Our Story - Mike's Version

The first time that I saw Katie was in passing at a coffee shop. I was there with some friends who knew her and they said hello as we went to our table. It was wintertime, so we were all sitting inside instead of at our usual tables out back. I was sitting where I could see her and I remember being aware of her while we were there, but no more than I was aware of anyone else there that night. Perhaps only in hindsight does the evening stand out as it was otherwise unremarkable.

I don’t remember when I actually met Katie. As bizarre as this sounds, it’s fairly common in the recovery community; people tend to begin conversations and even friendships without formal introductions. I have found myself knowing people (and even intimate details of their lives) for months before finally learning their names. It’s odd for sure, but we just roll with it.

Anyhow, there was a point where Katie was not hanging out with my group of friends and then there was a point where she had been hanging out with us for a while and I have no idea when that changed. Or maybe it was the other way around. Maybe I was the one that started hanging around with her friends. Possibly a bit of both; such is the way of things in that community. 

The big moment that I do remember is the one where Katie changed for me from “casual acquaintance” to “someone special”. Not in any sort of romantic way, but in that way when you occasionally meet someone that has a spark that you latch on to and decide, in that instant, that you want them to be your friend. It was a moment when I realized that this person, this one among many, was unique and special and that I wanted her to be a part of my life. It would take more than a year for me to realize just how true that thought was, but more on that later.

A group of 15 or so of us had descended on an all-night cafe after a late-night AA meeting to continue our fellowship and camaraderie over chips, salsa, coffee and pancakes. This was a regular thing for us and this was one of our regular haunts. I don’t recall having intentionally sat next to Katie, but memory sometimes gets a little fuzzy during the retelling, so it’s possible. Self-deprecating humor being an important quality of any good recovering alcoholic, I had been participating in a joke about my own tendency to pontificate. We had gotten to the point where, in the joke, I was standing atop a high horse, which was standing on another high horse (both clydesdales) and the two of them were balanced on a soapbox. I asked what was under the soapbox and without missing a beat, Katie replied “It’s turtles, all the way down.” Google it if you don’t know the reference as it’s kind of obscure and completely incongruous to the joke. It also happened to be the exact answer that I would have given had I been asked that question. To her reply, I probably exclaimed “Yes!” entirely too loudly and began laughing in a way that confused the rest of the group that didn’t get the reference. I recall Katie and I then explaining it to everyone afterwards and none of them found it as funny as we did. Seriously, Google it.

I had been going through a difficult time in life during this period and had been renting a room from a good friend while finalizing a divorce and the sale of my former home. As it happened, Katie had begun dating this same friend of mine so we had no shortage of opportunity to grow a friendship over coffee and cigarettes on his back patio during the following months. It was through these late-night chats on the patio, at cafes and many many nights at the tables outside that same coffee shop where I had first seen her that Katie and I became something more than just friends. We became best friends.

Memory has a funny way of playing with time and time has a funny way of playing with memory, so I likely have a lot of things wrong or out of order when I recall that year of my life, but there are a few moments that stand out. Katie and I had become each other’s go-to person for ideas, advice, commiseration and general solace from the craziness of our worlds. 

She was there as I saw friends wander away from recovery and we would hear stories of them taking up their old lifestyles (or worse) and she helped me remember that not everyone makes it and that we should celebrate the ones that do while learning from the ones that don’t. She was also there to share the joy of seeing people begin to recover and put their lives back in order and to laugh at the ludicrous drama that permeates any late-night recovery group. She was there when I began dating again, helping me select potential matches on a dating app and laughing at my tales of comically bad first dates. As an aside, there was one date where I stopped in the middle of it to take some pictures of turtles to send to Katie. Because turtles. Most of all, she was there to help me back up as I stumbled into becoming my own person again and engaged in a seemingly endless series of questionable decisions that seemed like good ideas at the time. No matter what was happening, she was there.

Rest assured, this was far from a one-way street, but this is my story. You can read Katie’s version if you want the other side of it. 

One night, after more than a year of helping each other through all of life’s joys, pains and general absurdities, we found ourselves at her apartment watching reruns of old crime dramas and just being comforted by each other’s presence and stability. We had been up all night and we were both exhausted so perhaps our guards were down, but we had a moment. Nothing juicy, don’t go there. We had a moment where we both realized that what we had was something much more than a friendship. 

This moment came as a surprise to both of us. Publicly, we had become almost inseparable in the minds of our peers, so much that we were often asked if we were a couple. Of course, we both found the idea to be preposterous and replied as much, but apparently everyone else saw what we couldn’t (or wouldn’t).

What followed is even more of a blur than the year leading up to it and my memories are mostly of emotions felt during this time. I recall a constant state of wondering if I was dreaming, exultation at realizing that I wasn’t, fear that we were wrong or that I would mess things up, recognition that it would be ok if I did, trust that she would understand my missteps, realization that this trust was part of why she was perfect and then back to wondering if it was a dream again. It was beautifully exhausting.

I remember the experience of breaking the news to our friends. Almost universally, the response was along the lines of “It’s about time.” To this day, I’m still not sure how I feel about everyone else being right except me, but I can’t possibly express how happy I am that they were.

In the years since, Katie and I have been able to build a life that we can both be proud of. We have started new careers and hobbies together. We’ve helped each other grow and learn and become better. We’ve developed an ever-evolving language based on love, trust and respect for each other that is beyond my ability to describe. 

And now I’m about to take the next step in this life with a partner that surpasses my loftiest notions of perfect. Through a confluence of luck, faith, stubbornness and willingness to take a chance, I have found my person. Or she has found me. Or both.

None of us can predict the future and as much as we plan and dream, life always has a way of tossing unexpected curveballs our way. What I do know for certain is that I have a teammate that will be there for me as I will be there for her, to stand side by side as we face tomorrow, and know that we can handle it together.

And I know now that I have loved her since the turtles.

Our Story - Katie's Version

Love stories are a funny thing. I don't remember the moment I first saw Mike, or the first conversation we had. Yet somehow, it's like my life is divided into two eras: the time between being born and meeting him, and everything after that, forever and always. The dividing line is a little blurry, some of the details have faded, the interaction of time with memory creates subtle subconscious edits to the narrative. But here's my version of the story I've been lucky enough to live as it unfolds --

One night, in December of 2013, a girl I knew from recovery asked me if I wanted to go to a 10 pm meeting in South Austin with her. It was a meeting I'd never been to before--I lived north of the river at the time, I usually didn't go to late meetings, and, as a creature of rigid routine, I'm really not sure what compelled me to go to that meeting on that night. But I did. And, as it turned out, I kept going back, nearly every night, for the next two years or so. I quickly felt at home there, and I began to join people for coffee before the meeting, and even stick around after and go out for dinner.

Mike was an integral part of that group of friends--he always seemed to be around, sometimes at the periphery, often sitting quietly, looking at his phone; other times the center of attention, sharing stories or bad jokes. It didn't take long for me to pick up on the fact that he was someone who had gained a wealth of wisdom through his experiences, someone who was proud of his accomplishments but honest about his shortcomings, someone who would do anything for those he cared about.

In those first months, we'd frequently hang out in a group setting, only rarely spending time without others around, though some time later we acknowledged that we'd both, consciously or not, begun to seek out each other's company, whether it was trying to sit next to each other at dinner, or getting to coffee early in hopes that the other would be there.

Once, we were out at dinner with a big group of friends and ended up sitting next to each other. Because Mike would sometimes pontificate on various topics on which he had strong opinions, and he occasionally needed to be told to leave his high horse at the door, we were joking about his spirit animal (or imaginary companion animal?) being a Clydesdale. More specifically, a Clydesdale on top of a soapbox. He asked me what was under the soapbox, and without hesitating, I said "It's turtles, all the way down". In retrospect, of course he got the reference, and of course that is exactly the answer he'd been looking for, but at the time, it was a delightful shock to both of us that it played out that way. Another time, we were standing around with a bunch of people who were talking about how the full moon makes people a little crazy. Mike said "That's lunacy!" No one else batted an eye, but I laughed hysterically. It was little moments like that when we realized we connected with each other in a way we didn't with most other people.

As the months wore on, we began talking more frequently, calling each other, occasionally meeting up for coffee just the two of us. Our trust in each other as friends and confidants grew deeper. We'd often go to each other for relationship advice--he'd show me pictures of women he'd met on Tinder and ask my opinion; I'd recount stories of interactions I'd had with guys and ask for his perspective.

One night, we were sitting outside at our coffee shop, and I was expressing my frustrations about being in my late 20s and not being in a serious relationship. I was afraid my standards were too high, that I'd never meet someone who had all the qualities I considered "must haves" in a partner. It's not too hard to find someone who is intelligent, or who has the right balance of seriousness and sarcasm, or who has an intimate understanding of recovery, or a deep appreciation of language and words--it's much more difficult to find one person who checks all those boxes. Mike told me not to lower my standards, and that it was okay to keep "must love words" in my metaphorical personal ad. Little did I know at the time that he'd turn out to be my "must love words".

Throughout this time, I'd had several friends ask me if I'd ever consider dating Mike, and we even mutual acquaintances who assumed we were together. I always laughed it off --what an absurd idea, I'd never date Mike. We were too good of friends, plus it would never work. Our lifestyles were too different, we didn't have enough common interests. Or whatever. Anyway, others saw something between us that we didn't see.

On February 7, 2015, after over a year of friendship with this person I felt I'd known for a lifetime, the universe decided it was time for us to see what our friends had seen all along. We'd both recently gotten out of relationships and were feeling pretty lousy. We had already established the habit of turning to each other for comfort and conversation on the friendship level, so it was only natural that we would be there for each other that night. I think he asked if I wanted him to come over, or maybe I asked if he would, I can't remember. I do remember sitting on my couch next to him, watching episodes of "Law and Order" and talking. Maybe he put his arm around me, or maybe I rested my head on his shoulder, I don't know, but at some point it was clear that we had to acknowledge the depth of the connection we felt with one another and evaluate the direction our friendship was heading. I remember being terrified and thinking "this cannot happen"--our friendship had become so important to me, and I didn't have a great track record with relationships. I was terrified that if we started a relationship, I'd somehow screw it up, and I'd lose the friendship. But I knew I couldn't imagine my life without him in it.

The next day (or maybe it was a few days later), I met up with a close friend to tell her what was happening. I made a big production out of it, saying I was going to buy her coffee because it was the least I could do given the shocking news I was about to bombard her with. After I finished my fearful, excited rambling, she looked at me, unfazed, and said "Well that's obvious". When I asked her why she didn't tell me before, she said "We thought you knew!!!" The universe had given us the blind spot exactly where we needed it, for exactly as long as we needed it. When we were ready, we were able to see.

One night that first week, we went on what you might say was our "first date" - to 888, a Pan-Asian restaurant where we'd previously shared many laughs and good conversations over late night green curry with friends. Seriously, their green curry is so good there. I don't remember much of what we talked about, but I'll never forget the words he said as we were discussing how to approach the relationship going forward: "All I ask is your complete willingness to try".

The first few weeks, maybe months, of dating were a whirlwind of emotions as we adjusted to the new role we had in each other's lives. Due to logistical factors about our individual circumstances, we ended up moving in together earlier in our relationship than was probably reasonable, objectively speaking, if it's even reasonable to speak objectively about such things. But we maintained our "complete willingness to try," and we adapted fairly easily to sharing a living space.

Fast forward almost two years, a couple apartments, two new cars, several promotions at work for each of us, and a whole lot of growing together and strengthening our partnership. We started to talk about committing our lives to each other. Eventually he told me he had a plan to propose, and he gave me a one-word hint: "Oink". I puzzled over that for months, trying to get him to give me more clues, asking coworkers what they thought it meant.

Then, on December 30, 2016, we were getting ready to go out to dinner at Odd Duck. He'd made me believe it was my idea to go out to dinner to celebrate the New Year a day early, because I don't like to be out with all the crowds, and being on the roads late at night on drinking holidays makes me nervous. I remember I had mentioned to my boss as I was leaving work that day that Mike and I were going to dinner, and he asked if I expected a proposal. I think I said "No, I guarantee he won't ask me tonight!" Anyway, we got dressed and ready to go, and as I came downstairs, I might have made a comment on the dress I was wearing, or my coat, which I didn't think looked right with the dress. Mike said something like "I have just the thing to go with that" and went back upstairs to grab something. That's the moment I suspected what was about to happen. I remember looking at my reflection in the sliding door to our balcony and taking a deep breath. He came back downstairs, got down on one knee, and said "Katie, I have loved you since the turtles". I don't remember what was said after that, other than there was some squealing and some repeated questioning along the lines of "Is this really happening?!" When I got over the shock of the moment, he explained the hint - apparently December 30 is National Bacon Day!

In the year and a half since I said "Yes," Mike has continued to make me a better version of myself, one day at a time. We've been through a lot of life's ups and downs in the past few years, and through all the changes, the joyful parts and the challenges, we've begun to build a life together on the unshakeable foundation of a solid friendship. As Antoine de Saint-Exupery wrote, "Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction".  In that sense, Mike is my perfect teammate in this life.

 I look forward to a lifetime of learning and endless adventures with you, babe! 

hope is a placebo

From time to time, my mother will remind me out of the blue that I should write, that she thinks I'm good at it. It's usually a good idea for me to do what she says. But how can I write when I have nothing to say? She suggested that I write about bicycling (I got a bike; it changed my life), weaving (that's a cool thing that I do sometimes), or wedding planning (ummm... no). Of those options, I figured bicycling would be easiest to write about, so I sat down to try to do that. I wrote three sentences, and they were all ridiculous.

Let's start over.

Four years ago, I was struggling with letting go of a relationship I thought I really wanted but deep down knew I couldn't have right then because there was a good chance it would be harmful to the other person, and possibly to myself, in turn. I had come to terms with the fact that it wasn't the right time then, but was clinging to the hope that maybe there would be a time in the future when the relationship would be possible. A very good friend of mine told me at the time that in order to really be free, I had to give up hope of ever getting what I wanted. I fought it, trying to bargain by saying I'd be willing to give up the expectation if I could keep the hope. He told me "Hope is a placebo for action." I don't think I understood that at the time - either I was too upset about being told things I didn't want to hear, or I still had some growth to do before I'd really be ready to internalize what he meant. Plus I just felt like that was kind of a dick thing to say, or at least a dick way to say it. I mean, come on. (He's actually not a dick; he's actually very wise and clever, has always had my best interest at heart, and would do anything for the people he cares about, even if it means telling them what they need to hear but can't stand to listen to. Those are just some of the reasons I'm marrying him in 110 days! Love you, Mike!)

Anyway, yesterday afternoon, a friend and I were chatting about hope and expectations. Our conversation reminded me of what Mike told me four years ago, which had worked its way into a box on a dusty shelf somewhere in the warehouse of my brain, and stayed there, untouched, until the universe decided, yesterday, that I was ready to open it again. When I opened the box, the contents looked different than when I'd packed it up four years ago. It was an odd feeling, looking at the words and seeing them differently, knowing they hadn't changed a bit. That disconnect made me realize that the many edits and revisions, some minor, some major, to my perspective on life over the past few years have added up to the point where I'm legitimately a different version of myself now. Ship of Theseus and all that. Hmm.

I brought the box out onto the balcony of our apartment, where Mike and I like to sit in the evenings and relax when it's not too hot out. He helped me unpack it. We had a wonderful, soul-nourishing conversation about hope, expectations, worry, and acceptance. The kinds of hope it's fair to have, and why. The kinds of hope we can't afford to hang onto, and what the consequences are if we don't let go. The fact that some statements of hope are actually excuses for inaction. The different meanings "hope" can have depending on part of speech.

Sitting down by myself now, to write, it feels like a tangled mess of ideas, there are so many things I want to try to say, and I don't know where to start. So I'll start with nouns. Because... grammar.

One sense of the word "hope" as a noun is something like optimism, confidence, or even faith. If I'm being Biblical about it, I might say that "hope" entails a sure confidence that the will of God will come to pass; a firm assurance in an unclear future. But since I'm not, I might say that "hope" in this sense is the certain knowledge of the fact that, no matter how things turn out, even if (especially if?) they don't go my way, everything is ultimately as it should be (this holds true at all times, for all time), and I am taken care of, no matter what. This is the kind of hope that is always okay to have. I have this hope now, and it's the opposite of the hopelessness I used to live in, and try to die in.

Using hope as a verb, I say things like "I hope the weather is nice next weekend". When I say that, I'm expressing a preference for a particular future outcome over which I have no control. There's no action I can take that will change the weather. Maybe there's a way in which my hoping for sunshine gives me the illusion of agency; the false idea that I have any say in the matter. But I don't, and yet I've tied my feelings to the outcome - if it rains next weekend, I'll be disappointed, I might have to change my plans, I'll probably be grouchy and not so fun to be around, I might take it out on someone I care about and say something I'll have to apologize for later.

This sort of hope can be problematic. When I choose to attach myself to an outcome I have no control over (it's always a choice, but I usually forget that), I close myself off to all other possible outcomes. If the outcome I'm hoping for is overwhelmingly more probable than the other possible outcomes, and I have some idea of what the probability distribution looks like, it's probably not a problem. It can be fair to have hope when we can reasonably foresee the outcome. But if there's a 50% chance of rain in the forecast on my wedding day and "I hope it doesn't rain", I am setting myself up for possible disappointment, resentment, and anger. If it rains when I was hoping it wouldn't, my expectation has tethered me to one place, and reality is 500 miles away. In order to be truly happy, I have to fully accept whatever reality is. Which, if it's raining, means traveling 500 miles (in the rain, no less) before I can even get to acceptance of reality. Traveling 500 miles takes time and energy. Time I could have spent enjoying the moment; energy I could have spent in useful, constructive ways. Then there's also the risk of getting into a car accident on the long drive, causing damage that I have to repair before I can get where I'm going. (Sick of this metaphor yet?) These are the kinds of consequences I can have if I hang onto this sort of hope. Not that I need to be thrilled if it rains at my wedding, but I can go into it with the attitude of "No matter what the weather is like, I can enjoy this day." I'll actually enjoy more of it if I don't go into it hoping for sunshine!

Then there's "hope" in circumstances where we do have some agency, some impact on the outcome. Like "I hope my job interview goes well." There are some actions that I can take in order to increase the probability of my job interview being successful. I can do research and educate myself about the company and its core values. I can make sure that I get a good night's sleep before and eat a healthy breakfast that morning. I can "dress for success", etc, etc. Then there are parts that are out of my control. I don't know what questions I'll be asked, I don't know what the qualifications of the other candidates are, I don't know what kind of mood the interviewer will be in on that particular day. But if I've taken all the actions I can take in order to maximize the likelihood of having a successful interview, what is the use of "hoping" that it goes well? All that does is make me nervous and put me at risk of having to drive 500 miles back to reality in a rainstorm. However, if I don't take the actions to set myself up for success, and I sit around idly hoping it goes well, then I'm using hope as a placebo for action. Being in the state of hoping for success makes me "feel" like I'm doing something to increase the chances of obtaining my desired outcome, when it's really doing me no good, and possibly indirectly causing harm (cf. the part about acceptance). (Random tangential thing - there is something to be said for visualizing success, but I think that's a different thing.) The flip side of this is worry. "I'm worried that the interview will go poorly". Same story - if I've done everything I can to prepare, why worry?

Sometimes expressions of hope can serve a social purpose, which gives them meaning over and above their content. I might tell a friend "I hope your grandmother's surgery goes smoothly". I suppose I'm still expressing that my preferred outcome is for my friend's grandmother to avoid complications and regain health, but, assuming I don't know the grandmother, my personal preference isn't what matters here--what matters is that the reason I'm making the statement is to communicate to my friend that I care about her happiness, that I empathize with her pain, that she matters to me. Expressions of hope of this kind are, I think, valuable parts of human relationships. Because you just don't casually tell someone "Your grandma might die on the operating table. Just so you know. You probably shouldn't hold onto hope that she'll survive." Unless you're an asshole, or a really good friend. Or maybe a doctor with shitty bedside manner.

Even when I hope for outcomes that seem somehow good or noble or right (grandmas surviving surgeries, criminals being brought to justice, world peace, or whatever else), that still implies that I think I know how things ought to turn out. The whole point is that I don't know what's supposed to happen, I don't know what's best for anyone (even myself), but I do know that whatever is going to happen will happen, and if I roll with the punches, I can be peaceful and serene no matter what. Because I know everything is going to be okay, no matter what. Because I have the kind of hope that it's okay to have, no matter what.

Since I started out by structuring this mess using parts of speech, I should probably include the part about my intuitions on "hopeful" as a predicate adjective. But I'm too tired of writing to think more about that right now. Maybe another day, and maybe not.

What I'm taking from all this for now is: When I catch myself using "hope" as a verb, I can take that as a cue to ask myself "Is there any action I can take to influence the outcome of this situation?" If so, maybe do it. If not, give up hoping--it's not serving me. And I hate driving in the rain! 

But no matter what, don't give up hope.

Thanks for listening, y'all :) 

life is life, and that is that

I write a lot of first sentences of blog posts in my head, sometimes. I used to feel guilty for not blogging ever because it was like "either you blog or you don't, and you should, and if you don't then you're a worse version of yourself" and there was no "sometimes you write a blog post like once a year and that's totally fine." And I don't know if it's growing up or successfully giving up perfectionism or being a calmer person or not having enough goals or what, but I'm fine with blogging or not blogging or whatever, it's fine.

I think about writing about the yarn I'm spinning or the dish towels I'm weaving or the podcasts I'm listening to, or the fact that I find myself saying "I hate my job" more often than I wish I did, or the fact that I got engaged and we had engagement pictures taken and they're so perfect and I can't wait to marry my perfect partner in 493 days.

But then things happen like this morning when my phone rang and I saw that it was my mom and before I even picked up the phone I knew somebody died. Because my mother does not call me on a Thursday morning at 8:37 to talk about the weather. She calls me on a Thursday morning to say things like "Grandmother died a few minutes ago."

Then I got off the phone and stopped knowing how I was supposed to be. I wasn't very close to her. I was like I guess I should call my boss and say I am taking the day off, and I called my boss and said "I don't really know what I'm saying, I guess I'm saying I don't know what the expectation is when somebody dies, am I supposed to not work?" Because my level of social ineptitude is just spectacular. And my concept of how to grieve is so well developed. My use of sarcasm is also appropriate. I don't know if that comes across in a blog but I hope it does. I was told that obviously I am supposed to take the day off.

So I'm home, doing the "not working" thing, and wondering how I'm supposed to feel. Am I sad enough? What am I supposed to think about? I am trying to remember the last time I saw her and I can't. Maybe it was when my uncle died. Maybe it was Thanksgiving three or four years ago. I am trying to remember other things but the most vivid memory I have of this woman is when I was a child, maybe in middle school, and she gave me a wall calendar that had pictures of bulldogs and said it reminded her of me. I think about that more often than is probably reasonable, and to this day I do not know what she meant by it, and I try to come up with reasons that it could be a nice gift. I don't know. It's also possible that this memory is totally fabricated, which is weird, but maybe it is, and maybe I just remember "remembering" it for all these years, if remembering a false memory can be called remembering at all. Why would I make that up? Of all things to make up? Anyway. Brains are mysterious. That's fine.

My fiancé called and asked if I was okay and if there was anything he could do. I never know what to say to that. Someone died. What can anyone do? He said "I'm bad at this" and I said "I know," teasing him, because empathy is not a strong suit of his. He's even worse at it than I am, but we live with that, and I tell myself it's endearing because it is, to me. I feel like I should come up with something that he can do for me, because he shows love through actions, and I want to give him the opportunity to be there for me in a way that he is "good at." All the things I could think of are dumb, like ice cream, because eating ice cream makes me feel better, but then I realize I don't GET ice cream because someone DIED, that is so senseless and feels insensitive and selfish and wrong. As if there is a right way to do any of this. As if guilt makes sense under these circumstances. I cleaned the bathroom today because I felt guilty. Guilty that I am not sad enough (Am I sad enough? Is it selfish to act "more sad" because I think that would be the appropriate reaction? That just sounds psychopathic. I mean I'm not not sad, and I know that there is no incorrect amount of sadness, so I'm probably fine and I should stop asking these questions.) Guilty for taking the day off of work when I hadn't even spoken to her in years. Guilty that I hadn't cleaned the bathroom in weeks, and guilty that I was thinking about the bathroom instead of thinking about my family. Guilty because I wanted to crochet and not clean. But now the bathroom is clean, so maybe that counts for something. I went to the dentist today, so maybe that counts for something else. But in reality it doesn't count for anything. It also doesn't count for nothing. Because there is nothing to "count." There is no scale, there is nothing to add or subtract, it just is what it is. Life is life and death is death and that is that.

So I am not asking my fiancé for ice cream or anything. Because the truth is that when he called and I heard the tone of his voice, it was enough. I know that he loves me immensely and will do anything in his power to care for me. And the more days that accumulate in my life, the more I think that love is the whole point of everything. Love for this human that I'm going to vow to spend my life with, love for my family, love for my cats and my yarn and the shower curtain that we bought together last week, love for the green of the trees and the blue of the sky (right now, in this moment), love for the experience of experiencing everything, big or small, happy or sad. I almost said "good or bad" but that's not the point at all, because it's not good, it's not bad, it just IS. Life is life and death is death and love is love, and that is that.

So I won't try to write an eloquent eulogy, I can't, I mean I don't even know what to think about, all I remember is bulldogs, I judge my own feelings, and it occurs to me that all I'm thinking about is myself, basically. I know that she had a great sense of humor. I know that she passed on her quick wit and sharp mind to her seven wonderful children, one of whom is a wonderful father to me and my sister. I know some other things but there are more things that I don't know.

I know that she loved and was loved. I know that she lived.

I know that whether I'm "doing it right" or not is irrelevant, since, you know, there is no "right," and it's not about me. But maybe it is a little bit. I mean, if it's about love, isn't it about everyone?

adventures in getting sick and staying sick

[Fair warning: semi-graphic image of female anatomy at the bottom of this post. But it's sort of cartoonish and not a picture of a real body. It's not that bad. But If you scroll all the way down and get freaked out, don't say I didn't warn you.]

It is only Post Three and I already sort of hate this blog thing. I told myself I was going to do it weekly, because any less frequently than that and I knew I wouldn't do it at all. So I wrote 75% of a post last week, about relationships and how to deal with a box of root beer in a closet, because last time I said that basically only four things have happened in the last year and a half, and "learning how to relationship" has been one of them. But that post turned out all sappy and weird, so I said to myself, you can't post this! I guess that leaves the fourth thing. Fourth, both chronologically and according to the order in which I want to write about them.

About 8 months ago, I got sick. And I stayed sick. And no one could figure out what was wrong with me. At first, I gave it a few days and thought "it will get better, it's fine, stop worrying." That's what other people told me, and when it comes to these things, other people's opinions are often more trustworthy than my own. But I knew this wasn't like that. Something was wrong. Sometimes you have to trust what your body is telling you.

This illness, and the process of getting a diagnosis, has done so much stuff to my mind. And there have been so many feelings. But this is the summary version of the facts of what happened. After a week of not feeling right, I went to urgent care, and they took some of my pee and told me I was fine and to go home. Over the next few weeks, I went to the ER three different times. I got a transvaginal ultrasound, several X-rays, a CT scan of my brain and abdomen. In the following months, I saw a urologist and let him stick a camera inside my bladder. I went to a gastroenterologist and he stuck a camera in my colon and another one down my throat and into my stomach. (I woke up from anesthesia to find a straw in my mouth, and the other end of the straw in a cup of coffee. Because Mike knows me well. So I told all the nurses that I love him and he makes me tacos. Pretty sure it was "and" and not "because" but I really couldn't say. The only reason I even know any of that happened is that Mike told me later.) I went to my gynecologist and she said everything was probably normal and put me on hormonal birth control. None of these doctors could find anything wrong. Sometimes it was "Obviously there is something going on here, but this test didn't show it. Please call me if you find out what's wrong. I'm curious." A few times, it was "there is nothing wrong with you." (What is that?? Ego?) And once, it was "This is all in your head. You should go see a psychiatrist." (I could write whole posts about that one.) 

The closest thing I got to a suggestion of where to go next was from my urologist, who said it might be endometriosis. That's that thing where the lining of your uterus starts growing in places where it's not supposed to, causing a potentially intense amount of pain, and impeding normal function of surrounding organs. So I made a (third) gynecology appointment, but my doctor was out of the office, so I could only talk to her (whatever they are there) nurse practitioner person. She basically said "no it can't possibly be endo, go home." (Ok none of these people actually said "go home" in those actual words.) I was like how can you know that? I've never seen you before, you don't know me!" All sassy in my head. Not taking "no" for an answer. Not taking "I don't know" for an answer. So I went back to the gynecologist when the gynecologist was actually there. She listened to me. She said to give the birth control a couple more months to see if it would help, and if not, we could think about surgery to look for endometriosis, or like three or four other things that could be wrong but probably weren't. After those couple months, once it was clear that birth control wasn't going to solve all my problems (or really any of them), I made gyn appt number five(?). I came out of that appointment with "laparoscopic surgery" on my calendar for three weeks later.

My worst fear was not of the surgery itself, or that there would be some terrible kind of complication and I'd be worse off than before, but rather that I'd wake up and hear "We didn't find anything." So, I put my fears on a shelf, and we went to the hospital, super early in the morning, which is totally the best time because it's super quiet and there is no waiting. I got an IV (definitely the worst part of basically any medical anything for me) and after that, stuff was pretty chill. I got "a drug that might make you feel a little drunk but it will relax you" (Not sure why doctors don't just automatically tell you the actual name of what drugs they're giving you. It's like you have to pry it out of them. Who do you think I am, I'm not a child, I know a few words. Wait, you're giving me Versed? Kthx sry we're good now.)  I got an anti-nausea patch behind my ear, which, for some reason, I made the doctor go through so much work to convince me to get. I think maybe that was post-Versed and that's why I was asking way too many questions. But that's probably not how it happened. I'm probably just neurotic. But I'm happy I got that patch. Anyway, post-Versed (possibly pre-weird-anti-nausea-ear-patch) the walls started shifting up and down and then I don't really remember anything until post-op, when I heard "We didn't really find anything wrong. There was this one little spot that we're going to biopsy but it is too small to be causing your problems." My worst fear about the surgery came true, but I was actually a little bit okay with it at the time, but in retrospect that's probably because there was Dilaudid involved. Definitely love me some hydromorphone. Apparently the first thing I said when I woke up was "I love Mike, and I love anesthesia." No recollection. The doctor thought it was pretty funny. Glad that I got my priorities right, and left out the tacos.

One thing I'd gotten better at by that point was accepting things I didn't want to hear. I was pretty used to it. So a couple more weeks went by before my post-op appointment. Recovery was not the best thing and not the worst thing. (Although, six weeks later, I'm just now to the point where working an 8 hour day doesn't feel like a death sentence.) On the day of my post-op, I was totally expecting to just go in there and hear "so yeah as we said, we didn't find anything, glad you're healing okay" and I was going to be okay with that. But what actually happened was the doctor came into the room and sat down and said "So we got the pathology report back and it turns out it is endometriosis." What?!? I'm not sure what the look on my face was, but the doctor's response was "I know, I was surprised too!" Umm I don't think "surprised" quite covers it but okay yeah. She told me I have two treatment options: the first is to get Lupron injections, to induce medical menopause. The second is to get pregnant. Nope. Not an option. Even more expensive than Lupron, and also uhhh when you're done you have this other human to like take care of for the rest of your life. That's a pretty intense side effect. Nope. Oh yeah and plus with either of these "treatments," the endometriosis will almost certainly come back within a few months to a few years at most. But the kicker is: she is still not sure that endo is causing my symptoms. I was so relieved to have a diagnosis, but discouraged to realize that it might not be the diagnosis. And the treatment is so extreme and not guaranteed to work long-term. I went home and did enough reading online about Lupron to realize that it sounds like an awful idea and it has ruined so many people's lives. Stuff in forums like "DON'T TAKE THIS DRUG EVER. NOT EVEN ONCE." and "IT HAS RUINED MY LIFE." There's a petition to Congress to get it off the market. People have written thousands of letters about it. So yeah. Nope. 

I did some more reading online about natural ways to treat endo. No one is exactly sure what causes it, but a good theory is that it is a disease of estrogen dominance, and there are supplements out there that are meant to improve the body's metabolism of the "bad" kinds of estrogen. No one has really scienced about them, but at this point, I'll try anything that doesn't have a huge chance of messing up the rest of my life. At my post-post-op appointment, I asked my doctor about the estrogen metabolism thing, to confirm that I wouldn't permanently damage anything by trying some supplements. Because of course you can never get them to say that "natural supplements" are a good idea. But she's fine with it. At that appointment, she also told me that my round ligaments are abnormally long, which could cause my uterus to tilt backwards, and that if I wanted to, I could think about having surgery at some point to shorten them. And that my uterus has increased vascularity. She showed me my uterus side by side with a "normal" one, and omg my uterus looks like an evil monster that wants to take over everything. The normal one looks totally docile, like something I'd be completely happy to let live inside of me. It is puzzling to me why I learned these things at a post-post-op appointment instead of at the post-op appointment or the actual op. So I made an appointment with a urogynecologist (because you cannot have enough specialists) for a few weeks from now, to get a second set of eyes on things, and a second opinion for treatment options. 

And that, dear friends and family, is where things stand. 

Promised semi-graphic cartoon picture of what's happening here:

half of what happened

I told myself I was going to write a few posts this week, and have a backlog of them so I could just post them weekly and not have to think about it for a while. That explains why I'm sitting here on Saturday night staring at a blank page, thinking "Remind me again why I committed to this blog thing?" I don't know how to write anymore. That's probably because I don't read anymore. I'm not actually sure I even know how to read anymore. But I think my Netflix-watching skill has plateaued. You can't get any better at watching TV than I am right now. I figured if I'm going to be a literate human being, and have this silly blog that forces me to get words out of my brain and into writing, maybe I should be putting some written words into my brain first. Reading is docusate sodium for the brain. Generally works in 12-72 hours. The easier, softer way. So I picked up a book the other day. (I'm using "picked up" as a metaphor. I mean I downloaded some books from iBooks, on my iPad. Because who actually "picks up" books anymore. I'm not Amish. Not that I have anything against Amish people. Really. I grew up in a tiny town in central Ohio, a few miles from Amish Country, and, when I was in high school and we had nothing better to do, which was often, we'd go to the mall and watch Amish people try on shoes at Payless. I mean, if shoes were the only part of your wardrobe you really had any choice in, you'd get excited about them, too. And yes, mom, I do know that Amish and Mennonite are not the same thing. I just don't care very much, sorry. You raised me better than this. And just for the record I do still like real books with real paper, and I'm not just saying that because my dad runs a publishing company and I have to say that.) Where was I? I started reading some books. Electronically. Funny memoirs, so I can learn how other people write about their lives in a serious-but-I-don't-take-myself-too-seriously sort of way that does not waste other people's time. The problem with this is that the funniest of funny memoirists have had terribly tragic and/or totally bizarre events happen in their lives, and that's part of what makes them so funny, and gives them so much insight into life. It would be easier to write if I had something absolutely unbelievably appalling to write about. Or at least if I had supernatural wisdom or the secret to making millions of dollars. But really, my life is pretty mundane, I don't know anything much about much of anything, and I promise that absolutely zero of the numbers on the Powerball tickets my coworkers forced me to go in on are going to win us anything. Doesn't mean I won't spend a lot of minutes typing all those numbers into the Texas Powerball website. So, this is awkward. Stop reading now, if you want. You've already clicked on the link to this page, so you have already incremented my pageviews by one, which has already made me feel better about myself. Thanks.

For anyone still reading: Since I haven't had a blog in a while, I guess I can just say what happened since then. So this is what happened, sort of. I graduated from UT with my Master's in Arabic in the fall of 2014 (which was kind of miraculous and also vaguely kind of pointless, given what happened next. And no, I won't "say something in Arabic" for you, especially if you ask me in that tone of voice. You know what I'm talking about.) This degree has done me a whole lot of good: a few months after graduating (that's about how long I could be unemployed before my self-hatred outweighed my fear of job interviews) I got a job in a toxicology lab, using that chemistry degree I swore on my life I'd never use again. (Still working on the "never say never" thing. My "never"s always. fucking. happen.) On my first day in the lab, I met a coworker who grew up in the Arab world. He recited poetry to me, and he wanted to know all about my thesis. He knew all the technical terms for syntactic vowel markers and everything. It was great. We were going to be friends. And we were, for two whole days - my second day was his last day. A few months later, there was somebody else there who spoke Arabic. That was great. We were going to speak Arabic to each other. And we did, and then that person got fired. But it's still good that I know Arabic, because the other day, someone asked me about the word "ra's." As in "Ra's al-Ghul," the supervillain from Arrow. And I got excited for a second and I was like "Oh! That means "Demon's Head" and here's how you say it!" Turns out he didn't actually care about that, he just wanted to know the closest pronunciation in actual English. We decided on "Roz," which makes me cringe a little bit, but I guess that's the best we can do, since... I mean, you try explaining what a "glottal stop" is to someone who only speaks English.

See? I can't even say what has happened to me in the last year and a half in a linear and non-parenthetical fashion. And it's only been like four things. So anyway. This job. When people ask me where I work, I usually say "I work in a toxicology lab in South Austin. We do drug testing for pain management clinics." That way, they respond with "Oh, that's nice. The weather's nice today, huh?" and everyone can just move on. But what is really going on here is I work in a pee lab. I deal with hundreds of different people's piss. Every single day. Sometimes we find things in the cups. There have been worm-looking things. There has been slimy stuff. One time there was a piece of jewelry. Just chillin'. In a cup of pee. I don't want to speculate about what body part that thing was originally attached to or what kind of person lets things get to that point. But I guess it's possible to be on enough drugs that you don't actually notice and/or care if your genital piercing falls out when you're peeing. But I said I wasn't going to speculate. Ummm ok. So. I've learned a lot at this job. I've learned that there is aquamarine pee, lime green pee, lilac pee, cornflower blue pee. We are actually required to take colorblindness tests at this job. Not a joke. I've learned that sometimes people have so much alcohol in their pee that it makes your nose burn, from a couple yards away. And you can't un-smell that. I've learned that when you go to the doctor and have to pee in a cup, you don't actually need to fill it to anywhere near the "fill line." And it's less gross if you don't. Really, you guys, it only takes a few milliliters. So just fill it like halfway and call it a day. And please, tighten the lid down all the way.

When I first started there, all I did was pour pee out of cups and into plastic tubes, put stickers on some other tubes, and type a lot of information into computers. That's what eight years of higher education gets you, kids. Then after a while they let me learn how to operate LC-MS/MS instruments (liquid chromatography - tandem mass spectrometry in case that acronym isn't part of your daily vocabulary), which is neat. Then they made me do actual lab coat science, like with repeater pipets and graduated cylinders and pH meters and potassium hydroxide and acetonitrile. I kind of suck at this part because it's not spreadsheets or data, but I've managed not to screw anything up too badly so far. These days, they let me review LC-MS/MS data, like the final results you get after you've scienced the shit out of all the pee, and report it out to the doctors. Which is also kind of neat, I think, and also easier than the test tube part (but that's probably just because I'm good at numbers and bad at actual objects) and less gross than the pouring pee part, and also you get paid more. But then there's the part where if I make a mistake and I accidentally tell a doctor that a 72-year-old woman is using heroin and she's really not, that's a pretty bad thing. Thank God I haven't done that yet. Because that's probably someone's grandma. So it's a little bit of responsibility, and I have to pay a lot of attention. But still, I hope this is how the rest of life and jobs works, that every time you get promoted, you just get paid progressively more to do progressively easier work, and touch progressively less pee. But I suspect I'm just lucky right now (except for the pee part - I think better jobs should always involve less pee), so I'll take it while I can get it.

I've decided this is long enough for one post. Surely anyone who was reading at the beginning started skimming somewhere around the fourth set of parentheses and won't possibly ready any more after this. So, stay tuned for the other half of what happened. If you want.

let's try this again

This is the first sentence of a new blog. (The first sentence is always the hardest to come up with, so, there, now it's out of the way.)

One of my habits is letting good habits die, getting sad about it, and bringing good habits back. Habitually. For a few years, a few years ago, I was writing. Like, kind of a lot. Journaling, blogging, writing academic papers. And then suddenly, or gradually, I stopped. I finished grad school, and people stopped making me write. My life got better, and it started being more fun to live it than to talk about it. Then parts of life got hard, and I didn't want to talk about it. I forgot that, for me, writing is part of living. It occurred to me the other day that I don't remember the last thing I wrote that wasn't a text message, a Facebook post, a work e-mail, or a grocery list. That made me sad. I thought, I'm not the kind of person who blogs anymore. Then I realized that I can be the kind of person who blogs again, if I start blogging again. Obviously. Wait, no, blogging is a little scary, it comes with unnecessary expectations and imaginary pressure and unwarranted self-criticism. But yes, because it's also fun sometimes, and even when it isn't fun, it's helpful. And fear is dumb. Most of my decisions that I've made based on fear have turned out less than awesome. There is no growth inside my comfort zone.

So I got online. I don't have to commit to this. Let me just see if I can choose a template, come up with an address, think of a name. I stared blankly at the field that said "title," wondering why it was so difficult to come up with a name for a new blog. I'd get ideas, but no, that one's too cheesy, that one doesn't mean anything, that one's too specific. This isn't even a big deal, let's stop making it difficult. What is this blog about? What is my life about? Do I even have anything to say? What even are words, anyway? Katie, you sort of suck at letting simple things be simple. Sorry. But, cute try. So I decided to be less intentional about finding a name, and instead just started listening to the words that went through my head, the words that came out of my boyfriend's mouth, the words in the movie we were watching. ("Extract". It was silly. We enjoyed it. Someone loses a testicle.) At one point, I was trying to express a thought but was struggling to find the right word. My boyfriend completed my sentence for me, and I said, "that's the word I was looking for." And there it was.

Seeking and finding. Not knowing what I've needed until I've gotten it. The frustration of being so close to understanding something, but not quite getting there. Getting help along the way. The satisfaction of discovery, the beauty in the expression of truth. The awesomeness of the fact that words both represent reality and shape it. The joy of words as tools. Words that represent concepts that are new to me, and, once I've discovered them, change the way I view life, and live it. Words that represent familiar concepts, but frame them in a new way, a way that makes things make a whole new level of sense. Words that aren't even real words, but need to be. Like "fauxstalgia," missing something that never existed, or didn't exist in the way you remember it. (Credit for that one goes to aforementioned very clever boyfriend.)

So, there you go. A whole blog post about the process of deciding to blog. We'll see what comes next.