You have to understand: we are on a mission from GOATS

I can’t imagine what my choices in the days immediately following my mother’s passing looked like to other people. It’s a wonder what people in my life were thinking of my “grief process,” and I certainly didn’t devote much thought to their opinions. I was doing a heavier amount of processing than I had ever tried to take on before. I was on a mission. I felt the weight of that mission more deeply than I can adequately describe here. That mission becomes even more difficult to convey to other’s when I add that I was on a mission from Goats. Yeah, you read that correctly.

Pictured from Left to Right: Thelma, Martin and Louise

Our decision to dive (well, it wasn’t nearly that graceful) into goat ownership had been solidified in the months leading up to my mother’s decline. As mom’s health worsened, Spring time also finally came; bringing us a real-life lesson in the circle of life. As we put the plans to bring goats to our homestead into action, the leaves on the trees began to sprout and the first flowers of the season bloomed. Migrant birds from the south visited our feeders in flocks of hundreds. I’m sure it would have been a glorious show to sip coffee by and observe, but I wasn’t there to take it all in.

I haven’t been “there” in a very long time. By “there,” I mean that I have not been completely present for anything I have taken part in. When I began pursuing my college degree two years ago, I never would have imagined how deeply the lessons I learned during that time would effect the course of my life moving forward. I think many people that start college envision a graduation day at the end of their journey-a day filled with family, memories and celebration. My mother and brother would be so proud, watching me fulfill a long standing dream.

The sometimes harsh circle of life dashed those visions first by taking my brother in August, then by taking my mother in early-May. I had not had a chance to absorb the loss of my only sibling when mom started to decline rapidly. From August through May, my time was divided not-so-evenly between full-time college, full-time motherhood and having some facet of my mother’s care on my mind; full time. I was barely clinging to any vision of a happy ending at all by April.

Though I didn’t want to admit it, mostly to myself, I had nearly lost myself completely. Every aspect of my life began to show the effects of long-term grief and the fear of the unknown with my mother. My school work suffered as I folded into myself and surrendered to a pain that I knew was pointless to try to battle against any longer. My stress level began to attack my immune system and I was sick with one “winter-illness” or another for three months straight. I still do not know how I managed to keep my head above water for long enough to avoid drowning.

Just then, life did its best to push my head under water. Mom’s final week came and with it, all I had been dreading since she became sick nearly two decades ago. The fact that it seemed that I had so long to prepare for this moment did nothing to ease the blow of watching my mother fight for every last breath for five days straight. The thing with witnessing someone suffer and struggle to breathe is, eventually you start to pray for God to release them from it. After a particularly long and terrifying night with mom, God did take her. I could not remember the last time I had seen my mother look so healthy and at peace. She was beautiful, like an angel.

After a week of watching her fight and just as long of crying more tears than can be counted, I said my final goodbyes to mom. Walking away from the assisted living home for the last time was painful, but I knew right then that I would not be returning for a very long time. I had given mom everything I had in me. With that realization, peace began to come to me, too.

The following day, my fiance and I were up bright and early, laying out plans for the goat shelter. I put my phone on silent, I invited those closest to me to come spend time at the goat farm in progress. I spent the daylight hours of the next several days working outside until my body ached and I finally submitted to the most restful sleep I had experienced in as long as I could remember. The following day, I would wake up rested and we would work until dark again.

My fiance and my son, building a Goat Shelter

After a few days of back-breaking, yet soul-healing work, it was time to bring our new goats home. From time to time, I would recall how excited mom was about her “Grand-goats.” Her face would light up when she saw pictures of them and she would share pictures of her Grand-Goats with all of her friends at the home. Sometimes I would think of my brother, who had a special fondness for goats and how much he would have loved visiting ours.

The days following their arrival reminded me repeatedly what we had all worked so hard for. Though our mission may have seemed off-focus for others, we somehow instinctively knew that these animals were a path to healing. None of us were prepared for the rapid healing they would provide for us.

I had not cried any tears since the day of my mother’s passing. As I processed the loss quietly and in my own unique way, those who were present were kind enough to allow me to just-be. Once we had the goats settled and I watched how they interacted with each of our aching souls, I finally understood myself why we had pushed so hard to get them here when we were “supposed to be grieving.”

My son and Martin the goat. Martin giving hugs after a tough day at school for Evan.

Spending time getting to know these gentle, quirky and emphatic creatures was exactly what each of us needed. Thelma, Louise and Martin have made quick work out of teaching our family some important life lessons about healing. They know when it’s time to be still in the sunshine and catch a quick, revitalizing nap. They know that light-hearted playtime is a staple in every day and that you don’t need a special occasion to celebrate life for. Our goats know that sometimes, a good snuggle is the perfect remedy for what hurts your heart.

Before now, I thought that healing or recovering from grief had to be a dark, grueling tunnel that you just had to walk through to get to the other side. My future now looks much different than the one I had planned years ago. Sometimes I grieve the loss of future memories that will never happen. There won’t be a graduation day with my parents beaming with pride or with my big brother taking pictures.

What there will be are countless moments filled with blooming flowers, silky soft goat ears to stroke and many more goals to set and conquer. That, is a vision from the future that I can handle.

The House with the Red Door

Photo Credit Sylvia Valentine http://sylviavalentine.com/mayan-mexico

“What happens in this house, stays in this house,” her father was known for bellowing. Well, it sounded like drill Sargent level orders to her but if the neighbors could hear him, they never said a word. They certainly never questioned him. No one did.

When she stepped outside the front door that was painted red, she closed it quietly, respecting the invisible do not disturb signs on every door and window. With each pace forward, her feet crunched across the gravel, jolting her ears with each step. She had learned early that being seen or heard could hold dangerous consequences for her. She suffered through each step as if a childhood monster were right behind her, ready to snatch her up if she wasn’t fast enough. Finally, she made it to the grass and gave way to a full sprint. With the monster in hot pursuit, she ran in a panic until she reached her finish line: the tree.

Out of breath, yet exilerated, the nine-year-old scans the perimeter of her property cautiously. Reasonably sure no one can see her, she hoists herself up onto the first branch she can reach and continues her climb to the middle of the tree. It’s a spiral motion, her climb. In what’s left of the innocence of her child-like imagination, she envisions herself climbing a spiral staircase in a fancy mansion. But this long spiral staircase with a view leads to only one room.

Once the young girl completes the climb her room, the monster stops chasing her. Maybe he’s too big for the staircase or maybe he’s afraid of heights but he doesn’t fit into the world she has built in the tree near the road in her front yard. No one except her does.

She settles herself into the only seat in the “room,” a solid branch to sit on with one behind it that serves as the back of the “chair.” She looks around her neighborhood, the occasional car that passes by, the random dog barking. and soaks in the safety she feels in this moment. She can see them but they can not see her. It is a blissful realization.

She liked to keep the room in her simple mansion orderly and quiet. To the left of her chair was a bookshelf. Two branches that sat closely together held a book and a journal. To the left of the bookshelf was the clothes line, meant to hang her baby dolls clean clothes and blankets. There were branches in front of her chair that served as the baby dolls bassinet, and clothes and blankets for the baby doll. In her house, the baby was kept clean and safe. Everything was in order. In her house, babies got story times and lullabies. In her house, babies were cherished.

This tree, this second home, was where she began to reinvent herself. For the moments she could escape to it, she knew there would be no shouting, no fighting and nothing to fear. In her real-life home, there was potential for all these things. At school, she was never “right,” either. She was unfocused, experienced social problems and was labeled “out of control” emotionally. Eventually, this label followed her just about everywhere she went. Continuously being told either to get it together or that she was not good enough, the treehouse became her only refuge.

It was in this tree and outside of the red door that she could begin to imagine a different life. Beyond that, it was in her treehouse that she began to fantasize about showing the world a different version of herself. There in that treehouse, she knew that even if she could never tell the world what went on in the house with the red door, she could show the world…something different. Yes, she would show them who she was. First though, she had to overcome her tendency to run, and her fear of falling.

Stay tuned for part two of the first-ever series from Up off the Mat: The House with the Red Door

A Dance with Darkness

The invisible lines between the various parts of my life woke up blurry today. I am far from a master at it but I’ve done this tight-rope dance before. A few days back, after a vallant attempt to combat my tendancy for winter isolation, uncomfortable thoughts and emotions started to creep up on me. I could feel it, as I had counteless times before, first in the pit of my stomach.

Emotions that could be called “vulnerable” ones, such as sadness, anxiety or fear aren’t anyone’s favorite jam. Historically for me, they have been cause for the development of an emergency escape plan. Not only did everything in me scream “run,” when I felt pain, it was most important to get away before anyone saw me in a state of what I viewed as personal weakness. It felt much safer for me to retreat to the solitude of my own darkness, often not treating myself very kindly on said-“retreat.”

In the darkness of my own thoughts and emotions, no one can see me trembling from the inside. My stomach churns, my teeth grind and my head often aches as I take cover from the thoughts that take up space in my brain:

To do lists a mile long that have not been started, adolescent sons, missing brothers, ailing loved-ones, college credits, fear of failure, hope for the future-woah, I still have not begun that to-do list.

It is not long before I have crossed so many lines in my head that I am not sure where to begin with untangling them. When I try to picture the boundaries of these lines in my mind, they represent a ball of yarn that a kitten has had free access to until nap time. By that time, I drop down into “real-life” (the present) for a moment and realize I should probably be doing something productive (full-time college while parenting is no joke) but which priority in my web of worries do I attempt to tackle?

Damn, I feel like I’ve BEEN tackled at this point. My head aches from the teeth-grinding and my stomach doesn’t know if it is hungry or needs to purge. Alas, there is no time to worry about such trivial symptoms, I am STRONG and I have that to-do list bellowing at me to stop being so…vulnerable.

Mama never mentioned days like this

“I like dogs better than people,” he was known for saying. People on the outside of our immediate family would laugh this common statement off. The deep affection my father held for his four-legged friends was legendary. My mother, my brother and I would laugh too: but through clenched teeth while in mixed company. We knew that in private, my father truly did prefer to make friends with even the worst dog over his favorite human.

Growing up, there was never a time we didn’t have at least one dog. Much to my mother’s dismay, it wasn’t uncommon for my father to return home from a road trip or a work site with a puppy or a stray dog. Looking back now, the approval of one of our most memorable rescue mutts, “Muttley” (that lacked hair on his tail-end and smelled awful even after a grooming from a life-long skin condition) meant at least as much to my dad, anyways.

After “the Muttley experience,” we learned not to question the many dogs that followed. Our family mourned when we lost Bandit, my parent’s black lab-cross of seventeen years. We celebrated when Dad returned home from a road trip up North with Dustin the Beagle. Dustin and I bonded over flea-picking sessions while I wondered silently when my father would look at me with the same sparkle in his eye he got when he looked at any of our dogs.

I may have secretly resented my father’s affection towards those dogs but it was during these grooming sessions in my back yard with them growing up that I started to understand. These dogs listened to me intently, with a complete absence of judgement. They understood me without words, they loved me without condition.

I’ve heard people say that everyone gets one special dog in their life that they never forget. For our family, we were lucky enough to have a pair of them. Rosie, who will never be remembered for her smarts and Charlie, the rock-diving black lab bring many fond memories for our family. One memory with this comical duo changed my life in a matter of minutes.

It was the dead of winter and my dad had packed up his two best friends Charlie and Rosie, some tennis balls and a racket for a trip to the ocean. For hours, he slammed those tennis balls our into the crashing waves, our family dogs tirelessly chasing them. I don’t recall being bothered by the cold Maine air that February day. Neither dog seemed concerned either, as they retrieved ball after ball. They paid no mind to the icicles forming on their chests.

Rosie, the younger of the two, was famous for fetching the ball and not returning it. She preferred to drop the sandy, slobber-covered ball on the beach, bark at it relentlessly and roll all over it. This caused me to laugh hysterically at her foolishness. When I looked over at my dad, he was laughing, too. On this day, for the first time, I started to understand how my dad could have the reservations he did about people.

On this day, my dad was as happy and free as I had ever seen him. Sometimes if I close my eyes, I can still picture it. His teeth were showing when he looked over and shared a smile with me. I can feel the vulnerability I saw in his eyes as I realized that after nineteen very long years, both our joy and our pain came from the same place. I did not express this truth to him with any more than a look that day. Thankfully, I was able to tell him before he passed away only a few short years later:

“You don’t need to worry about me or the baby, dad. You really did teach me everything I need to know to go forward.”

Dear Big Brother: Words matter, I get it

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A little-known secret about me: my writing editor was a real hard-ass. He had a fancy job at the Bangor Daily News as a political reporter and he’s one of the only people I know who got paid to attend Harvard for a year. He knew the ins and outs of writing better than anyone I knew, so I stuck with him when it came to my own writing. But as much as he was known for his talent as a word-slinging reporter, he was known for not mincing his words.

I thought Chris Cousins cut-to-the-chase communication style may have had to do with the fact that he was my older brother, but I learned differently at his funeral in August. His boss Robert offered a hilarious account of Chris’s no-nonsense expectations for writing pieces with a fine example.

My brother was a humble guy, but he had no problem giving his boss hell when it came to what he considered to be lazy word choice in headlines. He was not shy about it, especially when it came to the word get. “Don’t ever, ever use the word get in one of my headlines,” Robert said he was known for saying repeatedly.

We all laughed, knowing how passionate my brother could be when he truly believed in something. I laughed, recalling editing sessions with him on Google Docs that may have stung my ego but served me well as a writer. For those who aren’t familiar, Google Docs has an editing program that allows more than one user to be in a document at the same time. I adored watching him in action. He would transform what I considered to be an “okay” piece into something worth publishing, in mere minutes.

These editing sessions with my brother were not for the faint of heart. My brother expected the best from me, as he knew I did from myself. In this situation, there was no time for leading questions such as, “is there a stronger word you can use here in this sentence?” He preferred the more direct approach, “change this, passive verbs piss me off!” I suppose you’d have to know him but that was the ultimate expression of love from Chris Cousins. Furthermore, the lessons resonated with me.

I would often send my brother writings with no title. I would tell him I just hadn’t thought of one yet but that wasn’t the case. I had long-since dubbed my brother “the headline king,” and nothing pleased me more than to get my writing piece back with a title suggestion from him. Never did the title he provided have the word “get” in it. Ever.

Yesterday I posted a blog. Clearly still delirious from narrowly surviving a two-week bout with the flu, I thought I had a snappy title with “Getting comfortable with the cringe-worthy.” (Hey, all of the teenagers are using the word “cringe” these days, right?)

Then it hit me. It hit me harder than any comment from my brother on Google docs had ever had. I had committed the Chris Cousins cardinal sin of headlines. Robert had the good grace to refrain from mentioning my lame, cringe-worthy title when he saw and re-posted my blog. Upon my horrifying realization that I had disappointed my brother and he was giving me the much-dreaded look of shame from above, I knew I had to act swiftly. (That disappointment is rough guys, even from the beyond)

This morning, I did something I have never done and changed the title of an already published blog. Now called Sounding off on the cringe-worthy, I can rest knowing I’ll never make that writing mistake again. Six months after his passing, we all have much to learn from Chris Cousins about life and writing. Most of us have a tendency to get lazy or impatient regarding the things we claim are important in our lives.

The truth my brother never seemed to forget is that every effort worth making at all, is worth taking your best shot at. This is true when it comes to pursuing our relationships, our passions and even those things we don’t want to do; but must. Every step we take, every word we choose to speak or write, matters more than we realize. Our every choice leaves an impression on those around us while we are living: and a legacy for those we leave behind. What choices are you making today that affect people’s lives and your legacy? Choose wisely, Big Brother is watching.

Sounding off-the cringe-worthy

Photo taken three days before brain surgery

Recently it was brought to my attention by a concerned, well-meaning friend that I may have taken a prolonged trip to negative-town. Noting that I haven’t been myself lately, she was growing increasingly concerned that I would sink into a depression that I would have a hard time coming back from. It was my pride that responded to her initially, reminding her in no uncertain terms of all I have gotten Up off the Mat from already in just three short years.

For new readers, the hurdles I have fought my way back from include: brain surgery, the passing of my long-time best friend, the untimely passing of my only sibling and most recently; caring for my mother as she endures terminal illness on hospice. I made an agreement with myself long ago that I was going to come back from these adversities in a way that I would like myself for. More than that, my ultimate goal was to face fear in a way that would help others get Up Off the Matt as well.

Part of that has been just plain getting up again after I “fell.” When I had brain surgery, I fought my way back with a tenacity that made my caretakers frustrated and at times, nervous. (No one wants to see someone in recovery from brain surgery hiking the rocky driveway everyday, but I was determined to get stronger.) When my best friend passed away from an overdose, I finally began tackling my goal of starting college to become a substance abuse counselor. I put that goal on fast-forward by participating in public speaking engagements on the topic of addiction. When my beloved brother passed, I started a new semester at college two weeks later and earned Dean’s List. I began my current semester with my mother on hospice. For me, it is all about progress in spite of everything that threatens to hinder it.

With each challenge life threw at me, both the reader and the writer in me were inspired. First, I would set to Google and see what I could learn about each topic. Knowing all I can about what I am facing helps ease my mind. It gives me a sense of control when I feel like I have an idea of what to expect in the days to come. What I found with each topic was that there was plenty of information out there in medical-speak. There are copious amounts of medical articles written by doctor’s and psychiatrists that will educate you on grief, terminal illness and even on craniotomies. (Don’t google that one, you can’t unsee that.)

For me, what was lacking was personal accounts of what it felt like for someone who was actually going through a major illness or loss. What could I expect from that point of view? Was what I was feeling normal? Would I be okay again? Finally, I wanted those who were maybe just starting their trip down “negative-town-lane” to see that I made it. I got Up off the Matt. Every. Single. Time.

That’s not to say that I didn’t get knocked out more times than I can count at this point. There were times I even laid there for a while, flailing and kicking; resisting the fall. Heck, there were even times I had to be rolled out on a stretcher. Guess what I did when I woke up from that much needed nap? I got up and I walked out of that place. Chin down, hands up, ready for the next round.

That’s really what Up off the Mat is all about. I know I’m not the only one who has been knocked down by life repeatedly. My mission is to be a witness to those stories, I know they are out there. Speak on them. Tell your stories loudly, no matter how they may make people cringe or hurt for you. Then you show them. You show them that you may fall down a time or two but you will never, ever, tap out.

From the Archives: What Inspired Up off the Mat?

The following is part one of a three-year old story from my old blog. Why is it my “old blog,” you ask? I have spent much of the past three years following a major health scare redefining who I am as a person, a mother and as a writer. Believe me when I tell you, I relate to none of these role’s in my life the same as I did prior to brain surgery.

Up off the Mat is about new beginnings, the bravery it takes to face them and acknowledging the pain we sometimes endure getting there.

Here is part one of the story that inspired Up off the Mat, taken from my old (and now inactive) blog, Glovesoffsportstalk.wordpress:

Still a Fighter

See the last white tree on the right? That was my goal just now, walk to there and back. A month ago, before diagnosis and surgery, I never could have imagined what a challenge this could be. I was active, grooming dogs (sometimes handling 15-plus dogs a day) and was always up for a good hike. I was pursuing my passion of writing, putting myself out there and having some success at it. The universe appeared to be conspiring in my favor and man, was I grateful. I was happy.
A headache, neck pain and a case of the spins lead me to an MRI, which lead to surgery (yup, on my brain) two weeks later. Diagnosis? A benign brain-tumor, about the size of a golf ball, pressing on my optic nerve. Well damn, that was a game changer.

Now, three weeks post-surgery, this walk was my biggest challenge today. Nearly desperate at this point to take control and get stronger, I trembled and wobbled my way through it. I felt frustration, I fought back tears, thinking of how very far the road ahead of me is. That effort will likely exhaust me for the remainder of the day. But I will do this, day after day, until it becomes easier for me. I will not let this set-back kill the fighter in me.

**Originally published November 19th, 2015

Part two, What grew back when they cut out a piece of my brain:

https://glovesoffsportstalk.wordpress.com/2016/01/18/what-grew-back-when-they-cut-out-a-piece-of-my-brain/

Part three (the conclusion)

How I found my way out of the darkness after brain surgery:

https://glovesoffsportstalk.wordpress.com/2016/02/04/how-i-found-my-way-out-of-the-darkness-after-brain-surgery/

Lessons in Gratitude From a Cardinal

How do I stay positive after repeated hits from life? Throughout the past several years; or should I say, through brain surgery, the loss of my best friend of twenty years and the recent loss of my brother, many close to me have asked a similar question. Others simply make statements regarding my strength and tenacity.

You have to know, these claims about who I am are part of why I write. We all have many versions of ourselves on rotation. Some versions get shared with the world, others get kept in the more private parts of our day. We often cope with the “darker self” in solitude. I suppose different people do this for their own reasons, but it started to weigh on me when people started to view me as “the strongest person they knew.” Was I only showing the world my successes and not the challenges that deserved just as much credit for my achievements? Viewing it that way made me feel like a fraud of sorts. I didn’t want to give others who were struggling to get Up Off the Mat the wrong idea about the grit it took to get myself up again after each fall.

Just this morning I was feeling low. Weekends, when things slow down, tend to be tougher on me in the way of memories and those I miss. Also, someone I love is very ill and that has been heavy on my heart. The weight of racing thoughts became heavy and anxiety set in. I craved a good cry but the tears would not release and sat heavy in my throat instead. I thought, as I often do, of calling a friend. After three years of tragedy, talking it out seems a futile effort at times.

Instead I put on some music, which has long been of comfort to me in times of anxiety. The tune wasn’t right, I couldn’t find a Pandora station that matched what was on my heart. Frustrated, I stepped outside into the morning air for a breather.

Right away I saw him. First I noticed his rusty-red feathers, then his fire red beak. The beautiful male cardinal jumped from one branch to another while looking right at me and chirped the most beautiful sound. I said a quiet hello to him and he chirped again. I felt the weight that had been on my heart lift. Instinctively, my hand went to my heart, my gaze still following the cardinal. Love filled my heart as I silently thanked him for coming back to visit after such a long absence. I took several more deep breaths of gratitude before he flew away and I went back inside, my energy successfully changed from anxiety, to hope.

As I fixed my next cup of coffee, I remembered something a friend told me once. She told me it was impossible to feel anxiety when you were experiencing gratitude. I took that message to heart at the time and have carried it with me ever since. It is not that I am incredibly strong or an exceptionally positive person. What I have learned is that life will knock you down to the mat repeatedly and without warning. It even attempt to pin you to that mat until you are sure you are done for. A lesson that has penetrated even deeper for me is that there are countless reasons to get Up Off the Mat, and a beautiful cardinal in the morning is as good a reason as any.