all the while my sister is wringing his forearm and repeating, "Please don't leave me."

And the machine marking the line pitches, wails and I am pulled by the shoulders out of the room and into the hallway and they descend in the gauzy sterile covers and rubber gloves and the voices are urgent and I can't stop picturing the way he doesn't look like himself and the way my sister was pleading with him.

to confound or stun
They gather us in a small room on the other side of the ICU. Anna sits in a chair and I perch on the arm and methodically run my hand over her back and murmur nonsense in an effort to be soothing. Dad and Justin jangle restlessly by the door. Mom sits almost perfectly still - as though she knows what she must steel herself against. Ronnie's sister is there along with a former baseball player of Ronnie's that turned surrogate son.

The nurse comes in, addresses my sister and draws a breath. I want to yell, "Please don't say it." I know it. I know what's coming. And yet, when the words fall forward into the white space, "He didn't make it" my heart stops beating for a moment. There is a head rush, I lean forward and put my face in my hands. I think I cry. But in my head, all I can think is, "No no no no no no."

to overwhelm, as with grief
Anna says nothing. She leans back in the chair and blinks. I worry that she's going to pass out, and we ask for a cold cloth. Mom presses it to her forehead, the back of her neck, but she remains silent and immobile. Everyone cries and says it isn't so and that it can't be true. And she sits there, waiting. After a few moments, the room grows quiet, an eerie chord among the sounds of grief. Anna begins to cry, her face resting on her arms, resting on her knees, and her shoulders shake with the pain and the terror and the unfathomable sadness.

ruin utterly
As we leave the hospital, I turn to look at Anna. Her face is swollen, her eyes mottled. And across her cheeks are blue-tinged red patches where the capillaries have burst. She is only a ghost of herself. I feel hollow and shaky, so empty and terrified that I feel for a moment that I could die, too.

devastating
tending or threatening to devastate
The next morning, I wake and the world is still turning. Justin, Eva and I pile into the car and drive to Anna and Ronnie's house. In the car, I say to them that I'm going to be strong. I'm going to hold back the tears and support her. But when we get there, I walk through the garage pass the Tacoma and there are a pair of his shoes by the door in this way that I know he loosened the laces and stepped out of them. Just stepped out of them like he would be back.

I open the door and there is the smell of their house. The house they picked out together, whose back porch offered a view of the foothills in the distance. And through the kitchen, I can see Anna, looking thin and tired, and I lose my barely-there composure. I sob. She opens her arms and I go to her, and I weep and tremble. Because this is not the way it's supposed to be.

satirical, ironic or caustic in an effective way
He fought cancer, beginning just a year after they married. He took the chemo in stride, never missing a day of school. And in December, he underwent the semi-annual scan that revealed a clean bill of health and extended his green-light status to four and a half years.

We always worried about the cancer, that it would take him before old age. That he and Anna wouldn't get to grow old together. But after this much time, I grew complacent about it, felt like it was a hardship that had been overcome, dismissed it as a dark cloud that passed and gave way to brighter days.

wreaking complete destruction
He walked into the hospital Monday morning and in less than twelve hours, he was dead. It was surreal, unbelievable. Just the death, just the passing, the sudden and unexpected loss were enough to bring me to my knees.

In the aftermath, however, the extent of the damage only grew and became more pronounced. Anna, thirty-four and a widow. Anna with two houses - the one they left behind when they moved still on the market and this new house just six months into a mortgage. Anna rambling around the house they dreamed of, saved for, planned to fill with kids. Anna with the dog he had when they married, and the two he bought her when Ben passed. Anna with everything she built her life around swept out from under her with no warning and no mercy.

physically or spiritually defeating, as in a crushing blow
More than a thousand people come to the visitation, and somewhere between seven and eight hundred come to the memorial service. There are so many touching moments - wonderful stories shared, the comfort of strangers, the celebration of a life well-lived. There are the people who come for me, to give me a hug and a shoulder to cry on and the comfort of their presence.

And then on Friday afternoon, I sit in the living room with Ronnie's two best friends and we talk about Ronnie. And we laugh over things he'd done and said. And in an instant, I look up, look around, and I realize with piercing finality that he will not come back.

devastation
the termination of something by causing so much damage to it that it cannot be repaired or no longer exists
The world as we know it is gone. Anna is alone. Our family is no longer whole. And everything that happened just a day before is a lifetime away. I cannot think of what life was like before Monday. I cannot fathom what life will be like tomorrow.

Anna is...devastated. And yet so strong and so graceful that I can only be ashamed of my own weakness and frailty. My heart aches for her, and though I can't, I wish that I could ease her burden and take some of her pain on myself.

And I'm faltering. I stumble between grief and denial, anger and numbness. I try to think about life beyond this moment, and I find that I can't imagine the time when this tragedy doesn't color everything. All of our lives were touched by Ronnie. And all of us feel his absence profoundly, something held dear ripped so viciously from our hands.

Right now, the world exists in shades of gray. Right now, my life is a strung-together series of moments that are categorized into thinking about "it" or not thinking about "it." Right now, my heart is broken. Right now, I know that we will get through - but I am weary. Right now, I know that we will carry on - but it will be heavy. Right now, I'm dealing with wounds that will leave scars. Right now, the devastation is so raw, so palpable, so complete, that it's hard to stand amongst the ruins and contemplate taking the first step toward rebuilding.

Ronnie: October 21, 1964 - February 18, 2008

We love you, and you will be missed.

Going Dark: Family Emergency

Until further notice, the blog is going dark.

My brother-in-law, Ronnie, is in the ICU with pneumonia. He's in critical but stable condition. Temperature 106 - he's packed in ice. An infectious disease unit has been called in to consult. He just started a combination of antibiotics that they hope will begin to fight the infection. The next 48-72 hours are going to be critical. I will be on my way to Atlanta later this evening. Please, please keep Ronnie, Anna and the rest of our family in your thoughts and prayers. Thank you in advance for your support from afar.

Love,
Ashley

Excuse Note

In lieu of a real post, you get the following excuse note:

* There was a tornado warning and we had to go to the basement for an hour.

* Justin and Eva's internet is broken.

* It was way more fun to take approximately 100 pictures of Dillon and the fam (see post below).

* My thumb hurts due to lacerations sustained during the administration of medicine to a cat (Poor Mr. Ranger).

* I was watching the episode of Scooby Doo guest starring Davey Jones.

* I'm three-quarters of the way through a book that I'm enjoying rather much.

* My back hurts from lifting the Chunk-a-Munk all weekend. (I know, Pen...lift with the legs. I simply must learn!)

* Tomorrow is Monday.

Perspective

Whip It

While I still think that Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is one of the worst titles ever and held out hope that maybe that was just the bogus title it was being shipped under, I can't deny a little thrill that Harrison Ford is picking up the fedora again for a little cine-magic. Check it out.

Some Thing Never Change

I'm in the shower and Mom yells, "Stick your head out!"

So I look around the curtain and she's standing there in that sort of how-do-I-look pose. She's wearing a cocoa colored empire waist shirt with pintucks around the yolk and a long olive green quilted jacket. I screw up my face. "It's all...too long."

She departs and I continue soaping and sudsing. "I'm back," she calls. I stick my head out. "What if I tucked it in?"

"Mmm," I say, eyeing it. "That's better." She bustles off to get her coat, and I carry on. Minutes pass.

"One more time," she calls.

I'm standing on one leg, razor handle clamped in my teeth, and I pull the curtain aside. The pintucked top is tucked in, khakis belted with brown leather and she's thrown a soft denim jacket with a mandarin collar and oversized buttons over it. "Perfect," I mumble around plastic.

"Thanks," she calls, already scooting down the hall. "I thought I might have to go to work naked just because I couldn't find anything to wear."

I finish showering, hoping that when I'm 63, I'm still spunky enough to discard four outfits to get it right.

All You Need is Love

Love is all you need.

Is it just me...

...or if you had one of those Bush/Cheney '04 stickers still on your bumper, would you consider removing the whole thing with a sledgehammer?

PSA: For the Jane-ophiliacs

Available on DVD today. I got my copy. You should get one, too.

The View from Here

* Work avalanche

* Sorry I'm blogging less

* Swing State - swung? No commenters, no motivation. Should we withdraw from the race?

* 401(k) decisions

* Still trying to determine the fastest way to get to work

* Working on a (one, just one) friend(?)

* Dinner with Atl coworkers last night at DePalma's...so lovely to have dinner with four women and gab

* Light fading, shadows long and eerie

* Pillows and good night

Old Lady Smackdown

For a hearty laugh, I recommend listening to this.

Throwdown on ProRun

Chris wins - which I kind of love - and Ricki is OUT (finally!). This episode, in which the designers created an "in-the-ring" look for the WWE Divas, was beyond fierce, and here's why:

"My wrestler name is Ferosha Coutura and my signature move would be to spray hairspray in the other girl's eyes." - Christian

"Jesus, talk about Ava Gabor on Green Acres!" - Tim Gunn

"She's one of the fiercest people I've ever met and that means a lot coming from me - cause I've had some fierce bitches up in my life." - Christian

"It's kind of stripper-tranny." - Chris

"It does not look like what I'd normally do as a designer. It looks like I've been smoking crack or something." - Rami

"We're going to Spandex House where you'll have $100 to spend." - Tim Gunn

"What are the judges going to say?! What is Nina Garcia going to say about pink spandex and rhinestones?!" - Chris

"I feel like a pope in a sex club." - Michael Kors

Spinning Plates

Work is going really well. I am two weeks away from the six-month mark. I have officially taken over the leadership role on two major accounts and am in transition on a third. I'm a second on one of the firm's most volatile accounts (The Client Who Shall Not Be Named), and I've been tapped to work on the creative concept development for a new client. The Big Boss stopped me in the Atlanta office the other day to personally applaud my work. People hug me when I arrive in Atlanta; the office banter is getting easier. And so rises the "Hallelujah" chorus to a grand crescendo...and then...

And then I realize that I'm working late a lot. When I'm not working, I'm thinking about work. My email is woefully neglected. I forget to return phone calls or else can't muster the energy for a real conversation. Yesterday, STGD suggested I post a photo of a cobweb on the blog. I was excited about Swing State and yet, I haven't worked on making it what I wanted it to be. I just...ran out of gas. And writing beyond that? Forget about it.

The money I've been saving for the Elusive House Purchase in the Nonspecific Future is sitting in my checking account - my non-interest bearing checking account - because I cannot wrap my brain around putting a chunk of it into the savings account that I set up months ago.

And while I continue to raise my hand for all sorts of charitable causes (an extension of work in many ways) my social life hasn't seen considerable growth in the months since my job began.

But this isn't a post about how I need to work less. Or even, really, how work is getting in the way of life. I actually enjoy what I do. I like my job. So what gives?

The delicate balance between applying enough force to maintain momentum and enjoying the spin is escaping me. Instead, I've got one plate in my grip, spinning it for all I'm worth while the other plates crash to the ground in a heap of fragments: unanswered emails, stacks of correspondence, phone numbers long since dialed, friends unmade. And on that one sharp point, dancing in a wobbling elliptical, is the dish in which I've placed my hope. But if I don't slow down, it too will shatter.

Four Eyes

I am now fairly recovered from The Yelch - which included a raging case of viral conjunctivitis. Or cold virus in the eye. Or weepy eyes all bloodshot and evil looking. This condition required me to wear my glasses to work on Friday.

I tried to be all chin-up about it, but I hate wearing glasses. The reasons are many - I don't see as well, tend to get eye strain, can't wear sunglasses. But the root of the problem is in the v-word. (Not that v-word.) Vanity.

I started wearing glasses around 2nd grade. Blue and amber shaded glasses with a tiny red strawberry on the arm for Strawberry Shortcake. The next pair of glasses were giant and pink, a la Sally Jesse Raphael (see photographic evidence). And then some over-sized gold frames, followed by a very studious pair of tobacco-colored wire rims. No matter the frames, how very cool or stylish they seemed when I picked them out, I was always four eyes.

It's my own hang-up, I know, for my glasses now are very lovely thin caramel rectangle frames that complement my face nicely. But I still hate them. Putting them on is like putting on an old identity - a Clark Kent persona of squareness. Being a nerd. Uncool. Overlooked. The smart girl, and never, ever the pretty girl.

Even when the coworkers told me I looked hip or writerly or smart...I just felt 13. Awkward and somehow shy. And like someone else. Not myself. I realize how silly it is to let some molded plastic change the way I feel about myself...but there it is. It does. I tried to tamp down the insecurity, swallow the feeling that everyone was looking at me differently (it was most likely the evil-veined eyes and not the glasses), but by the time I got home, I was ready to be rid of four eyes and go back to plain old two.